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We later commissioned a large canvas of our beloved Angus driving a ’55 British MG (right-side drive!) with his stalwart companions. Perhaps Aaron will one day find himself so immortalized.

Isn’t it amazing how quickly an animal can wiggle into your heart?

I adore his amber eyes and toffee-colored ears.

His utter solemnity.

His distinctive eyelashes that jut straight out.

The way he steadily holds my gaze.

His short bowed legs and sturdy chest—which form a perfect heart shape.

The click-click-click of his pale toenails on the tile floors.

The way he neatly folds his front legs under him like a contented cat.

His fascination with our pond and its inhabitants—two inquisitive turtles and a gaggle of goldfish.

His complete willingness to take us at our word that all will be well in this strange desert world of hot pavement and triple-digit temps.

I should call him Shadow since he’s become mine. Manifesting some separation anxiety, he toggles from living-room bed to office bed whenever I make a move. I find myself frozen in place for fear of disrupting his slumbers. Hard on someone with ants in her pants!

My friends are so happy for us, bestowing gracious commendations: “He couldn’t have found a better home.” “What a lucky dog.”

But it’s Julia (up in her lovely San Francisco aerie)—who herself adopted an abandoned cat from here in the desert—who said it best when she saw the staggering number of views his rescue video had logged. “And you’re the lucky one who got him!”

Laura mentioned that since the video has gone viral (as most of Hope for Paws stories do), she’s fielded more than 75 inquiries from around the country about the scruffy white dog with the Jack Russell DNA.

Today marks the third-week anniversary of his arrival in our desert home. He’s snoozing under my desk as I pen this story.

And we’ve named him Kobi.

Most memorable screen lovers in annals of moviemaking.

Gone With the Wind delivered the goods with its sweeping cinematography and score, redoubtable storytelling and charismatic leads (mopey Leslie Howard as Ashley aside) adroitly channeling their fictional counterparts. Even author Margaret Mitchell graciously bestowed her approbation. My all-time favorite page-to-frame retelling? To Kill a Mockingbird. Its bleak ambiance, lyrical, melancholy score, spot-on performances, and intuitive depiction of disturbing subject matter bequeathed a small, enduring treasure to the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel’s legions of lovers. Harper Lee was also pleased with the cinematic endeavor, commenting to a bemused Gregory Peck that his small tummy pooch reminded her of own beloved father—the inspiration for her indelible protagonist Atticus Finch.

Outlander just wrapped its debut season on the Starz network, delivering its final episode this weekend after tweaking its fervid followers with a bifurcated season stretching over ten long months. The searingly intense final chapter fully met its weighty obligation—concluding a tumultuous storyline unfolding over 16 breathtaking episodes.

Candy-colored display of the Outlander series.

Based on a best-selling first novel published more than 20 years ago—whose rousing success birthed a steady series encompassing an additional seven hefty tomes (with interminable interims between each iteration that agonized its devoted readers)—Outlander on film had a lot to live up to. It met the challenge. And delivered spectacularly through its cinematic journey.

Granted, producer Ronald D. Moore had the relative luxury of more hours in which to bring the 600-plus-page jam-packed tale to the small screen than his big-screen brethren. More is not always more in the real world, however. Many long-winded TV adaptions of popular literature have landed with a thud. For every solid translation like The Thorn Birds, The Winds of War, or the recent Game of Thrones, there are numerous duds such as War and Remembrance (Wouk’s sequel) The Martian Chronicles, The Andromeda Strain, even that childhood perennial, A Wrinkle in Time, which was intended as a series then squished into a long film. Madeline L’Engle opined on the dud: “I expected it to be bad, and it is.”

Outlander author Diana Gabaldon will not be making any such denunciatory remarks. Warmly welcomed into the creative fold at the outset as more than a titular consultant, she has been voluble in expressing both awe and appreciation for her supporting role as source code and guidance counselor to the decision-makers. That she is truly pleased with the artistic outcome speaks volumes about the reverence and fidelity paid to her impossible-to-categorize fable. Gabaldon herself has quipped that she’s spent decades exhorting bookstores not to slot her unique books into any one facile, misleading category such as sci-fi or historical romance.

Claire and Frank wander Culloden Moor, site of the doomed Jacobite uprising of 1746.

Her time-travelling heroine, WWII combat nurse Claire Randall, and stalwart 18^th century Highlander Jamie Fraser are improbably flung together in the turbulent times leading up to the feckless but bonny Prince Charles’ ill-conceived attempt to wrest the once-Stuart throne back from the wig-kicking, dull-witted Hanoverian King George II. Although the two endeavor mightily to alter the tragic outcome of Culloden Moor on the Scottish clan system, their crafty machinations are not revealed until the second book, Dragonfly in Amber. Later, after a painful 20-year separation, they magically reunite and trundle off for more heart-stopping exotic adventures, ultimately landing in the roiling American colonies just in time to participate in the Revolutionary War!

These are superbly written books that cannot be put down. Wondrously plotted with insightfully nuanced characters, richly delineated and historically accurate, the novels’ history-alive narrative found me happily delving into dusty history books and digital arenas to further explore the tantalizing realms of my own ancestral roots.

Like the two iconic films mentioned at the outset, I experienced Outlander on film pretty much in tandem with the books. I greedily devoured GWTW while traveling by train through Europe in my college years then experienced the intermission-necessary glorious screen epic upon returning home. I remember being overwhelmed with Selznick’s jaw-dropping effort. To Kill a Mockingbird was de rigueur reading in high school literature class. Seeing the black-and-white 1962 film on TV not long after left me knowing I’d experienced two rare and precious things at an early age.

I committed to the Outlander mini-series after reading a laudatory review prefacing its debut. From the outset, I knew the show was something special. I decided to buy the first book of the series—Outlander, a pejorative word for the out-of-place English lass adrift in the wooly Highlands—and only then discovered the sheer breadth of the author’s literary success. The book was something special as well. So were the next seven I compulsively read, each seemingly longer than its predecessor, each propulsively plotted and beautifully written. Particularly well-crafted sentences demanded rereading.

I haven’t been as smitten with a book series since my early love affair with Nancy Drew. (When I discovered much, much later that the intrepid Nancy, her own stalwart college boyfriend and plucky girlfriends hadn’t been created by any such person as Carolyn Keene, I felt keenly cheated. For the record, I’m middle-aged and still feel cheated.)

Since I read the Outlander books in tandem with the series, I didn’t bring long-burnished memories of cherished characters along with my TV snacks. Or, glowering suspicion about miscasting, typecasting, or god forbid, how-dare-they-even-attempt-to-cast Claire and Jamie at all!! Sort of like the hoopla surrounding Scarlett and Rhett. Oh, wait. Rhett was expressly written with Clark Gable in mind. One problem solved. (Interestingly enough, just like GWTW, Outlander didn’t find the distaff part of the key equation until shortly before filming.)

With characters and plotline still fresh in my mind, I watched the film unspool. Like the earlier book-to-film efforts I’d experienced, I simply brought a newer, tad more dispassionate eye to the film rendition. Which deserves all accolades. Somehow wielding that ineffable movie magic, the film producers, writers and directors have wrought a stunning recreation of an equally stunning pretend world. Characters large and small indelibly inhabit their roles in the unfolding multi-dimensioned, multi-century story. From Murtagh’s pockmarked scowl and eyebrow eloquence to Colum MacKenzie’s commanding presence and disconcerting gait, Angus and Rupert’s irrepressible comic duo to Claire and Jamie’s shivery, smoldering passion and wordless glances, each actor playing a critical role will be proud to note this participation on his CV.

The wondrous wedding episode, my favorite of the lot. (Starz photo)

The swan-necked Caitriona Balfe and virile Sam Heughan infuse each molecule of their meaty roles with intelligence and grace. With the added privilege of literary familiarity, I’m struck anew with how bloody good actors can be at capturing a writer’s vision.

The film’s verisimilitude is incredible.

Home to Lallybroch (Starz photo)

Scotland’s misty forests and ancient edifices frame and enhance the action’s breathless action while negating over-reliance on computer graphics. Even seasoned pros have expressed amazement over the natural scenery.

Costumer designer Terry Dresbach and her nimble-fingered minions fashioned reams of period-perfect outfits out of vintage bits and bobs to create a down-to-the-shoes, well-worn, oft-grimy authenticity. The metallic-embroidered wedding dress fully embodies the cornerstone marriage and should be enshrined in a costume museum.

Save for Angus’ missing front teeth and gaoler Marley’s rotten incisor, the abundance of healthy dentition is one of the few discordant notes struck in the enterprise. Since I appreciate well-ordered pearly whites (as does dental-conscious Claire in the books), I’m quite willing to let that slide. And as a female viewer, although it is a bit jarring to see a surfeit of male skin, I am pretty sure Protestant men weren’t circumcised in 1700s Europe! But, hey, I’m not going to knock full frontal nudity for either sex.

Most importantly, they got the intrinsic plotline just right. Claire and Jamie’s timeless love story unwinds compellingly in a circuitous, century-hopping narrative arc. Complex plot points have been judiciously parsed and distilled to accommodate the exigencies of filmed storytelling. I admired the writers’ reframing of the wedding episode—cleverly told in flashback to incorporate all key players—and their substitution of The Watch’s venality for tenant McNab’s perfidy in maneuvering Jamie back into Black Jack’s clutches. The final episode’s harrowing tale of physical and psychological torture was modified judiciously but hewed faithfully to Gabaldon’s own dark denouement.

When writers can distill intricate works of literature into a faithful, cogent vision, and directors and cinematographers can execute that vision seamlessly on screen, the result is inspiring. I’m no a cineaste and dinna kin overly much about moviemaking (to channel my inner Scot), but Outlander has made a bravura transition from page to screen. Slàinte!

Claire and Jamie head to France at the conclusion of Outlander

On another bucolic Easter day five years ago, Karen Ralke—my busom buddy in all things art—and I were departing the Indian Wells Arts Festival with our treasures when the Baja California Quake let loose. The car pitched alarmingly on the grassy lot and it took way too long for the two native Californians to realize what was up. Turned out to be a hefty 7.2 quake, the strongest southern California quake in 18 years. Karen and I took our slightly shaken selves off to Panini to chill out over a coffee.

Today’s arts festival visit on another bunnies-and-chicks day served up compelling artwork instead of earthly tremors.

I’ve attended every show since its debut 13 years ago and it has become a polished gem in the impressive Coachella Valley art scene. It has been rated “Best of the Best” by Palm Springs Life magazine and boasts a top 100 slot in the nation’s fine art and craft shows. Its enviable venue at the sleek Indian Wells Tennis Garden—which just finished yet another attendance-setting BNP Paribas Open—sets the stage for a multi-dimensional artistic experience.

Compelling artists, varied demonstrations, live music, kid-oriented activities, and tented food court are scattered appealingly throughout the tree-lined grassy enclave. Lots of  new artists to this juried show which awarded ribbons in 11 categories and 20 mediums.

Returning after last year’s successful debut, the Objet Trouvé Found Art Festival sprawls over the venue perimiter with displays by 50 artists creating one-of-a-kind artworks for sale. Inspired by an art movement from turn-of-the-century Paris, the exhibition features a 20-foot-high replica of La Tour Eiffel.

Karen and I chatted up several artists, excitedly finding a new one that spoke to both of us. Hailing from Sun Valley, jeweler Michele Black’s booth Esoterica features distinctive metalwork and designs. Karen lusted after an intricately-clasped bead bracelet and I ogled the component necklace pieces. Esoterica baubles are now on our art wish-list.

Red geraniums, stately palms and a plalanx of fluttering silk banners punctuate the grand entrance avenue. The soft-hued silk pieces were created by the teenage girls of The Ophelia Project of Coachella Valley, one of the festival’s community partners. Melissa Riche, an articulate ambassador of the philanthropic endeavor, explained the volunteer group’s goals and success in mentoring adolescent girls throughout the valley. Hundreds of girls attending 11 area schools are encouraged to succeed academically through a dedicated group of professional women. To date, The Ophelia Project has impacted the futures of 2,850 girls since its inception in 1998.

Glendale artist Erin Hanson’s work was honored this year when her impressionistic desertscape, Indian Wells in Bloom, was chosen for the festival’s 2015 poster.

A few miles away on this springtime day, the Dinah Shore golf event (this year rebranded as the ANA Inspiration) wraps up the ladies favorite tournament of the year while the all-gals spin-off celebration known as The Dinah concludes its music-and-pool-parties bash in Palm Springs.

Kirk and I perambulated the fairways of the Mission Hills Golf Club on Day 2 of the event,  zigzagging the eucalyptus-lined course in a successful attempt to watch all our favorite female athletes. Julie Inkster, a lean, lithe 54-year-old turned in a robust first-round but faltered a bit the next two days.

Stacy Lewis, former world-number-one, just goes about her business with quiet equanimity while all eyes watched the 17-year-old phenom from New Zealand, Lydia Ko, attempt to beat Annika Sorrenstam’s unrivaled 29 rounds of under-par golf.

I’ve been rooting for Morgan Pressel this year. She won as an 18-year-old back in 2007, cannonballing into Poppy’s Pond with her caddie and grandmother. Her mother was unable to join the soaking celebration since she’d died four years earlier from breast cancer. Pressel seems poised and unflappable this event and it’s joyful to watch.

So, that’s my Easter Sunday to date. Here’s a black-and-white of a long-ago springtime celebration.

Those cheerful chicks are me and my sister, Terez, sporting Easter grins and baskets in our Santa Barbara hometown.

With Joan donning the chauffeur’s cap and me directing, four of us piled into the car on a balmy spring day and entered the park’s southern entrance at Cottonwood Springs just 30 miles from our front door.

Added to the nation’s jewel box of national parks in 1994 sixty years after Teddy Roosevelt first proclaimed it a National Monument, Joshua Tree is easily the most unique swath of protected land in our fifty states. Two distinct desert systems—the Mojave and Colorado (which extends to our Coachella Valley as well)—converge over 800,000 acres of wilderness.

Driving south to north, the ribbon of road steadily ascends and each mile lapped affords amazing new sights.

Right away, we spot a coyote trotting purposefully alongside the two-lane macadam. I snap his photo from the car as he paces us nonchalantly before veering off deeper into the terrain. I am thrilled with my very first park sighting of this remarkably adaptable desert mammal.

We stop to read about the Pinto Indians who inhabited this land 19,000 years ago during a wetter period.

I jump on a rock to take my picture with Gene, Joan’s strapping husband. During our childhood, my sister and I referred to him as “the big man.” You can see why; even at 80 years of age, he’s still physically imposing.

As we pass the turnoff for Black Eagle Mine Road, I am vividly reminded of last September’s tragedy involving a young Dutch/German couple who visited the park on a toasty 107° day, decided to explore this dirt side road, got stuck in the sand, and unwisely chose to leave their air-conditioned car to walk for help. They died of exposure and dehydration within seven hours of entering the park.

Kirk and I played golf in Palm Springs the very next day, enduring scorching temps of 114°. Even with plenty of water and cool grass underneath, I succumbed to the heat on the back nine and lay on the grass the final few holes. It’s very easy to underestimate the desert’s beautiful but forbidding world.

We stop to stroll among the ocotillos—typical of the Colorado Desert and the name of the development in which I live—now sprouting orange blossoms at the tips of each spiny frond.

Further up the road we spy a mini forest of cacti glinting brightly in the sun. We wind our way through a quarter-mile serpentine trail of Cholla Cactus, nicknamed “jumping cholla” for its tendency to attach itself to the unwary. During my last visit, I was startled to look down and see a bristly pod tenaciously attached to my sneaker.

Joan is fascinated with the otherworldly scenery and ultimately surmounts the plant’s Spanish pronunciation. Choy-ya, choy-ya, we chant.

We consult the trail guide pointing out the area’s flora and fauna, looking in vain for a nesting cactus wren among the formidable spines and making due with lazy lizards.

That’s me pronouncing the Jojoba shrub by the path side; the plant’s oil is often used as a lubricant or cosmetic. I realize belatedly that the accent falls on the second syllable not the final.

As the road rises in elevation, we start spotting Joshua Trees—the park’s namesake—with their outstretched limbs. A member of the Agave family and an indicator that we had now crossed over into the higher elevations of the Mojave Desert, the unusual tree was useful to the American Indians and named by Mormon pioneers after the biblical figure, Joshua.

Soon we start spotting Joshua’s distinctive rock piles and Joan senses how magical this place really is. We stop to explore the first big outcrop of smoothly rounded rocks, marveling at their geologic origins.

At White Tank campground, we trek the .3 mile loop of Arch Rock, stopping to read the signposts explaining the history of the Dr. Suess-like granite formations.

The magnificent terrain perfectly encapsulates the story of 100 million-year-old molten liquid thrusting up beneath surface rock. The plutonic intrusions became granitic rock called monzogranite. You can spot dikes—formed when the molten rock was pushed into existing joint fractures–by the trail of rock spines bisecting the rocks on the right side of the photo. They remind me of dinosaur scales.

When Joan spots this massive boulder rising above its brethren, she marvels at its resemblance to a whale. Amazingly true and I can’t believe I didn’t spot it before. I will call it Moby Rock.

It’s difficult to stop taking pictures of this fantastical scenery, so reminiscent of Disneyland’s fondly remembered ’50s attraction, Mine Train Through Nature’s Wonderland.  I am certain Walt’s Imagineers visited Joshua Tree for their Frontierland inspiration.

Gene and Joan oblige me by popping under the beak of this predatory rock, carved from water erosion over eons.

Finding a picnic table, we spread out our lunch goodies for a deserved respite from the morning’s sightseeing. A young German couple does the same at a nearby table. One more reason to love special places like this–sharing them with international visitors who must marvel at America’s natural splendors.

We spot some tiny Antelope ground squirrels scampering around the huge boulders and I can’t resist feeding them almonds and apples.

I notice a huge raven perched atop some of the impressively-bisected boulders and like the resulting snapshot.

We decide to exit the park via one of the two northern entrances, choosing Twentynine Palms and its Oasis of Mara exhibit. The palm oasis was home first to American Indians, then 1800s’ prospectors,  followed by 1940s’ homesteaders. It’s now the park headquarters and the Oasis Visitor Center. The wonderful revolving sculpture is by the same artist who created a similar one for The Living Desert.

Kirk picked out a T-shirt and cap—his favorite sartorial atire—and we browsed the books and interpreteive displays before realizing my relatives were MIA. Sure enough. They were back in the car ready to go.

“If we were traveling in Europe together, you’d be in and out of the museums lickety-split.” Joan laughs indulgently at my wry observation.

Joshua Tree has witnessed Indians, gold prospectors, cattle rustlers, ranchers, and homesteaders in its ancient and colorful history. Because of tireless efforts by Minerva Hmailton Hoyt, who championed the desert’s unique properties, it’s now a permanent host to nature lovers who savor its magnificent wildflowers, hiking trails, palm oases, climbing rocks, animal species, and breathtaking beauty.

The man who poked the universe has died. From the ubiquitous tribulations flooding the news, it’s clear that Steve Jobs did make a difference in people’s lives. That somewhat sententious sentiment befits this man who essentially changed the way we view technology.

Earlier this year, I finally bought my first iPhone—joining millions of users who queued up since the market-changing mobile device first debuted in 2007—and was immediately smitten with its sleek design and tactile interface. With browser, phone and email capabilities, I am no longer tethered to my desktop computer, and have also figured out how to download podcasts of my favorite shows. That’s me laughing on the elliptical at the gym, listening to CarTalk through the telltale white earbuds.

I also bought the white keyboard for my home computer. Its low-slung, perfectly proportioned design is a pleasure to type on. Both of these products were packaged beautifully with succinct instructions and a dearth of distracting ink. I was loath to toss the keyboard box—with its virtual expanse of pristine whiteness—and still can’t bring myself to part with the iPhone’s cunningly crafted container.

Unwrapping an Apple product is just part of the overall sensory experience which begins with compelling adverts, continues through stunning Apple stores, and concludes with satisfying product interaction. It turns out, unsurprisingly, that Steve Jobs’ input figured into every facet of the creative process.

When first unveiling his New York Apple flagship store to the editor of PC World, Jobs waxed enthusiastic about the exact origin of the Italian Carerra marble. A friend who’s directed the construction of each Apple store often speaks about the high-end materials and customized fixtures gathered from around the world to create the sleekly contemporary edifices.

Jobs’ aesthetic predilections were evinced early on. I can wrap my creative efforts in a plethora of fonts, all because of Job’s early insistence that font choice be an integral part of word processing. His love of fontography serendipitously emanated from a college calligraphy class.

I had lunch today in Palm Springs with “my Dutch guys”—Walther Kloet, an Amsterdam architect, and his partner, Robert, who own a mid-century vacation home here in the desert—and the subject of Jobs naturally arose since the world travelers are sophisticated computer users. They were actually shopping in the Santa Monica Apple store when the sad news broke and Jobs’ visage appeared simultaneously on every display. The two had visited the company’s Convent Garden venue—a cavernous space replete with customers shopping and sampling. Describing the aura of comaraderie and worship, Walther noted astutely that “it was almost like a church.”

My husband, Kirk, and I have long been Apple afficionados, going back to the original Macintosh with its smiley icon and intuitive interface. I was fortunate to work for the company in their Public Relations department, first in the late ’80s and then again in the mid ’90s. Unfortunately, Jobs had already left the company during my tenure and the organization plodded along under the earnest, but uninspired, leadership of first Sculley (who had been brought on by Jobs himself) and then Spindler. Amelio—with his post-Apple agologia—followed before Jobs was wisely reinstated.

I remember a co-worker describing her one interaction with the acerbic Jobs before he was ignominiously booted out of his own company. “What the hell do you do here?” he barked upon entering the occupied elevator. As en ex-cop, she was unruffled by his abrasiveness and stood her ground. When I recounted that memory to Kirk today, he remarked that it was a good thing I hadn’t personally encountered the founder since I would have been completely unnerved. Too right.

Apple made insanely great computers, revenue-per-employee was huge, users were uniformly smitten, but Apple couldn’t seem to gain serious market traction in penetrating the vast swath of corporate America. I have never been able to get my head around that dichotomy. It may have been the Apple name and then the prohibitive pricing that derailed mass conversion.

I admit to being one of the slightly supercilious people who pitied those who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, buy a Mac. To this day, I am still bemused by the fact that too many PC users still don’t grasp basic computer concepts and endure file-littered desktops.

Jobs didn’t waste time on such disdain. Once back at the helm in 1997, he looked beyond desktop computing to pursue other promising technologies, starting with his passion for music. He created the digital music delivery model with iTunes and the iPod. All of a sudden, everybody wanted an Apple product. With the advent of the iMac, iPhone and iPad, a global audience has implicitly endorsed the Apple operating system as well.

In paying tribute to Jobs’ achievements this week, some commentators—including personal favorites Thom Hartmann and Robert Scheer—noted that Steve hadn’t invented Apple’s compelling products so much as brilliantly marketed them. I mentioned these belittlements while reminiscing with my girlfriend, Stacy Williams, a whip-smart high-tech consultant for the past 20 years who also did a stint at Apple in the early ’90s and still writes for the iconic company.

She vividly recalls hearing a visiting Jobs speak at Apple in 1991. He’d heard such disclaimers for years in the ’80s, even from his own employees who fretted about being derivative or copy cats. “Creativity is just connecting things,” Stacy remembers him saying. “I found that to be such a freeing statement,” she adds, and has tried to incorporate his philosophy into her own creative efforts ever since.

Jobs’ pithy expression must have distilled a strong belief since he was expounding years later on it in a Wired magazine piece from 1999. Elaborating on the arcane creative process, he said that creative people often feel guilty because “they didn’t really do it; they just saw something. It seemed obvious to them after a while. That’s because they were able to connect experiences they’ve had and synthesize new things. And the reason they were able to do that was that they’ve had more experiences or they have thought more about their experiences than other people.”

Eating dinner alfresco these past few days, Kirk and I listened to music courtesy of Pandora and my iPhone. I’m writing this blog with the assistance of my Apple keyboard and trusted Mac Mini (which graciously allows me to keep one foot in the Windows world). The blog photos of a nascent Apple-store shrine to Jobs at the Palm Desert store on El Paseo were snapped with my iPhone.

I know there are lots of Apple products in my future even if I’ll never be as wired as Gen X, Y or Z.

So, I thank you, Steve Jobs, for your prescience, perspicacity and persistence!

_

Ignoring the day’s forecasted triple digits, my stalwart hiking companions, Sue and Mary Pat, donned poles and backpacks to join me early this morning on the season’s very first hike—a two-hour tromp through our favorite patch of desert, the Coachella Valley Preserve. Watching the sun crest the mountains and spill over the prickly terrain reminded us of the incredible beauty and serenity in store for us this season.

The network of trails here commences with a vertical scale up to the top of Bee-Rock Mesa, a long, narrow ridge with stellar canyon views. At the top, we decide to veer off to the south, dropping down off the mountain top toward Hidden Palms, a hidden oasis of California Palms, the only palm native to the Golden State. The difference in temperature from parched path to cool oasis is always startling, and I’m reminded of the native peoples who learned to thrive in the Palm Springs valley by relying on oases and natural water wells.

As we wended through the rustling palms—with their mysterious animal sounds—I spy coyote scat. Although I finally met a coyote face-to-face a few weeks ago while playing golf at Escena Golf Club in Palm Springs, I’ve yet to encounter one while hiking. We did see a fox here last year; that was a thrill I’d like to repeat.

Trudging up a steep incline, Sue spots something small scurry across the path. The tiny creature turns out to be a baby Horned-Toad Lizard, an exquisite reptile who could be a stand-in for a miniature triceratops. The colorfully mottled lizard blends in so well with his native terrain that Mary Pat has a hard time spotting the hunkered-down baby.

We crest the ridge to descend the one man-made part of the trail. I’m taking one final photo before tackling the formidable stairs. All of a sudden, I notice something odd—a whitish coil of serpent tucked to the side of the path. It’s a baby rattler, probably waiting for the sunshine to warm him up. Coiled in a tight bundle, he’s only about 5″ across. I think the snake’s lighter color alerted me to his presence since his camouflage wasn’t as spot-on as his lizard counterpart.

“Ladies, guess what I see?” Mary Pat and Sue dutifully clamber back up the path to ooh and aah my discovery. The rattlesnake quietly endures the photo session and no doubt wishes we would scoot.

When I return home and peruse last season’s hiking notes, I am started to realize that the first, and last, time we spotted a Western Diamondback rattlesnake was on these same steps one year ago. That specimen was fully grown, in the middle of the path, poised and rattling. During that same hike, Mary Pat had also spotted our first baby Horned-Toad Lizard. I just don’t get why a snake would want to be anywhere near a well-trod path in the first place. Surely, the thud of hikers’ boots would scare off potential prey.

Resolving to query a Coachella Valley Preserve docent later on, we reluctantly part ways with the snake and marvel at the day’s amazing animal encounters. It’s a good start to the new hiking season!

Summertime here in the Coachella Valley was pretty tame this year, with desert temps hovering mostly below 100° since May. Mother Nature saved her punch for the final week of August, serving up sizzling triple-digit days all week long. Two days after we golfed, the hottest day of the year was recorded—116°.

Just the day before that, the Desert Sun’s headline reported the death by exposure of a young couple visiting nearby Joshua Tree National Park. The Dutch/German couple paid their entry fee at noontime at the park’s southern entrance—just 30 miles from our La Quinta home—and were found dead less than seven hours later. The day’s high was only 106°.

They did everything wrong. They strayed off the main artery onto a dirt side track, ignored the “4-wheel drive-only” sign, mired their rental car in the sand five miles in, tried to unlodge it, then trudged back to the road in the blazing sun instead of remaining in the air-conditioned vehicle for rescue or the evening’s respite from the heat. His body was discovered one mile from the main road, hers a few miles further inland.

I didn’t anticipate this couple’s tragic death—an ignominious, unnecessary conclusion to a California visit—while happily swinging my golf clubs only a day before in Palm Springs.

Since we’re full-time desert residents, I didn’t think anything of the excessive heat inexorably inching upwards—attested to by my iPhone’s handy-dandy weather app—as we continuously quaffed water and steered our golf cart along Escena’s picturesque holes. I felt strong and invincible. I wonder if the vacationing couple felt any uneasiness about their predicament.

On the back nine at Escena, I looked up to see a handsome coyote prowling the perimeter. She and I took each other’s measure and then turned her laser gaze back to an oblivious rabbit nibbling the grass. All of a sudden, her nose swung back to me. That’s because I’d retrieved a hunk of raw hamburger I’d brought for any hungry roadrunners. Intrigued, the coyote came closer. I tossed the meat toward her; she appreciatively gobbled it down then looked expectantly at me for more.

“Sorry, that’s all I brought.” She trotted over to watch me tee off at the next hole, then loped behind us the length of the par-4 hole. I felt bad that I didn’t have any more treats. She finally veered off to rest in the shade of a tree.

By now, I’m in need of my own shade tree. I’m breathing hard and don’t feel up to swinging the driver. I flop down in the grass several times. Kirk continues gamely. I demur on the last few holes and relinquish the goal of a 18-hole score card.

After watching Kirk put the 18th, I walk expectantly to the Escena Grill—which serves up the desert’s most beautiful vista from its patio—anticipating the reward of an ice tea and some of their amazing homemade chips, only to be told that it had closed five minutes earlier. Oh well. It was a memorable day, we didn’t expire in the heat, and we befriended a coyote.

Melanie and Mary MacGregor

My mother would have turned 93 today. Like Betty Ford, who did live to celebrate her 93^rd earlier this year, Melanie MacGregor spent her remaining years here in the beautiful Coachella Valley desert. My husband and I built a casita for her in our La Quinta backyard where my mother and I shared her graceful final six years.

She almost made it to 90 before succumbing to old age. That was three years ago and I still expect to see her when I enter the guesthouse. I often reflect on her profound influence in my life.

When Palm Springs valley icon Betty Ford died a few weeks ago and the laudatory tributes appeared, I was struck by how much the first lady’s actions also impacted my personal life. Although Betty and Melanie’s paths never crossed here in the desert cities, their influence intersected in me.

Two women born the final year of the Great War. Both college educated and classy. Both expecting their children to earn degrees. Both children of the Depression and its long-reaching ramifications. Both artistic. Both peripatetic women who traveled and lived in many states.

While growing up in Santa Barbara, I had my mother on a pedestal. She was different from so many of my friends’ mothers, most of whom were homemakers. I was proud that she ran a business, cooked gourmet meals, prefigured Martha Stewart in her artistic breadth, was gracious and admired by my friends, was beautiful. It was only later as I matured that I reflected deeper on my parents’ strengths and weaknesses.

Sometimes I think of Oscar Wilde’s perspicacious observation: “Children begin by loving their parents; after a time they judge them; rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.”

I have long forgiven my mother’s “faults” and am now both appreciative and bemused by the legacy to her eldest daughter. Born smack in the middle of the post-war Baby Boom, I came of age in the turbulent ‘60s and ‘70s. I had to figure out many things by myself. In the MacGregor household, Melanie was unable to discuss menstruation with me, instead buying me a vaguely-written book on the maturation process. When she had a hysterectomy during my high-school years, the reasons for it were never discussed, even to her dying day. Sex and boys were not discussed. She lucked out in that regard since I didn’t date until college. Anything indelicate or untoward was eschewed. Although we dined together as a family throughout my childhood, incendiary subjects were routinely thwarted. “Oh, look at that tree.” was one of her favorite diverting expressions and one which still makes my sister laugh.

Melanie was not a storyteller. Even during her final years with me, queries about her earlier life elicited the same comment, “Oh, I don’t remember.” I used to tease her that after she was gone, I wasn’t going to remonstrate with myself for forgetting to ask questions only she could answer. We both laughed.

Discretion and reticence were hallmarks of Melanie’s life.

I imagine things were different in the more permissive Ford household. Susan, Betty’s youngest child and only daughter, is just two years younger than me but experienced a completely different kind of mother.

Jerry, Susan and Betty Ford

Betty Ford became first lady in 1974 during my first year of college. She was diagnosed with breast cancer within a month of Gerald Ford’s inauguration. She proceeded to discuss it with the nation. And, then went on to discuss pre-marital sex, marital sex, divorce, abortion, the Equal Rights Amendment, marijuana, addictions, and women’s right to health care. And, don’t forget that face lift.

Thirty-five years later, it’s easy to dismiss the import of her candor. But, I distinctly remember the myriad scandalous subjects while growing up. So-and-so married a divorced man. Quelle horreur. Someone else married a non-Catholic. God forbid. Inter-racial marriages didn’t happen in my hometown. If an out-of-wedlock pregnancy arose, I never heard about it. And, none of these issues certainly ever arose on The Donna Reed Show or That Girl.

Pretty tame subjects nowadays. Not so in my formative Wonder Bread years. But, because the distaff side of this particular White House was willing to broach such taboo subjects, the proverbial door was thrown open, forcing and legitimizing a national discussion on life’s thorny subjects. She was a bona fide feminist in the very best sense of the word.

Because of Betty Ford’s unprecedented and fearless focus on women’s issues decades ago, our world is measurably more tolerant. American girls today don’t even question the breadth of  lifestyle choices.

As a long-time resident of the desert, I’m very familiar with the iconic Betty Ford Center, a fixture on the Eisenhower Medical Center campus and a noun firmly planted in our self-help lexicon. I was once chagrined to find myself politely invited to leave by two guards when I inadvertently trespassed onto the property to feed the ducks.

So, on the occasion of my mother’s birthday and the recent passing of an accomplished lady, I give a sincere thank you to Melanie and Betty, two formidable women who contributed indelibly to my life and those surrounding them.

Yesterday’s headline news in The Desert Sun trumpeted the figures I glean on a daily basis when perusing the MLS sales and corroborated the numbers I hear when attending my weekly Windermere La Quinta meetings. Sales in the past four weeks alone amounted to almost $18M and that’s just one Windermere office. Spring sales in the Coachella Valley are up 7 percent in the first quarter of 2011.

Here’s the article summarizing the state of the Palm Springs valley market:

“While the rest of Southern California slumped, home sales rose 7 percent in the Coachella Valley in the first three months of 2011, propelled by a surge in closings in March.

Home sales rose 3.2 percent in March in the valley compared to March 2010, San Diego-based DataQuick Information Systems reported Tuesday.

DataQuick said 1,104 homes sold in the valley in March, up from 848 in February and 727 in January.

That is in contrast to sales declines of 7.5 percent in Riverside County in March, 13.9percent in San Bernardino County and 5.2 percent across all of Southern California.

It was the second month in a row that an increase in valley home sales bucked the state and national trends.

“I think the desert is doing extremely well,” said Harvey Katofsky, CEO of HK Lane in Palm Desert. “We’re all pretty excited about what’s going on in the market.”

Katofsky and other Realtors said snowbirds and especially Canadians have been driving the sales. Sales of condominiums, a favorite of second- home buyers, spiked 23 percent over a year ago, with prices down a relatively modest 5.4 percent.

The weak dollar means Canadians are getting more for their money and the Canadian economy has remained fairly resistant to the worst of the U.S. economic downturn.

Katofsky’s agents set a sales record in January, then broke it in February and again in March. He reported stronger high-end sales in La Quinta, and better overall sales in cities such as Indian Wells and in Palm Desert.

In the Palm Desert 92211 ZIP code, sales rose 9 percent and prices were up 3.4 percent, one of the few areas in the valley with higher prices than a year ago.

More than 200 homes sold in Palm Springs last month, 182 sold in Palm Desert, 138 in La Quinta and 101 in Indio, DataQuick reported.

Jim Franklin, president of the Palm Springs Regional Association of Realtors, said the valley is still largely a second- home market where sales are driven by retirees and the affluent.

Across Southern California, slow job growth, foreclosures, difficulty getting loans and a continued wait-and-see attitude are among factors inhibiting sales, said John Walsh, DataQuick president.

But DataQuick also reported Tuesday that the number of California foreclosures in the first quarter fell 2.2 percent from the prior quarter and 15.8 percent from the first quarter of 2010.

The total number of foreclosure filings, 68,239, was the lowest number since 2007.

Katofsky said lenders seem to be loosening up a bit, and as interest rates trend upward, banks are concentrating more on new loans because refinancing transactions are dropping off.

The valley’s median price — half sold for more, half for less — was $200,000 in March, down 2.9 percent from a year ago.

But it was the same as February and up from $181,250 in January, DataQuick reported.

The median price for homes in Riverside County was $198,000 last month, the same as March 2010. In Southern California the median price was $280,500, down 1.6 percent from $285,000 a year ago, DataQuick reported.

The California Association of Realtors reported the statewide median price in March fell 4.9 percent compared to a year ago. Sales fell 2.4 percent.”

Spring has sprung here in the Coachella Valley desert and my weekly hiking explorations find me constantly snapping photos of exquisite blooms.

I will happily make time to find you the perfect desert pied a terre if you’re interested in owning a home here in our world-renown valley. Check out my website for updated bargain-priced homes, foreclosures and short sales.

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The 29th annual arts festival—among the top ten in the nation and featuring 230 distinctive artists—commenced March 10 on the verdant grounds of La Quinta’s Civic Center Park, a stunning venue for stunning art.

Today I sallied forth with Mary Pat Anderson, a newbie to this, my very favorite art show here in the Coachella Valley. She’d driven by the park—sprawled between City Hall and the library—but had never enjoyed its bucolic charms up close. This year there seems to be a surfeit of contented ducks, all seemingly unperturbed by the violent disruption to their placid grounds and nonchanlently skirting fairgoers’ feet for dropped goodies. Mary Pat and I chatted about returning for a picnic on the grass, something I’ve always vowed to do.

Starting with a delicious lunch from local eatery Fisherman’s Wharf, we then commenced our artwork inspection. Mary Pat was smitten with jeweler Adam Neeley’s exquisite creations. He’s also the recipient of the festival’s Best in Show award. I’m told that he started jewelry-making at the age of 16 and is now only in his 20s.

We stopped at Michael and Sumati Colpitts’ booth full of their whimsical ceramic animal creations—of which I own many—in order to introduce Mary Pat. Sumati proudly displayed Michael’s foray into fountain-making with a striking piece reminiscent of an Indian textile.

I am always heartened to spy artists new to me as the show continually evolves but loved seeing Mary Pat fall in love with work she’d never seen before. Before we departed, she’d added a blown-glass vase from newcomer Christopher Jeffries and some more jewelry to her wish-list. Join the club!

Tomorrow, I’m returning with my LA friend and faithful art-going companion, Karen Ralke, and girlfriend, Christy Maganzini, who’s heeding my exhortation to drive in from La Habra for an overnight visit in order to enjoy the art show and my company!

To be continued…

Day Three

Another gorgeous day in La Quinta. Fortified with water, snacks and sensible shoes, Karen, Christy and I spent a glorious afternoon basking in sunshine, artwork and comaraderie.

We chatted up Michael and Sumati again so that Christy could admire their dual booths of ceramic animals and oil paintings.

Christy got to meet Vicki Banks and her bronzes. I just installed a huge basalt stone fountain in our front yard that will soon bear one of her signature crows and I was salivating over the plethora of feathered creatures on display in her eye-catching booth.

Gracie, a formidable vulture with an impressive wingspan, commands notice from each passerby. She really should be gracing some conservation center for the endangered raptor and other embattled birds of prey where many more people can appreciate her unique beauty.

Another of her new pieces, Mama’s Home, struck a chord and I mentally placed the piece of the mother crow feeding her hungry brood in my own home. I love how Vicki incorporates vintage objects into her works; this bronze rests atop  a curved wood finial.

Check out her website Vulture Sculpture for more of her amazing work.

Of course, I kept dragging Christy from one favorite artist to the next pointing out items Karen and I have either bought or coveted over our years of trolling the grassy aisles while indulging our love of handcrafted art. When we realized Christy has a predilection for heart-shaped objects, it became a running theme of the day as Karen and I ferreted out the iconic shape in jewelry and objects. “Christy! Look at this one. What do you think?”

Kari von Wening wrests metal sculptures from objects trouvees. I love the picture of her atop a heap of rusted metal scraps. The city of La Quinta purchased one of her larger pieces as part of its civic art-enhancement program (can’t wait to see where it’s ensconced in my city). Christy fell in love with the, yes, heart-shaped piece. This is an image from Kari’s website of a similar piece which measures 36″ by 36.”

Karen adores Jim Budish’s bronze sculptures of oversized animals. Here she poses with his long-eared lapins and single carrot.

Today’s temps were a bit cooler than Friday’s and we took enough breaks that the day unfolded pleasantly. When our art tastebuds were sated and the sun was slanting sideways, our little trio departed contented.

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