Saguaro Wanderings: Seeing 2013 (#25)

For your consideration: a mother-child reunion (perhaps) . . .

The setting: an early morning hike in the Saguaro National Park, destination Wasson Peak via the Hugh Norris Trail.

Having grown up in Tucson (back in a time when large swaths of natural desert still survived within the city limits) I learned at an early age to respect the pointed, painful dangers of navigating paths more often than not dotted with well-armed cacti. The species posing hazards to the unwary were plentiful and varied: barrel cacti, century plants, saguaro, prickly pear and juniper, among others.

The most fearsome of all, of course, was the infamous Jumping Cholla (pronounced "choy-ya"). By the age of five, any kid growing up in the Tucson of my youth well knew the supernatural, malevolent powers of this particular desert inhabitant.

Oh yes: they stood seemingly inert, silently biding time and enduring the passing of the blistering summer sun, impervious to the heat as were the rest of their needle-armed kin. We children weren't fooled, however: plentiful were the stories of sudden, unprovoked attacks on playmates who let their guard down. The lore was maturely established.

Even so, it did seem at some level hard to really believe such a thing was possible —that a plant, rooted in the ground, could spontaneously fling itself at passersby, with painful results. Nonetheless, we all knew that the first rule of playing in our natural surroundings was to give the jumpers a wide berth.

As for me, the day inevitably arrived when I must've gotten careless, if not cavalier . . . without any provocation on my part — honest! — the lone cholla in my neighbor's yard lunged and got me! I'd like to believe that I fell to the ground and stoically, bravely yelled to my playing mates "I've been hit!", but 'tis far more likely I burst into tears and immediately fled the ambush in search of parental triage.

Years, nay decades have passed (without a purple heart I might add), and I've come to believe that of course these well-defended organisms are benign, unless brushed up against. Certainly such plants can't harbor sentient sensibilities, let alone piercing strategic tendencies.

However . . . discovering this particular specimen . . . Well, it does seem to be cradling an offspring, yes? A ginger embrace . . . and did I hear whispers of "wait until he [me] gets closer . . . patience . . . patience . . ." Or was that just my vivid imagination?

Regardless . . . although I know better . . I gave this prickly pair plenty of room as I continued my own assault, upwards towards Wasson's summit.

It's never a good idea to disturb a mother and her cub.