The desert is a complex creature, shaded by mood and nuance. Part zen, part hitman--you'd better go out there knowing you're at the whim of its caprice.
Lately I've been out here on my bike. No, that is not me rounding the bend. That is a guy and furthermore, I ride side-saddle.
There's something about riding a bike. It's like the ultimate time machine. I'm sure I look exactly what I am--a genteel lady of a certain age--but in my mind I feel like a ten year old girl, all knees and elbows, pedalling ferociously, braids in flight. And my mind is completely free.
Plus, there's all sorts of interesting characters along the way. I rescued this fine fellow the other day. He was not especially pleased by my help, but those on the verge of becoming snake pancake are hardly in a position to discriminate. I spoke to him in my best Parseltongue, but he sniffed and said I had a Canadian accent.
I also saw three tarantulas, but they did not appear in need of assistance and I must say I'd be hard pressed to offer it even if they did. I think we are all familiar with a spider's propensity to leap ten feet in the air and suck off your face. I mean, there are urban legends and then there are cold, hard facts.
People often talk about the energy of a place. There is good energy in the desert. Especially when it's not in the mood to annihilate you.
I always leave here feeling tired, bemused, grounded, processed, distant, connected, dreamy, lighter, happy...and grateful to be alive. What do they call that again? A natural high?
Desert, je t'aime. Especially at this time of year.