Nature can bring the most unusual combinations. It was late December, and I was walking along a city trail, sometimes seriously and sometimes with my hands in my pockets, following the path of the river as it cut through the canyon. Ahead of me, the asphalt was perfectly paved, hardly natural-looking but respectable, at least for the workmanship.
On the canyon walls, sunlight was setting fire to muted colors and warming up the stone, while even the dormant brush and bare trees seemed brilliant. Closer to the river, cattails were busting open, sending a blizzard of fluffy seeds through the air.
It had been a long, hot summer–105 to 115 degrees for weeks on end and no rain for what seemed like months. The punishment was still fresh on my mind. It was hard to forget the dusty, often smoky air, and the profound sweating that would begin each day around mid-morning and last until midnight. The only refuge on those long days was an air-conditioner, in dark a bedroom, with the shutters closed tight.
The sun can be a brutal enemy, but a pretty good friend. Winter is mostly a pleasant season in the desert. Aside from the general lack of greenery (even the creosote seems faded), the temperatures allow for greater daytime exploration of open terrain. You’d need a death wish to take on certain desert trails during mid-day in summertime. But during the winter, a walk in the open can feel like taking a bath in sunlight–like intravenous Vitamin D. And, if that weren’t enough, the winter air is particularly crisp and invigorating.
I passed over a wooden bridge, as long as a football field. A few cyclists raced by, their tires thumping rhythmically over the planks. In the distance, a couple of upscale houses stood at the edge of the sandy banks overlooking the river. Thankfully, they weren’t ostentatious enough to wreck the view. To my right, a white limestone cliff displayed colorful lichens and ground cover clinging delicately to the rock. Rusty streaks marked the little waterfalls that trickled down from some unknown source. A couple of stick nests, halfway up the cliff, were evidence the hawks liked the neighborhood too. From time to time, I could hear their chirps from the recesses and ledges above.
I rested my elbows on the railing near the boardwalk and looked over the path of the river, going Southwest in a golden meander toward Arizona. The sky was cloudless, and a wedge of Canada geese glided down through the canyon on a low altitude approach toward the city pond. They obviously understood the appeal of the desert in winter better than anyone. Migratory birds always have, for that matter. Somehow, only humans need to be reminded.
The Desert Toad 