You can hear it coming. Before the trees begin to bend and before the first tumbleweed races across the yard, there is a sound in the distance.
The wind is on its way.
Living in the high desert means becoming acquainted with wind. Not a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves. We have those, too, and on a warm evening with the windows open, they are glorious.
But then there are the other winds.
The winds that announce themselves.
They come racing across miles of open desert with very little standing in their way. By the time they reach Winterpast, they have gathered speed, dust, leaves, and apparently every tumbleweed in northern Nevada.
Suddenly, the peaceful afternoon is gone. The trees begin dancing. Wind chimes that were pleasantly tinkling a few minutes earlier are holding on for dear life. Patio cushions become airborne. Anything that hasn’t been properly secured is immediately identified. And somewhere, inevitably, a tumbleweed the size of a Volkswagen is headed toward the house.
The desert has wind with personality.
We even have the Washoe Zephyr, the famous afternoon wind that comes barreling down the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada and across the valleys. Some days it arrives like an old friend, cooling the evening after a hot summer day.
Other days, it arrives with an attitude. Those are the days when you look out the window and realize that something you own is no longer where you left it.
Living here teaches you to pay attention. Clouds gathering over the mountains mean something. A sudden change in temperature means something. That peculiar stillness before the wind arrives definitely means something.
And then there is the dust. Desert dust doesn’t simply blow around. It infiltrates. It finds window tracks, doorways, porches, car,s and every surface you cleaned approximately eleven minutes before the wind began.
There are days when the mountains disappear completely behind a curtain of brown.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, the wind moves on.
The trees become still.
The chimes settle down.
The mountains reappear.
And the desert exhales.
There is something humbling about living in a place where nature refuses to become background scenery.
The desert demands that you notice it.
The heat tells you when to seek shade.
The cold reminds you that desert winters are real.
The rain can turn dry ground into rushing water in minutes.
And the wind?
The wind reminds you that you aren’t in charge, and perhaps that isn’t such a bad reminder.
We spend so much of our lives trying to control things. We make plans. We arrange our days. We put things exactly where we want them and expect them to remain there. Then a 50-mile-per-hour wind comes roaring across the desert and deposits somebody else’s tumbleweed against the front door. There goes control.
Maybe that’s one of the things I love about living at Winterpast. This place keeps me paying attention It reminds me to look at the sky. To notice the changing seasons. To appreciate the quiet evenings when the windows can stay open and the curtains barely move. And to be grateful when everything I put on the patio in the morning is still there at bedtime.
The winds will always return.
They’ve been crossing this desert far longer than I’ve been here, and they’ll continue long after I’m gone.
Tonight is the New Moon. We finally have a trailer. We finally have the right night. After living in Nevada for 15 years, I planned to finally see the Milky Way over my mystical, magical inland sea. We were ready. Until the weather report this morning. 50 mph winds possible. And so, I’ll look at the Milky Way on YouTube for another month.
Today, when I hear that familiar sound beginning somewhere in the distance, I’ll know what’s coming.
I’ll close the windows.
Check the patio.
Look toward the mountains.
And wait.
The desert will again remind us who’s in charge.