A Climate Crime Scene in the Sonoran Desert

Heidi Siegmund Cuda reports on how climate change is threatening the iconic Saguaros of North America's Sonoran Desert

The iconic Saguaro cactus. Photo: Heidi Siegmund Cuda

“Indeed I live in the dark ages… 

Ah, what an age it is

When to speak of trees is almost a crime

For it is a kind of silence about injustice.”

Bertolt Brecht, To Posterity (Translated by H R Hays)

The desert sky is pink and subtle, muted like a faded postcard. I miss the astrophysicist, who used to tell me things about scattered light and black holes, gravitational waves and string theory. I understood little but loved the magic — a universe filled with wonder and beauty, particles colliding.

As the pink sky becomes blue black, the stars reveal themselves — first just a few — blink — then more — blink blink — then millions, sky sparklers, shooting through the night, an infinite tiara crowning the cosmos.

I see heaven in moments such as these, and I don’t want to miss a single second of the wonder and beauty.

I come to the desert to wash my spirit clean, as John Muir wrote of our national parks.

I spent much of the pandemic in the Southwest, driving through the desert — Tucson, Arizona; Silver City, New Mexico; the Grand Canyon and Monument Valley — Navajoland; Joshua Tree, California; Moab, Utah.

Saguaro cactus in bloom. Photo: Heidi Siegmund Cuda

The Saguaro

I fell in love with the Saguaro — an iconic, statuesque cactus that can live 150 years or more and is recognised worldwide for its multiple arms, giving the cactus a jaunty look, always ready for its closeup. In 2020, I decided the Saguaro was my spirit animal — resilient and sturdy, prickly on the outside but with reservoirs that sustained them on the inside.

I found strength in the durability of the desert and in the Saguaros in particular. They bear fruit and when the monsoons come, you can expect a crown of blossoms that are glorious in spring. I was lucky to be in Tucson in May of 2021, when the Saguaro blossoms were dazzling and abundant.

So when my friend sent me an image of a Saguaro that had collapsed after the heatwave in July, it looked like a crime scene. Flattened and lifeless, all that was missing was a chalk outline.