Tell me the desert isn't beautiful.
Tell me the desert isn’t beautiful.
How the spring bubbles up hidden & seeps through the canyon, cool and light to commence. Gradually building heat & volume.
Morphing rock to a smooth & slick slate, then the thermophilic bacteria gather to create their masterpiece. Like the abstract piece in the museum constructed of oil paint-soaked sheets of paper. The layers inviting, messy. And this canyon wall reminds me.
Tell me the desert isn’t beautiful.
The coating of moss, so concentrated, the rock canvas below engulfed in slime. The drops ooze down, &
weave through the thickness. We cup our palms together to catch the juicy drops dripping hot from the black, green flipped mossy cones. Visceral without touch, grotesque.
The orange melted mushroom moss has a stuck-on appearance like that sticky goo you fling so it can jerkily walk down the wall. This mushroom moss will melt instead. Melt.
We step close to the moss wall & the body feels the abrupt shift from bone-dry, cracking to gooey, muggy. The canyon smells of faint sulphur, stronger here.
Tell me the desert isn’t beautiful.
We soak our achy feet and calves in a balmy pool below a dainty waterfall.
Rest a while. Rest a while.
Then follow the transition to piercing cold as the spring pours into the Colorado.
Peculiar mallard geese peddle nearby, curious about our crunchy apple snack.
Descendants of dinosaurs! The apples aren’t for you.
Tell me the desert isn’t beautiful. Curious.
That impossibly fluorescent pink bloom of the beavertail contrasted by the dusky beige-sepia weather-beaten cliffs. The closed buds are soft to the touch. Gentle touch.
Don't be fooled by spring blooms. The waterless stones will slice your shins, leaving scattered, linear streaks of fresh blood. They beckon you to pay attention. Be here.
In case you falter (which you will).
Canyon wrens sing their pretty & comical dying battery song. Remind you your blood isn't that serious.
Tell me the desert isn’t beautiful.
It will not be as expected. Where there is endless dust, there are lime green ferns. They are somehow easy to dismiss in the recesses of the shaded slot canyon.
Where there is bloom, there are black, rotten cores of cactus
housing miniature lizards.
Dry sandstone basins with chips around the edges hinting at the history of water. You could carelessly crush the lamina apart with a heavy step.
Tell me the desert isn’t beautiful.
Expect to encounter a few thorns. To wear out your shoe soles until the tread is nothing but mashed shale like the ground you ran on. To sunburn your lips.
You must seek water & learn where to find it. Carry your own. Never submerge your head under hot water. The brain-eating amoebas from other worlds & ours lie there.
Some places are not meant for you to go.
Tell me the desert isn’t beautiful.
