I sit here among the salt dunes, situated in the shadow of Guadalupe Peak. I hear the rustling of desert scrub in the wind. The branches sound like papers shuffling in the den of an old writer.
I hear the deep breathing of my spouse behind me, inhaling the quiet arid air before expelling it in puffs of satisfaction. The air is free from the refineries that tangle the city of Houston; here, it is clean, clear, and fresh.
Nature stalls, waiting for us to become complacent in the maternal folds of her belly.
I see an old friend climbing the prehistoric dunes in the distance—leaning over and then squatting down with childlike curiosity to examine traces of life in this vibrant desert. Her joy for this moment has been hard fought.
I reach for my hiking reserves because I am thirsty. The spigot from my pack tastes of iodine—no doubt from some antediluvian coral reef that once nested here. The ancient granules of primordial gypsum pass through my lips and grind against my molars as my jaw settles back into its resting position.
I realize that time moves slower in the desert.1 Dissimilar to the cars bobbing and weaving on the massive interstate that I can see from my apartment living room, here, the low-lying scrub wavers only periodically in the cool breeze.
Nature stalls, waiting for us to become complacent in the maternal folds of her belly. The peace I feel in this moment, this too has been hard fought.
I feel the nerves in my arms tingling from the cold. After a long night in a tent, barely shielded from the elements, the wind lashing my back, I suddenly understand how King Lear felt on the heath with his fool, a raging storm, and no shelter to which he could retreat from exposure.
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children,
You owe me no subscription: then let fall
Your horrible pleasure: here I stand, your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man (3.2.13-17).
I suddenly understand how King Lear felt on the heath with his fool, a raging storm, and no shelter to which he could retreat from exposure.
I hear my spouse’s footsteps recede in the aural cosmology of Guadalupe’s watch. The nylon from his jacket swishes as he stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets.
Silence tickles my eardrums, and I wonder how many humans, over how many millennia, have sat in this very spot, here, gazing up at the mountain’s rim and contemplating the sensory experience of being itself, of being quiet, alive, and grateful.
This introspection—the escape from the sound and the fury of past traumas and emotional spasms that feel as if they were twisted with ash and molten with vulcan emission. Yes, this introspection, too, has been hard fought.
I owe this line of thought to Meg Bernhard, “The desert changed my life. It can change yours too.” Letter of Recommendation weekly column, New York Times Magazine, 15 November 2022, https://www.nytimes.com/2022/11/15/magazine/desert-recommendation.html. Fortuitously, I found this column in my back-issue print copy of NYT Magazine two days before our trip to Guadalupe Mountains National Park.
I love the parallelism you make between the physical journey and the "other" journey, i.e. the personal, psychological journey we become aware of when a combination of circumstances gives us a chance of catching a quick glimpse into these two journeys in unison. It took me back to when I was fortunate enough to climb the Great of Wall of China in the summer of 2019. I remember realising I was very fortunate to be experiencing it at the exact age of 30 as I felt young enough to dare certain risky moves yet old enough to appreciate the value of life and experiences. Very inspiring work!