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Letter from Home: True desert

True desert

Rains are few and far between on this stony chunk of federal land in southern Arizona -- a sort of nursery and playground for desert bighorn sheep.

The dying palo verde is poor shade but will have to do. At noon the sky is cloudless, the temperature pushing 100. The tire is a puddle of useless rubber, a dime-sized hole gaping through what's left of the tread. Pavement lies 15 miles to the north.

I stretch out in the gravel wash and stare up at squadrons of bees weaving through the spiky, tangled branches, targeting a few pale yellow blossoms that cling to the tree. Webworms have gobbled every leaf, so photosynthesis will only occur this summer through the thin green bark. Clouds of small flies frolic around my eyes, nostrils and lips, excited by the moisture.

Michael Wolcott


Michael Wolcott is a writer, dirt-worshipper and former gifted child, with the c.v. you’d expect from a boomer afflicted with poetical leanings and blessed with a 20-year-old Tacoma. The primary water source at his off-grid place near the South Rim is rooftop collection, irrigating raised beds and a greenhouse.



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