The Day the Cactus Came for Me

This country is a big place. While populations are booming and we're witnessing the loss of ever-vital wilderness, we're still lucky to live in a time where you don't have to venture far to get lost. Even here, in the densely-packed East, a couple hour's drive north, west or even south can bring you to seemingly untamed lands, big worlds where nary a city can be seen or the rumblings of traffic heard. Rejuvenating places where you can breathe and feel free.

While we do have such places here in the East, they are limited compared to the grandeur of the West, that harsh, rugged land that confounds our imagination and speaks to a world both old and barely understood. A land you can truly lose yourself in. Certainly the Rockies and other alpine areas have a lot to offer in this realm, but it is the deserts that so mystified me. I cannot understand them, as they do not speak to my sensibilities, yet they do speak to me. From my excursions in the Sonoran desert to my trip to Death Valley, I felt a growing adoration for the Great American Desert. Slowly becoming what some call a "desert rat."

But I'm hardly any T. E. Lawrence at this point. I am but a greenhorn, still in my genesis. Sure, I'd seen a rattlesnake and some big horn, and drank water from a prickly pear, but there was still many things I hadn't done. I hadn't touched the waters of the mighty Colorado. I hadn't ridden a horse through scrub brush. And, luckily, I hadn't yet been stuck by some unpleasant barb, cut by a cruel cactus, or scarred by a succulent. But nothing stays golden, and on this trip to Arizona, my luck would run out.

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Scottsdale, AZ - May 2012

Fresh off my escapades in Death Valley, I was eager for more desert when Steph and my plane touched down in Sky Harbor Airport. We had a busy week planned that would bring us from the pine forests of Prescott to the blue waters of the Pacific. It was a grand week, full of delicious Mexican food, Matt's high school graduation festivities, Disneyland and mule deer. I'd driven from Phoenix to LA in the largest vehicle I've ever been in, all with only my driver's permit and some helpful backseat drivers (even though I grew up around cops, I learned that being near armed officials makes me rather nervous, and driving through the California/Arizona border crossing made my palms sweat so much I could barely hold the steering wheel). I'd also caught a desert horned lizard -- a week of many firsts for me. But the next first was the most unwelcome.

Our last day in Arizona arrived suddenly and I recalled a promise Steph had made, much to her dismay. Two months from then, Steph's family would take us to Glacier National Park in Montana. The issue was that Steph is not fond of hiking, and Glacier requires some ability of its visitors. So Steph vowed that we would do a little bit of hiking while in Arizona. Such a rugged landscape would surely prepare us for the trip to come.

After a short ATV trip through the country behind their property (we didn't take the ATVs out 'til the last day. Like ohmygod I know, right?), I told Mr. K about Steph and my pact. He threw us in the car and took us a few blocks from their house to the Lost Dog Trail in the McDowell Mountains. It is a charming path that winds its way up a small mountain, with wonderful views of Thompson Peak, the surrounding mountains and foothills that tumble into the vast valley beyond.

The hike was nice, with many lovely cacti and palo verde specimens, a few coyote dens and not many other hikers (my favorite). On our return hike, we noticed a family ahead of us. The father was so tanned from excessive desert hiking that he looked like an old boot. His wife and twenty-something year old son were escorting a young woman -- presumably the son's girlfriend, as she sported a paleness only accessible when you're from back East -- as she limped down the trail with one flip flop on, the other sandal in her hand. Mr. K buzzed by them, not wishing to bother us with the problems of strangers, but I was perplexed and walked by slowly to see what was happening. Which is when I saw the lobe of a jumping cholla cactus attached to the girl's forearm, with little ribbons of blood running down her arm.

"Oh shit!" I shouted. "Are you alright?"
"Oh, me?" She replied. The family stopped. "Yeah I'm alright."
"She just has a little cactus in her arm." The father replied, with what I assume was an Arizonan accent (do they have accents?).
"I can see that. Can we help?"
"Oh no," the father assured us."We'd need pliers..."
"Oh! I have a Leatherman!" I said, giving Steph a triumphant look. She had never seen the need for me to carry it around. Check-mate.
"Ah, don't worry about it." He said, replying that they would still need a first aid kit, and they had one in their car, a mile away.
"My dad has one with him." Steph said, at which point Mr. K turned around and produced the kit, a bit begrudgingly, as he wanted to get out of the heat.

With everything Tan Dad needed, he gripped the young woman's arm, took the pliers to the cholla lobe, and looked into the girl's eyes intently.

"Now, this might hurt a little."

And with that he yanked the cactus swiftly. The girl, seeming to barely notice the discomfort, let out a yip that was barely audible.

"Oo!" She whimpered, with a lightly surprised expression more fit for having a snap thrown at you than a cactus ripped off of you.

Brave girl, I thought. I don't think I could have been so tough.

The father began tending to the wounds, pulling out remaining prickers and applying rubbing alcohol, when I noticed the bedeviled lobe was still on the trail, near the victim's bare feet (one foot was shod, but if you're in sandals in the desert, you're essentially barefoot).

"Let me be helpful," I thought. "Let me move this cactus off the trail, out of harms way." Not wanting the cholla to get stuck in my shoe, I kicked dirt at it, hoping that would push it away. But no, dear reader, I was not so lucky. I looked to my shoe and saw that it was I who was now attached to the cactus. It is a play! A tragic comedy, I bemoaned to myself. Without much thinking, I gave my foot a swift kick, like one who has stepped in dog poop. The force was misapplied and the cholla was sent careening into my bare shin.

"Oh no," I thought. "How do I get this damn thing off of me before everyone notices."

As the thought finished in my brain, a voice of disappointment called my name.

"Rory!" Steph shouted.

And with that, all eyes were on me. And my guilty stare turned their gaze to my shame: My cactus-ridden leg.

Tan Dad looked at me with a slight air of annoyance (but how annoyed could he be? I was the one with the Leatherman after all), and set about removing the cursed cactus from my leg. I hadn't felt it go in, but I definitely felt it going out. He patched me up swiftly and I rushed Steph and Mr. K back down the trail, stung more by embarrassment than the cactus. We drove back home, where I had my balls busted -- with good reason -- for the rest of the night. As I packed for our return to Boston, feeling the bump left by the cactus in my shin (which is still there today, in case you were wondering), I thought perhaps now I was a little closer to being a true desert rat. But in reality, I was probably now much farther away.