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 Nothing Separates The Men From The Sheep In The Shadow Of The Tinajas Altas. By Kevin Franklin A PRIMAL CIRCUIT in my brain rousts me from a restless sleep. Overpowering thirst fills my thoughts. I stumble to my feet and over to the water jug. Now is the time for desert centipedes, scorpions and rattlesnakes. Without care for these things I walk barefoot, awkwardly over the sharp granite pebbles, toward the water. I slurp down two large cups. The full moon lights up the surrounding desert and nearby mountains. I'm camped near Tinajas Altas ("high tanks"). This is the granddaddy of water holes east of Yuma in the lower Colorado Desert. It must be two in the morning and the temperature is still over 90 degrees. When the sun reaches its zenith in 10 hours or so, the temperature will climb over 115. Few people come here in the summer. A few of those who do never leave--usually Mexicans given false stories about an easy walk across the desert. Anglos, putting too much trust in a machine or themselves, have expired out here as well. This desert is one of the few places without handrails left in our country. A day without water here would likely be a last day. It's not sympathetic to humans.
After chugging my water, I bring the refilled cup with me. This is the second time tonight I've done this. The air is so dry I'm dehydrating simply by lying still on top of my sleeping bag. I feel like an apple slice in a desiccator. The ground is still warm from the daytime heat. Staring up at the moon, I imagine I feel warmth from it--the sun's henchman. I drift off to sleep, the cool water by my side picking up heat from the rocks and air. At 4:30 a.m. I gather my meager possessions--water, binoculars, snake-bite kit--and clamber up a steep granite ridge near Tinajas Altas. I'm about an eighth of a mile away from the tanks as the crow flies. It would take me about an hour and a good half-mile hike to get there by foot. The sun is just starting to rise. Magnificent purples and oranges flood the sky above the Cabeza Prieta Mountains to the east. I reach the top of the ridge and make a quick scan of the tanks. No sheep seem to be present. I drop my pack, making more noise than I should have. It's then that I hear the tumble of a few rocks and glimpse the brown bodies of four sheep moving near the tanks. I take out the binoculars and watch them for a while. They clearly see me on the ridge and seem powerfully unconcerned by this awkward human frame separated from them by a deep and wide chasm. There are two ewes and their two kids, stopping now and then to eat some vegetation and then continuing on their way up the mountain from the tanks. They've already been down to drink, probably making use of the full moon. They stop at the skyline. Taking one final look back at me, or perhaps the sunrise behind me, they disappear to the other side. I set to watching the tanks, looking for more sheep or maybe a thirsty bobcat. Nothing stirs except for a few doves and a raven, occasionally squawking his challenge to the world around him. I can hear the buzz of thousands of bees coming to retrieve water to cool their hive. A pair lands on me, sucking up sweat and salt. I watch them move on my arms and legs. In all likelihood these are Africanized honeybees, but I feel no threat from them. It's too hot for fighting or anything but survival. I enjoy the company and distraction for a while. The unsteady sleep of the night begins to catch up with me after an hour of watching the shadows creep along the rocks. I lay backward on the flat granite and fall into a strange, dream-filled sleep. The burning light wakes me. I try to nestle up to the shadow of a rock, but it's no use. Only 8 a.m. and already the desert furnace is beginning to roar. I gather my stuff and head down the ridge and toward the melting ice in my cooler. In an hour or so the sun will succeed in clearing the desert of humanity as I drive off with visions of a tall iced-tea in my head, leaving Tinajas Altas once again to the bees and sheep. Getting There
The Tinajas Altas are in the Barry Goldwater Bombing Range,
which requires a permit to enter. Contact the U.S. Marine Corps
Range Office at (520) 341-3402 for current permit information.
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But I'm not here to see people. I'm here to see desert bighorn
sheep. When it gets this hot and dry, even the hardy bighorn are
forced to drink. Other times of year the sheep can go for long
periods without water, instead extracting what moisture they need
from their food. But now, if you rise very early and sit quietly,
the sheep will come to these scummy green pools, bowing to the
requirements of the desert in summer.
