Under A Desert Sky
I hopped off the plane at LAX with my dreams and my sweater — which proved to be a bad call in the 90-degree heat. Ryan was running late, so I chose to wait for my ride and camping compatriot inside the air-conditioned “arrivals” section, sitting on my butt on the tile floor next to a free outlet into which I had plugged in my very dead phone.
And when Ryan picked me up, I hefted my new camping backpack into the backseat of his car with minimal difficulty.
“Hi!” I said, climbing into the passenger seat, and off we went, that being the extent of our reunion after not having seen each other in person since we graduated college five months earlier.
On the way out of the airport, I plugged Joshua Tree National Park into the GPS and we wasted no time beginning the adventure.
We rode along hills of dust and spare splotches of green, taking turns blasting whatever music we felt like, and failing at every opportunity to successfully get to an In ‘n Out for lunch.
We did go to Walmart, though, for all of the camping supplies that we had neglected to pack. Food was our biggest priority, but band aids and sunscreen and other such commodities were also in the shopping cart we rode around the complex.
We meal planned as best we could, trying to stick to some kind of budget. Canned soup was going to be the backbone of most of our meals, supplemented mostly by whiskey.
I had to return twice after checking out. First for contact solution, and then for aloe vera. Each time, stepping out of the air-conditioned expanse of a Walmart into a parking lot even larger, flanked on all sides by palm trees, gas stations, and then beyond, a vast expanse of only dust and a single road, I could only stop and stare.
It was something I never got used to, having spent all my life living somewhere near New York City and then somewhere near Boston. That there could be such emptiness in the world.
We got to Joshua Tree late in the afternoon and had just enough time to climb and explore. The park had a single road that ran through it, forking into two two-thirds of the way through.
I took out my camera and snapped away, glad to take advantage of the desert and the light.
If I was honest, I was worried about the camping that night, though. Even though I had fully and willingly planned on back country camping every one of our many destinations.
But all of that was before I had had to seriously contend with the prospect of having to find a place in the wilderness to pitch a tent. And then having nothing but a flimsy piece of fabric between my vulnerable, sleeping form and the outside world.
The sun was setting, though, so we drove until we found a place to park the car for the night. Then we loaded up our gear, and off we walked. For a mile.
By the time we pitched camp, it was dark, and we had only our headlamps to guide us among the hills of stone that rolled into the night as far as we could see. Parts of the park were all fields of Joshua trees, standing crooked and raggedy, but where we were it was far more desolate. The rock hills in this part had been bleached white by the desert sun, a white that glowed even in the dark under the light of the moon. Like a graveyard of the bones of giants.
Once the tent was up and secured, I threw on my denim jacket, already needing to ward off the encroaching chill of the desert at night. Only an hour before, I had been sweating in a tank top.
We had camped against a natural hill, one that was elevated and provided plenty of shelter. Some broken glass and smudgings of charcoal indicated that we were not the first to use the natural shelter here. We even found a log of wood secreted into a stubby bush.
“Score,” Ryan said, at that.
As the darkness folded us more and more inside of it, we broke out the whiskey we had brought. We had made sure to have three liters of water apiece, as well, as had been recommended by the ranger’s station, but that remained in the tent.
I followed Ryan up the hill against which our tent sat, the stone of the rock so dry I could feel it suck the moisture out of my hands as it scraped them. But the textured surface was nevertheless easy to grip, which was good because I had to climb one-handed, the whisky bottle in my other hand making low sounds of annoyance every time it clipped the rock.
I passed the bottle to Ryan at the top, and then we sat side-by-side listening to the dry wind whipping through the echoing valley, roaring as it tore past us and hurtled on into the distance. We talked as we looked at the emerging sky, the bright stars twinkling.
I was cold. Much colder than I ever thought I would be, even knowing this convention of the desert. Twice, I had to make the climb down and back up the rock to put on more layers, and even then I still huddled deep into my too-big denim jacket. The wind roared endlessly too, and it was like I could feel the moisture leeching bit by bit out of my lips, leaving curling and chapped skin helpless in its wake. But though I was shivering and dry, and had stinging hands, when I saw a star shoot across the silent sky, it made a sound in my heart.
I looked for constellations, to see if I could find any of the pictures in the sky that were always so clear to so many people scattered across the time and space of the world. I thought I saw the Big Dipper, but that was all I knew.
After a while, we broke out Ryan’s teeny tiny camp stove and used the found log of wood to make a cook fire. It glowed against the rocks that surrounded us, and Ryan kept it fed with the tiniest slivers of wood as we got it hot enough to cook.
We had bought chorizo for tonight, and into a pot it went, roasting and bubbling over the fire.
We took turns eating it from the pot with a spoon. I eagerly took my first bite before grimacing. “Mm. Spice. Chapped lips. Ah. Burning.” Ryan nodded, already chewing his own portion.
But we ate it anyway because it was delicious, sipping at water and whiskey in alternating patterns.
I tried to drink enough water, but I knew I was failing because I could feel it in my lips. But still, that ended up being a blessing when I was faced with the riddle of peeing.
Peeing in the woods in leggings is hard, but peeing in the desert in leggings is so much worse.
“You okay down there?” Ryan asked.
“If you look at me, I will kill you,” I replied.
We watched the stars some more, this time from closer to our tent, and after a while, Ryan pointed with a giant smile and said, “Yo, I think that’s Orion.”
I looked where he was pointing and opened my mouth to say that I saw nothing when I saw the belt of bright and shining stars. And then I saw the outline of the man who wore the belt and found my gaze pulled irresistibly to the left, towards the glinting point of the arrow notched in his bow, shining so bright it looked as though he would let it fly any moment to hurtle on across the sky.
My fears melted slowly but surely, the longer we spent in the night. My fears of the greater world, of the flimsy tent, of the unknown in the dark. They say to see one shooting star is lucky, but that night I saw nine. And though falling asleep was difficult, it was not nearly as hard as I thought.
I woke the next morning overheated, now that the sun was back and that it was roasting us through the netting of the top.
We packed up our campsite quickly, to head back towards the car.
I have never tasted anything better than the beef jerky we chewed for breakfast. I think I might have moaned.
We hiked some more around the park, before driving on our way. Ryan began a photo series he called “Rock Vaginas” with my DSLR and he had a surprisingly large selection of subjects.
When the sun rose high in the sky, though, we decided it was best to be on our way.
And in Arizona, en route to Phoenix, we finally managed to get In ‘n Out.
