from Moab with love

On Wednesday morning we woke up cloaked in rust-colored dust. The wind was fierce all night, howling in great gusts that drove sprays of sand through the tent mesh. Grit crunched between my teeth, my toes. Outside was not much better. The clouds hung steely and low; the wind made little effort to abate as we boiled water, made coffee, made oatmeal. I squinted to protect my eyes from errant flying sand. Why do we do this to ourselves? 

Later it was clear and calm. In the enveloping warmth of the afternoon we shook out the sleeping bag, inverted the tent, carefully remade the bed. The sky glimmered impossibly blue, the dust lay where it should. The canyon, highlighted by great swaths of sunlight, shone with a haze that put Thomas Moran to shame. Behold, the desert in all her glory, once again neatly composed, pretending for a little while to be docile and hospitable. Here, then—the reward she offers for weathering the uncomfortable nights, gifts intoxicating enough to convince ourselves to return again and again.