I try to be aware when the universe is giving me a sign, yet sometimes *read most-times I’m far too stubborn, excited and/or attached to whatever narrative I’ve spun for myself. This hasn’t served me well up until this point and I don’t see it doing me any favours moving forward but thankfully I have someone in my life that is far better at taking these signs for what they are and being open to a quick pivot, a change of plans and living to see another day.
We escaped the winter doldrums of the Pacific Nort West and headed south to Palm Springs to congregate with the rest of our snowbird country folk amongst the palms and desert dust. Landing at the Sonny Bono Airport (amazing by name alone) grey-brown hills rise rugged in all directions. There is a dusting of snow on the tallest peaks and a reverse tree line from what I’m used to seeing up here north of the 49, where frail pines grow at the tops of mountains and a stark line is cut where temperatures are too severe for anything to grow below. The landscape down there is inspiring, vast and endless. An expanse filled with history and curiosity. I want to explore and learn the secrets baked into the scorched earth of the numerous valley floors.
Two things strike me as we cruise into town from the airport; first that Palm Springs is fun, kitschy and vibrant. Second, they’re lying. There's too much empty space for all this pleasantry. Sure, downtown has its art deco, cocktail vibe, which I fully endorse and as you drive passed Frank Sinatra Boulevard, Bob Hope Drive and on and on, the multitude of gated communities are idyllic and perfectly manicured; but why all the gates? What is out there? What nefarious activities are hidden amongst the shrub bush and shimmering horizon of the Mojave Dessert?
Just as nothing good can happen after midnight, nothing good can happen in that endless desert, and I want to be neck deep in it all! I can’t shake it. I cheer for the bad guys. A mustache too long and a few days too much stubble with sun creased eyes glaring out from a worn out full brim hat and I got you. Didn’t see him officer, you might try down the highway. Pointing in either direction, arms akimbo in front of my chest. Though my thrill seeking days are behind me, I’m still intrigued by the antihero. I want to rub up against it, for that's where life gets interesting.
And yet, I’m clearly not cut out for a life on the edge anymore. I write this draped in one of my two favourite cardigans, a scented candle burning beside me and soft jazz coming from the kitchen.
We made it out to Joshua Tree through 100 miles per hour gusts of wind, blowing sheets of coarse sand across the highway, pummelling our rented Corolla. By the time we got out to the high desert, it was snowing. Winds were down to 80 mph, I don’t think we would’ve made it on the Harley I had rented. Our place we had for the night was out passed where the roads are paved, down a washboard dirt road and left to where the roads turn to dust, awash with deep, soft sand. Wind howled through the walls knocking the shelved glassware together. The single paned windows shook so violently in their frames I thought they’d break, or blow out altogether.
Morning broke, the sun coming up over the distant hills. The wind had died down again but was sharp and painful against my exposed fingers as I made an attempt to shoot photos that would do justice to the immense beauty of that endless sky.
A little taste of that high desert and I need to go back. So many silences that will never be answered. The contrast of the sheen and polish of Palm Springs and the dust and wind of the Mojave fills my mind with plots and stories that need no resolution. They’ll linger on, a looming question mark like the shimmering horizon, braids of heat rising into the faded blue sky.
It's stormy down there!