Love Affair with a Cactus

For many people, if you mention the word cactus, the image that comes to mind is that of the saguaro, the towering, multi-armed icon of the Sonoran Desert. Standing tall over the surrounding shrubs, saguaros square off resolutely against both the scorching sun and the brief but intense annual monsoons. They reach for the stars in Arizona’s famously clear night skies and form striking silhouettes against the vivid desert sunsets. Their fruits feed wildlife from javelinas to coyotes, while their prickly green bodies shelter nesting woodpeckers and other birds.

It’s easy to anthropomorphize saguaros, imagining them as people frozen by nature into fantastic shapes. One saguaro appears to be dancing, another to be leaning in for a kiss. Still another is pointing into the distance: “He went that-a-way, sheriff.”  Further on is the culprit, his hands in the air. In late spring, when blooms begin to sprout, the saguaros look as though they have curlers in their hair. Wrapped in lights for the holidays, they appear dressed in glittering, form-fitting gowns for a gala party.

There’s something romantic about these kings of the desert, something that evokes a longing for the frontier, for the days when vast parts of the United States were still uncharted and unexplored. Filmmakers and advertising people recognize this and have made the saguaro into the icon not only of the Sonoran Desert but of the entire Southwest, a symbol of the Wild West from Wyatt Earp to John Wayne.

For me, part of what’s interesting about saguaros is that – like people – they are both vulnerable and strong. With shallow root systems that spread out horizontally in every direction as far as the cactus is tall, saguaros are remarkably resilient in the face of limited and inconsistent rainfall. At the same time, they are sensitive to changes in their environment and may die if moved. Growing at a rate of just two to five inches per year, saguaros don’t even begin to sprout arms until they are approximately 75 years old. The largest, many-armed saguaros may be over two hundred years old. A saguaro may survive drought, lightning strikes, and vandalism only to topple in an ordinary storm. A desiccated skeleton may stand for months after the cactus has died, seemingly impervious to the elements, then fall to the ground at the slightest change in the wind.

During my two years in Tucson as a graduate student at the University of Arizona, I never ceased to be thrilled by the countless saguaros standing at attention along the roadsides. Whenever I needed a quick break from the city, I would drive west along Speedway Boulevard and up the road through Gates Pass, across the jagged Tucson Mountains. In the late afternoon, the saguaros cast intriguing shadows and the peaks glowed purple, appearing almost translucent. At night, the mountains blocked out the city lights, revealing billions of stars and the misty white of the Milky Way. Against all those pinpricks of light or the gleam of the moon, the inky silhouettes of saguaros took on a mysterious quality. During summer storms, they stood boldly against the lashing rain, brought into sharp relief by flashes of lightning cutting crooked paths across the sky. Unmoving sentinels, the saguaros seemed to stand guard over the other plants and animals of the desert.

These days I live in Seattle, where the climate is about as different from Tucson’s as possible. The Pacific Northwest, with its greenery and rushing rivers, suits me better than Arizona, but the desert had its own special beauty. There was something magical about the light, the sunsets, the dramatic storms, and those startling bursts of color when the cacti and wildflowers bloomed. As for the saguaros, they’re like old friends, or lovers, who linger in your mind long after you have parted ways. They’re not very good at keeping in touch, but whenever I visit, it’s like a reunion.