. . . from the archives #43: Mud Hills—Death Valley, 1992

Listen to the crunch and crackle of my boots, here in the mud hills. The last light of the day picks out little details on the dried mud clots. A fine ramble, but somehow, in spite of the deep physical satisfaction that I take in my rambling, there is something missing. Shall we call it x? At times it seems to me as if my life is a mathematical problem to be solved, but a problem to which I haven’t the key. Perhaps if I assign an arbitrary value to one of my unknowns? It is not that I am unhappy.

In the gullies and swells high above the salt plains the first stars appear; the sun has finally set. In the twilight: mud thoughts in the mud hills.

—from Notes From My Desert Novel, by Rebecca Saito

Photo: Mud Hills—Death Valley, 1992