Healing in the High Desert: A Month of Rest and Reflection

Part III — Romanticizing Beauty and Hardship

I called Chris from New Mexico. My heart was joyous to be “home.” I gushed about the expansive sky, the dearth of humans, the fresh dry air, the mountains, the dusty sagebrush, and the quiet solitude.

Chris listened and joined me in my enthusiasm, his New Mexico compersion evident. Together, he indulged me in a thought experiment: the dream of moving back here together one day. I went on and on about the freedom I felt, the expansion, the room to be myself.

Sensing that I might be romanticizing, he asked me several grounding questions. What would it be like for him, for his long hours of work, for his desire to live near conveniences, for travel?

I mulled over his points briefly but then pushed them away, partially because I had no answer and partially because I wasn’t ready to face such practicalities. I was awash in the magical elements of the Land of Enchantment, not the mundane. I was swimming in the glow of relief, having made it here and finally having time for myself alone, with few responsibilities or commitments.

But a quiet part of me knew his questions dug under the layer of romantic idealism I was steeped in. Memories of the harsh reality I experienced living off-grid, largely by myself, for four years began to drift through my awareness.

Those hard four years. I had no running water, little electricity, or heat. I had good friends nearby, but we never saw each other. I was largely alone, isolated, overwhelmed, and sometimes in danger.

On the morning of my return to New Mexico, I turned on the local radio station. I wanted to feel the pulse of the community. I wondered how it had changed since leaving and post-COVID. The KTAO DJ was in the middle of reciting a long list of solved and unsolved homicides and suicides in the state. He then moved on to reporting fugitives and those wanted by the police. “If you see them, do not approach them; just report it to the police.”

I remembered the homicides and suicides my friends and I were touched by directly and indirectly. The loss of many teenagers who jumped off the gorge bridge or committed suicide in other ways. My friends’ children and their friends. And the thousands of dollars I spent helping a friend who had been present during a homicide obtain a lawyer to stay out of jail.

I remembered keeping myself safe while living alone. A locking gate, a shotgun by the door, and a pit bull that never left my side. Sometimes, when picking up mail at the remote one-room post office down the road, I would notice someone who seemed a little too curious about me. If they drove behind me after leaving, I would intentionally drive past my driveway, guarding where I live from those who may want to steal, hassle or harm me. I wasn’t paranoid; it was just plain common sense.

In case the radio announcer’s list of dangerous people wasn’t enough to remind me of the steadier side of life in the wild Southwest, I was again faced with the stark realities when I visited the store the next day. Standing at the checkout line in Smith’s Grocery Store, I overheard the bagging woman talking to the cashier. “We’ve had so many deaths,” she said in a thick New Mexican accent. “You know that high school teacher who killed his son?” She continued by listing several deaths in the area and talking about being on jury duty for a homicide trial.

In the afternoon, I decided to take Tulip for a walk to the pond. I had been advised to keep her on a leash while on the mesa due to possible roaming dogs that might bark or chase us. I had also been advised to keep a watch out for rattlesnakes and to immediately take off Tulip’s collar if she was bitten. “Take off her collar and take her to the vet?” I asked. “Yes,” was the reply. I wondered how I would carry my 75 lb dog to the car and about the 50-minute drive into town to get help. I decided to put this entire possibility out of my mind.

Tulip and I walked along the hot, dusty roads for about a mile and a half before reaching the pond. She immediately jumped into the sludge at the end of the tall wetland grasses. She nudged green slime and rolled her body ecstatically in the muddy slop like a pig. When she emerged, her tan and white fur was a smoky gray color, and she looked unrecognizable in the sticky, sandy mud caked to her.

Walking back, the sun beat down on us, and the winds picked up. I could tell the drying crud was making Tulip itchy as she dragged her body along my legs, covering me in her muck. The walk home seemed longer than I thought. It was hot, we were thirsty, my feet hurt, and Tulip limped slightly as well.

When we got home, I tried to hose off her muddy fur but found running the water was making a new mud bog in the yard and that the sticky pond scum was not easily rinsed off. Adding to the challenge were the times Tulip would break away from me and gleefully rub her wet body all over the dirt and mud in the yard. I was getting nowhere except wetter and dirtier. I scratched my head, knowing that if I let her into the house, she would most definitely jump on the bed, the couch, or both and get mud everywhere. I thought about what a bummer it would be to have dirt all over the place with no great options for cleaning it up entirely. I thought how easy it would have been to clean her up in the driveway at home. Eventually, I forced her into the bathtub and ran the shower. It worked well enough, but there was plenty of dirt she had tracked around the house and I was wet, grumpy, and tired in the end.

A few days later, when the sun had been covered by clouds, the solar power went out. I called my host in New York and together we tried to troubleshoot to make sure it was just a matter of running the power down. Since I did not know her off-the-grid system well, I was unsure what beeping, blinking, and humming noises were normal and which were a sign of something to be concerned about. All though we both suspected it was all fine, we were also a little on edge because there had been larger problems at other times. We waited a day but the sun was still relatively absent so we thought it best to call her friend, a solar electrician who lived nearby. This was not the right move.

He arrived a day later, early in the morning. He seemed stressed out at best, perhaps just plain angry. Tulip greeted him and then jumped on him, agitating him further. He then saw I had not cleared the semi-blocked area for him to get to the solar inverter. This was a simple over-site on my part, not really knowing what the protocol was. He became angrier and angrier. I tried to apologize but this only made matters worse. As he stormed out, I choked back tears. While I knew the degree of hostility he was dumping on me was not commensurate with what had just happened, I still felt shock waves moving through my body.

The next day was worse.

I tried to take Tulip for a walk but the open mesa, which had previously felt like freedom, now felt dangerous. I returned home and tried repeatedly to shake it off but was gripped with tension throughout my body, rapid heart rate, difficulty breathing, and constant almost tears. This is a PTSD response. I have had other PTSD episodes and though this one was not accompanied by auditory or visual hallucinations as they have been in the past, I was well aware that my response was not “normal.”

I took the steps I knew to help myself through it: confiding in a friend, locking the door, taking a Klonopin (or two), and waiting for it to pass. In the morning it was beginning to resolve. My body still felt tense and on edge but the open air felt less threatening and my heart rate and breathing were normal.

More memories of the realities of my time living off-grid… things were harder. Many, many things were harder.

Today is very windy, and the sun peaks behind the clouds. As the day draws to a close, I sit with my reflections. The romantic allure of New Mexico now mingles with the grounded reality of my past experiences and the current harsh truths of the Southwest. Chris’s questions had planted a seed of caution, reminding me that the beauty and freedom I cherished here were intertwined with challenges and hardships. The solitude that once felt liberating had also been isolating; the serene landscapes held shadows of danger.

Alone, watching Tulip sleep soundly on the couch, I felt a sense of sobriety. This place, with all its contradictions, is a part of me — a reminder that true understanding comes from embracing both the dream and the reality. As the wind continued to howl outside, I realized that true peace lies in accepting the full spectrum of any place we live and acknowledging that romanticizing eventually fades, leaving behind realities we may or may not want to overlook.