Here on the main highway, not far from Arizona, there's little but sage, thistle, and poverty threeawn - all greys, tans, and yellows under a striking sun. The bright clarity of the sky is difficult for the eyes, even to an old desert rat. The air doesn't stick, but blows through the windows dry and hot. The bleached thread of highway, straight and blue, connects itself to infinity. The shoulder of a faded mountain rises in the distance looking in need of vegetation.
Distance is deceptive in the desert.
Along the hillsides are bushes of manzanita, agerita, skunkbrush sumac, mahogany, and winterfat. Prickly pear cacti are in the foothills among the granite, lava, and sandstone, as are jumping cholla, daggering yucca, and bunched agave. But, from far away along the highway the yawning mountain looks bleak. You learn not to associate the blue of desert distances with the blue of the sea - you would thirst in some manner. Water in this country is water caught unawares, you could say - dumped from the sky or squeezed from the ground and left to fend for itself, like some lost dog not knowing which way to go, but knowing it doesn't belong where it is.