Between Oases, Forests, and Lost Galaxies

We dedicated this week to exploring Southern California—its oases, forests, and lost galaxies—and I couldn’t say which of these places I liked best.

A River in the Vastness of the Desert

Finding a river running through the desert is like finding a needle in a haystack, but from the highway, I saw a tiny waterfall in the middle of a wide stone canyon and wondered why that thread of water was running through such a massive riverbed. Perhaps it received meltwater in the spring and sporadic surges caused by distant rains, even hundreds of miles away.

After so many days of seeing only dry weeds, thorny shrubs, and cacti, I found lush green trees and plants with white leaves that made me stop midway and jump out, camera in hand. They looked like they were made of paper, but to the touch, they were fresh and covered in tiny hairs.

As evening fell, the sun traced with its golden light as if using a paintbrush over the highest peaks. When it disappeared, in that moment of stillness, Martín and I sat on the bank to listen to the music of the current and the birds, and to watch the wind dance as the clouds changed shapes and colors at the bottom of the canyon.

At nightfall, bats joined the unusual choreography with their dizzying flights over the water. As it grew completely dark, we returned in silence, still immersed in the magic and unable to detach ourselves from the emotions we experienced.

A Plateau Between Beauty and Pain

I grew up in the tropical Andes of Colombia where the mountains are clothed in thick forests, and the trees are wrapped in mosses, vines, and orchids. On their slopes grow giant ferns and palms so tall they get lost in the clouds.

I never imagined naked mountains, stripped of the shelter that left their insides covered in rough, empty stones. We climbed one hundred, two hundred, five hundred, one thousand, one thousand five hundred meters, and suddenly the landscape changed. The slopes softened and filled with grasses, wheat-like stalks, dwarf trees, and flowers. Then low conifers appeared in copper and reddish tones. A great plateau opened up, and its contours stretched all the way to Lake Hemet. Despite the surprise of finding a beautiful lake at that altitude, as I drew closer, I saw that its waters were emerald green.

It was difficult to reconcile beauty and pain. The disproportionate increase in temperature over recent years has allowed algae to grow, leaving its waters poisoned and devoid of oxygen. Fish and other aquatic creatures have been dying, and now they are a danger not only to humans but also to all the animals that depended on that lake to live.

I left with deep sadness, wondering how many more destroyed places I would find on this long journey toward Patagonia.

Whispers on the Devil’s Slide Trail

I continued along the road until I reached forests between 6,000 and 9,000 feet, with huge pines and oaks heavy with acorns. That day I walked alone on a path called the Devil’s Slide Trail. Although I didn’t intend to hike that long and steep trail alone, I went along, exploring the forest and letting myself be enveloped by the magic of the place.

Jeffrey pines have very thick, aromatic bark. I stepped closer to caress their rough surface, that armor which, like that of many other conifers, protects them from fires. Although I found many charred trunks, the forest was very well preserved and had been spared from recurring fires.

Among the leaf litter, I discovered their cones. They are huge, larger than those of any other pine species, some even the size of my forearm! I was grateful that the squirrel that had bombarded us a few weeks earlier with a dozen pinecones at breakfast time had not found ones of this size and weight.

I kept walking and bent down to photograph the cones up close. I was surprised to see that they were not all the same color. Most were brown, like any other pinecone, but I found others a very light yellow with white prickles. From afar, they looked like armadillos.

Then I heard the acorn woodpeckers drilling into the “granary trees,” where they make hundreds of holes to store acorns for the winter. I also saw small birds singing and hopping among the branches.

On the way back, I thought that while Jeffrey pines are quite large trees, the size of their seeds bears no relation to those of the largest conifers, the redwood, whose cones are the size of one of my fingernails.

A Night in Joshua Tree National Park

During our stay in the California deserts, we kept up the habit of living like desert creatures: sheltering during the day and going out at night. Joshua Tree National Park was an hour and a half away, and although we knew we would have to drive three hours in the dark, the effort was well worth it.

We took Highway 10 heading east, and the Atlas’s headlights lit the dark strip of road that zigzagged between dunes and cacti, a path where tiny mice kept crossing at high speed. It seemed to me that instead of paws, they had wheels or floated over the asphalt. Sometimes they stopped as if hypnotized, looking at the light, and I steered carefully to avoid them.

As I drove, I felt like I was in front of a giant IMAX movie screen because moving slowly through that unknown world felt unreal. Bats hunted insects mid-flight, and a small fox with a long tail and very large ears crossed the road slowly. Further ahead, we encountered a family of coyotes: the parents and two small ones scurried away as soon as the headlamps brushed past them.

We chose the Skull Rock area, and I took out my compass to orient myself. The Milky Way should be in the southwest, right where a cluster of low clouds covered the horizon. For a few moments, I felt a bit disappointed because that was exactly where the Milky Way would be, but the feeling didn’t last more than a few seconds because the beauty of the place was staggering.

Martín and Carter went out to walk at their leisure among the rocks while I took my camera and explored the landscape. Looking up, I saw that not a single star more could fit, and I was moved to tears. The moment was perfect; the desert’s silence was total. It is hard to imagine the sensation of hearing nothing- no cars, no music, no voices- and I think that absence heightened my other senses. I felt the cool breeze on my skin after enduring the day’s intense heat. Even though the darkness was absolute and there was no moon or light pollution from towns or cities, I could catch the darkest silhouettes of the nearest rocks.

I began experimenting with my camera, trying to find clear areas of the sky, and suddenly, in one of my images, an unexpected bright spot appeared. I zoomed in and could not believe it: it was Andromeda, a galaxy about 2.5 million light-years away, and it appeared on my screen almost by accident. Afterward, I used my headlamp to illuminate the nearby rocks and include them in my photographs.