MOJAVE

THE MOJAVE

The desert has a special place in my heart.

I spent a couple of years in the Mojave, in the early fifties, as a child and the memories are etched in my mind.

Driving into town, canvas water-bag hanging from the front bumper, the truck would rattle rhythmically as it hit the expansion joints of the concrete road and the desiccated carcases of the Jacks [rabbits] drawn to the headlights of the cars. The road ahead was a shimmering watery mirage.

Town, Twenty-Nine Palms, was a sneeze on the highway to L.A.

Summers were hot, 105 – 115 F, and air-conditioning the domain of the rich. Even in summer, on a clear cloudless night the temperature could plummet to freezing.

Most nights were clear.

Summer was a season to be survived. We would hide from the sun in shadows, under Stetsons and shirts and jeans and boots.

Spring was the season of life and renewal. A few days of rain, right about now, would thrust the desert into a frenzy. The cactus, cholla, ocotillo, prickly-pear, agave, yucca, Joshua tree and sage would bloom in hours – changing the desert into a pallette of colours.

Much has changed.

As a child, I could see forever – the mountains disappearing on the horizon. Now, smog is a constant cloak.

The Salton Sea was fresh water reserve. Now, a cesspool of human waste.

Across the Joshua Tree National Park lies Indian Wells.

It's spring in the desert.

Tennis-life is about to be renewed.