On Staying Curious in the Desert
by Jen Bryant
The trail leading to the top of Ryan Mountain in Joshua Tree National Park is a three mile out-and-back climb. A giant sign at the trailhead describes it as an “affirmation of life”: “The pulse accelerates, the senses become more acute, and one may renew the acquaintance of lungs and muscles previously taken for granted.” Nearby, a smaller sign carries a list of don’ts: no dogs, no bikes, no fires.
I shield my eyes and look up. From down here, it’s hard to get a good read on the trail with all of its curves and switchbacks. I pull on my backpack and begin walking anyway.
It’s still early. The sun peeks out behind a towering rock formation, slowly making its ascent. A chilly breeze brushes my face; according to the comically oversized outdoor thermometer in the parking lot, the temperature is hovering just above freezing. I pass cholla cacti and juniper, sidestepping a narrow patch of ice that’s splintered into shards like a broken mirror. Above my head, glossy black birds call and respond in a bright, undecipherable language.
I came to Joshua Tree seeking sunshine and inspiration. Signing up for a February writers’ retreat back in the summer was a preemptive gift to my present self. Since moving to the Midwest a decade ago, winters have been hard for me in a way they weren’t back home, and this particular season – the ICE raids, the Epstein files, and the general onslaught of state-sanctioned violence and fascism – has been brutal for my mental health and creativity. On my way to the airport in the blue-black predawn hours, I set a simple intention for this trip: stay curious.
But even here, in Didion’s “land of the golden dream,” I can’t quite get it together. Migraine auras shimmer at the edges of my vision. I’m late to workshop nearly every day. When I sit down to write in the evenings, the words come out like peanut butter, slow and sticky. I abandon half-written paragraphs, light a stick of palo santo, and step outside to look up at the sky instead.
On my first night here, I drove into the park after sunset. My rental car’s headlight beams illuminated clusters of Joshua trees as they reached for the stars. They seemed regal and imposing, pulsing with a sort of ancient energy. I steered over to the shoulder and got out. Heavy winds shrieked through the trees, kicking up sand and whipping my hair into knots. In the darkness, the landscape looked like an alien planet. Something darted into the bushes, and I wondered how many nocturnal creatures were passing through beneath the fingernail moon, hidden from sight.
The trees look different in today’s morning light. There’s something endearingly goofy about them – like those inflatable flailing-arm tube men that line sidewalks outside of cash advance places and discount tire shops. They seem gentle, almost human, with distinct shapes and personalities. Their company provides a welcome sort of interspecies companionship as I hike.
Ryan Mountain is the second tallest peak in the park. “Tough, but gives you a sense of accomplishment,” read one online review, which sounded good to me. Perhaps the stuckness I’ve been feeling will burn away as I walk, leaving something new in its wake.
The trail is sparsely populated, mostly with families. A couple with two babies in front carriers steps carefully around a muddy patch; a father lightly scolds his small son in French for something I don’t quite catch. I round a corner and nearly bump into a mom struggling with her daughter’s shoelace. “You can go around us,” she says, waving a hand apologetically.
“No worries,” I reply. “I’m not in a hurry.” I remember the days of feeling rushed while out in public with a young kid, how often it felt like the world had no patience for our needs. Now my son is grown – no more shoelaces to tie or extra snacks stashed in my backpack – and I have an abundance of time. I stretch my calves on a rock, drink some water, and look out over the Coachella Valley below.
The mom and daughter finish up and continue down the path. When they disappear around a bend, I resume walking. The next section narrows as it climbs sharply – this must be what the trail guide meant by “moderately challenging.” A ribbon of asphalt is still visible below, but the sound of tires on pavement falls away. For a few minutes, all I hear is my ragged breath.
As I hike, I think about what I’m learning in the writers’ workshop. We’ve been examining the exterior and the interior, home and away – leaving what’s familiar, arriving somewhere unexpected. We discuss narrative conflict, all the things that might keep a character down: nature, society, self. “What stands in the way of total liberation?” Ariel asks. I scribble this in my notebook, underlining it twice.
A few guys in Patagonia fleece pass going the opposite direction, then an extended-family group. The parents and grandparents greet me cheerfully; the teenagers slouch past, sulky-cool, wide-leg pants trailing in the dirt. I’m used to a give-and-take when hiking with others, but today I’m on my own, and it seems like I’m the only one stepping aside. As if reading my thoughts, an expensively-dressed couple charges towards me. I move to the side again and wait, thinking about who’s allowed to take up space in the world and who’s expected to make room.
I’m a little over halfway there now. This section of the trail smells clean and slightly smoky, like sage and creosote. The sun is warm on my shoulders; I take my sweatshirt off and tuck it into my backpack. In the distance, the San Jacinto Mountains loom, tops dusted with a fine snow like powdered sugar.
A girl who looks to be ten or so rushes by, all skinny arms and legs. “Wait up!” her parents yell, but she doesn’t slow down. I smile, thinking of all the hikes my kid and I went on in the Blue Ridge Mountains when he was young and how he’d skip down the trail sometimes, full of energy even after a strenuous climb. When do we lose that, and how do we get it back?
The final ascent is tough. I focus on my feet so that I don’t stumble on the curving, rocky trail. I’m fully in my body now – lungs engaged, muscles making themselves known. Being immersed in a physical challenge with a clear start and finish is a welcome distraction from my endless looping thoughts.
I’ve been trying to follow my intention to stay curious. What happens if I write the things that I’m scared to say out loud? What if I set off on a solo hike with a paper map, spotty reception, and no internal sense of direction? What if what’s standing in the way of my own total liberation is me?
At the top, I snap a picture of the summit sign – elevation 5,457 feet – and pull a granola bar from my backpack. The hardest part is over. Suddenly I’m filled with gratitude: for the bright blue above me, the Mojave Desert below, my heart hammering in my chest, all of it.
“Do you want a picture with the sign?” a man behind me offers.
“Oh no, that’s okay,” I say, already knowing I’ll hate how it would turn out. I must look a mess: cheeks flushed by the cold, hair tangled by the wind. Then, remembering my manners: “Would you like me to take a picture of y’all?”
“That would be great!” he replies quickly, handing over his phone. He and his traveling companion pose behind the sign, his arm around her shoulder. I snap a few pictures, then hand the phone back. Later, looking through my camera roll, I’ll wish I’d said yes.
After they leave, I wander a little further and sit for a few minutes, letting the vast silence swallow me up. Under that big desert sky, through the timeless lens of the universe, my troubles feel as small as the coyote tracks crisscrossing the sand. Today’s workshop is starting soon; it’s time to begin my descent. Though I can’t see the trail from here, I know it’s still there, waiting to welcome me back.
Jen Bryant is a senior editor at MUTHA Magazine and a creative nonfiction reader for Mud Season Review. Her work has appeared in The Sun, Ms., BUST, Hip Mama, Cleaver Magazine, JMWW, MER Literary, and elsewhere. Jen is a 2025 Ucross Foundation Fellow, and her writing has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best American Essays. Originally from the South, she currently lives and writes in the Midwest.
