An Excerpt from "Carpet of Sand"

"Carpet of Sand" click here to return to fieldnotes

rusted barbed-wire fence marks the property line. From their land, Jolene can see the remains of a waterfall, a gash of white against the brown foothills, darkened by a memory of water in the center. When they first moved here, nearly thirty years ago, Jolene wanted to explore. The desert was so different from central Pennsylvania, where she'd grown up. The dryness, the dust, seemed so real, so crisp. She led Hank up to the lowest edge of the waterfall, maneuvering over boulders and stretching higher and higher until she could touch that center area, slick and rounded as blown glass. Hank held her up so she could take that last step, reach the ledge. He didn't need to go any higher, he said. Jolene stood there, on top of the world, a slight breeze knocking sweat from her brow into her eyelashes, and scratched at her sketch pad while Hank stood below. She was surrounded by a different forest from the ones she'd left behind. Where they were lush and wet, the desert was dried and shriveled. She'd felt free up there, a newlywed looking out over the promise of life. Then she realized she couldn't get down.

Hank threatened to leave her there, ship in food and water once a week. He was anxious to go home, unaware of the magic that surrounded them. If you can ship in food, Jolene said, you can helicopter me out of here. Hank met her halfway, took her in his arms, and lowered her down. She didn't go back after that, even when Hank and their son Casey picnicked up there. That was their time, and over the years she learned to prefer her own yard, a space she could organize, to the wilder desert beyond it.

Jolene ducks between the wires where the barbs were stripped back and bunched together at the edges of the fence near the stake. Her back skims the smooth metal as she stands again, sending a vibration through the fence like a tripwire.

She follows the wash, stepping into sand powdered from rains long forgotten. One brief shower has fallen so far this spring. Prickly pears sent out their new blades, tumbling on top of each other, poking through the centers of their own flesh, to taste the few drops of moisture left in the air. There were flowers then, too, in dusty desert pinks and yellows, taking advantage of the breakdown in the drought, the oversight that let the rain come. But now the tips of the Creosotes are brittle, the flowers shut up tight and crumbling. But Jolene doesn't see these things today. She sees only her leathered legs as they pump and the layer of dust that has collected on the top of her white tennis shoes.