DESERT MUSE
The plane descends through a thick fog bank; below, Los Angeles’ perpetual lust for energy is exposed by a dimly lighted grid that maps the chaotic sprawl. From the edge of the Golden State, where sand meets the sea to the bordering mountains, this thirsty city shines bright throughout the darkest hours. Concrete veins are illuminated, guiding the 8 million souls who occupy L.A. through the predawn haze. The world below is alive with movement. Streams of yellow headlights impatiently queue, clogging the twisted black arteries and plodding toward the city’s plastic heart.
Rubber meets tarmac and the usual processes are adhered to: “Thank you, goodbye.” “Work or pleasure?” Luggage pours onto the carousel as an irritable crowd encroaches upon any unoccupied space. Tired eyes scan for their belongings, stiffened bodies refuse to budge or surrender their real estate at the front of the scrimmage. I bypass this scrambled scene for the nearest exit.
A morning chill slaps me in the face, an abrupt environmental adjustment. The biting breeze is punctuated by a secondary sensory invasion: car horns, whistles and police sirens all blasting in chorus, furiously funneling vehicles toward their jet-lagged parcels lining the yellow curb. I dull the noise and forget the mess — racing rats are not for me.
I head east into the arid expanse.
My rental car hums along the gray 14-lane beast, surrounded by grand tin wagons that carry their occupants to undisclosed locations. Although wildly overpopulated, California’s broad highways feel lonely and empty. The disordered, bumper-to-bumper madness gradually thins. My focus switches from the wandering red taillights ahead, and my curious eyes flirt with the distant surrounds. Snowcapped mountains reach far above the sand-washed flats, all tones mute and neutral, bleached by the strength of the unbridled sun.
I pass the fields of metal daisies, industrial petals tumbling in hypnotic unison, encouraged by the coastal winds whose fury is bottlenecked and intensified through the narrowing of the San Gorgonio Pass.
Fourteen lanes become six and six, four as the road climbs a steady slope toward the Morongo Basin. Pragmatic structures purposely scattered among the stony hills confirm that these lands are occupied, despite the lack of visible human presence. Desert folk reside comfortably inside their heated homes, oblivious to the emotionally unstable climate that batters their external walls.
I reach Joshua Tree National Park at dusk and am greeted by a steady flow of traffic stacked for miles in the opposite direction. The white-socked masses, spent from a day meandering within the park’s confines, are couch-bound, destined for hot showers and cold beer. They are unaware that half of the park’s beauty has just begun to unfold.
The sun dips its weary head and saunters off to warm some foreign land, making way for its ivory counterpart. The huge white disk awakens, convex on the jumbled horizon, painting the park’s monzogranite features in a perfect pale light. Its glowing face projects a gigantic spotlight, emphasizing the theatrics of the desert’s cast. Ten thousand Joshua trees reach from the ground, their bony, alien hands clawing in a vain attempt to connect with the majesty above. The desert eve is lighted by an overripe moon and a million pinpricks in earth’s black blanket. I sleep now and give my mind to the night.
Dreams are vivid, encouraged by the malevolent cackle of the desert’s muse. I embrace the midnight journey, a subconscious spirit quest offered by the deepest slumber and the coyotes’ berceuse. It has been over a year since I have set foot in Joshua Tree, and I am comforted to close my eyes in her barren bosom.
I wake in the Mojave among these iconic formations that litter the pressed landscape — masses of ancient caramel boulders, stripped bare and huddled together in proud battalions. Their broad shoulders create a granite labyrinth so abstract and surreal that one cannot help but break the bonds of mundane cognition. The mind boggles, struggling to comprehend the beauty of this foreign landscape.
The brain (and its adapted modern occupation to busily filter the barrage of needless information we are now so readily subjected to) begins to slow. Thoughts are unsullied, delivered and processed in a linear manner. Creative theories flow freely and an uncommon clarity is embraced.
Beyond the scattered masses of knuckled rock, the two-lane blacktop veers east, descending into parts less explored. Uninterrupted flats lay naked, handsome and raw. The desert’s beige floor is punctuated by a uniform sprinkling of rugged flora, all elegantly adapted to their harsh surrounds, gracefully aging over millions of visits by sun and moon.
Dirt trails break from the paved road, splintering in all directions. These back roads lure more adventurous souls to vacant wanderings through the park’s obscure reaches. The true beauty of the desert lies among these vast spaces; the lack of noise or human interference offers moments of uninterrupted splendor. I inhale the limitless panorama, unmolested by man’s hands and sculpted by 100 million years of symbiotic evolution.
Gray clouds pass overhead, ignoring the parched tongue of the Pinto Basin, their precious cargo to be unloaded on the softer climates that lie beyond a sea of hazy mountains to the west. Jagged peaks and troughs rise and fall, stacked to the eye’s far reach. Each bare range emits a different shade in reaction to the westerly path of the obedient sun. Pastel colors plaster the earth’s walls, while above, candy skies morph through waves of silent change. Scattered light floods the drastic volumes of space and distance, softening all edges and flattening perception of depth, leaving behind a painted scene reminiscent of a 1960s postcard.
It’s unsaturated, romantic and absurdly wonderful. Disconnect from your devices that exist to control through distraction via force-fed, mass produced misinformation. Lift your head beyond your screen and witness the unfiltered wonder of the natural world. The more time we spend removed from the mediocrity of society, the less we depend upon it. Welcome to Joshua Tree. Wish you were here.