When we moved to LA there were things I expected like Uber drivers pitching me their screenplays (“It’s a combination of Batman and Clockwork Orange” as one driver excitedly told me), people hiking in outfits that should be reserved for da klerb, and the pervasive scent of sagebrush-ocean-eucalyptus-spa smell inside every store. But what truly came out of nowhere was how many people told me I had to go to Joshua Tree. Joshua Tree. It is magical. It is so peaceful. It is transformative. You. Have. To. Go.
One year my sister just so happened to be in Southern California right around the time of my husband’s Birthday and she graciously offered to watch our kid so we could go away for two nights. We found an Airbnb in Joshua Tree, I packed my giant hiking hat and hiking boots, and we headed out. After about two hours of driving, signs of regular life began slipping away and it became clear we were entering a portal to my personal hell.
If you love Joshua Tree stop reading.
Let’s start with the name itself. The Joshua Tree is an actual tree, according to nerds, but I can tell you: it is not a tree. It is a very sad, poky, desperate looking spindle reaching towards the sky PRAYING that the sun will lessen and some rain will fall so it can grow and be beautiful and full of leaves and verdant lusciousness like a real tree. I’m sure there’s a children’s book story idea in here somewhere about accepting yourself for the tree you are but, I’m sorry, Joshua Tree. You are a wannabe tree and you’re never gonna make it and I do not like you and I never will.
Everything was dry, desperate for a mist of something hydrating. There was dust everywhere, people wearing hammered metal turquoise rings, selling art pieces for your yard that they’d crafted out of “found objects.” The worst. But the biggest issue for me was how closely Joshua Tree resembled a planet from outer space. Anyone who knows me well knows I have space terror. As my Great Grandmother Mae Galligan said “they put the stars so far out there so we’d keep our damn hands off of ‘em.” I couldn’t agree more. We are not meant to be in space. If other little beings want to come to us, I say “Welcome!” But we belong on earth with oceans and lakes and Liza Minnelli and just because we are royally ruining it here at home doesn’t mean we should go looking for another planet to destroy. If you don’t clean your house for several years and it becomes uninhabitable do you just go live in another house? No. You wind up on the TV show Hoarders and get it together and go to therapy like a normal person! Also, thinking about space makes me think about how utterly insignificant I am and I do that enough anyways. We know nothing. We are NOTHING. Have you ever read a single sentence about a black hole?! There is no way in hell they actually know what’s going on deep in there. Space is one giant black hole of mystery. I know it is. I’ve seen Event Horizon.
Within moments of arrival I could feel the blanket of bad feelings starting to envelope me. It was my husband’s Birthday weekend and I didn’t want to ruin it but, newsflash, I did.
The only thing I liked in Joshua Tree was a bar that served tacos and bomb ass margaritas. Now that I think about it that place wasn’t even in Joshua Tree - it was in Pioneertown - so there you go.
Everyone told us we had to do this “epic hike” (red flag number one with the use of the word “epic”) to Fortynine Palms. We parked in the parking lot which was basically a barren wasteland that looked exactly like the Pride Lands after Scar’s takeover in The Lion King where he messes it all up. But we decided to venture forth because this jaunt had come so highly recommended and my husband seems to be able to find beauty in almost any situation which is truly infuriating. We began walking on a dusty, dusty path. My mood was…iffy. The National Parks guide says Fortynine Palms is “an oasis that provides a refuge among the desert mountains. By providing a reliable source of water, this little oasis allows life to thrive in this seemingly harsh environment.” I describe it as “a clump of big nubs wearing bad wigs next to a hole with a tiny bit of water in it that is suffering from stagnation.” 1. It is not a hike. It is a walk. 2. There is NOTHING THERE. It’s just rocks and death. 3. It is not an Oasis (see above). Zero stars.
We took pictures but I was just like “This is not a hike! It is so ugly! It isn’t an oasis! What a crock!” I was so pissed.
Later that night, after we went to a concert which was filled with gorgeous hipsters looking to hook up and “buy some land,” we drove home in the pitch black. The craggy mountains that stretched up alongside the windy road looked like Mars. The stars were so close and they were everywhere. I was in a horrible, horrible mood. We got out of the car at our Airbnb and I sprinted into the house because I didn’t want a rattlesnake to get me. My husband strolled behind me like a normal person, taking it all in and probably definitely questioning his choice of life partner. I don’t blame him.
I got into bed and, after sitting outside enjoying being alive, which made one of us, my husband came in. He was disappointed in me. I could tell. I deserved it. I don’t remember exactly what he said but I believe the gist of it was something along the lines of “You can choose to be in the mood you’re in. We are here, alone, in this quiet place. And, yes, it is triggering your space terror but you can also choose to see the good sides of it.” As I said before, he is infuriating.
I wish I could say I miraculously flipped a switch and made the right choice after receiving his wise and gentle wisdom. Instead, I believe I huffed something cranky in his face and went to sleep. I woke up in the morning to a very weird bird making a horribly loud, grating sound that birds shouldn’t be able to make. My husband went to check out some outdoor sculpture garden and I didn’t because I’m an asshole. I looked around at this weird place and thought about why I was so uncomfortable. It made me think about dying, it made me think about not being here forever, it made me think about being alone. I’ve thought a lot about these things my entire life - losing a parent when you’re two years old will do that to you - and, in these few months after losing everything in the fire, I’ve thought about them a lot more. But now I have a different definition of who I am and why I’m here. Or at least, I think I’m starting to. I don’t know what it is yet but, because I don’t have anything to hold on to but the people around me, I am feeling so grateful for them and grateful for the most important things in life. It’s beautiful and disorienting and sad and great. Normally, when I feel those things, my instinct is to push people or things away. Which is exactly what I did in Joshua Tree. Now I’m starting to try to “change my instincts, or at least ignore them” as Sheila said in the greatest movie ever made.
A lovely way to end this essay would be to say something like “if I go back to Joshua Poky Stick now I think I’d really love it because I’ve learned yada yada yada.” I think I’d still hate it. I am not a desert lady. I’m 41 and I know this about myself. The amount of chapstick you have to bring is just not worth it. But, I’d like to think I’d be able to look around at the people I was with and realize: we are here, alone together, and some day we’re going to die, so we should hold onto each other with all of our might and be grateful we’re not people who wear hammered turquoise rings and make art pieces for your yard crafted out of “found objects” and look up at the stars not with fear but with wonder in our eyes and hearts.
A girl can dream.
Needed this. Love your writing. Thank you for the lols. I really did lol!