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. |