There is something magical about snow in the desert. It’s unexpected, often rare. Last night we went to sleep to the sound of rain on the steel roof. Sometimes soft, like sleet. Sometimes hard as the water hardened to hail. This morning the sound was clearly unique, that of a dusting across the windows and corrugated metal sheets, the sound that only snow can make.

We set out by foot, to the end of my land, down into the San Pedro basin, and up the far west side. The goal was to overlook the entire valley from that higher vantage point, but the snow didn’t let up and the visibility remained low. We walked back down into the San Pedro, past the three ranches on the far side, and then south up Page Canyon. Three miles in the flakes grew larger, wet, and sticky. Every few minutes we were shaking off the build-up on our hats, gloves, jackets and eyebrows.

I’ll never outgrow the desire to romp in the snow as puppies do in their first winter. The smell, the sound, the crisp taste of the air. And today, that rare desert phenomenon came to Cascabel. Thank you Colleen for sharing the magic with me.

A year ago today my neighbor and good friend David and I completed installation of a wood burning stove in my Arizona wilderness home. My electric bill dropped by more than 50% overnight, and my deep satisfaction with a fully renewable energy source remains unquantified by percentage or monetary value.

With 17 acres of mesquite forest, a maul, and a weekly workout, the main floor of my house is heated with the radiant heat of a single stove. As expressed in The axe and the fire, the manual preparation of wood for heating a home is gratifying in ways difficult to describe. Yes, it’s hard work. Yes, it takes time. And it is intentional, meditative, and a good workout that makes one truly appreciate warmth felt.

Living on the road for eight years granted me a global perspective. I saw what was once my home from an outside point of view. I found comfort in moving from place to place and solace at each point of entry.

My outlet for creativity was almost entirely digital. On my laptop I could edit photos, produce a film, and write essays, letters, and post blog entries. But no matter how I shape, carve, cut or polish in the realm of electrons, the smell of sawdust and stain cannot emanate from ray traced wood grain. I craved expression in three dimensions, with excess glue beneath my fingernails and cuts to my skin to remind me of challenge of forming something beautiful.

I thought I sought a house to enable me to open old boxes with so many forgotten stories, a place to do laundry without coins and to prepare food without an order. But truly, it is working with wood that gives me a sense of purpose, pleasure, and home.

Mostly, I place the slide of cheese on top of the apple slice.

The soft cheese presses against the roof of my mouth while my tongue enjoys the cool, sweet flavor below.

Sometimes, I flip it over and the savory flavor is met first, the sweet crunch a moment later.

Just one slice of cheese and one slice of apple, but a completely different experience.

Then there is peanut butter, hummus, and melted baker’s chocolate, but that is another post for another time.

In the desert, the rain seldom arrives in a subtle manner, quietly or over the course of hours. Rather, it obliterates the sun within minutes, a bold, dark mass that hides something sinister. At the leading edge of the billowing clouds is a swirling mass of cool, moisture ladened air. A simultaneous sense of excitement and dread is carried by a deceptive, playful greeting. Soon, that same wind is breaking branches and tossing loose sheets of metal into neighboring pastures. Bold strokes of light rise from points unseen, echoed by melodramatic rumbles that awake toads for a twelve hours mating ritual.

Just before sunset, blue skies chase black past the horizon and the rivers run as though they were never without water, only a memory of dry sand a few hours earlier.

There are places yet remaining that feel to the visitor untouched by time. We call this wilderness, and we protect it from recreational vehicle, developers, and politicians whose pockets are too easily filled with bills too large. These areas must remain wild, free of human impact other than photograph and footprint if we are to maintain some semblance of balance in the world at large. Something must offset the impact of cities and urban sprawl. Some places must give us reason to pause, to remember what it was like to be just another humble animal on a planet we did not always dominate. On trails too narrow for vehicles, on paths too jagged for wheels, that is where we recall who we really are, the human animal.

We walked to this place from my back door and spent the afternoon listening. Everything we heard was clear. A hawk call, a leaf fall, and the sound of a water were undeniable and real.

I am more a part of this place than I ever will be of the constructed world. We all are. Yet the thing we are all hiding from, the nearly invisible string of DNA neither living or dead knows there is no separation between us and them, between the wealthy and the poor; black, white, and brown; uneducated and well read. Biological systems eventually transcend all social and geographic borders. There is no beginning or end, only the creativity of evolution and the tenacious, constant change. We are part of this process, not a destination. This is a time to celebrate simple things again.

This is why I live where I do, a short drive or a long walk from splendid beauty such as this. The Nature Conservancy protects this space. You should too.

This nights have been warmer here, in the San Pedro river valley. A temporary trend with much colder nights on the horizon, long-time residents assure me. This morning found my house surrounded by a cool, dense mist. Erie and exciting at the same time. I ventured outside and onto the concrete patio with bare feet and a light hood pulled over top. A half dozen inch worms had found their way inside my house, dozens more outside. They moved ever so slowly toward my front door, zombies in very, very slow motion … contract … expand and move forward … contract … expand. The apocalypse was thwarted by the action of a stiff bristled broom, for now.

The mist grew thicker as the sun grew warmer, moisture drawn out of the grass, London rocket, and the nearby Hot Springs river bottom. A hundred meters was the best visibility for a while, until the same warmth drove it off entirely. Yoga was accompanied by the Mannheim Steamrollers’ Fresh Aire II and then a short run on a trail that crosses half the forty acres to the west.

Some song birds are returning already, or at least making themselves more known. Healthy white tail deer bounded just behind my well house, and fresh javelina tracks remind me that I am never alone.

A storm is pending.

Clouds build on the horizon, shades of gray darkening as layer upon layer obscure the sun.

The deer have hidden themselves, no longer standing around the watering hole. The birds are quiet too.

The movement of air is so subtle that even the tiny, thin leaves of the mesquite no longer tremble.

Not a sound, but for the fly trapped between the window and shade above my computer and desk.

It is the lull before the storm.

My anticipation is growing.