Precious space
Digital detox and the desert
“We need a refuge even though we may never need to set foot in it. We need the possibility of escape as surely as we need hope…” – Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire
At least twice yearly I put my phone in airplane mode and camp in the desert for the better part of a week. I usually go somewhere that doesn’t have cell coverage anyway, but such places are dwindling, so airplane mode is a kind of safety feature.
This tradition started by default—17 years ago, my partner and I began camping in Death Valley National Park over Thanksgiving weekend. We never had cell service back then. It was just us, the pickup truck, and the tent—and very few, if any, fellow visitors.
That changed in 2020, when, with few other options and cabin fever to the hilt, many people discovered camping as a reasonably tolerable alternative to bingeing Netflix.
So we switched our weekends, and swapped out the natural areas. We discovered that surrounding Death Valley National Park and beyond is a vast network of Bureau of Land Management lands that are minimally visited (especially on weekdays) and wide open for free camping, hiking, stargazing, and exploring.
More than just empty space
On each return to a week-long sojourn in the vast openness of these landscapes, I find an ever-deepening sense of peace.
The desert has always been a meaningful place for me—since living in Arizona in the early 2000s, I’ve noticed that the desert feels like home in a way nowhere else does.
For most of 2005, I snowmobiled, snowshoed, and drove ATVs through what remained of the Boreal forest in northwestern Ontario, Canada. I was studying American marten—a svelte mammal in the weasel family that is more commonly known as sable when it’s used to make fur coats.
On one of those seemingly interminable drives to a field site one day, a coworker was curious why I spoke of the desert so reverently.
He asked, genuinely and innocently, “Isn’t it all just…dead?”
I explained how the desert is actually full of life adapted to extreme conditions; how I love the honesty of the mountains that are just there, naked, for all to see; and how I didn’t think it was any coincidence that many faith-based traditions have originated from desert regions.
He was silent for a while. Then he responded, “Oh. That’s a good answer.”1
The magic of the desert ecosystem combined with a freedom from being reachable appears to be one alchemical solution that radically supports my wellbeing. This has become increasingly true as disconnecting seems to be getting ever-more difficult.
What is a digital detox?
“The desert is where we are voluntarily under-stimulated—no feedback, no new data.”
- Richard Rohr, Everything Belongs
Rather than being against technology, a digital detox is for freedom—to think and simply be, uninterrupted, or to not think at all.
I’ve found that the freedom to think all my own thoughts without taking in new ones from anyone (or anything) else is a rare and precious, beautiful thing. It is excellent for the creative process. The brain can only do so much.
A true digital detox leaves behind all digital devices, and while I typically have my phone in airplane mode on desert camping trips, I still use it to take photos, videos, and notes. I give these tools a waiver because I derive so much creative value from their use.
One drawback to taking photos, however, is the act of putting a device between my direct experience of something and the thing itself.
writes in :If an influencer takes a selfie, but there’s nobody around to like it, did he take a selfie?
No doubt, he had a virulent case of that modern affliction: the Fear of Missing Out. This box-ticking disease is everywhere one looks. At concerts, out are the lighters, and in are the smartphones recording footage nobody will ever willingly watch. At every major landmark in every major city, swarms of standardised faces jostle for selfies. We’d rather prove we were present than be present. We’d rather be seen than see. Ironically, by fearing we’ll miss out, we miss out.
For me, it’s less about showing others what I’ve done and where I’ve been (though I often enjoy sharing these things), but to remind myself what I’ve seen and done. Which makes me wonder: why don’t I trust my memory to do that for me? Perhaps it’s not about memory at all, but something else.
The “real-deal” digital detox
Last spring, I had the opportunity to do a true digital—and media—detox: no phones, no books, not even journals were recommended. It took place near the tech epicenter that is South Bay Area of California.
On that four-day silent meditation retreat, we were given the option to turn over our phones. I elected to place a sticky note with my name on it and tuck mine gently into the wooden crate the smiling woman held out in front of her just for that purpose.
Over the course of the retreat, I was startled to learn how often I had the impulse to reach for my phone.
I learned how frequently I check the time. (A lot.)
On a walk in the woods, I’d see something beautiful and want to take a photo. Realizing my phone wasn’t there, I’d take the time to appreciate the object or scene in the moment, knowing I would likely never see it again, and if I did, on the next trip around, it would be different.
It made very clear the ephemerality of…just about everything. Perhaps the compulsion to snap a photo is a way of detaching from this ephemerality, giving in to the illusion that if I preserve it in my pocket (which isn’t really my pocket, but the cloud) it can’t end; the precious moment can’t die.
To have my full attention on little more than my own thoughts for four days—in the absence of speaking, conversation, writing, or any kind of media—was at first troubling to say the least, but by the end it was nothing short of psychedelic.
The psychedelic stream
The words in this section cannot accurately convey the experience, because it was beyond words. Still, I will try so that you can read some kind of approximation about it.
At the end of the second-to-last day of the retreat, I enjoyed a walk around the beautiful grounds. I discovered a new trail, which took me down a steep bank, across a meadow, and to a bench hidden behind some willow branches next to a bubbling stream.
Amazed at my good fortune, I took a seat and began to watch the water. I felt as if I needed and wanted absolutely nothing, other than to be exactly where I was. More like complete contentment than elation, it was uplifting yet calming at the same time.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the water. The early afternoon sun was hitting the ripples in such a way that the light danced. The shapes on the water shifted and changed into otherworldly forms.
It was sort of like the 3D optical illusion posters from the 1990s.
Beginning my drive home the next day, I calmly merged onto the busy freeway. I elected not to turn on an audiobook or podcast. I enjoyed the silence and the scenery, and marveled at the way traffic flowed smoothly, like an expertly choreographed dance.
If you’ve ever been to the South Bay, you know these words don’t typically describe the traffic there. Clearly, this experience changed my perception for a while.
It wore off.
But its memory has pointed the way to a bit of freedom from what some spiritual traditions might call the “small self”—that part that is self-centered, self-consumed, self-serving, and selfish.
I did not have a psychedelic experience on my desert digital detox last week. But the peace I find in the vast desert landscape continues to bring a magic all its own, every single time.
Mojave Trails National Monument
This 1.6 million acre natural area is managed by the Bureau of Land Management and protects the important wildlife corridor between Joshua Tree National Park to the south and the Mojave National Preserve to the north. It is also home to the longest remaining contiguous stretch of historic Route 66.
My partner and I never know exactly where we are going, and just trust that somewhere in the millions of desert acres we will find a nice place to set up camp for the night. This time was no different: we arrived just before sunset, popped up the truck camper, and set out for a walk in the direction of the most beautiful wildflowers.
The dogs pranced around, happy to be off-leash, as this is the only place it is safe enough for them to do so, with no cars around for miles. Our dog came running up to us with pollen dabbed on her head.
The scent of wildflowers drifted on the breeze. The setting sun turned everything gold, then ochre.
On a typical vacation, it can take a few days for the nervous system to settle. But in the desert, it appears to begin calming as soon as I arrive. I found myself breathing more deeply, and my shoulders softened as they relaxed away from my ears. Simply fixing my eyes on the broad distant horizon instilled a sense of safety. Like arriving home.
I was exhausted. I had stayed up late the night before working on a project, and the last two months have been intense. I slept nearly 12 hours the first two nights as my body got the signal to begin to play catch-up.
The next few days were filled with hiking, rock and wildflower discovery, stargazing, cloud watching, and staring at the horizon. They went incredibly fast. Soon, it was time to pack up the happily tired-out dogs and merge onto the freeway home.
Traffic did not feel like a graceful dance, but I enjoyed watching the snow-capped San Gabriel and San Bernadino Mountains fill up more and more of the windshield as we headed west.
It’s worth noting here that this person was really good at learning something and standing corrected without needing to argue or defend their original perception. This intellectual humility is rare, precious, and admirable. More on this concept in a future post.