I just got back from a three day trip to Tucson, Arizona. Tucson is about 70 miles from Tombstone and less than two hours from the Mexican border. The small city has an odd collection of hardened Republican cowboys, hippies, and college kids struggling away at academics in coffee shops. Somehow they all make it work down there and the result is a vibrant and wildly interesting place to discover. Based on appearance, I’d say it’s the truest form of the Arizona desert you can find, with blistering heat and a forest of Saguaros as far as the eye can see. I also say this because it’s probably the image friends back east conjure when I say I up and moved to the “wild west”.

On the drive back home we stopped at a friend’s parent’s house in Florence. They wanted to do a bit of target shooting out in an open range outside of town. We drove the pickup on an old gravel road with ruts and crevices, parked, and set up some folding chairs. Then we spent over an hour watching the guys and Mary Jo shoot at metal cans with a variety of guns I certainly don’t know the name of.  Let’s be honest, I spent the majority of the time crouched in the back seat of the truck, hiding with my hands over my ears.  But eventually I realized I was acting stupid because these people really knew what they were doing. So I ventured out in the open air to watch. Quite frankly, even though target shooting may not be a fun activity for me, I enjoyed the time because I just love being out in the desert. We saw coyote, long-horned cattle, and a roadrunner propel itself out of our way. 

The desert, it’s a magical place. I really can’t avoid being cheesy and sentimental about it. I guess I have a love affair with the desert. I’ve often told people I’ve had a magnetic pull to live out here ever since my dad drove me from Phoenix to historic Jerome during early childhood. There wasn’t much in Jerome at that time; it was just poking its head out to the touristy folks after a long time in deserted ghost town status. But when I stood on that little hill town and looked out at the expansive northern desert below I felt a deep and un-explained connection to the beautiful, resilient landscape. I was struck by the warm sunsets over the reddened rocks, the gentle hues of pinks and purples that always seem more brilliant than anywhere else in the world. Perhaps I never envisioned myself living out here, where you have to reapply heavy lotion every five minutes to prevent your skin from flaking off in huge heaps, and your mouth goes dead dry after twenty minutes without water. Instead, it was just somewhere to visit. Receive sufficient sunburn. Get poked by a Saguaro.  See a Horney toad.  Get freckles. Go back to Iowa.

Over spring break one year in college my friend Teresa drove two days in my Chevy Impala just to experience Cottonwood, Arizona. I now know Cottonwood is not the ideal place for a cheap spring break, its main drag is for people with at least a steady income.  The small river valley town is full of vineyards, wineries and fancy art galleries. I think I had a negative amount in my bank account by the time my car crossed the Kansas border on extremely low fuel. But it did renew my desire to be in the desert, and we did get plenty of free hiking in the Coconino county area.  Exploring in Oak Creek Canyon during that break told me I was made for this dry, arid climate. Why I grew up in the lush green farmlands of the Midwest is beyond me. Though I admit, even though the desert is great, there are some days I know I’ll probably end up going back there…