Fear and Trust in Joshua Tree

I hadn’t intended to find fear in Joshua Tree National Park, but it found me. On a business trip to Las Vegas, I intentionally booked a flight out of LA so I could visit the park — something I had wanted to do for years. I arrived in the early evening and spent the night at the Joshua Tree Inn, taking in the stars from their pool before turning in early enough to get into the park the next day.

My alarm sounded at 5:30 AM, and I packed up the car and headed into the park. I needed to be in LA before noon, so I figured I had a couple hours to enjoy the desert. I drove in early before the sky started to lighten, before the ranger stations opened. I parked near an outcropping of boulders — easy enough to find — and climbed up to watch sunrise.

As the eastern sky turned violet, then cerulean blue, and the morning breeze cooled my skin, I felt a sense of relief. I lived in New York City — my dream — and my job at a Fortune 100 global financial services company was intense, requiring travel nationally and internationally. As much as I was a city boy, I longed for the solitude of nature.

Sitting there, high up on the granite boulders, I breathed deeply for the first time in a while.

Suddenly, a clacking sound startled me. I turned to find a family of bighorn sheep emerging from behind the rocks. Joy overtook me as their hooves clattered discordantly against the stone. They eyed me with suspicion. I started to follow, but they easily outmaneuvered among the boulders, then they seemingly vanished into the desert. Had I imagined them? Was this a mirage? No matter, I felt boyhood wonder flood back into my body.

On impulse, I called in sick and changed my flight. I hadn’t camped in years, but the idea of spending a night in this landscape was irresistible. I drove into the town of Joshua Tree for gear and supplies.

By the time I returned to the park with gear, food and water, the sun was low on the Western horizon. My pack was a Frankenstein of supplies cobbled together from a local Walmart, weighed down with extra gear. I felt like the Junk Lady from the movie Labyrinth, carrying everything I needed — and didn’t need — on my back. As I started out on the trail, the sand beneath my boots felt like freedom.

Joshua Tree is unlike any place I’ve ever been. The trees themselves, with their twisted, otherworldly shapes, looked like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. It was April, and some of them were still in bloom, sprouting clusters of pale, alien-looking flowers. You can’t help but think of them as the sexual organs of the desert.

As the sun began to set, the sky turned a brilliant mix of blues and oranges, like it had been painted by hand. I switched on my headlamp and kept walking.

And then, Fear crept in like a sudden chill.

What if there’s someone — or something — out here, just beyond the reach of your light? The thought was like a spark, and suddenly my skin crawled as if waves of butterflies were escaping my body. My breath sharpened, my heart pounded. What were you thinking, coming out here alone?

Darkness fell quickly, and I decided to set up camp in a soft patch of sand. I ate, then lay back to watch the stars. One of the magical things about Joshua Tree is the sky. For being so close to Los Angeles, the sky and the stars are incredibly clear. You can see the glow of LA in the distance, but it doesn’t seem to dampen the sky here. Planes into LAX streaked across the sky.

Even with the stars overhead, the fear stayed with me. My skin crawled, as though something was pulling it away into the night. I felt alone, completely exposed, and every small noise seemed amplified in the stillness. I wondered if I would survive the night.

Sleep didn’t come easily. I dozed in fits, my body aching from the unfamiliarity of the ground. My mind spun with imagined dangers, like a serpent wrapping herself tighter around me.

Then, just as I started to drift off — skreeeeeeeeetch!

I shot up. The sound was piercing, like a baby being murdered in the night. My headlamp flicked on, and I scanned the desert. Nothing. Then, skreeeeeech! My heart pounded in my throat.

Then a third, skreeeeeeeeetch! This time from a completely different direction. I nearly fell over spinning around with my light. I stood there frozen for what felt like forever, but the desert returned to her quietness.

I checked my watch: 4:30 AM. It was cold now, the desert air biting at my skin. I decided I’d feel safer outside the tent, where I could see what was coming. I pulled my sleeping bag around my body and sat up for the rest of the night, flashing my headlamp into the darkness, momentarily erasing it with each burst of light.

Adrenaline, fear, and exhaustion are a rough combination, but as the sky began to lighten, I felt a sense of rebirth. Day always brings relief from shadows in the darkness.

I climbed up onto the boulders again to watch sunrise, hoping for another encounter with the sheep. No luck. But moving — feeling my body navigate the terrain — brought again the feeling of wonder.

I followed my curiosity aimlessly for a while, up and down the boulders, looking in the cracks and crevices, feeling like the only person in the world. Eventually, I found the largest boulder in the area, strapped on rock climbing shoes, and scaled it. At the top, I felt victorious — until I stepped to the edge and looked out over the vast desert.

What if you fall? The thought hit me hard. There’s no one around for miles. No one would find my body for days. My skin crawled again, paralyzed by the what ifs spiraling through my mind. What if there’s an earthquake? What if a strong wind blows you off the ledge? What if your legs just give out? What if … ?

I stepped back, shaking, feeling utterly defeated. Why am I so afraid?

And then I heard someone say: Fear comes from a lack of trust.

I turned around, “Hello?” I called, momentarily confused. No one was there. I surmised the wind must be speaking.

Then again, I heard someone say: Fear comes from not trusting yourself, or not trusting the Universe.

The desert was sharing her wisdom.

I repeated the words aloud: Fear comes from not trusting the Universe, and not trusting myself. As I said it, my skin stopped crawling and I stopped shaking. A surge of energy flowed through me. I stood up, threw my arms in the air, and yelled, “Fuck Yea!” I laughed out loud, jumping up and down and dancing. I must have looked like a crazy person, but who cared; certainly not the boulders, the winds, the sun or the Joshua trees!

I sat there on that boulder for some time, and it dawned on me … trust, like fear, is a choice. I could choose to trust myself, to trust the Universe, to trust that life would hold me. I made a decision that day to trust. I continue to make this decision over and over again when I feel lost or get caught up in the “what ifs?”

Fear is not “bad,” or something we have done wrong; it simply shows us where we can trust more. Fear isn’t the enemy — it’s a reminder, a call to return to trust.

In Joshua Tree, fear didn’t disappear when I stood on that boulder, but it did shift. It softened. It became a teacher. And in that space, trust emerged — quietly, steadily, like the rising sun.

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My name is Leif Meneke. I write about life, leadership, and adventure, guiding the next generation of human leaders into holistic alignment. As the creator of Optimal AF™, I combine modern performance science with ancient wisdom. If you enjoyed this, please follow me.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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