cactus

At the opening of this travel writers’ conference I’m attending, the host city, Scottsdale, showed a video that was supposed to inspire the attending writers to further explore Arizona. The image choices they made were curious—they were all shots of models in various states of lolling, lounging and sometimes laughing with the sheer joy of Scottsdale. They lolled by pools, they lolled in spas, they laughed with unrestrained pleasure in restaurants and bars. Now, if I were looking for someplace to loll and laugh, Scottsdale would definitely come to mind.

But if I were making the video, instead of lovely female models in various poses, I would have shown nothing but cactus. (I reject the word “cacti” and choose the alternate plural.)


I’m in love with the cactus here. So many types, so many personalities, all of them kind of prickly (rimshot) but nonetheless lovable. The chubby little cholla, the sturdy barrel, the prickly pear, which makes a nice cocktail, and the iconic giant saguaro.



Saguaro grow slowly and a really big one can be 200 years old. They are protected here, and they, too, each have personalities. They are stately, loopy, droopy, spare, crowded. I saw one so convoluted it looked like some kind of saguaro orgy.

I could spend a week here doing nothing but photographing cactus.