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It's 1995. A man I admire has passed away, and when I hear about it, I head to the serenity of Picacho's wildflowers. As one of Tucson's power elite, he'd made time for me as a young social activist looking for guidance. To celebrate his life and the things he has taught me, I spend a reflective afternoon watching the light dance upon the golden poppies.

That's what the desert is supposed to be for - calming what ails you.

This year's search for beauty and peace hasn't turned out that way. We've had mishap, excitement, adventure. It's as if all this color and glory were created by mischievous Greek Gods who, just for their own amusement, placed a spell upon the lives of any who dare to capture it.

Not much calm, I'm afraid. And when there has been calm, it hasn't lasted long.

Our first wildflower journey is to Picacho Peak, a place that attracts nature photographers from all over the globe to shoot the craggy hillside of golden poppies. The fact that it is 75° here and 20° everywhere else is further inducement to those photographers, and to the retirees who have filled the Picacho RV Park to brimming. Busloads of school kids complete the scene. Idyllic it's not.

We climb slowly up the gold-covered slopes, following the trail and then wandering off, shooting a flower here, a million flowers somewhere else. As expected, we are not the only photographers. As expected, the poppies are spectacular.

And there are a lot of tourists. The folks from the RV park are everywhere, trying to pronounce the names of the cacti. Occasionally we hear words that could be uttered by any tourist, anywhere - "Honey, get the dog to look at the camera." The higher we climb, though, the fewer the tourists.

The folks from the RV park are everywhere and, as expected, the poppies are spectacular.

In the desert, the temperature can range 40 ° from day to night. Mornings that start out cold will quickly turn into warm afternoons. I have already taken off my jacket, and now I tie my sweater round my waist as well. Within a few yards, I remove the last possible layer, my flannel shirt. Now I'm down to a tank top, schlepping an overnight trip's worth of clothes along with my camera equipment.

It's 11am and we're almost to the top. Dimitri wants to finish the hike and look over the saddle to distant Tucson. It should just take 10 minutes, and then we can leave, with time to spare before a 2pm phone appointment from back east.

Weighted down by everything I'd been wearing, I decide to stay where I am. I unload my stuff onto a huge flat rock alongside the trail and look around for a while. Then I climb up next to my pile, listening to the sounds of spring - the birds, the breeze.

Dimitri should be back any moment. So I lay back and stare at the sky, putting the pile of clothes under my head. The sun is warm on my face, and the breeze is cool. The world is finally perfect.

Dimitri wants to finish the hike and look over the saddle to distant Tucson.

A few minutes pass. People coming down the trail sound like they are far away, and I realize I'm in that half-dozing state just before a nap. I adjust the clothes and curl up, laying on my side here on my rock, and fall soundly asleep there along the trail.

Every few minutes something registers. Individuals go by - no voices, but one is whistling a tune along the way. Then a guy talking about an old west town in California that has a better shoot-out than the OK Corral. I tell myself to remember the name of the place, but within minutes, I don't.

It's after noon when I finally wake up. Could I really have been asleep for an hour? On a rock? And where is Dimitri? Is he still climbing to the top? He certainly can't have missed me - my rock is right alongside the trail!

I know if I go looking for him, we will spend the rest of the day missing each other. So I sit, enjoying the sun and the sky and the birds. After about 10 minutes, Dimitri comes climbing UP the hill towards me.

"You're coming UP?" I ask. "Where have you been?"

"The parking lot. The rest rooms. Looking for you."

"I've been right here on this rock. I slept here for an hour."

We head down and find the problem. In that whole two mile stretch, there is only one place where one could veer off the trail, reconnecting within a few yards. Only one place we could have missed each other, and it is 10 feet from where I was sleeping.

His trip to the top had only taken 10 minutes, just as we had thought. And when he got all the way to the bottom and didn't find me, he started combing the area, eventually heading back up the hill.

"The higher I climbed," he tells me, "everyone told me the same thing. 'She's asleep on a rock.' "

So much for our idyllic morning. Dimitri is tired and sweating - he's been up and down this straight-uphill two mile trail twice now, the second time at a rapid pace, afraid that maybe I'd been hurt.

We get to the car and call the office. My phone appointment has been cancelled; it is snowing so badly in Virginia that my client is heading home for the day. I don't have the heart to tell her I missed her call because I was asleep on a rock, in a tank top, in the sun, surrounded by poppies, my partner sweating from hiking up and down in the 75° desert.

And suddenly, as if tossed down from the heavens, a carpet of gold and blue and pink and white spreads for miles in all directions. Faces are glued to the windows. Stop the car!

Others have stopped as well. And the crowd is so different from the folks at Picacho! A family speaking only Japanese is in the middle of the field, Dad trying to assemble them for a portrait, giving orders in Japanese as the kids misbehave in Japanese, until finally, we hear the only English words he will utter - "Stop It!" They settle down for a picture, and then resume being a normal family.

A family speaking only Japanese is assembling for a portrait in the middle of the field.

A mom strolls her baby out into the middle of the colors, hoping he will be overwhelmed as she is. A biker couple from Ontario, spending their winter months riding Harleys around the American southwest, would have been the talk of the RV circuit at Picacho. Here they fit right in.

A biker couple from Ontario would have been the talk of the RV circuit at Picacho.

Once again, the kids aren't bored. You can't see this and be bored. They are all over the field, shooting close-ups, shooting long shots from down on the ground. They are disappointed that we have to leave.

My daughter wants to get one last shot, from the roof of the Suburban, shooting straight down onto this colorful quilt. "Come on up here," she calls to me. "This would be a great shot with your lens." I join her and take a few shots.

They are all over the field, shooting close-ups down on the ground.

When I'm done, I hand her my camera and slide off the roof to the bumper. And then I hop from the bumper to the ground.

And I misjudge how high up I am.

And fall.

Oh how I wish I had fallen off the roof, for the embarrassment of admitting I've tumbled off a 2 foot high bumper. The kids are instantly hysterical - me on the ground, on my butt, having hopped to my own demise. My knee swells and immediately turns color. The kids think it is the funniest thing they've ever watched. They repeat "You fell on your butt" over and over while we head home, as if they were 8 years old again.

The 2001 Sonoran Desert Wildflower season is over. In April, the Palo Verde trees will canopy the whole city with yellow blossoms. In May, the white saguaro flowers will tickle us, as desert-dwellers feel an odd pride for the saguaro. From there, the desert will head into summer, providing sweet red cactus fruit and the smell of monsoon rain. In the fall, the mesquites will lose their leaves; the cottonwoods will turn yellow and then do the same.

And then, after the winter rains, the 2002 wildflower season will be here - that time to pick a quiet spot under a tree, staring at the beauty and enjoying the calm.