"The father asked the son, 'where have you been?'
'Father, I have been to the Land Beyond Escape.'"


His eyes shone with intensity as he spoke of his dream. "I've seen a place, in my mind, that I've never been to, and yet each night I visit."
"There is an old legend I once heard..."
Then he spoke of a place in the desert, and within that place, it was told, is a lost treasure of great value. An old Spanish gold mine is said to still exist somewhere in the mountains. As the legend goes, a prospector found the gold, but took the location to his grave. Now called the lost Dutchman mine, many have ventured into the mountains seeking the prospector's treasure.
"The Superstition Mountains they call that place now," he said, "and I believe that is the place in my dream: the Land Beyond Escape."

"We will go," he said, "to settle my mind," and would speak no more about it.

"So we are treasure hunters now?" I laughed. "How will we succeed where others have failed?"

The same intensity again shone in his eyes. "Because I know where to look."


Scattered maps and countless miles later, we now approached the mountains. Occasionally a turn here, or a building there, was punctuated by a glimmer of a memory from his dreams. A hot, dry summer breeze swept by and whispered as it picked up dust from the landscape; barren, save the occasional Saguaro cactus. These tall and ancient desert inhabitants saw much and told little, silently watching over their desert home. We were just two of many visitors who had passed into their land.
Turning off the road, we sought out the quieter trinket shops and stands. While browsing the pottery and handmade dolls he would casually mention the legend of the mine to the shopkeeper. Usually he received a shrug or a suspicious eye; many tourists had come asking the same, and he was paid no more attention than the rest.

One small shop, as quiet and unassuming as the rest, stood alone with its back to the mountains. Build entirely of wood, it looked to be very old, and inside the air was hot and musty. Bits of colored rocks and large, polished slices of geodes littered the countertops, and the walls were covered with old framed photographs.
In the back, alone, sat a crusty old man with a sweat-stained shirt slowly wiping clean a glass case with a large nugget of gold displayed inside.

"Come for the mine, have you?" he said, responding to the question but not looking up. "I know where it is."

For hours we sat and listened to his stories; he told of the old legend, and all that he had ever heard in his years living by the mountains. Many years had passed since he stopped looking for the mine himself, he said, when the mine found him. He stood and pointed to a framed photograph on the wall above our heads.

"There she is: old Blue Bird." The yellowed photograph showed a group holding shovels and pickaxes, standing in front of a cave in the mountains, with a single wooden sign above their heads reading "Blue Bird Mine." The old Spanish gold, he said, was long since gone. He believed that it and the old Blue Bird mine were one and the same, and that all of its gold had long ago been mined.
"That doesn't keep people from looking," he said with a grin. "And here I am still, years later. Sometimes a place just won't let you go."

As we left the mountains, we stopped at a ranger's station and spoke with the man there. He asked if we had found what we were looking for, and when we smiled and told him yes, he offered us a small packet of Saguaro cactus seeds. We thanked him and began to leave, when he stopped us and said,
"Remember to bring those seeds back to the desert once they have sprouted. The spirits of the cactus have always been here, and they always should be."
My companion promised he would return.



Back home, far from the desert, we planted the seeds, and in our window they sprouted and grew. Years later, he visited the ranger station and returned the desert spirits to their home as he promised. The cacti were planted just outside the station, he told me, with a small sign bearing our names.



Many years have passed. Today, I look out at the same mountains and remember. I call this place home now, just miles from where our little desert spirits are planted. And yet I have not been to see them. I wait.

Perhaps, one day, we will meet again. Perhaps that day we may walk together through the Land Beyond Escape and visit the garden planted in our name.