camping — Blog — Dr. Andrea J. Adams

I wasn’t going to write about the most recent trip to the desert. With all that is going on in the world, isn’t it self-indulgent and tone deaf to share about another glorious nature jaunt? But when I got home, I saw this on social media, and it changed my mind:

It made me realize that bringing to light what remains right in the world, however big or small, is an act of peace.

So peace it is.

Last spring, as I hauled my tired bones out of my tent after a too-short night’s sleep, I told my colleague, “Welp, I’m earning my winter rest.” I remind myself of this a lot during the sometimes-exhausting field season. I love living my life seasonally: my actions in sync with the weather and the swivel-tilt of the earth. In spring and summer, when the work days are long and the rest minimal, though my body is tired, I have a wellspring of internal energy that propels me and surpasses logic. I used to refer to this phenomenon by saying, “I’m solar-powered,” as the long sunny days seemed to feed me beyond anything I ate.

When I’m in the thick of the field season, it’s as if there is a separate engine driving me, one that exists outside the usual caloric bank. But I know in the midst of it that I’m drawing it down; and that eventually I will need to pay it back, fill the reserves. And that part is much harder, because it requires deep stillness and rest in winter, something that is very difficult to carve out when all the things I shelve during the field season (peer reviews, writing, data analysis, reporting, reading the literature, and enjoying the rest of my non-fieldwork life) beckon.

Last November I kicked off winter resting season with another trip to the desert—a much-needed unplugging from the frantic scramble to ‘get it all done’ before the holidays. What I remembered in the wide open spaces and bottomless silence is that it never all gets done before the holidays; or after, for that matter. ‘It all’ is never finished, just a continual stream on the conveyor belt of to-dos. So these two trips to the desert have bookended the winter rest intention this year: one to kick it off in autumn, and one deep inhalation to bring it to a close at the spring equinox.

We are in a groove of exploring the many designated wilderness areas in the Mojave Desert: areas that are formally closed to motorized vehicles and development of any kind. This time, we chose the Black Mountain Wilderness. South of Death Valley and immersed in a sea of surrounding military bases, it was spacious, peaceful, and quiet.

The deep silence was occasionally broken by the practice flights of the jets overhead, and I had only a few small heart attacks when they broke the sound barrier. I asked aloud, “Aren’t they not supposed to do that?” and the reply was, “It depends on how you define ‘supposed to’.” And it’s true: when you make the rules, what, really, are the rules?

Martial law aside, I actually have a lot of respect for the Department of Defense (DOD) from a conservation perspective. As an extensive public lands holder, DOD has become one of the largest de facto conservation lands managers in the federal government. While conservation isn’t specifically part of their mission (in contrast to, say, the National Park Service), they actually do a considerable amount of work to conserve native species.

Simply by setting lands aside for security and training purposes, and barring them from disturbance or public access, DOD has found itself in the stewardship of a large number of endangered species—and many who have lost their habitat anywhere outside DOD lands. A few of many examples: Vandenberg Space Force Base, CA, home to the Vandenberg monkeyflower and an extremely rare, newly described species of salamander; the Golden-cheeked warblers of Fort Hood, TX; and the San Clemente loggerhead shrike on San Clemente Island Naval Auxiliary, CA.

Section 7 of the U.S. Endangered Species Act (ESA) requires federal agencies to do all they can to conserve listed species whenever possible. Unfortunately, many agencies minimize or choose to ignore this mandate. By contrast, DOD largely takes its responsibilities under the ESA very seriously, and even takes proactive measures to conserve listed species in their charge.

The wilderness areas in the Mojave are an example of how defense objectives and conservation objectives coalesce. All of the wilderness areas we visit are in close proximity to some military lands. Wilderness is a special designation (from the 1964 Wilderness Act) that closes areas to automated vehicles and other activities that are hard on the land. By designating areas (mostly managed by the Bureau of Land Management) near military bases as wilderness, it not only conserves species and habitat, but reduces the number of onlookers poking around in the vicinity—you know, fewer things/people/objects/activities to keep an eye on. This results in a win-win: national security and conservation in one.

We drove the rutted roads past where anyone in their right mind would take a toy hauler. We found a place to park the truck and camp that had been disturbed but not trashed, and just outside the wilderness boundary so we could explore in the wilderness on foot every day. Because there were no designated trails, we walked up washes. We found tiny wildflowers, desert tortoise shells, and shotgun shells: remnants from before the wilderness was designated in the 1990s.

A few days in, after my nervous system finally let go of stress mode, I became less task-oriented and more landscape-oriented. There was so much to see, to explore, to take in—without even moving. When we were moving, we found an astonishing number of mylar balloons tangled in the desert scrub to add to the growing database. But we also found petroglyphs, and the tiniest stirrings of the desert awakening from winter: fresh sprouts on the creosote, and flowers so small you’d miss them if you didn’t stop and stare at the ground for awhile. We did miss the carpets of color by a week or two, but in exchange we got to experience the place in near-solitude.

The final morning of our visit, as I lay on the ground taking in the last rays of the morning sun, I rolled over on my side, not wanting to leave. The jets had quieted. Maybe the pilots were on their way back to the galley for lunch. Tiny yellow poppies were growing next to my mat at eye level, an infinitesimal sequoia towering over boulders of quartz not much larger than sand. The sky and mountains and outstretched desert behind were a universe of possibility that I only needed to refocus to see. And there it was: everything I prepared and scouted and walked and sat and explored and drove all that way to learn. At that tiniest level, in that exact moment, everything was OK. The flower would soon wilt and die in the desert sun, because that is life. But in that tiny slice of time, all was well. The tinier the slices of time and space, the easier it is to see what is still right in the world.

Our annual fall journey to the Mojave Desert has transformed into a kind of pilgrimage. As our careers and responsibilities expand and intensify, the world’s demands on our time have increased; and with it, the need to remove ourselves from it for several days. We always go somewhere that cell service cannot be found; somewhere that we are unlikely to encounter other humans; somewhere with abundant space and sky and not much else. It is in this expansiveness and unplugging that we feel we can finally and deeply rest.

In November, the intense desert heat has waned, and we settle into comfortably warm days and cool nights conducive to deep sleep. This year, we left on the heels of yet another heatwave driven by the east winds, somewhat doubtful that the temperatures would diminish to our comfort level. But when we arrived on the vast Bureau of Land Management (BLM) lands south of Death Valley National Park, we were pleasantly surprised.

We had a general area targeted, but otherwise no plans for where to go. This is the beauty of the vast public lands that allow open camping in the West: drive any one of thousands of dirt roads in some direction, find a spot that suits, and camp.

Turning off of Highway 395 on a warm Monday afternoon, we found ourselves on a well-maintained but sandy road. As we drove eastward, spurs—labeled with tidy alphanumeric markers—branched off in all directions. There was a designated wilderness area we had hoped to camp outside of and hike into, so we found the roads that seemed like they would get us there. Eventually, we turned north, and soon the going was slow as we crept with our fully loaded truck-bed camper over the deep ruts. We stopped at most intersections as we approached the wilderness area, looking for places to camp. Some large campground areas were present but uninviting—strewn with broken glass and trash, presided over by a few opportunistic ravens, the weekender ATV folks having recently departed, leaving their more-than-a-trace behind them.

Eventually, we made it to the wilderness boundary. A newly-constructed, high-quality wire fence demarcated the perimeter as far as the eye could see in either direction. Occasionally, a break in the exclosure produced a low square set of bars that could be stepped over, but not driven over: an attempt to keep ATVs out, with some—but not perfect—success. The telltale single tracks of dirt bikes were present on the wilderness side, but had not worn the delicate desert soil into a powdery sand the way the tire tracks had on the roads outside of the fenced area. I wondered how old these single stripes through the desert were, how long they had been there. It takes the desert a long time to recover from even the slightest disturbance.

We continued along the perimeter for a while until we came to an intersection: a large, flat area littered with some broken glass and some older, rusted mining-era refuse. Typically, waste left behind that is more than 50 years old constitutes an artifact and can no longer be removed from the site as trash. Someone had clearly cleaned up the site because there was no trash other than the broken glass and the rusty old metal cans and mining paraphernalia. This was surprising: remote outposts like this tend to be abused, but someone with a conscience had recently visited. Either the regular campers out this way are more conscientious than we give the ATV crowd (of which we are technically a part?) credit for, or we had recently arrived on the heels of an organized effort to clean up the site. It was cause for celebration as well as a shift in perspective (and judgment), and a commitment to leaving the place better than we had found it too.

On our walk into the wilderness the next day, we kept coming upon what we thought at a distance were shiny pieces of mining trash that turned out to be Mylar balloons. The novelty of such a thing has worn off: I have found this air trash in the most remote places I’ve ever been, and can now nearly count on it. Walking up to one, we would guess what was on it: most donned faded Disney characters with HAPPY BIRTHDAY on them; others proudly proclaimed, IT’S A GIRL! Once again, human celebrations turned into an ecological menace, if not outright disaster.

It was astonishing how many balloons were in the small area we covered that day. This inspired a new project: I mark the location of every Mylar balloon I come across in a wild area (I’m not pulling over on the freeway to do this). Likely someone else has already started such a project; perhaps my data could someday contribute to theirs. Now, picking up the Mylar balloons and marking their spot is my small contribution to collecting data and remedying the problem.

There was so much room to wander in the desert, it was often difficult to choose which direction to go. The day I started the Mylar balloon project, we started gradually ascending a large alluvial fan, where we discovered USGS markers, mining pits, and a curious abundance of dragonflies. I recalled a recent, harrowing frog survey with my colleague Sarah, a 30-year veteran ecologist of California streams. This past drought-stricken year, we were searching for water in which to conduct frog surveys. As we bush whacked our way into what should have been the stream corridor, she exclaimed, “Look! A dragonfly! There has to be water around here somewhere,” plunging herself deeper into the thick, tick-infested (we would come to find out later) underbrush, with me trailing behind her. We didn’t find water in that streambed, but it was about a half mile away in another stream.

In the desert, the mounting frequency with which we observed dragonflies was puzzling. There was definitely no water to be found anywhere nearby. A spring would have given itself away by a depression or at least a change from brown to green vegetation on the landscape. But we saw nothing. Perhaps the dragonflies were visiting the alluvial fans and flats of the desert valleys to forage before returning to the springs in the mountains. The dragonflies were always landing on the tips of the creosote branches: the places where the single autumn rain that has arrived thus far encouraged the tiniest bit of growth. Maybe these tips have little insects on them that they like to eat; or a drop of moisture to drink.

We observed surprisingly little wildlife. Though this area is home to the desert tortoise and Mojave ground squirrel, we observed no tracks and little movement; not even lizards. It seemed odd. Flocks of horned larks flitted through the creosote and took dust baths at our campsite. Tiny flies kept drowning themselves in the cup of coffee placed at the corner of my yoga mat in the morning. Occasionally I thought I saw a raptor soaring overhead, only to be disappointed when the sound betrayed that it was just another jet returning to Edwards Air Force Base. Though the roar of the jet engines parting the desert silence was more frequent than we would have liked, it was a small price to pay for the quiet in between.

The valley hike on our last day led us into an area with Joshua trees. We marveled at each one of these large, magnificent monocots that are quickly becoming the last of their kind due to climate change. We stopped to take photos of the quirky, spindly, tallest ones. Later, after rounding a bend and dropping into a narrow valley, there it stood: the most perfect, tree-like Joshua tree I had ever seen. Its branches were numerous and short. Its trunk was stout, reminding me of an old, stalwart oak. We approached it, noticing that despite the parched desert in every direction, there was a carpet of tiny green sprouts on the ground all around the north side. I walked up to the trunk to get a better look at the alligator skin-like pattern in the cavernous bark.

I took one step closer, and a large bird flushed from the branches. As it flew away, I could tell from its silhouette that it was some kind of owl: long, sleek, with a wide head and rounded wings. I felt badly that we had disturbed its daytime roost, hoping it would bank and return, but it flew on into the desert and kept on flying, out of sight.

Taking a few steps back, I circumnavigated the tree to admire it from more angles. Then, Chris shout-whispered, “C’mere! Look!!” Through a porthole in the branches, perfectly framed by the blade-like leaves, was a long-eared owl, head tufts erect, eyes peering just as surprised and curiously back at us, perfectly still. As it held steady, the strong up-valley wind blew some of the feathers on its breast upward, the tiny movements giving it away. We stared agape and took photos for a while, then decided to move on so that its partner or parent—which likely flushed in order to get us to chase it and not seek the owl left behind in the tree—could return.

Perhaps, just like us, the owls had seen something special about that particular Joshua tree—for them, it was likely the dense cover it provided from predators, and shelter from the wind; for us, it was the unique shape and branching structure, looking like an oak tree, reminding us of home.

After a few days, the owl moment and the length of time with no computers, phones, email, or screens of any kind had allowed the quiet of the desert to seep into us. The stream of songs stopped playing in my head. The emails I couldn’t get to before I left were forgotten. The pressing urgency of everything had disappeared. Space, silence, and time to reset, recalibrate, and remember what lies underneath our commitment to everything that demands our attention is often all we need replenish the energy required to carry on.

We sat at our campsite overlooking a broad, spacious valley and took in the desert sunset as the full moon rose over the hills behind us. When night fell, the strangest view emerged across the valley: an entire hillslope was flashing red off and on, like a neon sign that stretched for miles. I knew instantly what it was, though it was hard to believe. Thousands of tiny red lights on thousands of enormous wind turbines blinked in unison. We could escape cell coverage and other people for a few days, but we could not escape the ever-present encroachments of the modern world on nature, even at night. Especially at night.

On the final morning at our remote desert outpost, I lay on the ground, listening to the sound of the wind threading the creosote branches. The flies continued to drown themselves in my coffee, despite the lid. The dogs lifted their noses to the breeze lazily, sensing creatures we lacked the instrumentation to notice. This was also a vacation for them—with longer walks and nothing to bark at for days, no UPS delivery driver, no dogs with their jangling collars being walked down our street. All four of us breathed in the last precious moments of peace before packing up to return to our busy lives. We made the journey back slowly and intentionally, with the fresh eyes of calm. Though we have to leave the solitude of the desert behind, the feeling of spaciousness—the sense of what is really important—can be brought home.