When I first came to Tucson, I couldn't imagine I'd ever contemplate becoming one of those residents who vacates for six months out of the year. I don't remember thinking the actual thought how bad could it be? But I must have, because what I feel now is chagrin, regret, and embarrassment. After a year in Tucson, I begin to understand that I've moved to the Mars. Being a snowbird is starting to seem like a survival option, rather than a way to flaunt how many homes one has.
Only poor Tucsonans are out in the daytime. They stand on street corners holding up signs in leathery hands. They set up house in the culverts that drain into the washes—not a good place to be in monsoon. Have you seen video of a wall of sticks, trash, and floodwater tearing up trees and shrubs as it moves down a wash? If I ever happen to see the actual beginning of a raging river, it most likely means I didn't get out of the way in time and off I go, headed for the next county.
It's mostly the poor people who get creamed by speeding cars as they cross the street to the grocery store after dark. Tucson ranks thirteenth on the list for U.S. pedestrian fatality counts. It's not just my imagination. Walking here is dangerous. If you walk in the mid-morning you fry from excessive UV rays. If you walk in the afternoon, you run the risk of heat stroke, not to mention getting torched by lightning if a thunderstorm cell happens to sneak up and dump on you. If you walk after dark, you run the risk of getting mowed down by a texting Tucsonan in an SUV.
Bicyclists don't fare well here either. Early mornings are most dangerous. They ride in packs, wearing bright uniforms, but that isn't always enough to save them.
Heat is a tangible thing. Along about noon, I wet a tank top, drape it over my head, and stand in front of the fan for a minute. The water coming out of the cold water tap is warm. Really hot days (over 110F) require two wet tank tops. Evaporative cooling works well here in the desert.
Around 5:00 pm, when I'm done with my Zoom calls, I punch the button on the wall unit and let the roar overtake me. It sounds like a jet is warming up in my living room but it throws out cold air, and that's all that matters. After thirty minutes, the place is cool, but it heats up rapidly as soon as I turn it off. The entire front wall of the apartment radiates heat. It's a wonder the fridge still works. (Knocking on wood now.)
In the mornings, the skies are clear blue. Around 2:00 pm, I usually see big white fluffy clouds starting to boil up to the south. Within an hour, the visible sky is a grungy shade of gray, a color I am very familiar with, having grown up in the Pacific Northwest. In Portland, that kind of sky in summer would indicate 70F, maybe sprinkles, good walking weather. Here, it means 107F, humidity, excessive UV risk, and threat of thunderstorms. Who can live like this!?
Now my computer is notifying me of rain off and on, showing me a little umbrella icon. Isn't Windows cute? If a thunderstorm parks itself over me, an umbrella won't do much good. Thunderstorms here tear down powerlines and uproot trees. So far this season, very little rain has fallen in the actual city of Tucson. Waiting for rain is a useless waste of time. I keep thinking I hear rain but it's just the neighbor kids on their bikes outside my window. Storm cells move through bringing dust clouds but no rain.
My sister suggested I get in my car and go north. Or up. Either one or both. She's right. I think the only way to survive living on Mars is to be a snowbird. People who don't escape to a summer home in the Northwest clog the roads to 9,000 ft. tall Mt. Lemmon, the local equivalent of Mt. Hood, where the temperature is thirty degrees cooler than in the valley. I see the mountain forecast on the news. People ride on the ski lifts, even though there's no snow.
I haven't driven up to Mt. Lemmon yet. I continue to wait for monsoon, keeping cool in the Bat Cave and packing for my move next month to the Trailer.
