Dear Saline Valley,

It is so good to be with you! 
When you get me into my body and out of my head.
When you get me away from my phone and the next purchase that is supposed to fulfill me, only to realize that I already have everything I need. 
When, during a global pandemic, we cannot be with family for the holidays, we turn to you. To unplug, to find solitude and simplicity. When we want to stare the past into the eyes. 

What we find at the end of December is a canyon. Where there is a water spring, in the middle of the desert. And the smell of rain on this overcast day, amplified by Creosote bush. With some light drizzle here and there. We find a dried coyote melon, hollow like a skull. Turning back to see the mountains up close, one last time, there is snow on the tops. Like powdered sugar. Maybe we smelled some snow, too.
What we find in that canyon is the simple joy of a warm cup of ginger green tea. Shared with the person I love most. The simple joy of that tea warming our bellies while the rain tickles our hair.
We go to bed early. And wake up early. To walk to a special place to move our bodies to be warm and to see it before we move on to our next destination. When it gets too dark to take pictures I wish I could paint or draw. Your images are too majestic to fit into a word picture. Is there ever a poem that could pay tribute to your beauty? It would be an honor if I get to write it. One day. The kind of beauty that must have inspired Tolkien to write up Mordor. What I see is the face of winter in California. Secrets, maybe. A veil, definitely. If we dared to come closer and really look, what would we find? Our own inner landscapes of hidden gems? That some stones better be left unturned? Some white men found gold and other mineral resources until they sought their fortune elsewhere. What made them leave? Did they realize that greed destroys beauty?

You remind me to be careful with my wishes. For they may come true. For how long have I asked for rain? For how long have I said that we need it. Desperately. Now that it’s here, it’s a little inconvenient, limiting the options for our adventures for the day.
You remind me to be grateful when wishes are granted. California’s need for rain is more important than us being sprinkled by rain on our hikes. Last night, the rain arrived. It sounded as if heavy rain drops were hitting rocks and splitting them so that little shards of rock landed on our tent. Besides, what a unique feeling to be snowed in into a valley in the desert? The pass roads that could have taken us to other places had two feet of snow. Maybe you wanted to keep us there. Just a little longer so that we could explore a little more. And be enchanted.
We decide to stay longer until we are confident to passage over one of the mountain roads is considered safe. We decide to stay in a place that has been shaped by the Earth’s movement. Not by a former water source but a force so deep, it literally moves mountains. A place that others may regard as desolate, barren, deserted. But we seek you and already dream about the time when we return.

After the storm has passed, you greet us with clear skies in contrast to snow capped mountains. Hermine’s first sight of the day are these mountains. She exclaims: it is so marvelously beautiful! 
We hike to a special hill, not far from where our tents are pitched. Maybe it drew us closer when we chose the space where we would get to cook and sleep and roam free. It is a hill that was used by the Native Americans to forge tools from Obsidian and other materials. I imagine them making a pilgrimage to that hill each winter. To bring the Obsidian they quarried just before that and then spent time on that hill to craft. In community. Sharing skills. Telling stories. Teaching the young. We find traces of these times. Countless shards of sharp Obsidian and chart. This is a sacred place and I like to think that their ancestors draw in close when we explore the hill, trying to be as respectful as possible. Hermine and I pick a few pretty shards and when we find a hole in the rock that has an opening underneath, we hold the shards close to our hearts to make wishes. We release the wishes by releasing the Obsidian into the hole and what feels like the heart of the hill. Wishes we make to the land, the ancestors, the sacredness of being there as a family. 

Hermine’s wishes: 
I wish that this valley will look the same and that places like this one will be ok.
I wish that the world would count on us to make everything well.
I wish that we would have more life than death.
I wish to be a good person. To be special. To help others

My wishes:
I wish people would better care for the land and each other. I wish colonizers would listen to the wisdom of indigenous peoples and work with them to restore the land. 
I wish to be inspired to write for as long as I can and for my words to be read. May they be meaningful to others, too. 

When Jupp finds a small piece of geode further on on our hike, I am asking the hill if it is ok to keep it. I do not wish to take what is not meant for us. My request is answered with a small breeze, a stirred soul, a tear in my eye. The soul’s yes always feels like that. We keep exploring the area and when we head back to our temporary home, I am seeking with my eyes and asking with my heart to find a little piece of Obsidian. Raw. Unworked by human hands. When I get to find a little nugget of Obsidian it is between two calls of a raven.

That same night, we get to marvel at those mountains when the full moon rises. Snow still glistening. I am awake that night under the moon, to soothe my son back to sleep. And for a short brave moment I dare to imagine what it would be like if my mother visited me that same night. We would sit side by side and she would have her arm around my shoulders. She would marvel at the desert and the bittersweet circumstances that brought her to me. I would ask her all the questions. I did not dare to imagine her answers, for that part always pains me. So much has been lost.
But you, dear Saline, gave me the greatest gift that night. I dreamed of my mother. It started with photographs of her, like most dreams of her do. With colors from the clothes she wore in one of my favorites of her. And one that my dad, grandparents, and aunt have put up. Then I looked at another photograph. It may have been her, it may have not, because the face seemed unfamiliar. But I could tell it was my mom by the way she smiled at me. Warm and full of light.