The first time I entered a desert was fourteen years ago, in the winter of 2002. I drove west from New Jersey to Indiana, and then southwest to Gallup, New Mexico, where I rested for the first time since leaving home. From Gallup I continued west into the Painted and Sonoran Deserts, before cutting back through the Chihuahuan Desert on my way east through Texas to Alabama, and then northeast to New Jersey.
Looking back on that journey, I’m certain I entered the desert without realizing I had even arrived. My concept of desert landscapes owed more to illustrated stories of Moses wandering the Sinai, or The Road Runner leaving Wile E. Coyote in a cloud of dust, than it did to any actually existing desert. My imagined deserts were barren landscapes full of danger and desolation, the palettes bleak, and death abounding. But what I found in the American Southwest was vibrant and full of life.
America’s deserts are rugged, but they also capture color. The reds and browns of the soil. The blues and purples of the distant mountains. The sky often rich with clouds, fast moving and prone to sudden showers you can see as swathes of gray against the horizon. But what surprised me most were the varied greens and yellows: A landscape alive with flora fed by those intermittent rains.