Desert Nights

Notes from my nights in Cottonwood Canyon, September 19th-21st

The best part of life in the desert is the evenings. No one will disagree with this. In the setting sun, the canyons glow, the harsh heat fades, the cylidropuntia's spines shine and sparkle, and the growing shadows give everything an air of mystery.

You put your pack down. You take your boots off. Rinse your face and hands. Cook some dinner. Eat and chat with your coworkers. The best of life's simple pleasures. Easier to appreciate in a place where simple is all you've got.

The stars and the bats come out one by one, slowly at first, but increasing along an seemingly exponential curve so that soon, you have no chance of keeping count. Grasshoppers, cicadas, screech owls, and coyotes (1) all contribute to the night's songs. On this lucky evening, the rare burbling of a little brook (2). It's a rhythm you almost feel more than you hear, lulling you toward well earned sleep.

Some people put up tents. I prefer to sleep out, watch the stars until my determined brain finally gives up. I sleep well out here, a cool, clean night breeze (3) over a tired body, the soul distracted by world class star gazing. I haven't yet woken up with a tarantula on my face or a scorpion in my hair, although I've heard such stories, so I guess I'll keep sleeping out until I do.

As much as I love these nights, just perfectly cold to curl up in my bag but not yet enough to wake up and find myself frosted over, I can never enjoy the for long. After a twelve our day over rock scree and under scorched junipers, I hardly make it past 8:30. Too many lonely moths flock toward my headlamp, for their sake, and mine, I always give up on my book quickly. Or this essay. Goodnight. Those little scorpians can wait until first light (4)...

PS- Excuse my rampant poetic licence. 1. Also this evening we were serenaded by the lovely roar of fighter-jet flyover. 2. This little desert stream is surrounded by cow shit, as are most of them. 3. Thank goodness it's just a light breeze, or I'd be coated and choking on dust and dried cow-shit. 4. Cooking breakfast by headlamp before our 6 am return to work, I did find two little guys climbing around my stove as I made our grits.

PPS- My nights in the desert, at least for this season, are finished. That's my emotional excuse for the poetic licence, forgive me. Another job over, another round of sentimental goodbyes at hand, to friends, to mountains, and to perfect desert nights.