48 Hours In the Desert 🌵
Reflecting on the beauty of a quick trip to Phoenix
✍️ Author’s Note: You may have noticed that I didn’t post anything last week (*slight cringe*). I had intended to, even drafting something on my flight out of town for the weekend, but I ended up prioritizing quality time with friends over getting a post out. In retrospect, it was actually a pretty validating absence, because in the week I was away I realized how much I missed my little corner of the internet. For those of you dear readers who wondered where I was, thank you for following so closely! Truly, it means the world to me that I have people who expect my writing. It’s what keeps me going. :)
It never ceases to amaze me how rejuvenating getting out of town can feel. A quick weekend away, whether it’s somewhere within driving or flying distance, always leaves my spirits renewed.
Last weekend my partner and I spent an extended weekend in Phoenix, visiting one of my oldest, dearest friends (we’ve known each other since middle school!) and her husband. It was long overdue, for I’d been meaning to visit since my friend moved there for grad school over two years ago.
We got there late at night on Friday after an unexpected flight cancellation, so I didn’t have a chance to see the desert skyline until the next morning. The moment I woke up and laid my eyes on the landscape that spanned the backyard of the house we were staying in, I felt at home.1
Living in the Pacific Northwest, where I'm surrounded by tall trees anywhere I go, it’s easy to forget that other climates contain vastly different landscapes. Returning to Arizona after more than two years since my last visit, I was reminded of how expansive it is in comparison. There are mountains dotting the horizon here and there, adding some visual contrast, but due to the lack of trees you can see so much further in the distance.
As I took in the scenery alongside my morning cup of coffee, it made me think of Ingrid Fetell Lee’s book, Joyful. In it she talks about the evolutionary safety human beings feel in seeing out past the horizon, able to scan all around them for any potential danger. As such, she recommends decorating your home with photography or art that features landscapes or wide horizons because they make us feel comforted.2
Granted, I don’t go about my daily life in Portland feeling unsafe because of the tall evergreens. They’re beautiful in their own right. But seeing the expanse of desert spread out for my eyes for the first time in a while brought me immense comfort. It was like a breath of fresh air.
The sunset that followed that evening was no different. The four of us sat in the backyard, our bodies splayed out on lounge chairs, watching the sky as it turned from dusk to dark. It was a display of constantly evolving hues. One area lit up in a light orange and another in pastel purple, only to morph into streaks of blood orange and magenta minutes later. We sat watching it for nearly an hour.
If the pure sight of the Sonoran skyline in daylight was a breath of fresh air, the sun setting over it was like Pop Rocks in my mouth. My eyes chased the changing colors like my tongue seeking the source of the different popping sensations. Both impossible to pinpoint any exact transition, as the change happens so fast, the colors and the pops blurring together in one triumphant symphony.
Besides the pure visual pleasure of watching that night’s sunset, it also brought peace in the form of living in the present, sans distraction.
While I try to make it a point to get out in nature or notice the nature in my backyard as often as I can, it’s rare that I sit still and watch Mother Nature on display. This was a beautiful reminder of how embodied I feel when I stop and do such a thing. (It helped that I had no responsibilities or place to go, but simply soak in the splendor of the desert with dear friends.)
Once the sky turned completely black, we migrated to the hot tub, talking and looking at the stars. My friend’s husband brought out a telescope which he calibrated enough that we were able to detect the craters of the moon.
It reminded me of a few years ago, on a trip to New York with Pete, when we stumbled upon a novice astronomer’s club that had gathered on the High Line, offering free views to any passersby. When I peered through the scope, I was in awe when I realized I was looking at the moon’s craters. It was no different this time around, save for being in the desert instead of surrounded by skyscrapers.
My eyes weren't my only sense feasting on the desert’s offerings last weekend.
While on a short hike Saturday afternoon, I stopped at a wide bush that looked familiar to me. Instinctively my hands took over as I rubbed one of the stems between my forefinger and thumb, moving across it like one would a shoelace.
I brought my fingertips to my nose and took a deep inhale. Mmm. The fresh, herby smell of creosote immediately brought me back to my childhood, memories of my dad teaching me and my brother how to smell the plant. It was heaven.
As we drove out of the trail’s parking lot afterward, I spotted two small quail scurrying across the dirt path, their cute little head feathers bobbing as they ran. I felt like an elementary kid playing the memory game as I shouted, “look at the quail!,” realizing I had forgotten such a bird existed until seeing them in front of me just then.
The next day, I was transported to an entirely new location when we visited the Musical Instrument Museum. The largest collection of instruments in the world, I had no idea this place existed; when I later asked my mom if she’d heard of it she replied no. But this makes sense as I learned while writing this the museum didn’t open until 2010, years after we moved away from the desert.
While I was intrigued by the idea of seeing instruments from 200 different countries, I couldn't help but feel a little imposter syndrome as the sole non-musician amongst the four of us. Would I enjoy it as much as the rest of our group?
That proved to be a naive thought, I quickly realized, because you don’t have to play an instrument to appreciate music. It didn’t take long for the museum to grab me. What made it so compelling was the accompanying auditory experience. You don't just walk around and look at instruments—you wear headphones that automatically detect the instrument or exhibit you’re standing by and respond with a corresponding soundtrack.
I found myself particularly enthralled by the exhibit on the history and arrangement of symphonies. My parents gifted Pete and me a show to the Oregon Symphony for Christmas (their neighbor is the first chair violinist!), and seeing this exhibit made me all the more excited to go.
I also quite enjoyed discovering Jake Shimabukuro in the Artist Gallery that paid tribute to dozens of history-making musicians. Shimabukuro is a master ukulele player, demonstrating the ability to play a variety of different genres like rock and blues on what is typically thought of as a pretty limiting instrument. (Seriously, watch his rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody.)
A visit to this museum wouldn’t be complete without stopping in the Experience Gallery, where you can play dozens of different instruments. It was here that I discovered the theremin, an instrument played without physical contact and controlled instead by electric signals.3
After a few hours of musical exploration, we had to pull ourselves away so that we made sure to have time to enjoy the last bit of sunshine before flying home at dawn the next morning.
I can still feel the desert’s winter breeze that wafted in through the open window while we sat in my friends’ apartment that evening. We walked to a nearby brewery for drinks and picked up Ike's Sandwiches for dinner. I decided February 2nd in Phoenix is my idea of the perfect date—all you need is a light jacket. 😉
The desert, as I’ve written about before, will always feel like home to me. It doesn't matter how long it’s been since I’ve returned—there’s so much nostalgia in the air.
After 18 straight days of no rain and mostly sunshine at home that ironically ceased the day we left, I was greeted by the typical gray blanket when we touched down in Portland the next morning.
As I reflected on our quick trip, I determined that it felt much longer. Not only does a weekend away bring a fresh perspective—it also makes the time feel so much more expansive, not unlike the desert itself. 🏜✨
If you enjoyed this post, you might like these essays:
Born and raised in Mesa, a neighboring city of Phoenix, I lived in the desert until age 12 so it’s a permanent part of my being.
This innate sense is of course a survival trait that isn’t important anymore as humans have evolved to present day.
Coincidentally enough this appeared in the latest episode of Severance that dropped this week. Don’t you love how things pop up right after we learn about them?
Wow, what beautiful photos! The desert really is stunning in such a special way. I can totally see how the sights, sounds, and smells transported you right back to your childhood.
Also, that museum sounds so cool! I'll have to look for the theremin when I watch Severance (I'm waiting for more episodes to come out so I can binge them 🤓).
I understand your feeling about the openness of Phoenix. Having lived in the forest of Port Angeles WA for years and now I’m living on a horse ranch surrounded by pastures with the Olympic Mountains in the distance south it gives me reason to love my environment.