This is the Sonoran, the slickrock desert of red dust, burnt cliffs, and lonely skies. Paradise to desert rats like me. It's after sundown and I am late to exit Saguaro National Park. The sign says be out by 6 P.M. and it's half past. I'm kickin ' up heavy dust on the western edge of the Bajada Loop, alone in this howling wilderness. Howling with wind and coyotes. Stars appear like magic in a slowly darkening sky. All around, as far as the eye can see, are friendly saguaro cacti, arms held high, waving goodbye. Ghostly hoodoos of the night.

Now and then a critter scampers across the narrow, bumpy road. A kit fox, then a jackrabbit, welcome me into their thorny world. Farther on a mule deer, startled in the side brush, bounds obliquely out of my headlights. Then, the biggest surprise of all, November snowflakes falling like confetti. To hell with rules. I decide to stay the night and pull off on a side road, curl up in the back seat, and listen to the desert for awhile. Sleep comes easy.

The next morning, I crawl out of my rent-a-contraption and into the naval of the universe, god's vision, my country, this desert wasteland. I survey the lay of the land. It's chilly but no snow lingers. The sun peeks over yonder horizon, evidenced by magenta and gold pushing away the night, dimming moon and stars. The air is crisp and clear, just the way I like it. The view is perfect in every direction, open but to the east where the skyline meets the Tucson Mountains crowned by giant saguaros, strange minarets of the dark morning. Last night's dirt track meanders through the cacti jungle, luring me toward the next rise. (next photo)