Time Changes

Clouds shrouded the hilltops this morning as we crossed Joshua Tree National Park on the way to Yuma. The grey billows puffed over peaks and drifted down; a light sprinkle fell on the desert. Birds, mostly ravens, perched on telephone wires, their feathers poofed out for nature's shower. A sign at the entrance station warned, Water on road. Beware. I told Andy, "Maybe we'll see water in the washes."
"No," he answered. "It's only drizzling. This all soaks in. They mean the road is wet."
"So that 10 percent chance of rain we heard last night on TV all ended up at Twenty-Nine Palms?" I joked.
"Yup."
By 8:30 a.m. the cloud sheets broke into huge puffs, and a couple penny-size patches of blue sky showed through. Fog drifted in white billows into the canyons. We stopped for a picture and noticed bushes by the road already laden with yellow blossoms. "They are bladderpods, an early bloomer if conditions are right," said a volunteer at the entrance station.
So interesting the way life works in the desert--such a flash of color, so fleeting. The paradox strikes me as contrary: life is so precious and yet so insignificant. It's like the coyote, dead on the side of the road. He's gone in a flash.
"But he's a meal for the ravens," Andy reminded me. "Life goes on for them."
The sun broke through. One swish of the windshield wipers and the signs of rain disappeared.
At the south end of the park, palo verde trees, draped with huge bunches of desert mistletoe, dotted the slopes. Patches of blue sky far to the right lined the horizon above Palm Springs. We turned left onto Interstate #10. Someone had dumped tires at the ramp entrance--at least 15 of them. On the other side of the park, mountains stretched wild and protected.
"It's going to be a longer driving day today," said Andy, as we headed east. "Technically we're on the way home." Everywhere along the highway fragments of tires from blow-outs dirtied the shoulders. "I don't think they have cleaned this highway in a year," said Andy, "but California can't afford highway maintenance right now, and this is the evidence." The litter of rubber from exploded tires disgusted me. Obviously, drivers didn't even attempt to pick up the remains. The dangers to other vehicle operators were evident.
Outside of Blythe, the landscape changed dramatically. Food Grows Where Water Flows read a sign by the road. Green fields spread into the distance--first acre upon acre of orange trees, then grass dotted with hundreds of grazing sheep, then vegetables and fallow dirt patches ready for spring planting. An expansive cotton field stretched to the right of the highway, lined by date palms. Over a bridge, crossing what was left of the Colorado River, Andy announced, "Goodbye California!" We had just entered Arizona. The drizzle started again.
In Quartzite, trailers parked in open desert lots. "This is where the snow birds come," explained Andy. "The lots will fill up after the holidays, I guess. I read that the population swells to five, six, seven times its size in the winter. These people move with the seasons and have their social security deposited automatically." It looked bleak in the rain.
We stopped for pictures as the clouds parted. "I'm going to turn around, and you can try a different angle," said Andy. Although we didn't plan to go as far as the immigration station, the cone blockade extended out a quarter mile.
"How are you doing today?" asked the young female Hispanic boarder guard.
"Fine," answered Andy. Two officers with a drug-sniffing German shepherd walked around the back of Little Red while the guard questioned us.
"Are you U.S. citizens?" she asked.
"Yes," we both answered in unison.
"Okay. Thank you. Have a nice day." We drove to the Kofa turn-off, circled around and headed back south. By the time we passed again, a lady in a suburban was unpacking the back of her car. "That station is the second line of defense," said Andy. "We will undoubtedly be stopped again closer to Mexico."

Posted on both sides, the road, straight as an arrow, extended through the U.S. Army Yuma Proving Grounds. "I remember the only other time we came through here years ago," said Andy. "The Army was testing tanks, and they drove all over. It was hotter than hell." We browsed at the proving grounds outdoor display and walked around the Imperial Dam, unexpectedly back in California for half an hour. The diversion canals carried much more water than the river itself. This is the Colorado tamed, I thought. The mighty Colorado that cut the Grand Canyon!

Yuma's West Wetlands Park, still being developed, included a hummingbird garden and a burrowing owl walk. We meandered along the paths in the late afternoon, noticing a few hummingbirds and watching people walk their dogs. The city averages 350 days of sunshine a year with the longest growing season in the country. In shirt sleeves, we strolled down to the river and watched the sun set--5:30 p.m. on the Arizona side, 4:30 p.m. across the bridge in California. Fifty feet across the Colorado River it wasn't dinner time yet.