The Most Alive Places I've Ever Been

Desert life isn’t for everyone. As someone who lived in Tucson for nine years, I like to joke that something is out to kill you everywhere you turn. Scorpions, tarantulas, javelinas, rattlesnakes, cholla with their barbed spines. But despite the danger that lurks in the rugged terrain, the desert is stunning. I mean, plants shouldn’t be able to grow in 110+ degrees. But they do. Not only that, they flourish under the bluest skies you’ll ever see with jagged mountains as a backdrop.

The desert is where I began walking. The goal was to get away from my work-from-home desk more often, to give my mind and body a break from all the screen time. My neighbors thought I was nuts. “I guess you can tell I grew up in a cold-weather state,” I would say as I trudged by in the blazing noonday sun.

I’ll admit that the heat was distracting the first few times I walked. I found myself focusing more on the temperature than the scenery around me. But after a few walks, it became clear that I wasn’t going to collapse from heat stroke or “cook from the inside out,” as I’d read about online. Once those thoughts disappeared, I found myself in total awe of nature around me. 

The majestic saguaro, towering toward the sky. The torch cactus in full bloom. A single cloud, trying its hardest not to dissipate in the heat. 

I learned that the desert is a noisy place too. From the quail songs and coyote howls to the wind blowing its oven breeze through the palo verde and mesquite trees, the barren-looking landscape is one of the most alive places I have ever witnessed. 

I really miss that desert. But I’ve taken the lessons I’ve learned from walking on those dusty trails to my new home state of Florida, where I moved to be closer to my family.

I haven’t stopped walking in Florida. In fact, I walk more here. It’s not arid, but the heat index still hits 110+ some days with a lot of humidity baked in. 

Instead of admiring cacti, I love to look at the towering palm trees while I take the town’s boardwalk trails through jungle-like terrain. It’s so thick, you can’t see what might be looking out through the ferns at you. A wild boar? An alligator? A venomous snake? A cry breaks through the silence, startling me. But it’s not a woman being mugged. It’s a Cuban tree frog. 

The clouds here are full and thick, like you can just tell they were hanging out over the ocean all morning plotting to burst with afternoon rain.

Through the heat and all that noise, I lock eyes with an owl spying on me from the tree branches above. As I hold his gaze, I can tell he knows exactly why I’m here.