Half of what I love about what have become annual/sometimes biannual trips to the Mojave Desert, is gazing out the window of whatever rental we’ve managed to secure first thing in the morning. I try not to miss the sunrise, the sun coming over the mountains and mesas to the east, lighting up the Yucca and Joshua Tree, Juniper Berry and Cholla Cactus growing in the sandy soil, watching for rabbits and early birds. Today, on cure, there’s a Red-tailed Hawk, perched on a pole, catching the first rays of light (and perhaps, soon, a mouse).
We’re staying at the same place we did earlier this year, on a mesa between Joshua Tree and Yucca Valley, facing mostly west. After a long drive from San Luis Obispo — longer due to thick Souther California traffic — we arrived after sunset, a big full illuminating the Morongo Basin. It was cold, in the 30s, and I fumbled a bit with the gate lock and then that satisfying click as it unhinged, and whoosh of the gate as it opened over the gravel drive.
Unlocking a gate, another action that echoes so many other days and nights in other rural places I’ve lived and restored myself in Colorado and California. The ritual rarely varying: Putting the car in park, stepping out to fiddle with lock and key, then unwrapping a chain and pushing the gate in the ideal direction: in toward the house or back toward the road depending on the particulars of the terrain. Here it's toward the road. During my last summer living in the Rocky Mountains, the entry gate swung toward a barn behind which I could see Scorpius twinkling over the silhouette of a mountain ridge. The year I lived in Davenport, the driveway gate was likewise toward the house and barn where all but the peacocks had vacated. If I’m opening a gate which requires a key or a code and getting out of a vehicle to manually push or pull, I know I’m on solid ground.
Plus the first time I came to Joshua Tree during the winter of 1989, I was mid-recovering from a surgery, and ever since it’s been one of my go-to places I wasn’t supposed to be going anywhere after having a thyroid tumor removed, but a crew of my college classmates — my housemate, birder friend Carlton, probably Samantha and a couple other outdoorsy pals — had hatched a plan to go on a camping and climbing adventure in Joshua Tree (it had yet to be established as a national park) over the holiday break.
We were all learning to climb that year. Another friend and I had spent a Fall weekend at Pinnacles (likewise then a monument) learning out to belay and rappel. My housemate was an experienced backcountry skier who was intent on becoming a NOLS Instructor and spent her weekends doing things that would polish any necessary skills for the job. Vacation was for adventure. Even if I had stitches across my throat I wasn’t going to miss out!
We drove down to the park in the two unofficial car brands of UC Santa Cruz Environmental Studies majors: a Subaru and a VW van. We got into our campsite late that year as well, putting up our tents in the dark with little talking. I slept better than I had in weeks, and woke up to a light dusting of snow on the ground. When I looked outside of my dome tent was a jackrabbit, standing still as a statue, under a sage bush. We spent the next few days hiking and scrambling up rocks in the winter sun…and I felt stronger for it.
Later, when I returned to the doctor’s office to check on how my incision was healing, they were pleased with how quickly everything was knitting up. I didn’t tell them I thought it was partially due to the time in the desert.
Returning to the desert over the years since always been restorative, to mind and spirit as much as body. Visiting here amid the pandemic, earlier this year and now, again feels like respite. I’d worried a little bit, that we were being anti-social, planning a desert getaway Christmas week, but listening to The Daily podcast about the latest on Omicron as we drove, it maybe for the best.