And whoever constitutes that “they” needs some talkin’ to. That’s what our soggy selves said, anyways, after a dreary, drenched December in the Mohave Desert. Around its borders, skirting southern Nevada and down through Joshua Tree, CA we stood witness to inches (inches!) of falling rain, out in deserts that may only see four total the whole year long, mind you, and where fractions of inches can sometimes cause flash floods and wreak havoc on tiny side roads. 

The plus side was a meteorological show in the skies, with moody, swirling clouds, lightning displays far more impressive than any laser light concert, and music from the winds, which yowled and howled like some out-there cover of Bon Jovi. (Come to think of it, we never listen to Bon Jovi. Polling the audience: should we?)

The inhospitable weather was at once a blessing from the heavens and a curse on the ground. With the short days and dark skies, it was easy to make what is usually a difficult decision for us, to stay in and go deep on projects instead of getting up and going out on hikes. 

We were able to touch, tap, and craft the beginnings of projects we hadn’t handled during the longer, more agreeable days of summer and fall. 

We made moves on our next book. Opened our Adobe Suite and strung out video clips we’ve taken throughout the year.  We are making progress! We have edited two videos! The pages of our manuscript are looking more like…pages of a manuscript.

We grow grumpy, sometimes, though, in the grey short days. Overcome by blah blues, we argue about small things. We are cramped in Sunshine’s 80 square feet, cooped up in the metal orange walls. We are cricked and achy. We haven’t moved our bodies in days.

That is the downside. Storms may lead us to creative work, but at the end of the day, we are trapped. Besides the daily commute to dig a hole in the ground, and the rare escapes windy, stormy hikes, we are bus dwelling prisoners held captive in our own four walls, two cantankerous cranks cohabitating in eighty square feet. I stare longingly at the rainbows before they are again engulfed by clouds. 

We are on the shores of Lake Mead, with 30 mph gusts. We are in a white gypsum badlands with hot springs, and the dust is swirling in the anger of the air. We soak in the reeds of a hot spring, protected for minutes . A group of women are there, in the hottest part of the pool. They are conducting a ceremony. They dunk a small woman under the hot waters. She is twisted and crying. I call them the witches of Parhumph. 

On January first, we drive south. An OHV area is like a 1920s Oklahoma Dustbowl. Barstow is blustery. Baker is unbearable. Blythe ain’t any more nice. A semi-truck is sideways on the freeway. Plastic clings to the creosote bushes like a scared child to its father’s pant legs. It has been weeks since we popped the top. I have grown accustomed to cooking on our Coleman hunched over. My 30-something-year-old spine is accommodating. “Give it 50 years,” says JR. “You skeletature will not be thanking you.”

When the sky opens, and the clouds gather, we huddle up in our little tin box.

Like sardines. Anchovies. “Why don’t they can salami?” asks JR. I don’t tell them they do. It’s called spam. 

There are cracks in the metal and gaps in the rubber and the gusts of wind flood blow in, no matter which direction we’re parked. 

The third week of January arrives. We are over it. “I think it’s our year, Kit,” says JR. “We’re gonna run away to Mexico.”

I gape at him. My socks are soggy, my skin is pall and pale. There is sun south of the border. 

“When do we leave?” My voice is almost a sigh.

 I hope to god I find my passport.