Night in this forsaken place is the polar opposite of day. No light, and bitterly cold; a difficult place to sleep, as he had found out. He lay on his back awake, his eyes closed from the pain, not for sleep. The toe on his right foot throbbed. He had pulled out all of the small thorns he could find, using a cotton ball from his survival kit to catch the burs so he could see them. But he was certain that he had not found them all. He was sure he felt them burrowing farther into his flesh, searching for bone.

He lay under a large palo verde tree and had tried to gather his thoughts again, but to no avail. The pain, like a basket full of yelping pups, was too distracting. Maybe I shouldn't have left myself behind, he thought. I might be able to think more clearly had I not. Maybe walking will help. Though still dark, he decided that walking was the best thing for him to do to sort things out.
Limping around his small camp site, he gathered up his belongings, shaking dust off of and out of each item. He put them all into his knapsack, threw it over his shoulder, and headed in the direction of his path - he hoped.

Movement was slow. The limping caused his pace to drag and it was difficult to see, though to the east, he saw the sun trying to push back the dark veil of night. Stepping gingerly around and between cacti, he heard the dove this time. It cooed somewhere ahead of him. For some reason, the cooing comforted him, and he knew he had again found his path.

As he limped down the path, the dove’s call became louder, and before he knew it, he had come face to beak with the bird. He stopped in his tracks and made no movement, concerned that he might startle the creature. But the dove just sat on what looked like a long stick that lay on the banks of a dry creek bed, staring back at him.

As they both stared at each other like two long-lost friends, the dove suddenly launched itself from its perch into the air. Enough of the sun had risen by now for him to see the dove circle above him. It circled him three times and then headed away from him, alighting some hundred yards ahead.

He watched the dove for a moment as it sat on branch of a mesquite, cleaning its feathers as birds are wont to do. Strange, he thought to himself, that having seen no living thing for the last several days, the first thing I see is a dove, and I see it twice. He looked over to where the bird had sat in the creek bed and got a better look at the stick it had sat on. The stick appeared to be the stalk from an agave plant, long dead but having completed its task of procreation. As he picked the stalk up, it was light and porous, with the grey stubs of its progeny sticking out. It was a century plant stalk and this delighted him. The stalk, though light, was extremely strong and was used by Native Americans to build many things. But it’s best use, in his mind, was as a hiking stick. And who was in more need of a hiking stick than a man walking his path with a very sore toe.

He rubbed his hand up and down the stalk to remove as many of the stubs as he could. Then, placing the stalk in his right hand to support his right foot, he began again to walk. He saw the dove in the distance watching him as he maneuvered through the sand with his cane. What a lucky break, he thought, to find this hiking stick. I can make much better time now then I did.
As he walked, his thoughts again flowed effortlessly. And again, everything made sense.

Part 3