As the sun sets on my 36th year on Earth, there isn’t another soul in sight. My husband and five-year-old are getting the grill ready for pollo asado, the lone lodging attendant is nowhere to be seen, and there isn’t a single other guest on site. Lightheaded from both the hot tub and a few cans of Bell’s Light Hearted Ale, I’m briefly, blissfully unfettered by life’s weight. At the moment, my biggest problem is whether or not to extricate myself from my poolside stupor to find a blanket in order to comfortably enjoy the rapidly dropping desert temperature and sunlight.
Borrego Springs lies smack in the middle of Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, California’s largest state park. The tiny desert town (population 2,145) was also California’s first International Dark Sky Community. Later, over a crackling fire, I’ll point out the Big Dipper to my son, who, understandably, remains more enamored with the s’more in his hand than the stars in the sky. But I’ve always felt a kinship with the infinite vastness of the desert. Where else is one’s utter insignificance more apparent than amidst an untamed landscape that’s scarcely changed since prehistoric times? Where else has humankind so consistently tried to tame nature, and so consistently failed?
Understanding the temporary beauty of these human-molded desert surroundings lends an appreciation for the things that will not last. But in this moment, on this evening, as I listen to the snaps and pops of our fire pit, the occasional howl of a coyote, and the sizzle of carbonation when I open my tall can of Allagash White, I’m pulled nowhere. Right here is where I want to be.
