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I eagerly redlined the car as we left the congested antics of the Las Vegas Boulevard, making our way to our destination, the Valley of Fire. I was excited to leave the bright lights and entrancing entrapments of the city for the peace offered by the desert. We fled as men who were just freed from the restraints of bumper-to-bumper traffic and excessively crowded crosswalks. We fled as men who had been pent up far too long. We were fifteen minutes into our fleeing before recognizing we were driving in the wrong direction. We didn’t even care.

David, a chef by calling and a friend since high school, shares my affinity for cars and motorcycles. We rented a Hellcat for our journey to the Valley of Fire. A Hellcat is a street-legal race car engine wrapped in a muscle car package. This specific specimen had been further modified to increase the horsepower to a level that would make the uninitiated and unknowing wet their pants. It had a retro 1960s-themed purple paint job. If the late R&B singer Barry White was a car, he’d be a Hellcat. That’s how I started thinking of the vehicle as we propelled forward. The closer the accelerator got to the floor, the louder and deeper Barry’s bass voice would sing from under the hood. Always on key and never missing a note.

We reached our destination in a little over an hour, confident we could best our time if given another opportunity. As I made the final turn onto the road leading into the Valley of Fire, my heart raced with anticipation. The desert has always been a place I found strangely inviting and soothing to my suburban soul. I slowly throttled Barry down to enjoy the view and reduce the booming R&B voice from under the hood, which echoed off the canyon walls. Revved and ready for adventure, Barry idled at 35 MPH without touching the accelerator, which meant riding the brakes for much of our journey through the valley. We decided to let Barry rest his voice, so we parked and hiked one of the giant red sandstone mountains to gain perspective. I’d been told parts of the Mars scenes from the original Schwarzenegger film, Total Recall, had been shot on location in the Valley of Fire. Once we reached the apex, we understood why the location director chose this particular spot for the movie. The sculpted sandstone gave way to brilliant, variegated orange and red strata for as far as the eye could see. We sat with our legs dangling over the edge of a gap between two massive sandstone mountains. The mountain we were perched on had an initial gradual slope that elevated until it appeared to drop into infinity. The depth of the gap could easily swallow a large building. As a man of 6’3″, I felt small. I pondered what it would be like to slide into the abyss below. Contemplating this deathly descent, I felt safe knowing that I had the keys to the car in my pocket … others may leave me to die. Still, the car rental company would eventually come to reclaim Barry!

I sat in silent solemnity, taking in the majesty of my surroundings. My eyes fixated on vibrant colors. My skin welcomed the sun and intermittent breeze as I gazed at the sand chiseled reddish-orange rock formations. My nose detected nothing but clean, fresh air. The Valley of Fire was a paradox. It seemed, in some ways, to be a lifeless land made purely for artists and filmmakers to enjoy like a blank canvas on which they could project their imaginations. Reciprocally, the desert was teeming with all manner of life. I noticed so much wildlife like the well-fed family of bighorn sheep that passed within 25 yards of David and me. The parents of the herd looked as if they were crossbred with bulls to increase their intimidating frames. Desert cottontails and jackrabbits bounded everywhere. Agave and prickly pear cacti sprouted in sparse but surprising patterns from the landscape. How did the plants and animals adapt to such a beautiful yet desolate home? I could not see water anywhere.

As I walked along the ridge of the red sandstone mountain, I saw the vast expanse of a timeless space to the right of me. A few inches to my left was an endless drop into an abyss. As I trod along the narrow apex, I found myself contemplating life. Desert places seem to have that effect on me. I reflected on my years of Covid-related isolation. The onset of the Covid-driven shutdown and the subsequent years escalated my hunger for travel and my thirst to change my surroundings. The need for a break from isolation and change of surroundings was no surprise; however, the way in which my surroundings changed me was unexpected. I had not realized how the isolation had deadened my senses until this moment. Arriving in a city known for its extravagant lights, sights, and sounds jarred my senses. The energy of Vegas quickly overwhelmed me, and I found myself exhausted by the end of the first day. It wasn’t until I ventured into the desert that I gained perspective, and I was able to reflect on both my surroundings and my interior landscape as well.

Against this dramatic backdrop, I thought of needed changes in my life. My reflections on change led to a deeper connection with one of the half-dozen partially read books I had acquired during the worldwide shutdown. The crux of the book’s introduction thrummed through my thoughts as I walked along the ridge. Lasting change seems more dependent on creating an environment of change rather than increasing motivation, which is typically short-lived. Connecting this reflection to my current setting, I realized the immutable fact that many of the plants and animals seen in the valley would not live or thrive outside of the Valley of Fire. The environment where the wildlife and plants were thriving made no sense to me, yet it meant everything to them. Maybe that was my take-away. The environmental shift that needed to occur should be entirely apparent to me.

If change was my focus, the environment needed to make sense to me. If I was going to change, my environment needed fine-tuning rather than a new set of goals structured through someone else’s eyes. Being serious about change, I instinctively knew I needed to make essential parts of the change process incredibly obvious. But I knew that could wait until after I unpacked my bags at home. For now, Barry and David were waiting. I tossed the keys to David so he could share the joy, which also allowed me extra time and a different vantage point to enjoy my surroundings. We stopped at a watering hole that doubled as a small fueling and tacky-trinket villa outside the valley. I noticed the ironic contrast between the genuine majesty of the valley as a backdrop to the tacky-trinket villa. My daze and thoughts were quickly broken as David accelerated sideways from the parking lot towards Red Rock Canyon. It was nice to see the chef cooking outside of the kitchen. I began to embrace the thoughts of what lay ahead.