Desert Avocados
Avocados shouldn’t make me think of the desert: they are rich in a way that implies an abundance of water. Plus, they’re green - not a color often found where the sun’s radiation dried everything to a crisp. Only the heartiest of waxy leaves can withstand such an onslaught.
But I make the fruit-sand connection because once, we found ourselves thirty miles and two hours down a washboard dirt road. This was on purpose. Our car kicked up a tail of dust that had drifted over the red sandstone formations that defied description even though I’ll try anyway. There were layers and outcroppings and sheer faces and aeolian dune markings and all the reds and oranges in the crayon box.
“Spooning goodness into yourself one bit at a time, through vision and taste. ”
Along the way our teeth were rattled and our hearing assaulted. Desiring a bit of respite, we pulled into a turnoff with a pit toilet and a rustic wood fence styled to suggest a governmental administration attempting to blend with the environment. This was a familiar shade of brown after two years on the road living in USFS and BLM and NPS campgrounds. Consistency is a strong suit with the greens and browns of the park service.
On the walls that rose above this turnout were pictographs. They told stories of the land we were standing on and the people that land belonged to.
A woman was sitting on the fence opposite the largest swath of red images. She was sitting on the top rail with her feet hooked over the lower rung to balance herself. She was curled over something in her hand, cupping it in a protective way. As I walked by, ostensibly to view the ancient artifacts but actually burning with curiosity about what she held, I saw that it was half an avocado. It fit her palm perfectly, allowing her other hand the freedom to dip the spoon into its fatty meat and raise it to her lips.
Every bite she would look up and study the pictures. Bite, look, bite, contemplate, until the shell was empty. After a week of camping in the desert, the sight of this was refreshing. I’m uncertain why. Then she stood, licked the spoon and threw the skin into the appropriate receptacle. Got in her car to drive away.
Avocados in the desert. Nourishment within sight of ancient wisdom. Spooning goodness into yourself one bit at a time through vision and taste.
So, for me, the desert and its companion the avocado are now intertwined. The richness of the colors and the nourishment of the quiet.
Inspired by events in the San Rafael Swell, Utah.
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