We drove through Christmas tree pass years ago when my parents first bought their home in Bullhead City, AZ. I remember marveling at the high rocky mountains and cactus laden plains as we drove for hours through a small dirt corridor which led to the highway on the other side. Until recently, a photograph of that drive hung on the wall of their kitchen—a huge, solitary rock sitting silently in the middle of the arid desert fields, watching over the tufts of tumbleweed that hadn't yet released their grip on the earth, with a sturdy mountain peering down in the background. Since basing myself in Las Vegas, my drive home leads me past the turnoff for this memory every week. Finally, one morning in February, I woke up and decided it was time to see Christmas again. I packed a camera, a tripod, and some snacks, and set out to roam the dusty roads for the afternoon. In my mind's eye, I would find that rock once again, stand atop its cragginess and take a triumphant selfie, commemorating this mini circle of life moment. I started out by pulling into the first turnout which was the route to some notable petroglyphs that lived there (I had been captivated the month prior by the petroglyphs inside the Valley of Fire state park). I climbed out of my trusty Mini (aka Oso for 'bear', named for the bear pillow that hibernates in the back seat and keeps me company on my drives) and started walking. Almost immediately, but not obtrusively, the petroglyphs jumped out at me from all sides. I was the only person there—it felt like a private showing in a petroglyph gallery. After wandering through the mazes of picture art, I picked some rocks to climb up, over and through and continued back into the canyon. The glorious thing about exploring is that it doesn't take much to make you feel like Robinson Carusoe. Within minutes of wandering off the beaten path, I looked around me and noticed the earth in meditation—everything was silent, save a swift brush of air brushing gently past my face. The rocks in the distance looked as if some crabs began to build a fortress and then suddenly disappeared. A lone Cholla cactus sat on a ledge, glistening sunlight from every delicate thorn as it basked in the evening sun. I shimmied up a boulder and sat at the top, gazing out at the nothingness around me that was filled with so much life. Twenty minutes drive and a fifteen-minute hike brought me to a peace that reset my chatty monkey mind and let me feel the heartbeat of the desert. Did I mention it was Valentine's Day? I drove a bit farther down a smaller dirt road until it literally (and I use this in the real meaning of the word!) told me it was the end of the road. There in the wilderness, I set up my camp chair and covered my legs with a blanket, popped an IPA and watched the sun as it began setting below the hills. What a beautiful valentine's... just me and my sweet desert dessert. I never made it back to the rock from the picture, but I did get my selfie—pink wig and all.