You would’ve loved this place, brother. It was wild, raw, elemental. The type of place that makes you realize how you fit into the universe and be thankful for your capacity to experience just a fraction of what it has to offer. You would’ve loved the rocks, red with iron and worn down by millennia of erosion — twisted, split, and peeled into strange and perplexing shapes. The skitter and slither of life on and beneath the surface of the shifting sands. And the stars, I know you would’ve loved those.
Spitzkoppe. Desert highlands with granite monoliths rising silently from the sands — world-weary sentinels sand-blasted to smoothness by the dry winds. You would’ve climbed one of them with me, racing me to the top to crow in victory at the expanse below us.
The history of it would’ve made you feel small; the age of the San Bushmen paintings would’ve prickled your skin. You would’ve sat there in meditation, focusing on the essence of the place around you and treasuring its stillness. I would’ve sat there too, joints aching from the unfamiliar position, but enjoying the experience all the same.
You would’ve jumped at the chance to sleep on the rocks, there under the yawning sky as the galaxy pinwheeled overhead. We would’ve had one of our late night discussions of hopes, dreams, failures… it would’ve been just like when we were kids, there under the stars at Spitzkoppe. It was that kind of place.
Your kind of place.
I miss you more than words can say, brother, but it’s places like Spitzkoppe that draw your memory near. I love that I can close my eyes in these places and imagine you there with me, reveling in the essence of the place and soaking it in to hold for as long as I can.
And in a way, you are, there among the twinkling stars — always with me.