Nothing is quite like the first dive into a frigid body of water. Your chest tightens, the first thought is a panicked “get out of here.” But take a slow breath, calm your racing mind, give your body a chance to adjust to its new temperature, and one thought comes to the surface: The knowledge that you are alive, right here, right now. This realization is uncomfortable at first exposure because the indicator for this is cramping muscles from the cold. After the first jump every jump seems easier than the last. The chill of the water isn’t as daunting. This test of body and mind rewards you with the ability to feel comfortable in this powerful and dynamic part of the landscape. The merits of an encounter with frigid water transfer to the wider experience of being in water rich places. Surrender to the water, an intimidating and powerful entity, and you will come out on the other side.
Take a few strides out of the water and the rest of the world comes back into focus. A fish jumps. Laughter from other river-goers reverberates across the water. A dipper bobs up and down before diving into the small rapids. Your limits were tested and you came out on the other side unharmed, refreshed, and more confident in your abilities to exist in this landscape than before.
Water is plentiful in the mountainous and temperate forests of the west, but what happens when the rushing river slows to a trickle and then ceases entirely? We’ve made it to the desert, folks. The looming threat of unexpected precipitation is long gone and has been replaced by the frightening knowledge that water is scarce and elusive.
Growing up splitting my time between the midwest and the lakes of the northern Rockies, the water has helped me grow to love and feel comfortable in these ecosystems. The desert is a different story. My only experience in the desert has been the past 2 years living in Salt Lake City. This type of desert living hardly counts and wasn’t too noticeably different from my previous homes. Along the Expedition, once we hit the Owens valley in California, the common presence of water came to an end. Even the valley’s namesake, Owens Lake, is so devoid of water that it has to be watered by the city of Los Angeles to keep the dust from poisoning the city of Lone Pine. (But that’s another can of worms not to be opened right now)
Indigenous people have been thriving in the Mojave and Sonoran deserts for thousands of years--adapting to desert living and learning from the land. These desert residents undoubtedly hold an important place in these landscapes. Those of us who aren’t from the desert have a much different experience.
I was immediately humbled my first afternoon in the Owens valley desert when the hot sun burned my skin and dehydrated me to uncomfortable levels. How will I learn to feel at home in the desert? As I stumbled to my sleeping bag in the dark that night, I ran into the thorny answer to my question: a cholla cactus.
When you come to the desert you better come prepared, and nothing is better at preparation than the desert flora and fauna. The cacti have thorny limbs that creep toward the sun. The venomous Gila monster has tough, scaly skin for protection. Most people go into the desert just hoping to come out alive. I showed up to the desert with some pastries, glitter, and a backpack — none of which protected me in any way. Almost immediately all signs point towards the obvious: outsiders aren’t supposed to survive here. All of the cacti, Joshua trees, lizards, and other desert life we encountered have spent eons adjusting to the harsh conditions. They earned the right to be here and stand proud in the desert heat as others shrivel away. That night, as I picked cholla thorns out of my socks, I decided to take notes from these plants and animals. I would need to find some armor of my own if I was gonna survive out here.
Desert time moves differently. A relatively small saguaro cactus with no arms could be 70 years old already. Some we have seen were double that age and more. In our short lifetimes, we don’t stand a chance against these prickly beings. We bring water, but it’s from a faraway source. We can bring our man made technology, but, as evidenced by Noah Purifoy’s eroding outdoor art installations, the desert destroys that too.
Water isn’t there, but the thorny plants are. In landscapes rich with water, confidence is gained by vulnerable immersion in cold bodies of water. In the desert, you must surrender to and learn from the harsh desert elements so that confidence and comfort can come. Walking through the thorn and rattlesnake-dominated landscape with beads of sweat dripping down your temples, the first thought will be a panicked “I’ve gotta get out of here.” Take a moment, a sip of water, put some sunscreen on, and a thought comes to the surface: The knowledge that you are alive, right here, right now. The current moment is uncomfortable, but back at camp, ravenous and battered from a day of exposure to the thorns and sun, a glimmer of pride lifts your spirit. Each successive visit to the desert becomes more and more comfortable as you surrender to the power of the elements that test body and mind.