Ode to the Desert

I love the desert. The broad expanses of nothingness. The subtlety. A monochromatic landscape from afar that turns into a sun washed spectrum of nuance up close.

On the first day of a desert visit, everything seems brown. Lifeless. Muted. But the human eye demands stimulation, and if one is patient, one will find it. On day two, the desert floor appears greener. The low-lying vegetation, clinging close to the sand sprawling its thin tendrils outward. Desert plants don't have broad leaves and thick plushy stems. The definition of adaptation, successful plants and shrubs play it close to the vest with skinny branches and needle-like leaves. On day three, heralded by birdsong, the early dawn pinkness plays tricks on the land. Tiny shadows form around microscopic ripples in the sand. Footprints straddling a single line show where some small reptile has been; the shadow makes it visible. At high noon, the tracks are invisible. And tiny desert flowers open to sell their wares to any available pollinators.

But, oh, oh the desert nights....

"My" desert is bordered to the west by mountains - the sun sets early. From Font's Point, a high spot on the desert floor that overlooks some badlands, you can watch the sun set. The sun dips behind the range and you'd think the show is over, but it's really just beginning because the sun still has a long way to go before kissing the Pacific. Firy oranges and pinks, corals and peaches paint the clouds. You watch the shadow of the mountain steal across the valley floor, enveloping the small desert town, the golf course, the RV park, and rolling over the badlands towards the East.

The sky turns, in gradations from East to West from pinks, to turquoise, cerulean, indigo and then ink.

And then, by god, it's dark. Blindingly dark. On the Point, there's no ambient light. And the quiet is as noiseless as the darkness is black. A deprivation chamber. You hear the blood in your ears and the breath in your nose. Your heartbeat. Your companion's heartbeat. For a city girl, it can be a little creepy. Who's that driving up? Is it a serial killer?

Then, million by million, the stars begin to poke their little fingers through the night sky, creating holes - small, big, conjoined, clustered - for their light to shine through. Some are too antsy to just sit still anymore and streak across the sky as if late for an interview.

The article below talks about the loss of wildlife and habitat from solar plants being built in the desert. But it doesn't talk about the light pollution from 24 hour operations. The loss of night. The loss of stars. I'm torn. Renewable is good. But isn't there a better way? Panels on every rooftop. That creates self-sufficiency and doesn't put money in corporations' pockets. This feels like the Monsanto of solar energy.

http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-solar-desert-20120205,0,7889582.story

Think I'll go back for a visit before my desert is gone. Maybe Chrissie Hynde can sing a song about the Mojave. That'll make it all better, right?