Donald MacDonald
By Donald MacDonald
Now There Are Three

Today, forty-two years after Randall Henderson wrote the words on the preceding page, there are three deserts. One, of course. is still the "grim and desolate wasteland" seen by the unappreciative "children of luxury." A second desert remains "the land whose character is hidden except to those who come with friendliness and understanding," that land which "offers nature's rarest artistry."
The third desert of which I speak sprang inevitably from the second. It is the desert of man. It is, say, Palm Springs, Palm Desert, and Indio slowly becoming one as man spreads along the highway. It is Scottsdale meeting Phoenix. It is Lancaster-Palmdale as the globe-circling jetliner approaches for a landing. It is the baroque of Caesar's Palace and the MGM Grand. It is London Bridge transplanted to loom incongruously from a backdrop of sand. It is that shabby stucco dinosaur watching over Cabazon.
The exodus from Megalopolis starts on Thursdays. It is man seeking relief from his tensions, a few nights under the star-splattered desert skies in his Minnie-Winnie, trailing a rack of dirt bikes or a metal-flaked ski boat. And precariously spaced among the motor homes speeding down the Interstate will be the occasional young couple and child, bedrolls burdening their tiny car, obviously tent campers who "really appreciate" the desert and who will protect it and the whales in an all-encompassing "Greenpeace." Present, too, are the Cadillacs and Lincolns of those addicted to Las Vegas or of those who turn off on S111 toward Palm Springs or continue past the River to Tucson. Then, ominously flanking the hurrying multitude are the rumbling four-wheelers, a suspect bunch who if not headed for the border, tend to disappear off the highway to places no one knows where. These people in all their wondrous diversity are the visitors we who live in the desert selectively fear.
The fact we should accept is that it's everybody's land. Our complaints, our suspicions, our sometime lack of hospitality, yes, our avarice, invite the depredations, the spray paint on "our" rocks, the beer cans littering "our" sand. It is not the visitor who is always ugly, however he travels and whatever he seeks. It is often we
It is we, certainly, who have made this third desert a land of controversy. He who may have grabbed a piece of it for himself cries "keep out" to those less foresighted. He who would profit levels the groves and windrows, erects condominiums, and cries "welcome" to visitors of substance. He who would cheat trades barren, wind-laced parcels to the unwary of less substance.
This is the season, you see. Our rooms are $75 a night for two and you pay for Sunday whether you stay over or not. White man, red man, pioneer family, absentee corporate owner-each is equally tainted. By greed. Jo-jo nuts, date milkshakes, Big Macs. Century 21, Frank Sinatra Drive, Waltah Clarks are everywhere. PS, I love you
I suspect we who live here could begin by remembering from whence we came. I was a visitor once. So, probably, were you. I was allowed to settle at a price I could afford So. too, I must assume, were you. A garden with paths is seldom trampled. Let's, then, unlock the gates to "our" public lands and put up signs saying: "Friend or Stranger, You Are Welcome Here." So assured, the stranger may become our friend and tread gently.
I think if Randall Henderson were alive he would approve, for those were his words of welcome on the door to this magazine's original Palm Desert offices. There are some, I understand, who thought Randall naive and even some, I hear, who called him cold. I think not. He had more vision than most. He founded Desert not to immure this land but to spread love of it, to impart to (our) readers some of the courage, the tolerance, and the friendliness of our desert." That was Randall Henderson's goal and it remains ours, your fifth generation of editors', today. Please drop by and chat with us, browse in our bookstore and art gallery, or just say hello. It is your magazine.

The Desert Magazine November 1979
 
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