Since we moved to the desert, I occasionally find myself thinking, “Where am I — and what am I doing?”
It happened on Sunday.
We drove 1 1/2 hours to Adelanto to watch The High Desert Mavericks play a minor league baseball game: hotdogs, soft pretzels with mustard, a bull mascot (whom C. calls “guy!”) and loud fans cheering for players they undoubtedly know. C. ran up and down a grassy hill and A. chatted with the bullpen.
On the way home, we off-roaded into the desert near Four Corners (where 395 meets 58) and followed rough directions to find rocks. That’s right, we took dirt roads in our little Mazda, about four miles to a little hill full of rocks: dendritic agate, agatized palm, petrified bog.
And there I was, in the 100-degree heat, in a white sun hoodie and flip-flops in rattlesnake territory, bent down, searching for rocks.
A. said, “I can’t believe you found this [area] by yourself.”
I had stopped through on Mother’s Day after driving down to Victorville to shop for clothes for C., since there is no shopping in Ridgecrest.
And while at Four Corners, I found these rocks — which tumbled beautifully — and I wanted more.
A. searched for some, too, and he found rocks the size of softballs that he plans to turn into bookends.
I still don’t know what I’ll do with the ones I found — I’m thinking of making a mosaic wall-hanging, but in order to do so, I need to tumble more. A lot more.
But I did — I had an out-of-body moment, where I looked at myself, standing in the dry, hot desert, searching for rocks, and I thought, “A year ago, I never could have imagined I’d be doing this.” And, “This is really, really crazy.”