June

June.

In the desert.

In Arizona.

Six words. Three nouns. Three that bring on a mindset, a memory, a feeling. 

It all started with a chance to spend part of a summer counting cattle on Bureau of Land Management land. Land that the BLM allowed ranchers to use for cattle grazing. Not cactus desert, but scrub-oak desert. Creosote. Shrubs.

And our job was to do the cattle census.

Luxuries? Not likely. A partner, a tent, a warm sleeping bag (nights in the 40s), cotton long sleeved shirts (days in the 100s, no humidity), a water tank down the path, and a notebook journal that belonged to the BLM. My own notebook. And a few  books, novels mostly. Leon Uris. Annie Dillard. Terry Tempest Williams.

After our second day, I knew all I wanted to know about Dave, my census partner. Married (his wife trusts him), no kids. Third semester graduate student, no job prospects. May try applying at the BLM. He brought "The Gulag Archipelago" for reading. He didn't read much, but he didn't talk much, either.

Days were driven by imagination. Counting birds. Drawing rough sketches of animal footprints we'd spot on the dirt trails. Trying to figure out what the brands on the cattle stood for/described.

By the 5th night, I no longer dreamed of winning the French Open, of holding a tennis racket in my hand and throwing the ball up into the air, stretching into it with power as I served. No, by the 5th night, I dreamed of buzzards I saw circling before dusk. I dreamed of their flight. I dreamed of air, of thermals, of soaring. I dreamed of nature.

Two of us spent 3 weeks counting. Miles from civilization (human), we were only disturbed by the cattle as they wandered by. Most of the cattle were on their way to the water tank. So we rotated shifts, counting, reading, doodling, dreaming. After the first days, we hardly talked to each other - more likely than not, we talked to the cattle. 

Food and fresh notebooks arrived to us once a week by a guy on horseback. I recognized him from the BLM office in Tucson. When he arrived to our camp, he'd give us the latest news (abbreviated), ask if we needed anything, and then he'd collect our filled notebooks and leave us. During the first week of our census taking, I anticipated his visit. I looked forward to the horse, to the man mounted on it, to the fresh voice. By the second week, I dreaded his visit. He disturbed my senses. My ears were violated by his voice, my eyes by his presence. 

I only cared for the cold nights, for the smell of the sun baking the earth at mid-day, for the millions of stars at night. I longed for the activity of the flycatchers, the nuthatchs, the thrashers. Their calls and movements kept me alert, alive. The movement in the sagebrush entertained me.

I cared for the journey of nature.

In June.

In the desert.

In Arizona.