Believe but bring your Camel

On the necessity of trust

Eleven o’clock, the sun close to its zenith is bearing down on the sparse, prickly bushes, on the beaver cactus, half of its leaves white and sun-bleached. The path is sand and grit; my feet sink in and each step means lifting, rolling and losing momentum. The enthusiasm of the cool early morning has waned and my confidence of being able to carry the we…