I could hear something in the hushed surprise in Rachael’s voice “Tim…” She’d spotted it. “…it’s right here.” I held my breath.

The desert has inspired our imaginations with mythical beasts and fantastic dangers from long before we began to write our stories down. To get to the elaborate oasis your need to cross the dust storm wastes, keeping an eye out for serpents and predators while avoiding treacherous quicksand. We don’t need fantasy to wonder at the beasts of the Mojave and as spring has arrived so have plenty of visitors to the Preserve. Many are on a quest of their own, eager to know where to see Desert Tortoises or Bighorn Sheep and, of course, “where are the best flowers?”   The Tortoise, once so plentiful that they we collected as souvenirs have since become rare enough to warrant state and federal protections. They’ve been out here as long as anything, their ancestry going back millions of years and they are pretty charming. The Bighorn as well were once around in larger numbers before overhunting and disease from domestic animals nearly wiped them out. Both animals have active programs to increase their populations and with the space they have here there is plenty of hope for them to thrive. They are also rare and exciting for those who encounter them and folks who spot them bring their stories into the Visitor Center, which we are glad to record and share with park biologists.

Other visitors come in with anxious questions about Mountain Lions or snakes. They are clearly worried and I can quickly assure them that these animals want little to do with humans and that for the most part if you use sensible precautions you’ll never see these creatures. In fact most of the time a Mountain Lion is in the presence of a person, that person will have never known. Along with some relief is also a palatable sense of let down. Our biologically ingrained fear of the serpent and the beast conflicted with our desire for the exotic. This is also the home of a serpent that has near-mythological standing. In the class of hazardous rattlesnakes the Mojave Green has earned the reputation as the most “aggressive” and possesses a particularly dangerous combination of hemotoxin and neurotoxin in its venom. Aggressive in this case means that they are slightly more likely to strike when they feel threatened. This means we need to be wary in rocky or brushy areas where we may surprise one but, by far, most snake bites are inflicted on young adult males that were harassing the creature. When I spotted one sunning on a dirt road nearby it was so frightened by me that I barely had time to snap a photo of its tail as it hid itself in a thick bush, the unmistakable sound of its rattle the only indication it was still there.

Rachael and I have started doing a Sunday morning Nature Walk that begins with coffee at the Visitor Center. At our first stop I point out that despite the proliferation of tracks in the washes and burrows in the sand, we don’t see too many of the desert animals. While pointing out the jumbled entrance of a Desert Wood Rat midden I discuss how most of our critters are nocturnal and elusive, but with a keen eye there are plenty of signs to their presence. We’d had some reports of another iconic Mojave Desert creature in the convoluted volcanic rock formations of nearby Banshee Canyon, so at the end of our walk we did a bonus side trip to see if we could spot the Chuckwalla. These dark lizards that can get up to 16 inches long are known to escape into rocky crevasses and puff up the loose skin of their bodies wedging themselves as way of preventing predators from extracting them. Apparently the rowdy bunch of Boy Scouts from the day before didn’t scare off these reptiles but our quiet bunch of nature appreciators slowly dwindled away with no lizards making an appearance. Walking back to the Visitor Center with our last patient attendee I causally glanced at the nearby rocks and caught the eye of a handsome specimen of a Chuckwalla proving the universal truth that our affections are more readily accepted if we are not too eager or desperate about it.

We’d had a busy weekend that had both formal campgrounds filled and late arrivals scattered about the Preserve. I thought we’d come out to the desert for solitude and plenty of meditative time. Spring break had brought the throngs and we were kept busy helping folks with flat tires, innumerable questions and an anxious young couple whose cat had filled its poor mouth with Cholla spines. Late Saturday evening we got caught up in the search for some overdue hikers who thankfully I found as they stumbled in from the edge of the campground. Rachael and I needed a hike.

The morning of our day off began with assisting campers who had endured another night of gale force winds some with damaged tents (our tally of dumpstered tents is something over 12 for the season so far). We even pulled the government truck around to give a jumpstart to a camper who had left her lights on all night. If we don’t get away from the campground we always get roped into something so we set out to explore another part of the Preserve. On the edge of the New York mountains are a few enticing canyons lined with Pinyon-Juniper groves. Wandering up one of the washes quickly brought us into a grotto refuge hidden from below and rewarding our imaginations. Seeps of rare water allow the fragrant Desert Almond to grow into dense thickets alive with tent caterpillars and varieties of bees attracted to the tiny yellow blooms. The rocky embankments held flowering Globemallow and Mojave Mound Cactus, western fence lizards showing off their push-up skills. Each bend was a surprise of enfolding topography.

At the end of our wandering, cross-country loop I suggested to Rachael we go check in on our owls. Several days before, while installing some fence post to keep the scofflaws from driving into a wilderness area I had noticed some droppings and pellets beneath a Juniper tree. Stooping down for a closer look I spooked a pair of napping owls and immediately felt guilty about my bad manners. We’d come back to the spot a few times to unobtrusively scan for them again, once seeing a still unidentifiable owl fly off nearby. Quietly peeking into the Junipers, camera ready, we gotten just to the point of defeated expectations when Rachael’s voice froze me in my tracks and I slowly turned towards her. A day that had started with the winding down of manic visitor needs was ending with a silent staring contest between Rachael and a beautiful and elusive Long-eared Owl. Clapping its bill at us in agitation and our curiosity more than satisfied we decided that having encroached closer than intended we should leave it in peace. That is why most of us find ourselves in the desert isn’t it.

It’s Monday, the first day of our three day weekend. It seemed as good a day as any to catch up on our Zs and rest. The deep layers of dark clouds and high winds helped to facilitate this desire. Recently showered and cozy in our camper Tim turned in for a nap and I read page after page of Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire. After a bit I put on the kettle and put down the book, tired of his grumblings on humans and musings on the desert being put into words better than anyone else could ever say such things. I decided instead to spy on the neighbors who were out and about despite the weather. It seemed so harmless since they were just going about their business eating a late lunch (early dinner?). Their movements became blocked a bit by some yuccas but I got my first hint that all was not necessarily well. At this point Tim got up and got out his camera to document their movements. It was shortly after this that we got a bit of domestic violence on film. Or was it courtship? Hard to tell sometimes with Jack Rabbits. The male kept moving in slowly with his ears back. Seemingly just wanting to nuzzle muzzles. Our female wasn’t having it and the male got a one two punch right on the kisser! Of course I have no true way of knowing the sex of either but the act was a clear “No!”.

The Black-tailed Jack Rabbit and the Desert Cottontail are by far the most abundant animals in the park both by numbers and sightings. With their high metabolisms they need to be almost constantly eating. One can catch them almost any time of day but driving at dusk one needs to be very careful. We call them suicidal, interjecting human intentions, when they cross the road and then double back onto the road right in front of us, having evolved skills to out maneuver four legged predators and not the four wheeled, bright light, kind.

Their abundant numbers mean that they can be legally hunted in the Preserve all year long. They also breed all year long having up to four litters with an average of three offspring. Jack Rabbits are not true rabbits but instead are hares. The distinction being that when born they are fully furred and eyes are open. Laid in a protective covering of mom’s fur and separated from each other in case of predation hopefully not all are found. Mom forages nearby but won’t go to them until the cover of night for nursing.

We don’t often see them engage their ability to bound 5-10′ at a time in an attempt of escape but rather a teetering lope from front to back feet as they move from one nibbling spot to another. Or in the case of our not easily discouraged suitor back and forth to his afternoon love interest. At one point he stopped to shake out his front paws in a hurried twisting movement that made us wonder at whether or not he had gotten poked by some cholla bit. We find these spider like bits all over our boots, laces and pants on a daily basis ourselves. At yet another stop he pulled his clown like hind foot to his mouth and plucked at it.

Adding to the goofy look of the Jack Rabbit are their iconically large ears, up to five inches long and rather thin they light up when the sun hits them. This highlights the many veins throughout the ears. The veins across the large ears move heat up and away from the body of the Jacks, an inventive and efficient adaptation to the (mostly) hot desert. Our neighbors seem to be on constant alert stopping every few seconds to take in the sounds around them. Sometimes they raise up on their front legs with ears fully forward, looking ever much like the chocolate bunnies of Easter time. They can also articulate the ears towards their backs so that in looking in one direction they are picking up sounds from the other.

Not just hunted by humans they are also prey to coyotes, eagles and bobcats. I’ve come to realize though that most are donated to the cause laying somewhat tenderized on the side of the road. Never for long. I’ve yet to see the same Jack carcass twice.

The undismayed wooer keeps coming around for more. I can’t be sure but our female might just be giving in. She steals away into the bushes and he follows. Our voyeuristic time has come to an end, just in time because the water for tea is boiling.

Anyone who has spent time in your typical campground vault-type toilet knows that they can have some interesting acoustics. I was wondering if the Cactus Wren that had alighted atop the vent chimney above me knew just how loudly his morning song reverberated inside. These charming birds with a raspy call are one of the year-round residents here and they were the first to welcome us. Not terribly shy they hop through camp able to discern sand from seed from tiny insect across the gravelly ground. As I stood outside the door of our now semi-permanent home one scampered to within a couple inches of my foot, its feathers fluffed out against the morning chill, cocking its head to get a better look at me before hopping along, not begging, just curious. Among birders the voice of the Cactus Wren is often described as unpleasant but I enjoy it and the rough edge of its dry trill has a mysteriously appropriate quality synonymous with the breaking dawn in the Mojave Desert. (Listen Here)

After a year of near-constant movement it is a joy to get to know a specific place through a whole season. A desert is a place that can teach you to see. The vegetation is never thick here but I can detect over the past few weeks the hint of extra green across the slopes of the nearby buttes. Barren clusters of twigs have flushed with subtle leaves and created an Easter egg hunt of tiny flowers. This is a place of interesting contrasts, a place of hardy plants with aggressive and pain-inducing defenses. The same plant that the Spanish explores dubbed bayonet has stabbed my shins and thighs leaving scars. These Yuccas are currently putting out fleshy maroon buds the size of footballs that then explode in a profusion of lemony-white flowers, home and food source for a delicate moth. The barbed spines of Buckhorn Cholla that find their way into my skin on a daily basis are sheltering the first hint of red fronds that should blossom within the month.

A home range that one gets to know intimately is a customary domain of the naturalist. Thoreau had his Walden Pond and rarely strayed from New England. However this is also a wanderer’s vocation. John Muir is known for his passion for Yosemite, but he also tramped near and far from Ohio to Georgia to California and Alaska always in awe of what his great Creator had to offer in nature’s grandest cathedrals. Being a naturalist is less about having all the answers or knowing all the things so much as it is about being wiling to see and to ask questions that might lead to a handful of understanding. In this way it is a portable avocation.

A year of practiced observing on the move has made our senses keen to the subtle changes of this place that is often overlooked and hard to appreciate. Having worked outdoors most of my life I’ve long been sensitive to the weather as something I feel more than I see. In the Bay Area I trusted my gut more than the online weather robots and I was usually right. It has been fun to learn new patterns. February came in with snow and 50 mph winds and left unseasonably warm, enticing an early bloom. The interim has gotten us accustomed to wind, frequent and chilled out of the north, gusts announcing their arrival in rumbling preamble moments before they buffet our wobbly home. Most often winter weather has simply been a hint of more robust events to the west or north of us. The moist Pacific storms of this long anticipated El Nino struggle to reach this far across the dry ranges of the Mojave. Each scattered mountain range, the San Gabriels, the Tehachapis, the El Pasos, gleaning moisture successively until out here we’re often given only a hint of damp air and high wispy virga.

Our fixed location allows the sky to inform us in other ways. The sun crests the angled butte to our east right about 6:40 am, its procession towards equinox stunted by the mountain slope. Sunset over the crags of volcanic tuff to the west has been stretching later each day. At night we watch as Orion marches westward, as a winter visitor he’ll exit the nighttime stage in a few months. We knew we’d been up late the other night we saw him reaching the western horizon.

Our seasonal changes have stimulated some of the dormant neighbors we hadn’t meet yet, exothermic creatures can’t do much if the temperatures drop. A few lethargic lizards have been around since January but our newly arrived warmth has them scampering and doing push-ups in escalating numbers. The insect spattered windshield of a recent evening reminded us that we hadn’t seen much in the way of bugs for a while. Their flourishing has attracted some more accomplished wanderers. A new bird seems to arrive each day to join the company of our Cactus Wren and Phainopepla residents. The Phoebe was an early newcomer, followed by humming birds, hawks, and swifts darting along the cliff faces quickly silenced by the presence of a Peregrine Falcon. New birdsong has entered the morning wake-up call. Even an exceedingly common sight of a Turkey Vulture is notable when they have been gone for months. I wonder if the Cactus Wren was as pleasantly surprised to hear the sound of his cousin as we were. Thinking they prefer more water than the Mojave can provide I didn’t expect to be visited by Canyon Wrens. It sings one of my favorite birdsongs and hearing its descending notes echo down our canyon walls like I have in some of my most beautiful memories across the west reminded me that sometimes home is more of a feeling than it is a location. (Listen Here)

After a month into this gig it seemed like we should put some thoughts to paper on this experience thus far. Truly, living in a National Preserve is an incredible experience. We’ve fallen in love with this stretch of land and all is has to offer. It has all the glamour of a National Park without all the notoriety or visitor-ship. Not officially “Parkies” we’ve been given and impressive amount of trust and responsibility and since we’re volunteers we’re the only ones around here who can truly complain about the government not paying us enough.
We stay at the Hole in the Wall campground and when working at the visitor center our commute is about a ¼ mile walk down the nature path lined with signs that call out plant names. At the visitor center and sometimes in camp we get opportunities to chat with some real gems. Many folks know the place better than we do. Other times people are happening upon the Preserve because Joshua Tree has become too crowded or they’re on their way to see the Death Valley “super bloom”. Either way they are pleasantly surprised to have found such a wonder. Our campground is around 4,400 feet in elevation surrounded by cactus-yucca scrub. The campground nine miles up the road another 1000 feet higher turns into pinyon/juniper forest. Going south the elevation drops and creosote takes over. It’s over 80 miles to the grocery store, cell service and internet are limited and sometimes non-existent if the lines go down (often). Needless to say it’s remote and we’re getting spoiled.

Beyond the real human friend we’ve made who works in maintenance and lives up the road we are visited often by curious cactus wrens, a cute cottontail and just this morning a Say’s Pheobe perched on the bike rack and shared a stare at us through the back window.

Monday through Wednesday are our days off and we trade our weeks with errands and honey-do’s with camping in other areas of the park. So far we’ve camped at Kelso Dunes, up in the New York Mountains and among the Cinder Cones which was my personal favorite so far. We walked around in Black Tank Wash where we heard a burro, saw quail and got to see both petroglyphs and pictographs from a bygone era.

We showed up here in the dead of winter and now everyday a new plant is leafing out or even blossoming, days are longer and warmer (until the next storm). It’s an easy lifestyle to live each day in gratitude, even if the work is a little more tiring and creative crushing than we had hoped, it’s hard to complain.