We woke up to heavy snowfall in Mammoth Lakes. It took a while to dig out the car and start making our way home. Once we got on the road, I stared at the stunning views of the Eastern Sierra. Jagged mountain peaks poking out of thick snow, trees dotting the landscape, rays of sunlight cutting through the clouds. Then slowly the ground beside the road turned from snow-white to desert-tan as we got closer to home.
It was our first holiday in Canada at Neil’s childhood home since 2019. Out there, snow controls every day. On an evening without snowfall, Neil took the opportunity to clear the roof and break off the ice that had started sliding off, posing a threat to anyone walking below.
Ever since we moved to the desert I have been trying to figure out the rhythm of life here: the weather, daylight hours, the seasons. The arrival of snow geese marks the beginning of winter. They move from front yard to front yard, chatting, sometimes sunbathing in the street, causing cars to line up waiting for the birds to awake from their slumber. Finley likes to sit in the kitchen window to watch and listen to the chatter.
On my back, head pushed into the wall of our house and a patch of dirt, chicken wing arms holding the camera, my nose smushed flat against it. I wait until one of the hummingbirds zooms into view and hovers over me – chirping, drinking, chirping, drinking. The shutter goes clickclickclickclickclick and I forget to breathe. I actually forget everything around me when I slip into the world inside the viewfinder – as if the world in there is different from real life.
“When you’re in the desert, you look into infinity… It makes you feel terribly small, and also in a strange way, quite big.” ― David Lean
As we descend into Death Valley, the car thermometer climbs. 85, 90, 100, 105*F. As I stare at the barren landscape, I think about the lush forests and mountain meadows I grew up exploring. I’ve always appreciated feeling small in nature. But it meant looking up at tall pines, endless green, flowing water. When I’m in the woods there is the subconscious comfort in knowing I’m sheltered and can find things to eat and find water to survive. The desert is different. No shade, no water – or so little, too far away. I’m not only a tiny speck in this vast landscape but really not made to survive in this climate. The luxury of a climatized vehicle, a trunk full of water, my sun shirt and hat mean a lot more here than anywhere else I’ve been.
