My Season in the Sonoran Desert

“The personification of the natural is exactly the tendency I wish to suppress in myself, to eliminate for good. I am here not only to evade for a while the clamor and filth and confusion of the cultural apparatus but also to confront, immediately and directly if it’s possible, the bare bones of existence, the elemental and fundamental, the bedrock which sustains us. I want to be able to look at and into a juniper tree, a piece of quartz, a vulture, a spider, and see it as it is in itself, devoid of all humanly ascribed qualities, anti-Kantian, even the categories of scientific description. To meet God or Medusa face to face, even if it means risking everything human in myself. I dream of a hard and brutal mysticism in which the naked self merges with a non-human world and yet somehow survives still intact, individual, separate. Paradox and bedrock.” — Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire (7)

When I first accepted a position on a National Parks trails crew through Arizona Conservation Corps, I had very little concrete knowledge of what exactly lay ahead. Instead, I stepped forward on a path that was veiled and undetermined but pregnant with the enticing promise of long days spent working and living outdoors. A season in the dramatic and severe setting of the Sonoran Desert with soaring saguaro cacti, slinking cholla, and burgeoning bushes of purple prickly pear. An experiment in translating the many lessons I learned during my thru-hike on the PCT into the context of the front country—the lands of commerce and “real-world” constraints.

I packed light just as the trail had taught me and because I have continuously found simple standards to be liberating rather than limiting. I mentally prepared for the logistical hardships of transitioning into a new place with limited social and financial resources at my disposal. I steeled myself against anticipated moments of uncertainty and discomfort, especially instances of feeling isolated so many miles from the familiarity of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the lush greens of Virginia, and the serenity of home.

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I think I expected to feel as though a thousand intangible threads of intimacy and closeness were stretching over the vast distance of the continent, persistently linking me to a smattering of points along the east coast, tying me to all those I hold dear. In the past, I have often felt this was the case. Felt as though I left the place and the people that are so inextricably a part of my spirit, my very bones, and gravitated toward the ever changing and infinitely expanding horizon of the American West.

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In some ways, the desert has seamlessly matched my expectations. Though mostly the desert has astounded me. Nourished me. Mercifully unsettled me in ways I could not have predicted when I first landed in Arizona just a couple of months ago. I have been writing this reflection over the course of the past two months. Scrawling observations and barely formed memories into the neatly lined pages of my journal. Writing field notes for the National Parks Foundation in my role as a liaison. Staring into cherry campfires and sorting out my thoughts in the company of a friend or in the contemplative hours of my morning treks as I make my way from camp to our crew’s work site.

However, the recent intensification of the COVID-19 outbreak within the United States and the virus’ far reaching impacts as a global pandemic has forced me to confront how visceral and valuable my time here in Arizona has been thus far. How deeply, unutterably grateful I am. How terrified I am of being forced to say goodbye prematurely to these strangely enthralling landscapes and the individuals I have come to love. Like everyone else, I am struggling to remain calm in the midst of so much uncertainty as new closures and restrictions unfold day by day by day. As parks throughout the nation closed to the public in the past week, I anxiously waited to hear the status of the parks within which I worked. Even as we set out on hitch, the crew collectively felt the low hum of menace that at any moment we could be cut loose, pack up, and leave without any sense of resolution.

Yesterday, March 23rd, we received word that this hitch would be our last. That our projects would be suspended until May 1st, 2020 at the earliest and perhaps even longer depending on our nation’s condition. No, we will not be paid. No, we will not be receiving the educational award that is contingent upon the completion of our service. Though I had considered this possibility for the past week, the finality of the situation sent me reeling.

Despite this, I want to share a little bit about what exactly it is I have been doing here in the Sonoran Desert. I am on a National Parks trails crew. My crew—Crew 139—and I build and maintain trails in National Parks throughout Arizona. Our assignments are dynamic and often include dry stone masonry, invasive species removal, and increasing native plant populations. In my current position, I am learning a tremendous amount about this particular desert’s ecology, water management strategies, as well as the ins and outs of conservation work writ large. For example, I am learning about the complex ecosystem of organizations which make such work possible—National Parks Service, Arizona Conservation Corps, Conservation Legacy, and the National Parks Foundation.

As a member of a trails crew I have had the good fortune to visit numerous National Parks for the first time. The moonscape of White Sands National Park with its infinitely blue horizon and bleached sand dunes. The cacti forests and frosted Rincon peaks in Saguaro National Park. The peculiar hoodoos and prominent profile of Cochise’s Head in Chiricahua National Monument. The wildness of the old west at Fort Bowie where the Apache warred with Mexican and American settlers for over a century. The blue black depths of Coronado Cave and the southern terminus of the Arizona Trail on the US-Mexico border in Coronado National Memorial.

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I fell into crew life with unexpected ease, though that has more to do with the fascinating characters that comprise crew 139 than anything else. Laurel, our crew lead, is originally a fellow Virginian. She’s a funky wild land firefighter with a foul mouth and an unparalleled work ethic. Katie whose reserved, peaceable exterior gives way to charming eccentricities and a wealth of wildlife and ecological experiences. Katie is one of my closest friends on the crew and in one another we find inexhaustible resonance and understanding. Ann is steady and solemn and unfailingly kind. Her wisdom and balanced energy keeps our crew honest and on point. Mackey is a Navajo native, lifelong Arizonian, and former member of the National Guard. Though he’s young, he works incredibly hard without ever complaining about the conditions, no matter how intolerable they become. Sergio, a fast talking aspiring marine with a benevolent heart and a pension for cross-fit, homemade tortillas, military surplus and 80’s rock. Finally, there’s Luke.

Yesterday morning at 6:10am a soft salmon colored sunrise cascaded through a forest of spindly sycamores. I heard the whirl of the singing stream and then footsteps, gracefully creeping toward my tent. I opened my eyes, already smiling, and saw Luke kneeling beside me with a steaming mug of coffee in his outstretched hand.

“Good morning, Bell.”

Luke, who leaves me fumbling for words. Luke, who became a fast friend to me over the course of our first few hitches. Luke, whose exquisite mind and gratuitous heart I’ve only just begun to explore.

I lay on my back, gazing dreamily into the sky, and feeling the heat from the coffee seeping through my shirt and into my chest. It was one of those otherwise ordinary moments that shifts your perspective for however brief a moment, demanding to be noticed and savored. Sheer, unadulterated bliss. Just hours before I received the news that I was unemployed. Hours before I’d hike my final steps through the Rhyolite and hoodoos, coming to terms with the fact that I would be leaving Arizona. Leaving Luke.

If I had to recount how Luke has come to mean so much to me—and yes, I sincerely feel I must—I would say it began with a rare and brilliant sort of friendship. A friendship marked by rapid banter, spirited competition, and above all a resounding respect for one another. Luke, Katie, and I clustered together with remarkable ease. The three of us would spend hours weaving our opinions and ideas together to produce the most marvelous tapestries. Each of us having recently graduated from college and striving to live authentic, sustainable, and altruistic lifestyles, I think we recognized a kindred spirit in one another.

Luke, a wildlife biologist by training and an ornithologist by passion, challenged my assumptions about the wilderness I hold so dear. By expanding my understanding of the sacred and indispensable nature of all the forms of life I am dependent upon and linked to, Luke called me into deeper relationship with life itself. He taught me the very thing I hoped to learn, to celebrate the barest bones of existence. To experience myself as a marvelous and passing piece of a much grander reality.

Needless to say, Luke and I’s friendship changed shape again and again as we labored side by side on various projects, hiked for hours along the ridges of the Rincons, and scoured Tucson for the dive bar of our dreams. We felt like old friends and new lovers—cherishing the splendid simplicity of our days.

Though the more time we spent together—and we have spent many dusty grueling hours together on hitch—the more I began to see all the possibilities that Luke’s powerful presence impressed upon me. The more I began to wonder at my ability to say goodbye in a few months time. The more I began to think of myself as a part of a pair rather than a blissfully lonesome individual beholden to no one but herself.

I was bewildered.

When I first arrived in Arizona, with little preparation or planning, it felt as though I’d managed to conjure and then contain the electricity and excitement of thru-hiking. My Osprey loaded with gear and my little black suitcase carrying a few favorite garments, I slept somewhere different each night and filled my off days with exploration and adventures cobbled together by some mixture of sheer will and the arrogance of youth. An impromptu trip to Mexico. Summiting peaks still slick with snow and ice. Slinking away from the rest of the crew to make love beside a babbling brook.

Although the dazzling thrill of embarking on a new journey eventually fades and gives way to something else; in its place emerges the warm glow of familiarity, experience, and a sense of home. Analogously, the ecstasy of uninhibited attraction and good company eventually gives way to something stranger and far superior—something bizarre and timeless and absolutely otherworldly. Something that defies definition but is most easily described as “love.”

I’m not sure what happens next. The days immediately ahead are sure to contain countless changes for us all—as individuals, families, and as a society. Though I have experienced an enormous amount of uncertainty, fear, and sadness in the past week, I am beginning to catch my breath. Beginning to brace myself for a new normal. Beginning to feel gratitude gaining momentum and grace breaking through.

Wishing each and every one of you health, happiness, and above all—a little bit of peace.

Love,

Isabella