New Mexico is scorching hot. I’m visiting my parents for a few days, and even at nine, ten o’clock, the desert day hasn’t shifted to cool evening. The heat lies thickly. In Vermont, my daughter and a friend head to swim, as heat has moved into Vermont, too, bringing humidity and hail. In the hot desert, I think of the pond where they’ll swim, the cool clean water, the blooming lily pads like buttery jewels on emerald saucers. By dawn, though, a cool breeze rushes over the desert, under the moon.

I’ve spent nearly my whole adult life in Vermont, learning the names of wildflowers and trees, the rhythms of the seasons, how loons dive and surface, the brilliance of the Milky Way in January. In New Mexico, I know far fewer of the plants’ names, but the scent of the desert — the unmistakable piñon — is intimately familiar to me. My youngest years were in this country, so many hours spent in the red sand, collecting pebbles, white quartz. The scent — always near mystical with so much life in this vast space, from lizards to jackrabbits. Add to this, the sweep of the wind in the piñons and sage, that ancient breath.

“May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds.” 

— Edward Abbey