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The sun paled and weighed heavy in the sky as I raced down the stark expanse of Interstate 40, across the California border and through Needles, that haggard servant to big rigs and lonesome trains (why are trains always lonesome?). Night was approaching, and I was dog-tired from a day of hiking and driving.
 

According to the map, there was a stretch of dirt optimistically named "Mountain Springs Road" about 20 miles past Needles cutting north to a lonesome patch of desert mountains. This was Bureau of Land Management land, which meant, among other things, that I could camp anywhere. The mountains would shield me from the highway and provide a scenic campsite, and I would be close enough to the Mojave desert to do a bit of exploring in the morning.
 

I pulled off at the seldom-used "Mtn Sprng Rd" exit and at the end of the off-ramp paused to survey the lack of road ahead of me. I promised my much-abused Honda Civic an extra-sudsy car wash in exchange for the impending trial, gritted my teeth and proceeded to bounce down a mile of washboard dirt and gravel. I pulled on to side road – probably an old mining track – and took it for a hundred yards or so, rolling to a stop on a promising patch of gravel. I cut the engine and was enveloped in silence; absolutely pure silence disturbed only by a distant cricket and the occasional whoosh of a convoluted gust of wind.
 

It turned out to be a great campsite. The sand and gravel formed a tight matrix that was solid underfoot but not too unyielding to sit or sleep on. There were scattered rock outcroppings formed of yard-long gray volcanic obelisks piled haphazardly upon one another, to the delight (I'm sure) of kangaroo mice and, therefore, rattlesnakes. Sweet-smelling sagebrush and healthy yuccas dotted the landscape, and there wasn't one killer pincushion-of-death cactus (Biggus Goddamitus Needlei) within a hundred yards. The ruddy evening light of the waning sun fit the desert landscape perfectly.
 

I let out a great sigh and felt a day's worth of travel anxiety fall from my shoulders. I popped open the trunk, grabbed a bottle of wine, then walked to one of the rocky outcroppings to have (plastic) cup of wine and absorb the peaceful timelessness of this wild campsite.
 

Night fell, as it has a habit of doing. I heated myself ("cooked" would be too grand a term) an exciting dinner of lentil soup and bread, then sipped a cup of green tea as the moon rose. There is nothing brighter than the moon on a wide desert. OK, sure, the sun is brighter than the moon, but you just don't notice this because the sun is always bright. But this moon was a literal flashlight shining down on me, and like a frog caught in a beam I could not help but be absolutely mesmerized.
 

It is maybe 3am. On the edge of my dream, I am vaguely aware of engine sounds in low gear, gravel and sand grinding into the air and falling as a dry rain onto the parched ground. One eye creaks open and observes a headlight turning towards me, then turning away. There is silence. I distinctly recall identifying this moment as "one of those dammed SUVs" before falling back asleep for a few more precious seconds.
 

"Bill, I tell yah, the moon is so bright tonight I can see everything. I'm mebbe a mile off I-40..."
 

One eye open again. A shred of consciousness peels itself from my perfectly lovely dream to pay attention to the CB-radio or cell-phone conversation happening a few dozen yards away.
 

"...mmmmyep, it's gonna be a good night."
 

I heave a sigh, in my sleepy logic hoping that this annoying sound will soon abate so I can return to undisturbed slumber. I roll over and flop onto my belly, pushing my head into my pillow.
 

"I got my .40 and twelve gauge, gonna have fun."
 

My primal instincts are keenly aware that the rest of my brain should really, truly consider these words. Reptile brain paging forebrain; no response. I'm deeply committed to my dream. The reptile brain (which has the benefit of a couple of hundred million years of evolution as opposed to the forebrain's paltry million) knocks on my mental door, harder. Still no response. The reptile brain is desperate and actually shuts down the dream to scream at the forebrain, "look, this is important, OK; what do ‘.40' and ‘twelve gauge' mean? Language is your thing, self-preservation is mine. Wake up!"
 

The connection is made. My eyes pop open. Oh damn, those are guns -- pretty big ones, I think. Being wielded by... the yokel a few dozen yards away who is pleased as punch that he's in the desert and can shoot his guns because he's an American and that's what the second amendment says he can do, he can drive to any patch of desert at 3am and exercise his constitutional right in my general direction.
 

I yell for a little while, but there is no response.
 

Being a logical-minded sort of fellow intent on self-preservation, I stay low and turn on my flashlight, then crawl over to the propane lantern. Hopefully this guy is not a complete idiot and will realize that a moving lantern is generally the sign of a human being (not-target) and not a jackrabbit (target). My sleep-addled brain reasons that jackrabbits generally don't carry lanterns, except possibly ones living near underground nuclear test sites, but those are mostly in New Mexico.
 

Thankfully, I get the light turned on. That means I'm safe, or at least safer. Since I can't see the guy with the guns and I have no interest in finding him – I admit that thoughts of Deliverance flitted through my mind – I start tossing my stuff into the car as fast as I can. It's time to get the hell out of here.
 

As I slam the door shut on my stuff, I see a flashlight bob over the hill.
 

"Oh, I had no idea there would be anyone else out here... campin'."
 

"Uh, yeah." I glower at him. He's oblivious to my hatred. (It should be pointed out that my no. 1 pet peeve is being woken up; I treasure sleep above all else, almost as much as I treasure the assurance that I won't be randomly Swiss-cheesed).
 

"Well, look, I'm going to shoot my shotgun over here."
 

"Yeah, I know, didn't you hear me yelling?"
 

"Nah, I had my earplugs in." He grins ingenuously, and then leans forward. "But for a few bucks, I'll let yah shoot my shotgun a few times."
 

No; leave.
 

Excuse me, but I was here first and I was asleep. It's 3am – could you please go somewhere else?
 

What the fuck? Fuck you; get the hell out of here you gun-toting micro- brained nature-beating Darwin-award-in-the-making hick stereotype. Geez,when you were a child did you fall out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down? I want to sleep. Sleeeeeeeep. It's what I WAS doing; it's what I want to keep doing. C'mon, it's three-a-goddam-m. And what the hell are you going to shoot, anyways – air? Protect America from commie cacti?
 

"Nah." For once, it's for the best that my mouth spoke before my brain did. Reasoning with a gun-nut armed to the teeth at 3am is generally not a good idea.
 

I'm pretty pissed off as I wind my way back onto I-40. It's not just that it's 3am and I was semi-evicted by a ‘sporting enthusiast', it's a more general sense of detesting the huge population he represents. These are the people who see a desert and can only think of it as a wasteland to be mined, shot, or nuked. These people are the majority, so democratically speaking they're right and I'm wrong to like the desert.
 

The moon sits fat and lazy on the horizon. In front of it, the silhouette of mountains loom like coal floating in a pool of silver flatland sand. I murmer apologies to the moon and the desert.