Death Valley is a place where ten thousand acres of scenery can easily go missing.
Shuffling through nature’s silence with strangers felt oddly intimate.
Twenty miles west of Barstow, where the desert appears especially endless, I glimpsed the Tank Man in Tiananmen Square.
My little tics and anxieties seem to be moving from the vexing to the comic. Perhaps this is one happy side effect of getting older.
The desert is littered with bizarre facts, and I often think I invented them, like a fragment from a dream or a misremembered film.
There’s a woman who can tell you the future by deciphering the contrails of experimental military aircraft.
A quiet day in the desert spent watching the shadows of the Joshua trees grow.
