Up before sunrise. Before rooster crows. Stretch Rooster Peck.

Grab some goodies at Boo’s Organic Oven. Then on to the desert. At the entry gate, Jerry - a volunteer, no official ranger hat - offers me a route and is excited by my excitement. He illustrates the proposed journey with a family photo album that has pictures of he and his wife visiting the sites over the last 12 years. “Did you know,” he says, pointing to an image of a bird “that these birds can’t eat the lizards as is, so they hang them out to dry on the trees and then eat them.” “Like Lizard Jerky,” I say. “Exactly!”

“Jerry,” I ask, “Do they hang around waiting for their lizard to dry, or do they leave it in the oven and come back when the timer rings?” “I don’t know that I’ve been asked that! I don’t know!” Inquiring minds want to know, Jerry. He then palms me an object. “Don’t tell anyone I gave this to you.” I put it in my pocket “I won’t, Jerry. Thank you. I’m honored.”

Out to the desert. All of the trails are supposed to take 60 minutes or less. Strong recommendation from the Parks Department in this heat.

A now-familiar pattern presents: trees fallen and decayed yield life from and shelter. A being disperses in death. No longer consumed with living, growing, taking. The whole of what was self becomes offering in ceasing.

Petroglyphs carrying a message.

Shrubs scramble up against boulders finding shade for a few precious hours each day.

Crepuscular mammals find food during the bookends of day, burrowing into dry, dense fauna to pass the sun’s peaking.

The network is present. But the nodes are more widely dispersed than in the Redwoods.

Shortened shadow calls for shelter. Off to AZ.

Rainbows and flash-floods. Crack of thunder, downpour, door opens.

“An auspicious arrival!” an old friend shouts.

The pie from Boo’s survived the desert and the state-border crossing. It’s pretty freaking great.