Long before we moved to Pam's old stomping grounds in southern Arizona, my sweetie stated quite firmly that I would fall in love with the beauty of the area. We've only been living on our semi-remote acreage (off grid) for about forty days and forty nights as of this writing, but that has been ample time to prove her skill at prophecy: I am hooked! Near sunset, our digital camera is frequently glued to my hand. Not that we know the names of each and every bush or cactus plant--for example, what is the tall bit of flora in the first photgraph below?

Hint: This specimen is currently about twelve feet tall, at least that wide, and covered with tiny berries (likely poisonous, since our many local birds don't seem to eat them). After leaving the green stage, the berries range in color from yellow to a deeper orange and sometimes even a fairly deep red. Having grown up in Montana, I can state with authority what it is not: For example, it is not a chokecherry bush or a gooseberry bush. The word manzanita popped into mind as I was framing this shot, but it's probably not that, either. Maybe a reader will know....

Although we are buying four deep-desert acres with an option on four more, cactus seems to be in short supply on our property. Not a prickly pear to be seen. There is, however, one very special resident in that category, with a second specimen a close neighbor: The (to me at least) stunningly beautiful cholla, also known as "jumping cactus". When first warned that this cactus could and would jump right onto you if you weren't careful, I thought of that action in terms of defensive behavior. The real motivation, it turns out, is propagation: A chunk of cholla that latches on to a passing critter is able to sprout after being dropped. In other words, the cholla is a natural hitchhiker.

It also turns out that there are a lot of cholla varieties. While neither Pam nor I have a clue which one our not so little friend might be, we do agree that it is one of the most beautiful of all cholla varieties. Sure, we're prejudiced--but the plant seems to appreciate our appreciation; it is flowering and growing like nobody's business.

Where bushes (or bushy trees) do not cover the ground, clumps of bunch grass do. Most of the time, this stuff looks relatively dead and uninspiring, but with even a day or two of afternoon showers, these plants--like desert flora everywhere--spring to life with impressive bursts of fresh, green growth. Without question, the area wildlife utilizes these plants extensively. I've startled field mice, jack rabbits, and even a wide-eyed kangaroo rat in their immediate vicinity.

Again, the exact variety of bunch grass is in question. Ours looks a bit like Fountain Grass--it certainly grows in a fountain shape--but has not yet produced seed this year, so it's too early to tell if it will match the Fountain Grass description exactly.

The words mesquite and desert go together like ham and eggs. In fact, mesquite more or less is a jumbo serving of ham and eggs all rolled into one. Check out the link: It appears that the mesquite bean is highly nutritious--hey, if it can serve as a staple food for coyotes and Native Americans, Pam and I need to learn to harvest and process some of the numerous pods already developing in abundance on our property. This could be most important if my job hunt continues to be as tricky as it has been to date!

Just writing this Hub has begun to show me how fortunate we have been in picking this particular land. Now to learn to pick on this land. Pick berries, perhaps (if what we have in that top photo is actually manzanita and the fruit is actually edible rather than poisonous), and pick mesquite beans definitely. Right now, we're living pretty much on Campbell's Pork & Beans; mesquite beans ought to be a downright refreshing change.

Note: Based on the appearance of the pods, at least some of our mesquite is of the velvet mesquite variety. Wow. I actually identified a plant.

When I wrote an anecdotal autobiography in 1986 titled Tales of a Golden Heart, I was concurrently working at an office job in San Diego County, California. One day during lunch break I read the rough draft of a chapter to several coworkers in order to elicit their feedback on that portion of the manuscript. It so happened that the chapter opened with a detailed description of the terrain and wildlife with which I'd been surrounded in the mountains of western Montana during my first seventeen years.

One coworker listened to all of this and was openly envious. "I wish I'd grown up like that," she said, referring to my account of riding on horseback through forest teeming with deer and countless birds from ravens to golden eagles and many more. Until that moment, it had not occurred to me that I'd experienced anything unusual. If it is what we have known from birth, or at least early childhood, it is simply "normal" to us. But I remembered her envy, and it reminds me daily to be grateful for my surroundings.

Now, settled in at least a little on land we expect to occupy from now until "forever", I know enough to recognize how blessed I am and always have been--starting out in the Montana mountains and finally putting down roots in the Arizona desert, roots that promise to be as deep and powerful as the taproots of the mesquite itself. Tonight's photo session produced enough for at least one more Hub in addition to this one. This page, however, will close simply with a sunset shot showing a silhouette of a fence post and a bit of barbed wire in the foreground. That fence is well made, though hardly new...no doubt built in the days when our property was part of a working ranch.

Thanks for reading,

Ghost32