Stillness

The water in Elephant Butte Lake is low. It scarcely resembles a lake. Rattlesnake Island isn’t an island anymore. As you enter the park, the big overhead sign cautions visitors: Low water, put in at your own risk. Not needed—no one is boating. Very few are camping.

Running on my favorite trail felt to strange and hyper-real the other day. I was exquisitely aware of the desert, its wildlife, its scraggly plant life, and rain tracks from a brief monsoon. The land itself it seemed more present to me. Then I realized why. No motors. No radios. No noise. But no joyful human sounds either—no conversations at campsites or children on the playground.

Low water. High temperatures. High gas prices. I cherish the silence, but it also makes me feel a bit like the protagonist in Mary Shelley’s The Last Man wandering through the empty cities of Europe alone, immersed in beauty and wonder in the midst of loss.