Tucson, Again

Mid-February, a long weekend: I flew to Phoenix, picked up the car, and drove south to Tucson.

Tucson used to be one of the places I knew best in America. After Boston, after graduation, my last job was here, and then three or four years went by without me. This time I skipped the old office; the saguaros could not be skipped.

The road down from Phoenix, though, I had never once looked at properly. I shot a few frames from the car, and it turns out the road is not bad at all.

An OVERSIZE LOAD convoy on the evening I-10

Sunset burning on the mountains, freight cars lined up at their feet

Saguaro National Park, the next afternoon: big sun, big clouds. The last time I stood here it had just rained. Every saguaro looked freshly bathed, and the word I filed away was delicate. This time the same saguaros read completely differently: rugged, one big fuck-you to the sky, repeated a few thousand times.

Three saguaros standing together, yellow brittlebush at their feet

Three or four years is not a short time for me. For them it rounds to zero: the first arm alone takes about seventy years.

A saguaro-covered slope, the city spread out below the mountains

An old saguaro just starting on its first arms

The day I left was overcast. A path wound back and forth among the cacti, and an old man sat on a bench, surrounded by a garden of middle fingers, looking entirely at peace.

A cactus garden under an overcast sky, an old man on a bench