Mojave Serenity

 

When people go to the desert, they see this:

 

Long vistas of desolation...

 

Sparse plant life scattered among the rocks and sand. Virtually no animal life at all.

 

However, if you go to the desert at night, prepared to be there, it is a whole different world. When we arrived in Tecopa on Sunday night, the sky was still blue, although the sun had set. The glow from behind the western mountains faded gently, but steadily. We took our belongings into our room, and then came out to watch the stars appear one by one, then thousands in a rush as the sunset was finally extinguished. The quarter moon was nearing the edge of the sky and by 11:00 P.M. it, too, was no longer visible leaving behind the black dome that glittered more brilliantly than the Strip we'd left behind us.

 

I hadn't seen the Milky Way in such a long time that I'd forgotten that it almost looks like a series of clouds arching across the roof of the world. We could pick out entire constellations and tell the different planets because of the colors blinking at us from outer space. We watched a satellite zooming eastward, a tiny steady bright light traveling in an arc across the sky. The Big Dipper was so brilliant and hung so low it nearly touched the northern horizon.

 

It was so quiet. We spoke to each other in soft voices. We could not hear traffic or insects. After we ate our dinner, we walked over to the mineral spring/hot tub building that was part of our complex. CoolGuy used his red-light flashlight to illuminate the gravel road because my feet don't navigate rough surfaces too well. We slipped into the silky warm mineral water. Since the water comes from a spring, there isn't a pump, so even this experience was still and quiet. After about 20 minutes, we decided to drive out to a public pool along Furnace Creek Road about  a mile from the buildings.

 

Amazingly, it was more quiet than out there. This time we were far enough away from the compounds that we couldn't hear the swamp coolers. It was a perfectly still night, not even a whisper of breeze. Someone, long ago, poured a cement tub with steps and a hand rail so that one of the springs would have a defined pool. There are a couple of palm trees growing on the western side of the pool and someone has parked a very comfy sofa along the edge under the palms. We were all alone, so we disrobed and climbed into the warm pool under the stars. Warm water, total silence, and billions of stars. Periodically a  shooting star would flash overhead. Soon, two bats joined us, swooping just over our heads to snatch the little flying things that were attracted to the water. As we'd driven up to the pool, a kangaroo rat ran across the road in front of us. So, with the bats and the bugs, it was rather lively out there. Totally silent, but lively.

 

We watched the sky for another half hour, then climbed out and dried off and dressed. It seemed so noisy when we turned on the truck motor, and the headlights were spectacularly bright. We slowly drove along the gravel ruts and returned to the highway. It was just a half mile to the driveway of the compound. When we parked in front of our cabin, we spread out sleeping bags in the truck bed, and laid there watching as a few more meteors flashed across the sky. We realized that we were nodding off, so finally around 2:00 A.M. we surrendered and went in to the comfy bed.

 

The next morning, it was back to the harsh, barren world of desert rock and small prickly plants. The sun was glaring down, the temperature was creeping upward and once again, I began to feel small and vulnerable. We happily got into our air conditioned modern vehicle and pondered the stamina of those people who, 200 years ago, first trudged through this area, mapping the Old Spanish Trail for which the highway was named. We drove along at 60 mph and marveled at their determination as they rode their horses and packed their supplies on mules over yet another range of mountains that only led them into yet another barren alkali valley floor. Apparently, there are enough small springs spaced within 20 to 30 miles on the path they pursued that they finally made it over the final range of mountains that led them into the Los Angeles basin.

 

But, next time you are driving southwest toward the ocean, I recommend taking a break. Spend a night in the desert at one of the many oasis outposts like Tecopa or China Ranch. To appreciate the fragile beauty and subtle wonders of the desert, you'll need to be far away from the noises and illumination of civilization, so it isn't enough to just get out of your car in say...Baker. Go way out in the far reaches of the desolation, so that you can hear the quiet and see every star. Sit still and appreciate the wonders of serenity.  Night in the desert is soothing and calm. I recommend it.