Under Desert Stars

Slowly, I pulled onto the Black Rock just as the sun sank, the sky blazing orange and purple, and climbed over the padlocked gate meant to keep vehicles out. I’d picked a spot—a lonely patch of sand by a dry wash–for its solitude and the promise of a star-soaked night. My plan for the weekend was simple–unplug, breathe, and let the desert do its thing.

Setting up camp felt like a ritual. I pitched my tent first, its nylon walls snapping tight against the evening breeze. Then, I built a fire pit, circling it with stones from the wash. Putting on a flannel shirt as the air cooled off, I grabbed a cold beer from the cooler and skewered a hot dog to roast. The fire crackled, and I sank into my creaky folding chair, feeling the world slip away.

Night hit fast, and the desert woke up. Coyotes yipped somewhere far off, their calls sharp and gone in a blink. I leaned back, beer in hand, and let the Milky Way steal my breath. Stars blanketed the sky, so thick I tried counting them before laughing at myself. Instead, I traced Orion and Ursa Major until my eyelids got heavy.

Sleep was tricky. The desert’s never quiet–the wind hissed through the creosote, and something small skittered near my tent. I lay there, half-dreaming of ancient man who’d crossed this land, their fires long faded.

Morning came with a blazing sun and a fine layer of sand in my sleeping bag. I brewed coffee over the fire that tasted better than anything from a café. Sipping it, I watched a Raven fly into the wash, its cawing at me almost cartoonish.

Saturday was for wandering. I hiked a ridge, where my boots grew dusty, Stumbling on petroglyphs carved into a boulder–spirals and bighorn sheep etched by hands long gone–I traced the lines with my eyes, wondering about their stories.

Lunch was a peanut butter sandwich. The heat was evident, but I had enough water, and the desert paid me back with quiet gifts—a hawk soaring overhead.

Back at camp, I read a Louis L’Amour paperback, its pages curling in the dry air until the sun dipped again. Dinner was chili straight from the can, warmed over the fire, and I ate it from the pot, too content to bother with dishes.

The night sky was even brighter than before, and I stayed up late, tossing logs on the fire and letting my mind drift. I thought about work and life, but the desert made those things feel distant. It was just me, the alkali, and the stars.

Sunday morning crept in too soon. I broke camp slowly, savoring the last of my coffee and the crisp dawn air.

As I packed the truck, a rabbit watched me, ears twitching. Walking out, I glanced back at the campsite, already fading into the vastness. The desert didn’t care I’d been there, but I carried its stillness with me, a quiet piece of the wild lodged in my chest, waiting until I returned.