• The mesa was covered in small to medium size basalt rocks and lots of small shrubs, the same species that existed in the valley minus the sage brush.
• There was lots of dry moss waiting to be reconstituted
• There was some red lichen that I had not encountered anywhere else
• Although it looked like a hard place to survive, so exposed to the elements, we found some small droppings scattered throughout the area, possibly from a rodent
• Underneath the rocks there is pale brown soil, very fine almost like dust
• One has an amazing view from up here, Umatilla rock, Dry Falls Lake, Green Lake, Red Alkaline lake and the potholes can all be viewed from up here
• There are several different bird calls, I can identify a crow, swallows and possibly the call of an eagle or hawk.
• The sides of the cliff are somewhat stable, aside from the top layer of basalt rocks waiting to join there brothers on the valley floor

Several bird sounds and movements

Bird calls emenate from the walls of the small canyon near which I sit. I notice the flutter of wings as birds fly along the rock face opposite where I am sitting.

Little to no Soil

Between the rocks, there seems only to be a gradient of smaller pebbles. Very little organic matter has rooted among the rocks on this plateau, aside from occasional grasses and shrubs such as sage.

Cars, planes, and several gunshots

The sounds of civilization are apparent at this location, and include the drone of distant cars, occasional semi-truck deceleration, a few large air planes, and several distant gunshots. The roadway is visible, but distant, across the main valley.

Umatilla Campground

From our vantage point, we can see Umatilla rock and the cabins where we are based. Roughly to the north are alkaline lake and a recreational lake (Dry Falls Lake). Boats and kayaks are visible on the recreational lake.

Bird Perches

Perching places are visible around the rock faces, indicated by white layers of droppings. I wonder how many generations of birds have used these same perching rocks and nesting crevasses.

Dry Falls

From where I sit, a large expanse of Dry Falls is visible. I am particularly nearby a large channel in the face of the rocks. I am struck by the immense volume of water that would flow through this channel. The falls are vast, and I ponder the possibility of nearly 300 feet of water submerging this landscape during the superflood.

• There is very little visible soil
• ranging from pebble size to two feet wide
• vegetation is very sparse here as opposed to the walk up here
• vegetation becomes sparse about 100 feet from the edge
• to the north east is alkali lake
• to the north is green lake
• camp is south south-west from here

This is the gallery of pictures from the Southern Mesa

It feels as if nothing has changed for centuries except for the trash, which looks fairly new.  We have found remnants of wildlife, but none living. The animals have forsaken this plateau. Nothing has changed, and how could it?  This landscape looks too vast for the hands of man to reform it.

However, gradually we have begun.  I can picture a time when nothing could be heard here except the swallows, the wind and your own breath.  A plane flies overhead, and all of these sounds are overpowered.  Like the flute in a marching band – their voices lost.  When we experience chaotic noises, our own voices get lost in the mix.  Our society has grown too loud, and is becoming discomforted by silence.

People have become so alienated from true silence that when in company of others, we feel a constant need to converse.  With silence, for many people, comes anxiety.  How do we reverse this trend on a societal scale?  Individual meditation and journeys into nature can solve the problem, but only for those who are self-motivated and aware of the loudness.

The silence on top of the mesa is like an exquisite piece of glass.  It is shattered routinely by the cries of birds, the whispering wind and the occasional car traveling down the highway.  There is an odd combination of sights up here.  On one hand it feels very remote and wild.  Basalt rocks, small desert shrubs and patches of lichen that almost astonish a person with their loud and noticeable colors cover the plateau.   The only signs of life are a few small rodent droppings and sounds of birds.  I feel insignificant and small standing on the edge, with a sense of uneasiness that comes with the fact that life is impermanent, it could all be over with one false step.

On the other hand if I look west and listen carefully I am reminded of societies great reach.  I can perceive telephone and electrical poles stretching as far as the eye can see.  I can hear the cars roaring down the highway, a never-ending black snake slithering through the hills.  Even in the midst of all the majestic beauty that one can see from the top of La Mesa our civilization stubbornly refuses to be ignored.

I climbed the pothole to feel the soil.  The texture of flour – unlike soil that I grew up on.   This soil is unbleached.  It is a tone of yellow similar to mustard; somewhat milky.  It also holds very little moisture, but is supportive.  Somehow it is not kidnapped by wind.  Roots of small bushes hold it down in the cracks between rocks, but in my hand it gets lost. In my palm it rests only temporarily until the wind carries it in several directions. I cannot hold on.  The cracks between my fingers are not enough.

The pothole seems to draw us in.  When this gaping hole in the Earth appears as we summit the plateau I feel the urge to climb down and sit in the center of this outlandish geological formation.  The thought that an underwater vortex created this fills me with new respect for the power of mother nature.  The feel of sitting in one of these potholes is hard to describe.  It is quiet, peaceful and sheltered from the harsh desert landscape surrounding it.  There is a subdued calm in the air.

This is the only place I’ve been that feels legitimately cut-off from the rest of the world. The feeling of being in a pothole is hard to describe. For me I feel as if I had had been teleported to another time and place. Even in the middle of nature these potholes feel distinct. I have never seen anything like it, these are the true potholes putting the lowly city ones to shame. They seem alien to the environment, divots in a landscape normally smooth, the plateaus have flat tops. The layers of rock along the canyon walls are uniformly distributed, evenly spaced, and regularly contoured but theses potholes stand out. Rather they shout: “I am unique, I have a story to tell!” Walking or sliding down the strewn heaps of rock, the story of this pothole, one large cavity in the landscape begins to unfold. It begins to blossom, and to decay. Along the bottom half of the walls sit a sloped pile of broken rocks. They begin to break down into sand, eaten away grounded by lichens. This powder now collects at the bottom of and insulates the roots of countless plants. Through decay new life blossoms,  beauty you can find even in a pothole 15,000 years old.