Come cloud, come downpour
After twenty eights days of travel, from Florida to Puerto Rico to Costa Rica, I am home again. I’ve struggled to find comfort in humidity, something alien to those of us who live in the American Southwest. It feels good to be grounded again in the Sonoran Desert. The familiar smell of creosote after the magic spell of desert rain. The rapid growth of green from seeds who have waited for years for this opportunity. The sound of the San Pedro tumbling rocks and transporting fallen trees. The thick, chocolate water an opaque fluid that hides everything beneath even the thinnest layer of its surface flow, north to the Gila and then West to the sea.
I am tempted to take to paddle, but my craving for adventure is countered by my understanding that the inherent velocity of volume hides a kind of power that can extinguish life far too quickly. There is no way out of banks two or three meters on a side, nor through exit of eddies whose fluid fingers in deep pools grasp blindly for want of anything to pull under.
The frogs celebrate the storm with matings calls, a year of celibacy brought to an anxious end by lightning, thunder, and massive rain. Andy’s cows gather on the shore, knowing they want to cross but not knowing why. The burden of their mass brings mud to shin and knee. I approach, on foot. They startle, realizing they stand on a peninsula with no choice but to turn and run. Fifteen head, most adults and a few yearlings burst across the backwash of the San Pedro into Hot Springs, in three or four strides they bound up the far bank of Hot Springs, crushing everything over which they drive.
For a moment I feel pity for these beasts robbed of instinct or intellect through centuries of inbreeding with intent only to produce fat and muscle on burdened bone. But the pity is resolved quickly, and once again I want nothing more than for all domestic bovine to disappear from this fragile ecosystem, their tenuous stay long overdue–not by months or years, but more than a century in which they have inflicted injury and permanent scar across the land.
The flooding river will temporarily erase the marks left by human intervention, manipulation, and vane attempts at controlling the wilderness. Fences broken, structures dissolved, and roads once again lost to debris flow. Those living on the far side of the river are without means to return to the road. Food stores for a week or more are imperative in the American Southwest, where civil engineers have not yet poured concrete, formed curbs, or installed drainage systems in feeble attempt to control the rain as it moves rock and soil.
Nothing we do lasts for long.
This leaves me with anxiety for my own attempt at crafting order and beauty in home and garden, and at the same time I experience a sense of relief as I realize that the power lines, the gas lines, the continuous expansion of the cities and development of what remains of the wilderness will not last for long. In my lifetime I will surely experience the regular pain of witness to the wholesale destruction of the last natural places for the profit of a few. But ultimately, two, three, a half dozen generations from now, nothing we build will remain.
The desert rain washes away everything, without concern for who claims to be the owner nor the value of assets and land. When that thick, massive wall of brown comes tumbling down, nothing can resist the pull of the liquid fingers for long. Tumble, churn, crash and burn, all that we have built will be erased, the wealth of the moment without value when we are gone.
Therefore I welcome the morning flurry, the afternoon rain, and the midnight storm. Come cloud, come downpour, come flow of humility. Remind us that we are but soft flesh and unstable debris.
















