One Christmas we spent in Death Valley, another in Anza Borego, another in Joshua Tree. Those Christmases in the desert, the dry air and blue skies, hiking for real. Today we hiked up Rodero Canyon, in the dry air under blue skies through the live oak, cool in the shade and hot in the sun, past the spring and to the prayer flags. I carried Haven on my shoulders. I had to keep going. Haven and I climbed another fifteen minutes, sweating and breathing in rhythm, to a ridge where we could see the way to the clouds, see east to Ventura and those mountains and ripples descending to the sea, to the islands due south, to Santa Barbara and beyond, the curve of the little bay and Stearns Wharf, and nothing but simmering ocean, shifting colors, and water. We stood with the redtail hawk and watched it ride warm updrafts. Haven spread his arms and floated on the dry air, arms wide, on his toes. We raised our arms above our heads and said a prayer, both of us, to the elements, our breathing, our friends and family, our very power that enabled us to summit mountains, and the will to do it. He smiled and became talkative. On our way down, Haven on my shoulders, he played a beat to the rhythm of footfalls and breathing. He turned his baseball cap backwards so that he could better see the mountain summits above us, and that sky.
