I go out with pocket knife and water bottle to explore the pre-dawn desert. No destination except toward the river.
I crawl under the barbed wire and head downstream.
The rock-strewn wash transports me into a magical world of cactus and desert willow, a land of long shadows.
Walking on uneven ground has a way of forcing focus on the here and now, forcing a slower pace,
which draws attention to the fine soft sand and smooth green, gray, and black, water-worn stones beneath sandaled feet.
Thirty feet below the surrounding desert, the wash meanders -grasses caught in trees at eye level clear evidence of previous floods,
a serious reminder to watch the sky for clouds and observe the banks for routes of escape should the monsoon burst forth and unleash a seething chocolate-brown flash flood.
From wide fields of gravel and sand the channel narrows. The only path shows tracks of other creatures who have traveled here- rabbit, coyote, lizard, birds, all wandering down-canyon toward the promise of water.
As I round a last bend, desert transforms into forest- ancient cottonwood trees, witnesses to geological and human history.
I can hear ghosts whispering stories of persecuted indigenous peoples driven from homes by violence and disease,
stories of the last beavers, hunted to near-extinction to make top-hats for fashionistas in New York City.
The towering cottonwood canopy casts dappled shade the damp slippery path weaving through tangled roots dressed in camouflage of last years fallen leaves.
Here and there tiny green sprouts push through the leaf litter in search of scarce sunlight.
My skin tingles from the cool breeze and I feel connected, joyful, grateful to be here, in this magical place, at this precise moment.
I would not trade this moment for fame or fortune. I will not give up this hour.
Desert Dweller 