“I take my shirt off and hang it over a chair; the sweat-soaked armpits will dry within five minutes, leaving a time of salt along the seams. Hastily I assemble a couple of sandwiches: lettuce, left-over bacon from breakfast, sliced ham, peanut butter, salami, longhorn cheese, cashews, raisins horseradish, anything else that will fit comfortably between two slices of bread – and take the dewy pitcher of juice and hasten outside and through the storm of sunlight over the baking sandstone of the 33,000 acre terrace to the shade and the relative coolness of the ramada.
“The thermometer nailed to a post reads 110 degrees F, but in the shade, with a breeze and almost no humidity, such a temperature is comfortable, even pleasant. I sit down at the table, pull off my boots and socks, dig my toes into the gritty, cleansing sand. Fear no more the heat of the sun. This is comfort. More, this is bliss, pure smug animal satisfaction. I relax beneath the sheltering canopy of juniper boughs and gaze out squinting and blinking at a pink world being sunburned to death.”
Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire 1968