COLUMN: Arizona shows its teeth
Arizona was a battle of wills. Let’s just say Arizona won.
I grew up in the desert of southern Utah. Having resided for nearly 20 years in a dry area, I though I had a pretty good grasp on what it meant to say “desert.” To me, it was red rocks, barrel cacti and never seeing rain. These definitions were based on years of enjoying year-round mountain biking and being able to wear sandals and shorts without end. Well, Nevada, California and Arizona taught me a thing or two about the desert.
The desert’s beauty is found only in its cruelty, and trust me, the desert is psychotically cruel. I think it is important to understand the level of barbarousness that is experienced out there. Any of you who have seen “Sin City” can parallel the desert with Marv. Enough said.
Anyway, the desert is beautiful in its cruelty. A cactus’s spines are perfect symmetrically. The point is so fine that it is difficult to tell where it truly ends. The lines leading into and out of the cactus are defined by these spines. With just the right light, shadows dance and play with these perfect daggers creating a circus of spikes. Just don’t try to pick one and you’ll be alright.
The Lake Mead Recreational Park is a perfect example of the irony of water in the desert. Finding a drop of water outside of the lake can be more difficult than finding an honest politician. However, the entire landscape is molded and formed by the overabundance of the life-giving substance. Entire mountain ranges of fissures and chasms so deep and jagged that they are hauntingly similar to many post-nuclear war movies. These mountains are cruel in their appearance and the way they remind me that my dry mouth could be quenched if I had been here at just the right time.
Wind can be one of the most difficult of all obstacles to overcome when one is attempting to cross the desert on a bike. Eastern California was one sick bastard. The road was straight and headed directly south. A wind of about 25 miles per hour impeded every pedal stroke I could give. Yes, you say, that is cruel. The problem with the wind is its ability to mentally torture you past recognition of your former self. If that god-awful headwind ever stopped, like it did in Florence, Ariz., the temperature sky rockets and the cruelest of all desert characteristics will knock you out with one punch. The wind is both friend and foe.
As mentioned, I grew up in St. George. I am used to 120-degree heat. Well, maybe not used to, but I have experienced it many times. The difference here is I had no air-conditioned house to shield me from prolonged exposure to a sun that wants you to feel its very surface. The sun smashed down on me, pressing its face into mine. My chapped lips and scorched skin begin to appear like the mountains that surround the desert.
Finally, after 25 years of life, I can sincerely say I know the desert. I have felt its deathly breath blow across my face and heard its laughter as one more idiot tries to pluck a cactus’ spine. To be able to say you understand the desert is to try to cross it the old way: slowly. With all the modern accommodations made to desert dwellers, people have flocked to this natural torture chamber and have learned to love wearing sandals year-round. They do not understand the desert or its temperament. I can say this because I was one of these.
Now that I have crossed a minute portion of the amount of desert I will have to cross during my trip, I must admit that I am sincerely concerned about the rest. The strange thing about this is I loved every minute of it. Yes, it was difficult, but that is the idea behind this masochistically ritualized rite of passage that I have placed upon myself.
Yes, Arizona was an uphill battle through hell and Arizona definitely won. But I am leaving that hellhole behind me.
Lukas Brinkerhoff is a junior majoring in journalism. His column documents his trek on bicycle from Salt Lake City to Santiago, Chile to raise awareness for alternative transportation.