Getting Out

I think too much. I especially think too much when I’m trapped on that silly treadmill or elliptical machine at the Y. And as I watch the other people around me, huffing and puffing their way to nowhere, here’s what I’m thinking about.

I live in a place where the sun shines 300 days a year. This is February and it’s 65 degrees outside, so why are we under these fluorescent lights? And after half an hour, where will we be? Exactly where we started, like rats on a wheel.

I can’t stand it. I need to do my sweating outside.

Last Sunday, Mike and I took the dogs for a hike in the Tucson Mountains, west of the city. The view was much better than inside the gym. Look at that sky. That’s our normal shade of blue.

Saguaro cactus

This is a saguaro, the iconic cactus of the Sonoran Desert in southern Arizona and western Sonora, Mexico. (Pronounce it “sah-wah-roe” — the g is silent.) The saguaro doesn’t grow in Albuquerque, nor will you find any in Texas. And that t-shirt your sister sent you from Las Vegas with the saguaros on it? Bogus. They’re unique to this region. Most of the time, they grow straight, like the ones in the background of this photo. This cactus took a weird turn. They’re filled with water, so a mature, well hydrated saguaro can weigh a couple tons. Several years back, some doofus was shooting at one, and it fell and killed him. Cactus revenge is rough.

Saguaro spines

Up close, they look like this. Some saguaros can live to be 150-200 years old.

Ribs of a dead saguaro

When they die, their ribs show and they’re still beautiful. On a windy day, the ribs rattle against each other and the sound is mesmerizing.

Our dogs have gotten pretty savvy about staying away from the larger prickly things when we hike. But the cholla (“choy-ya”) was everywhere on this trail. You really have to go out of your way to have a bad encounter with, say, a barrel cactus because it keeps to itself and minds its own business unless you fall into it.

Barrel cactus, close-up

Cholla, on the other hand, is a hitchhiker, with segmented joints that break off easily and cling to your clothing and shoes. It’s evolutionary, a way for the plant to spread itself around without having to do any work. Bits of cholla lurk along the trail like little landmines, so a dog doesn’t usually notice them until it’s too late. And what does a dog do with something painful stuck in her paw? She bites it. Now it’s in her paw and in her mouth. If the human tries to help with bare hands, then everyone gets stuck, so we always carry a comb to flick the spines out without having to touch them.

Cholla

Hiking, particularly in the desert, demands a person’s full attention. It’s too cold for rattlesnakes right now, but we’ve come across several of them at warmer times of year. My reaction to a rattler is primitive and instantaneous, the closest I ever come to flying under my own power. The rattle sounds like this. (By the way, the person who took that video was a nut. Rattlesnakes have a striking range of one-third to one-half of their body length.) Mike will get up close and personal with one, but I don’t have much to say to a rattler except good-bye.

When we have our dogs with us, particularly the young one who is too curious for her own good, I’m also on the lookout for javelinas (“hah-veh-lee-nahs”).

Javelinas are not pigs.

Mike thinks I’m overly concerned, but dogs and coyotes are the javelina’s natural enemies. Javelinas have razor-sharp tusks, and a mother will not hesitate to use them to protect her young. They’re generally nocturnal, but that’s a guideline, not a rule. I met a herd of javelinas once during daylight hours and backtracked immediately to give them plenty of room. I’m on their turf, after all.

It’s not all stickery, scary stuff out here.

Rocks need love, too.

Hole in saguaro -- probably a bird has nested here.

Barrel cactus fruit.

Even dead vegetation can be beautiful.

For the first time in history, most of the world’s humans live in cities. Now that we’ve gotten so removed from the natural world, people prefer staying inside their cars and buildings because everything “out there” seems too scary. I have learned to love the desert, even the parts I have to be cautious about. I have come to appreciate the tenacity of the plants and animals that can survive here. I like the practice of paying attention to what’s around me, rather than expecting to be insulated from discomfort and shocked when it occurs. Sometimes it rains and we get wet. Or the trail is steeper than we expected. Nature makes no promises. Hiking through the desert is not safe and predictable like a treadmill — but at least I know I’ve been somewhere when I’m done.