Finally, I was getting back into the daily grind at CU, when my mom called me one morning to discuss our summer plans as I was on my way to class. We are planning a little road trip through the southwest to go along with a very exciting volunteer opportunity (more information to come in May!!). After our conversation ended and my political science class began, I couldn't stop thinking about the desert. I told her that I was in a lecture hall, surrounded by people, but was ready to jump out of my seat from the excitement of our plans.
She said, "Oh K, you really like the desert, don't you?"
"Mom. I LOVE the desert."
"I wish my mother were here."
"Why?"
"She'd be so amazed to hear you say that."
I guess my love for the desert does seem a little far-fetched. Growing up, my parents dubbed me to be the "polar bear" of the family. I was always hot, always sweating, always complaining about the heat. My grandparents lived in central Florida, so my grandmother got an earful of how horrible the heat was every time we'd come to visit. To my parents, my constant yearning to be in one of the hottest environments probably makes their heads spin. To be honest, I'm not sure I understand it either.
As my hiking club friends and I sat under the North Window in Arches National Park on Saturday evening, watching the sunset, I climbed through the arch to the small rock formation to look back towards Turret Arch, where I took this iconic photo. I looked southeast, towards the La Sals, and began wondering what it was about these lands that causes them to always be stuck in my mind.
Grand Canyon. Arches. Canyonlands. Capitol Reef. Monument Valley. Zion. Bryce. Death Valley. White Sands. These are only the headliners. There are thousands of other natural wonders scattered across the Southwest, whose names seem to multiply like bacteria every time you travel to a before-unseen feature or get lost in the depths of Instagram. What is it about the desert that is so fascinating?
As Edward Abbey described, the oceans are dangerously open, leading men to another beach, another continent, another place. Climbing a mountain only provides a thrill as you ascend the summit, reaching more and more dangerous territory, with more and more exposure, until you are eventually forced to come back down to a habitable environment. The ocean says escape. The mountains says challenge. "The desert says nothing."
The desert always seems to be waiting. There is no traveling to a foreign state, there is no ascent to the sky. The desert is just there, waiting for you.
As I stared out over the eastern slope of Arches National Park, contemplating the same scene Abbey probably did in 1956, I too wondered where the heart of the desert was, or if it even exists.
The desert ropes you in. The excitement that hits you as you enter your first slot canyon, the tear-starting awe that absorbs your body as you walk under Double Arch for the first time, the freezing rapids of the Colorado River that slam into your raft at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, the blinding amazement that pulses through your veins as you watch your first desert sunset. Once you enter the desert, you're forever looking for it's heart.
That's how my love for the desert began. It's wonder causes your curiosity. You find yourself to be forever searching.