The desert is my bedroom

We were going to camp a lot. Seattle to La Paz and beyond. More camping and roughing and tuffing than I don't know what. It was going to be a test. Could we handle it? We were in the desert now: no more cushy camp showers and Freddy Meyer men's room shaves. And it's true, more planning required. Less safety net. I mean, Trevor's mom is more than a six hour drive away. So yeah, a little less safety net, but keeping it all in perspective it did seem that heading out of Ensenada it was now more "On".

It was on, so we carried more water and had nervous map jabbing planning sessions that resolved little and carried 3 days rations and don't forget the TP and peanut butter because God knows when we can get those again. and it was On.

And then:

Tucking myself in the moonshade of a grand old cardón, a wind rustling Trevor's tin cup hanging from a low thorny branch, I relaxed. "The desert is my bedroom" popped in my mind. Not a substitute. Not "oh this will do because I'm tough now". Just plain comfy. Warm and toasty and a big plush camp pillow under head, hypnotized by the display of stars. No alarm clock. Can't ride until it's lighter than first light. Ten hours to doze the long winter night and ponder the road ahead and behind. Water bottle close, TP on a handy cactus, dinner tucked away, fire glowing low, crickets chirping.

When the desert is your bedroom you sleep deep as a reptile.

When the desert is your bedroom you wouldn't trade it for hostal, yurt, motel, hotel or home.

Everyone's an expert fire builder when the desert is your bedroom.

Orion is your nightlight.

Everyone's Copernicus when the desert is your bedroom. A Galileo. A Mayan shaman. A heathen poet.

The world is good and so are you when the desert is your bedroom.