Desert Solitaire

The dryness of Arches National Monument leads tourists to complain to Abbey on his ranger rounds. Abbey jokes to them that he’s glad the heat keeps them away; and they, in turn, joke that they don’t have to live here. The climate is so dry that Abbey has difficulty with everyday tasks like shaving. Rain comes occasionally, but the moisture evaporates either immediately upon contact with the earth, or worse, before it even hits the ground.

Springs are one way to find water in the hot desert, but as most of the water is underground, one has to know how and where to look. Green plant life is a good sign, but to dig for it is usually a waste of effort and will dehydrate anyone before rewarding them. It’s best to carry a gallon of water whenever entering the desert, to guard against having to search for it, as neither blood nor urine will hydrate, despite popular belief. Sometimes, the water in a car’s radiator can help. But if one is stranded in the desert, death is the likeliest outcome—one must write one’s will in the sand, so that the wind can blow it across the desert.

Abbey himself has nearly died of dehydration at Havasupai Canyon, where he leapt deliriously into a stream at first sight of it, and once in the Needles canyon above the Colorado River, where he had to wait three hours for a dripping spring to fill his canteen. Many springs, however, are full of poisonous selenium thanks to the region’s uranium deposits. These springs look harmless, indeed crystal-clear, but they’ll kill anyone who drinks from them; a lack of algae or insects is a clear warning sign of such springs. If absolutely desperate, one can filter such water with campfire charcoal, but sickness will soon follow.

A common rumor is that cactus pulp can save one from dehydration, but this sounds dubious and difficult to extract. Instead of wasting time attempting this, one ought to accept one’s fate of being eaten by buzzards and becoming transformed into animal consciousness. Abbey thinks that this is, in fact, a promotion from human life—and, for some, an ideal.

July and August can often bring a thunderstorm without warning, a “special creation” that comes on suddenly. In such moments, clouds form quickly, like mashed potatoes, whipped cream, or a fleet of ships. Lightning booms like gunfire, and the wind picks up speed while droplets appear like a beaded curtain. The clouds appear dense as wool and roar like cannonballs down a staircase as the deluge comes on, plastering Abbey’s clothing to his body. The soaked rock formations around him glisten in an “unholy” light, “the light that never was.” And just as quickly, the storm subsides, leaving a rainbow.

Though less symphonic, flash floods inspire even more awe. Once, a flood took Abbey by complete surprise in the canyon he happened to be in. At first, a quivering sound appeared, and then a wall of water was upon him, carrying with it uprooted plants and small trees. Abbey thinks that a wall is a poor image for this—it’s more like gravy, tomato soup, or blood. Abbey inserts a poem about the phenomenon, from the point of view of an ant, which describes a “brown / spongy smothering liquid avalanche.”

Quicksand is another aquatic phenomenon worth noting: despite its menacing and lethal portrayal in movies, quicksand is merely sand mixed with water. People can usually walk across it, but it can absorb one’s feet if one stops midway—an entanglement that only worsens when one begins to struggle. Once, Abbey’s disabled friend Ralph Newcomb got stuck in quicksand as he and Abbey traversed Glen Canyon. Abbey had been walking ahead, and he heard a cry; he doubled back to find Newcomb calmly sinking up to his knees as he lights his pipe. After some jokes, Abbey pulled Newcomb out, and the quicksand regained its placid appearance, like pudding. Though quicksand endangers cattle, no human that Abbey knows of has died in it.

Natural water basins or tubs are another place where one can find water in the desert. These tubs attract doves and deer but also smaller amphibians like toads. After an incubation period, tadpoles rise to the muddy surface of these tubs and seem to wait patiently for the sound of rainwater. The “counterpoint” croaking of adult toads can fill the night air. What does their song mean? Though bleak and desolate sounding to human ears, these toads might be singing for joy at the mere fact of their existence. Abbey thinks that joy is essential to all life, for it allows courage. These toads, therefore, have a terrific survival instinct, singing on even when human beings do not. This joy then passes on from the toad to the animal that eats it.

One human contribution to the desert’s waterworks is the drilled well and its accompanying windmill—a sculptural thing of beauty alongside the juniper and cacti. Though Developers claim that the desert lacks water, there is, in fact, water everywhere. Developers scheme all kinds of water transportation in hopes of attracting more tourists and industry in the West. But Abbey thinks that these obsessive people fail to see that industrial growth inflates populations beyond what humanity can naturally support. Though protest might be futile against this rapid industrialization, time will eventually erode cities such as Phoenix and Albuquerque, leaving nature to take over once again.