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Anyone attached to the Southwest knows that Labor Day means a major commitment to motorcycles. I live within shouting distance of the Four Corners, and every year I watch the motorcycles arrive - often, not even ridden - strapped to the back of pickups, tied down on flatbed trailers, or packed away inside expensive cargo containers. Eventually unpacked, they roar up and down the highways, summer's last decibels, exhausted.

I knew they were coming again this year, so I packed my gear and drove north, to the national forest lands of the Blue Mountains. A little spot of water named Foy Lake called to me, and lucky it spoke before the motorcycles arrived. If it hadn't, I'd likely not heard it.

Apparently, I'm not the only one who got the call from Foy Lake. The campground was full, packed with motorized outdoor enthusiasts. The gear in some of the sites made me marvel at the engineering required to tow so much weight. In nearly every site, trucks were hitched to flatbed trailers with three, four, five, or even six ATVs strapped down. At one time, I was a devout believer in the principle of multiple uses for our national forest lands.

I've become an atheist when it comes to our culture's worship of the ATV.

There's another rally going on that has nothing to do with Harley-Davidsons, where most people don't expect it, miles away from the towns where we live our lives. To participate, simply purchase an ATV and a trailer to haul it into the places where birdsong and the chatter of aspen leaves used to reign. If a dirt bike gets strapped down with the ATVs, so much the better. Be sure the mufflers are bored out so the deer, if they aren't deaf already, can hear you coming and get out of your way. That's what we call off-road environmental savvy.

I only stayed at Foy Lake a short time, but I witnessed enough rally mentality to make me respect a pack of Harley-Davidsons once again. At least they keep to the pavement.

My first encounter with the off-road experience while visiting Foy Lake involved a child-sized dirt bike. The young boy rode the machine up and down the campground's dusty access road for what seemed like hours, but it might have been days. I arrived early on Saturday morning. I parked beside the dead-end loop in hopes of staying out of the way. In the space of a half hour, the same dirt bike buzzed me a half a dozen times. Its sound resembled an enormous deer fly circling my head. I should have swatted it.

When the occasional pack of dirt bikers passed by, the word "swarm" came to mind. Each one of the gang dressed in competitive gear, looking a bit like Darth Vader in latex - full face helmets, gauntlet gloves, and padded armor, which is great for their safety, but it made me wonder if I'd been transported to a planet where gas fumes replaced the atmosphere and these genetic mutations had sprung from the dirt.

The ATVs were no less irritating, throttled to the max, many young boys and girls no doubt learning to enjoy what they'd been encouraged by their parents to believe in: The great outdoors. This must be how you get the kids away from their XBox games: Buy an ATV and promise them driving privileges. No license is required. I watched a young father prop his child on his lap - a child that could not sit upright on the machine independently - and allow her to take over the vehicle's operation. She took off in a cloud of dust, spinning her training wheels.

Another picture of outdoor health: A young man walking his dog, tethered properly within the campground boundaries to a leash, but the dog was obliged to trot alongside her ATV, which he throttled at a dog's pace.

When the woman in the campsite adjacent to where I stood cranked up her ATV, I decided to step back. I thought, oh boy, just what we need, another ATV cruising the campground. But she drove slowly and carefully the distance of about 100 yards and stopped beside the latrine, where she shut off the engine, dismounted, and went inside.

Thank goodness she proved to be a responsible ATV owner and operator. With all the flying dust and gravel I'd witnessed since my arrival, I shuddered to think of what possible injury I'd be recovering from if she really, really had to go.

David Feela is a teacher at Montezuma-Cortez High School. View his webpage at www.geocities.com/feelasophy.