Written by Adeline J. Wells
One of the common laments about Southern California and the Mojave Desert is that it is a land void of seasons. Comments such as these tend to be made by people who don’t reside here, and at first glance they seem correct; this land is not marked by soil’s thaw, nor by leaves turning from green gold, orange, and brown. Yet these comments are often made by people who don’t live here, as those who do know they are far from the truth. For they know that these seasons are defined not by rampant mood swings, but rather by sweet, subtle shifts of nature. Earth cracks open, scorched during Summer; air is heavy with heat that cannot be escaped. Summer seems to seep gently into Autumn, whose days remain hot but whose nights grow cool. Cool nights, when winds die down so that the glows of bonfires may once again light these darkened hills, filling the air with a fragrance of pine and ash. Winter arrives once dusk begins to fall too quickly. Winter, when snow caps the crests in the distance; when the Santa Ana’s bring our best sunsets, cotton-candy fire smeared across the sky. People who live here know the delicate promise that arrives with Spring in the desert.
Spring in the desert is quiet, coming in peace after Winter’s lengthy spell. A spell is broken except for on the mountaintops, whose peaks remain painted with thick white glaze. They line the edge of our dear Highway 62, the common concrete thread that ties the High Desert. Peering out from between the rolling hills, they remain a gentle reminder of what came before. A land stained sepia, the deep green growing from snow seepage strikes the eye as fresher, more fervent than seen elsewhere. Grassy, verdant bursts of green that sprout over the valley’s slopes; they prove life to this bare, barren land once again. Green lends to the blooming of desert flowers, their fragrance a note sweeter, colors brighter than flowers found elsewhere. They show up every Spring despite Winter’s harsh winds, or the lapse in time since our last nourishing rain. The blazing fuchsia blossoms that open from the end of cactus leaves will never not strike as beautiful; they will never strike as anything less than a tiny wonder of this world. Lilac bushes found here may not boast as full as they are elsewhere, but their light, clean fragrance still drifts down our dusty streets, mingling with the scents of Earth and sun.
Spring in the desert is the season of Season; when visitors begin to arrive in groves, traveling in tandem as they meander up the steep canyon’s curves. They venture from their homes with the intent to experience this way of life; the slowness that it entails, the simplicity. They are greeted by sleek, angular lizards who dart out from beneath boulders before freezing into place. Their freeing drives down our desert dirt roads are halted, surprised by sudden snakes stretched across sand, soaking in the lengthening golden hour sunlight. Visitors who have never witnessed the miracle of a cholla flower; a striking lime blossom wedged between cactus needles’ grip. They have never beared witness to the mountains’ deepening to cornflower blue at dusk, how sharply they jut against a blood orange sky. Visitors who have never felt the power of a desert Full Moon burgeoning from beneath the horizon, setting this barren land aglow.
Potent, yet subtle define our seasons; easily overlooked by the naked eye, one must look with intention for the changes to this land. We welcome Spring’s arrival in the Mojave Desert, taking on this shift in time with open-hearted peace, and a prayer for renewal.
