Arizona is a strange place for me. I dry out – after a week back on the east coast, I still feel parched. I’m covered in dust brought to me by breezes that don’t stop. The noise of NYC rings in my ears, only broken by coyotes that cross my Uncle B’s ranch at night. The Border Patrol stops your car so a dog can sniff the trunk. The land is scattered with ruined concerns and cheap housing, and yet you pass the occasional gallery, winery, pilates studio. There’s no cell phone reception at the ranch – a 20 minute hike up a road that honors a town that disappeared around 1920 is required to connect. Arizonans from around the area crawl by on ATVs, dubbed “Good Lifers” by my rancher great uncle.

Still, it’s beautiful country, especially as the sun sets.

A Century Plant at Dusk. RL Fifield