A Desert Dispatch on Staying
By Nico Gamache-Kocol
You might go there for the beauty of the desert.
The trees themselves, Yucca brevifolia, spiky little arms looming over the dry earth; wildflowers, cactus.
You might go there for the wildlife.
Raven, and other corvids, three types of squirrel, 20 types of rats and mice, 16 kinds of bat, 19 lizards, a coyote, a shrew.
When I was growing up in southern California in the late 80s and early 90s people were always going to Joshua Tree for the weekend. Camping, hiking, maybe dropping some acid and staring at the stars from the bed of a pickup truck driven by some guy named Tony or Dylan or Mike. For some reason, I never went to Joshua Tree.
I wasn’t opposed to camping or hiking or even dropping acid with some guy named Dylan, or Mike, or Tony, but the desert didn’t call to me the way the ocean did. So I stayed by the sea with its whales and crab and kelp and surfers and mermaids and fish.
The ocean has always been my therapist, a little bit. I’ve had other therapists; the ones that diagnosed me with things like Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Adjustment Disorder, Bipolar II, Persistent Depressive Disorder, Anxiety. They’ve given me drugs and told me things like “stop drinking coffee” (I don’t drink coffee) and “get more sleep” (trust me, I try).
As someone diagnosed with multiple, chronic mental health conditions, self-harm and even thoughts of suicide have never been far from my mind. My depression is the kind that silently whispers to me how worthless I am, that I’m more of a burden than not, how much better off the world would be without me. That is my constant narrative. It’s not glamourous or fun. It’s just a boring truth that guts me. All the time.
The ocean usually spits and hisses at me to just come for a swim, then, if I’m so serious about my misery. The ocean says to me, “yes, I collect the dead. Come on in.”
Joshua Tree, with its sunsets and lizards, and giant boulders named after human bones and hats, and flowers with smooth anatomy and sharp edges; it was naughty, but it didn’t dare me at all. Joshy was quiet, respectful.
When we parked the clown car Mazda rental at the edge of a road that closed at sunset last weekend, we agreed to just be there in that moment. The view wasn’t postcard perfect. Cars kept zooming past. But we both committed, to the moment. She wrote in her notebook, spells and other things. I sat, no notebook. Just watching.
The sky changed colors. I remembered to hydrate. I tried to see what I could see. Rocks. Dirt. Cactus. Palm. Rat. Bat, maybe. Bird. The sky changed more colors. I thought about the ride home. How it would be dark. How accidents are more likely in the dark. How tired we are. How dangerous that is. How much that would suck.
Then I grabbed my notebook.
I didn’t want to die. It was the first time I could remember feeling that way. Ever. Right there, in Joshua Tree. At sunset. On the side of that dumb, imperfect road.
I grabbed my notebook from the bag at my feet, it was empty. On the first page I wrote:
Watching the sunset near skull rock with its pinks and blues and oranges and yellows; with its raven and wood rats and butts and coyote; for just a brief moment in time, I don’t want to die.
It was a beautiful sunset. We drove out of the park and into 29 Palms, turned back down the 62 toward Palm Springs—“We just go toward the Saloon!”, I said. “Take the 62”, I said.
We drove down the highway watching the stars and the moon and the rocks and I knew it wouldn’t be long before I would want to die again, but I’ll always remember that sunset.
Nico Gamache-Kocol (she/her) is a mom, weirdo, poet, behavioral health professional, and change consultant located in Portland, Oregon.
