The Old Blog in the Desert

I had been hiking the sandy and rocky hillocks east and south of town, out where the high desert keeps its own counsel and does not explain itself to visitors.

The deer brush was in bloom, which is the desert’s way of reminding you that it can be generous without warning. I had gone far enough to satisfy the part of me that still believes distance equals accomplishment. When my legs began negotiating for terms, I found a rock of reasonable character and declared a recess.

I pulled a sandwich from my pack, along with my thermos, and settled in among the brush. There is something about leaning back against warm stone that persuades a man he has earned stillness.

These days, when I rest, I sometimes drift, as my body is up there in years, much faster than my mind has agreed to, and the two of them hold separate calendars. I may have dozed. I will not swear to it, but the evidence suggests a brief departure.

When I opened my eyes, I was not alone.

They stood around me in a loose, breathing circle, seven or eight free-range mustangs, each regarding me with the steady curiosity reserved for objects that do not belong in the catalog.

They were close enough that I could see the dust on their muzzles and the slow switch of their tails. And close enough that I felt the air change.

My first reaction was not bravery. I gulped a throatful of air and held it. Surprise will do that to a man, freeze him into honesty.

For a long second, no one moved.

Then one of them, a dark mare with the settled look of authority, stepped nearer and considered me properly. I lay there half-propped against my rock, sandwich bag abandoned, hat tilted back, doing my best impression of harmlessness.

They did not startle. They did not scatter.

When they saw I was awake and apparently no threat to grass or dignity, they resumed their grazing as if I were a misplaced boulder.

I cannot describe the relief that washed over me, nor the peculiar sensation of being accepted. Not welcomed, exactly, or befriended, but permitted.

It is a rare thing to be permitted by wild creatures.

They fed around me for as long as I remained still. The desert wind moved through their manes. Hooves shifted softly in sand. One snorted now and then, but without alarm. I could have stayed there all afternoon, a temporary addition to the landscape.

Eventually, the herd gathered itself, as herds do, by some silent agreement. They drifted off toward better forage, moving over the rise in easy confidence.

And just like that, I was alone again.

The silence that followed was not the same as before. It had weight, a hollowness, so I packed my meager belongings more slowly than necessary and went toward my truck.

The loneliness surprised me in its force. It stayed with me for two days, like a bruise you do not remember earning.

I have considered why it struck so hard. Perhaps it was the brief membership.

For a moment, I had not been a hiker, nor an observer, nor a man measuring miles against age. I had been another living thing under the same sun, breathing the same air, accepted without credentials.

Then the herd moved on, as all herds must.

The desert keeps what is wild. The rest of us are only passing through.