We Engaged In A Viscious Battle… And Came Out Bloody

The day dawned bright and early (well that is if you call 8:30 early – which I do). One could tell that this would be no ordinary day, there was something in the air that promised a day of excitement and adventure.

Today we would be crossing over our “Jordan” – the Colorado River. As a team we have been studying the book of Joshua and recently we read the chapter where the children of Israel came to an important part in their journey. They crossed over the Jordan and in doing so entered the promise land! My dad had decided that the Colorado River is like the Jordan for us, for we are leaving the familiar state of CA behind and entering the great unknown. We decided, like the children of Israel, to set up a monument, so we each got a stone from the Colorado River and set off down the road. When we could pull over we set up our monument by the river under a bridge.

Our monument of stones, with mom and the river behind.

It was eerie as we walked under the bridge down toward the water, cars thundering by over our head and brightly colored graffiti everywhere. At the waters edge we discovered we had neighbors… or more accurately that we were walking in on someone’s home. Arranging the stones in a pile we read Joshua 4 and prayed. Then piercing through the air with a long, loud blast dad blew the shofar and shouted to the Lord. The sound rang out loud and clear, ringing off the water and bouncing back and forth on the concrete bridge supports. We had crossed the Jordan, we were on our way into the promise land.

But even as a battle awaited Joshua and the Israelites as soon as they crossed the Jordan, even so ours was just around the corner.

Sweat dripped off of me as I sat in the hot motor home with no air conditioning. As we rumbled down the road the temperature inside approached 100 degrees. If this is Arizona I’m sure glad I don’t live here! I thought. I soon tried to lose myself in the computer, but it was difficult as my parents kept shouting back to me, “Brianna, look at that cactus!” or, “Brianna see the whirling cloud of dust!” and again, “Brianna look, there is a whole bunch of cacti on the hillside!” Now don’t get me wrong, cacti are cool and all, but after you’ve seen so many they start to all look alike. Finally my dad pulled the motor home over and announced, “Everyone is going to get out, we’re taking a picture by the cactus.” We piled out into the hot dry sun and I scanned the countryside. So dry, so hot, and so… cactusy!

Us and the Saguaro.

There was a fence on the side of the road so we walked a ways to the nearest cactus and posed for a picture. I learned that the huge cactus we were standing under was called a Saguaro and I looked up in amazement as it towered over us. Saguaros were not the only type of cacti around, there was another smaller prickly bush about waist level right next to us. It was full of prickly puff balls that came off easily. Dylan gingerly picked one and inspected it carefully, wondering if one could pull off the prickles and eat it. Dad pulled one off and then dropped it. It fell to the ground and firmly stuck where it had landed – dad’s flip flop.

Ouch... you have no idea how ouch!

We laughed as he shook it violently, but it would not come off. Finally it shook lose and flew through the air promptly securing itself yet again, but this time right on mom’s arm! She screamed in pain and dad, horrified at what had just happened, tried to get a hold of it. He couldn’t with his bare hands so he wrapped his shirt around them and yanked it off. Dylan and I stood there helplessly as we watched him drive his elbow back into the cactus bush. Now he had two stuck to him, the one that was stuck to mom, and now was on his shirt poking him in the stomach, and the new one driven deeply into the flesh of his arm.

I raced back to the motor home to get the leather gloves paying no attention to the cars racing by me on the highway. Dylan put on the gloves and ran to dad. He tried to grip the cactus and dad called out 1, 2, 3, and jerked his arm away from Dylan. Dylan cried out in pain as the cactus sunk its claws into his fingers, through the leather gloves! I stood there frantic, not knowing how to help, my stomach churning at their cries of pain. “Get the tweezers!” someone shouted and I was off, flying in to get them.

Dad had managed to get the one off of his shirt with a rock, but he still had big spikes sticking out of his arm. I pinched them with the tweezers and wrenched them out of him. I felt like I was yanking out porcupine quills. Yelling in pain, Dylan ripped off one of the gloves and stood there staring at the other glove which was nailed to his hand.

It was at this moment that the police showed up. Someone must have seen us frantic by the highway and called. Anyway, when they approached us we were a frazzled, bloody sight. My dad, surprising calm, explained to them what had happened. The two surprised, and secretly amused police men then asked, “Well, is there anything we can do to help?” “No” we meekly replied and then asked, “What are these cactus called anyway?” “Them there are Jumping Cactus!” They answered. Well that certainly is an appropriate name, we thought. Dylan now calls them by the endearing name, “Jumping Cactus from Hell.”

The policemen left and we finished plucking out the last few spikes. They seemed to stick everywhere, our shoes, our clothes, I even found one hours later in the hand towel! Getting back into the motor home we nursed our wounds and tried to salvage what little dignity we had left. All of us were pouring with sweat and I, at least, was still quite shaken up. We had entered our first battle over the Jordan and sad to say, lost terribly!

Jumping Cactus from Hell