time in the desert

At noon, I can see the river.

The sun beats against the back of my neck, my forehead, my calves. Soaks through the mesh of my trail runners, weaves into my too-thick socks and ignites blister after blister between my toes. I take tiny, quick sips of water, trying to beat it back, fighting equal and opposite fears of dehydration and sucking my bottles dry.

But I can see the river. A flash of blue far in the distance, so faint and brief that I question whether it’s just a heatsick fantasy, a desert mirage.

Burned-out husks of trees rise on either side of the trail, some still clinging to their scorched roots, others toppled into chaotic, decaying heaps of charcoal and ash. All around my feet, smaller plants bloom — prickly cactus, tiny wildflowers, wild herbs. A hot, defiant carpet of life, of survival, surging out of the dust.

I can see the river. I keep going.

The trail crosses a network of old dirt roads, and then begins to descend, twisting maddeningly in and out of folds in the hillside. In one of those folds I find a tiny patch of snow, hidden in eternal shadow. I am too stunned by this to even pause as I pass by. Minutes later, I think of what I should have done — stopped, sunk my hands into the cool shadowed freeze, dumped handfuls of the impossible crystalline ice down my back.

The river sparkles in the distance. Infinitesimally closer, and yet impossibly far.

One of the blisters on my left foot pops, and I yell “FUCK!” to no one in particular — or no one at all, rather. Only the wild herbs hear. It’s the same god damn blister I get every season, the “first long day with a pack” blister, right where the soft pad of my fourth toe rubs against the hard bone of my third. I know exactly what it will look like, what it will feel like when I peel the dead skin away to reveal the raw, glistening layer beneath.

I feel bad for that little patch of skin. Flung into the world so suddenly. Forced to armor up, to callus over. It thought it would have more time.

I wish it would get on with the callusing, though.

In a rare patch of shade, under a scraggly tree that somehow escaped the blaze that eviscerated its neighbours, I sit and cradle my foot in my lap. I pull off my shoe, and then my sock, careful not to touch the raw toe with my filthy hands. I swab the exposed skin gently with an antiseptic wipe, wincing at the sharp sting of alcohol. Then I apply a thin layer of neosporin, wrap my toe in a band-aid, and secure the whole thing with a tough strip of Leukotape.

It’s okay, I whisper to my skin. You still have time.

I love you, I tell it as I put my sock and shoe back on and stand gingerly, leaning against the tree. Please please don’t hurt, as I shoulder my pack and step back onto the trail.

My toe throbs, then quiets. Around the next bend, the river is a clear swath of light. I can see the willows and reeds lining its banks.

The trail approaches the riverbed in slow, stupid fashion, forming the hypotenuse of an excessively acute triangle, with the water flowing along its long side. I resist the urge to stomp off straight toward it — the burn dust is deep all around me, the blooming cacti a wall of thorns. I aim my eyes straight ahead, willing myself to take small, intentional steps; small, intentional sips of water.

I cross a low rise, then another. I can hear it now, a distant roar almost indistinguishable from wind.

And then it’s there, spread out at my feet, and I’m descending toward it, into the damp shade of the willows. Right up to the edge, where I almost lose the trail in mud and river rock. Right up to the edge, where the steep banks give way to flat, shallow pools, swirling eddies tinged brown with silt and white with foam.

The breeze off the water tugs my hair, nuzzles my cheek.

I take off my pack and sit in the sand. I dip one of my flexible half-liter bottles into the flow, and it’s instantly full. I treat the water and stare at it, awed.

I could stay here forever, I think. I should treat more water and keep moving, but just for this moment…I could stay here forever.

The willows clack like wind chimes above my head. I tip the water back, not bothering to put the cap on the bottle before I pour the first few ounces down my scorched throat.

This first bottle is for you, for right now, I tell myself. For you to sit here and drink in the shade. You have time.