“What do we leave behind when we cross each frontier? Each moment seems split in two: melancholy for what was left behind and the excitement of entering a new land.” - The Motorcycle Diaries

I'm profoundly sad about leaving this desert. Sitting in an Indian campsite, here's a genuine Indian looking back at a week of toiling in the Big Bend.

It was windy a while ago, but the wind has now abated, my tent no longer dances. There are flies buzzing around, and a raven just flew past. There are big cacti and small shrubs, other than these there is no sign of life. I feel forlorn and forgotten, but not really. The last rays of the sun turn the far away hills blue and misty. I feel like Frodo, not ready to return, the world of Middle Earth seems too fake, too lost, but alas there are no Undying Lands that beckon.

When I look back at the days past week I remember being alone in the desert, being belittled by the mighty hills, sweating, legs hurting, driving through the desert for hours, feeling awed, feeling frustrated, feeling tired and hungry, but mostly I remember being happy.

The sun is low on the horizon and the hills cast long shadows. I have a few minutes of daylight left. The tall yucca tree towers in the open desert and the sky turns crimson. A gentle breeze blows past me.

I like to think we’re here to experience life in all its mystery and madness. The yucca tree does not sway in the breeze. What does it remember? The watchful leaves of its brothers have been looking over the desert for eons. The far away hills are alight in the last rays of the sun. I can hear the silence of the desert.

There is so much to do in life and so little time. There are places I’ll never see, experiences I’ll never have. All I have is a day’s worth of time to see what I can, a wisp of cloud amidst a rolling thunderstorm. The finiteness of time is what makes life precious. Every hour that passes leaves but a shadow as we walk towards dusk, alone in the desert of life we leave behind footprints and take away memories, as they say.

The light’s about to go, and the breeze has died down. The night beckons with a promise of tomorrow. The desert sleeps now, it meditates on its own day. The bats are out and the coyotes howl in a distance bidding me a final goodbye. I see a silhouette of the lone yucca tree across the horizon, its leaves radiating in every direction. It stands stoically in the desert, I wonder what it remembers? Being alive is being tenacious, it is being in a desert, growing slowing but steadily, watching the sunsets and the sunrises, it is the sweat and the toil, and the joy of existing, it is being grateful for every night we survive and hoping that the day that comes is full of mystery and madness.