Everywhere, Anywhere, and Nowhere

The first time I went to the desert I was hooked. I come from river towns--places equally green and lush--and the dryness was startling as the stillness. I remember driving up a deteriorating asphalt road that headed north from the highway. The pavement became scarcer and scarcer until I was bouncing along on a dirt track. There was nothing for miles around, no towns or houses, and I felt foolish--a breakdown would have been a disaster. The sun was lost over the mountains only leaving a pink glow in the sky. I came to a stop in the middle of the road and gave the dust a couple of minutes to pass me. Climbing out, I was amazed at the quiet; it was a quiet I had never experienced growing up. All the plants were twisted and dry and the earth was like talcum. I sat on the hood of the car, still warm from our travels, and thought about the men and women who had crossed a hundred years earlier. It must have been as terrifying for them as it was exhilarating for me--I was home. I knew at that moment, surrounded by pink light and the sound of insects, that I was home.