White Dress Old Man Walking

Over on my Facebook page, I posted an image with a haiku describing what happened during a recent desert walk. It's been exceedingly hot lately, even during my early morning walks to an arroyo that affords me some shade, and more importantly, some privacy. Shorts and a tank top are my hiking outfit de rigueur, but often a thin, loose, and breezy white dress is better. A short open dress allows airflow, doesn't cling, and is easy to lift up over my head to get naked (or covered) quickly without taking my boots off.

Yesterday I wore such a dress on my morning trek to the special arroyo in a nearby desert park. Dropping into the arroyo, I carefully scanned the area for other hikers. I neither spied nor heard anyone. The desert was empty and silent except for the calls of a cactus wren and the creaks of a raven. In an instant, the flimsy dress was over my head, in my hand, and I was standing naked in my hiking boots in the cool shade.

The path I knew well. Navigating it was a matter of staying on flat areas, avoiding cacti, and not stumbling over a rock or a rattlesnake. When I walk here, I often find myself in an easy trance, pleasant thoughts flow easily or not at all. The outside world can't break into my head here. The desert draws that poison out me the way it also draws the water from my body. I stopped to drink from a large water bottle I always carry with me.

As I tipped my head back to drink the cool water, I saw something on the rim of the arroyo, right above me. I stepped back, looked up. A man with a walking staff in jeans, a long-sleeved work shirt, bandana over his face, and a cowboy hat was watching me. His skin and eyes were dark. Even with the bandana, I sensed he was Hispanic. I did not panic and did not madly try to put my dress on. I took another sip of water, smiled big, and said, "Buenos Dias, señor!"

The man pulled his bandana down, revealing an ancient face, cracked and deeply scored as desert dwellers' become. He smiled a gentle, but huge, smile and said in a booming, smooth baritone, that sounded like Tennessee, "Good morning to you, ma'am." Well, I thought he was Hispanic.

Now I could feel myself blushing -- all over -- suddenly splendidly aware of my nudity, the old man watching, and the heavenly thrill of it. "I'll just slip this on," I said, holding up my dress.

"Don't do that on my account, darlin'," he said (yes, he really said "darlin'"), "I'll be moving on." He tipped his hat and turned away from the rim. I stood there a moment, enthralled at the moment, thinking about putting my dress back on. Then, the old man was back at the rim.

"A thought, ma'am, he said, "You might consider carrying a phone and a sidearm hiking alone."

I pulled my iPhone from the wad that was my dress to show him. He grinned, saying, "Halfway there. Bye now," again tipping his hat and walking away.

I put my dress on and finished my hike climbing up the trail and out to the main park. The old man was nowhere to be seen. There were no cars in the parking lot.  I walked back over to the rim of the arroyo where he had been and found only footprints -- cowboy boots, not hiking boots. I followed the boot tracks away from the arroyo for about a quarter of a mile. They led out to the open desert and disappeared in the rocky sands.

The theme of "The Twilight Zone" played in my head. Thinking about what the old man said, although I have never felt in any danger hiking in the desert, it occurred to me how sweet a little derringer in a pretty leather holster, strapped to my thigh, would be.