I went to Joshua Tree National Park with a noble purpose: to photograph a bighorn sheep in the wild. Rangers had mentioned that 100 to 200 of them roam the park. Naturally, I took this as a solemn, blood-bound oath that I would see one.
So, I hiked with eyes sharp, heart pounding, scanning every crag like David Attenborough’s long-lost understudy. And then—movement! High atop a rock formation! I gasped. Could it be? The elusive bighorn!?
No. It was a man. A dude in shorts, standing heroically on a ledge, clearly trying to capture either the perfect selfie, an awesome landscape image, or a faint cell signal. Possibly all three. I snapped a photo anyway—of him—because hey, scale matters. Thanks, random bro, for revealing the true scale of the massive rock formations.
But the springy occupant of the day wasn’t a majestic horned mammal. It was a cactus. A cactus with unresolved anger issues: the infamous Jumping Cholla. Which, spoiler alert, does not jump. It ambushes.
Formally known as Cylindropuntia bigelovii, this plant is nature’s answer to a landmine. Its spines are barbed, detachable, and possess a clinginess that would shame Velcro®. One slight misstep and—bam! Instant regret.
And wouldn’t you know it, mid-photography trance, I planted my foot squarely onto one. Right through the side of my hiking boot. It wasn’t a poke. It was a home invasion. That spine settled in like it was paying rent.
Each step afterward felt like a medieval torture ritual—probably one designed by podiatrists, which is ironic, because I was with podiatrists. Twenty of them. A full charter bus. Board-certified. Experts in foot and ankle trauma. You’re smiling because you know what’s coming.
I limped up to the curb by the motor coach, peeled off my boot, expecting at least one of them to leap into action with tweezers, gauze, maybe a cortisone shot.
Instead? I got a slow-motion chorus of, “Oooh, that’s gonna hurt,” and “Oof, right through the side,” “What happened!” and—my favorite—“Nice boots.”
With my foot throbbing and ego bruised, I hobbled around Elephant Rock, which—unlike my foot—wasn’t swollen, just elephant-shaped. Then came Skull Rock. Fitting. But too many people in it, on it, beside it, and in front of it, to take a photo. It was like seeing some indiscernible food someone dropped that is now an ant-covered pile of debris. Maybe I was just cranky. By that point, my foot felt like a skull. Of a goat. With horns.
One formation was dubbed “Madonna and Child.” I saw Madonna, sure. The child? Not so much. Maybe it shows up after a few beers. Or as a desert mirage. Or both.
Still, beauty struck again. A Joshua Tree with two limbs—one straight up, one out to the side like a handshake. I swear it looked like a desert insurance agent.
“Hi, I’m Larry from Prickly Mutual. Can I interest you in some accidental puncture coverage?”
I assure you: no drinking had occurred. Yet.
And here’s what really got me. Despite the epic landscapes, the noble bighorns (somewhere), and a full team of trained foot specialists, the cactus still won. That ridiculous, grumpy shrub, with its evil barbs and zero remorse, stole the show. And pierced my soul. Or at least my sock.
Nature: breathtaking, majestic, and occasionally a jerk. But what a beautiful, ironic place to limp through.
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