After the Rains

I live in the desert. Specifically, the Mojave Desert, which is one of the hottest and driest placed in North America. Here in the Coachella Valley (think Death Valley – with golf courses) we can count on anywhere from two to four inches of rain a year. Considering that a desert is classified as any place that gets less than 10 inches per year, we are over achievers in the dry department.

When I moved to Palm Desert in January 2005, just about every resident here bemoaned the weather. It rained. On and off for most of January and part of February, it rained. It was beautiful – 50 to 60 degrees, soft, warm, soaking rain. I loved it. Coming from Kansas City where they were reveling in ice storms and random snow dumps, I was in heaven. Clouds hung low over the San Bernadino’s. Snow crowned San Gorgonio Pass. No matter where I went, mountains shifted with the shadows. Driving down Hwy 111 in Rancho Mirage, I watched the mountains become fuzzy green.

Then, of course, I encountered summer. Algae blooms and fish die-offs at the Salton Sea. Wildfires up by Pioneer Town. Temperatures topping out around 120 degrees. Like I said, Death Valley.

Somewhere around that time, the honeymoon was over with the desert and me. I came to dislike it. Hot. Relentless sun. No shade. No good running routes because every development was gated. And arrogant Californians. I can’t recall how many times I had this conversation:

“Kimbel is a recent transplant to the desert,” said by my former best friend who introduced me to my now ex-husband.

“Ooh – where are you from, Kimbel?” I would be asked by a friend of said former best friend, usually someone who had retired here. There is, after all, a preponderance of those over 55.

“The Midwest.” I had learned to generalize after the first couple times.

“Where in the Midwest?” Still polite. Sort of.

“Kansas City, Missouri.”

Whether instant or preceded by a beat of silence, the reply was essentially always the same.

“Thank God you’re out of there.”

Once, a partner in my ex-husband’s firm ’fessed up to being from Kansas City.

“Oh, so you grew up there.” I felt surge of hope and possible camaraderie.

“God no. My dad got out of there when I was two. Best thing he ever did for us.” He smirked.

“Oh. So you don’t remember it.”

“No.”

“And you’ve never visited?”

“God no.”

I paused a millisecond.

‘Then you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

It seemed that these Californians were rude, egotistical, blinded by their Mojave surroundings and the lifestyle everyone out here seems to have. I began to truly dislike the desert. Add to that the fact that my then-husband detested traveling at any time let alone the summer, and seemed ecstatic in one-hundred-teen temps, I began to feel as though I had been taken hostage. When I left the marriage about a year and a half ago, freedom was like a Coke and a smile. Thank God I could get out of here.

And get out I did. This summer I traveled for a few months (as many of you read on this blog) and loved it. Driving, doing cheap-yet-clean motels, sometimes doing nice hotels, kamping at KOA, all that. I was essentially scouting for a new home. Along the way, I fell in love with Montana, especially Missoula.

When I returned this September (I won’t say “autumn,” because I still don’t discern actual seasons here) it was still more than 100 degrees, miserably humid, and stayed that way into October. (Note to self …) Depression set in. After a few weeks of feeling resentful about not living in Montana with a well-read yet studly cowboy on his ranch complete with Quarter Horses, it occurred to me that I had better get on with it. I am here, and here I am.

So the next few entries will be all about the Coachella Valley and its environs – the natural environment, attractions, good food, favorite things. They say that you can’t really write about a place until you leave it. I’m going to try it the other way first.

All that said, I’m posting a few photographs of the recent rains that closed highways in the L.A. area, flooded portions of the UC, Riverside main campus (caused power outages here and there, too) and made the Whitewater wash behind the condos where I live look sort of like the river it used to be. Next, hiking with Lucy.