Saguaro Wine

Rising from the Sonoran Desert, the saguaro is more than a vascular plant. It is kin, history, sustenance, and ceremony. Cultural biodiversity exists as the inseparable interconnected relationships of ecosystems and culture. For the Tohono O'odham people, this relationship is embodied in the towering arms of the saguaro cactus.

As the saguaro’s fruit ripens under the blazing summer sun, the Tohono O'odham gather to harvest its sweet, ruby-red flesh. This act is more than a seasonal gathering; it celebrates survival, gratitude, and interdependence with the desert. The saguaro wine ceremony, marked by songs like The Wine Song, is a ritual that "sings down the rains," calling the monsoon and weaving together ecological cycles, spiritual tradition, and social connection (Di Cintio, 2012). This annual ritual is about more than the fruit. It recognizes the delicate balance between people and place, where food is both nourishment, and a sacred thread connecting past, present, and future.

The saguaro fruit is a nutritional marvel: rich in fiber, vitamin C, and protein, it once formed part of a seasonal diet alongside tepary beans, cholla buds, mesquite, and wild greens (Trulsson, 2022). This traditional diet kept the Tohono O’odham healthy, active, and aligned with the rhythms of the land. But colonization and the introduction of Western diets broke this relationship, replacing nutrient-dense, climate-adapted foods with processed sugars, refined flours, and red meats. As a result, the community faces soaring rates of obesity and type 2 diabetes (Di Cintio, 2012), stark reminders of how fragile the link between culture, food, and health can be.

Yet the story is not one of loss alone. Across the Tohono O'odham Nation, there are revitalization efforts with elders and young people gathering for the harvest, replanting tepary beans, and restoring traditional knowledge.

Biocultural diversity teaches us that the health of a people is bound to the health of the land, and that preserving one requires honoring the other. The saguaro stands as a towering symbol of this truth: a reminder that even in the harshest deserts, life and culture can flourish when we honor our oldest relationships—with the land, the rain, and the songs that call them home. I invite you to listen to The Wine Song and reflect on how its rhythms carry the voice of the desert, reminding us that nature’s music is a language of belonging, renewal, and deep respect.

References:

Di Cintio, M. (2012). Farming the Monsoon: A Return to Traditional Tohono O’odham Foods. Gastronomica, 12(2), 14–17.

Trulsson, N. B., (2022). The Sweetness of the Saguaro. Phoenix Home and Garden. Pg. 73-75.

The Cost

As the morning sun rises in the desert, a desert iguana is nestled in its shelter beneath a creosote bush. Suddenly, the ground shudders. The roar of heavy machinery drowns out the desert quiet. As bulldozers tear into the earth, the iguana’s home crumbles. Disoriented and exposed, the iguana scrambles for cover, but the relentless destruction leaves it nowhere to hide. Its once biodiverse habitat is now a barren wasteland, and survival becomes a desperate struggle.

As the bulldozers continue their destruction, the iguana darts about, panic in every movement. A massive tire looms overhead, and in a flash, its fragile life is extinguished. Now a wasteland of bloody, churned earth, the once-thriving desert soil holds no trace of the desert kin who once called it home. The desert's intricate web unravels, one overlooked creature at a time.

As the machinery moves on, a cloud of dust settles over the barren ground. An ominous silence hangs in the air. The desert, now mutilated and empty, whispers a warning of the cost of its destruction.

A lone dust devil swirls up from the earth, dancing through the desolate landscape. It twists and turns, a ghostly reminder of what once was, carrying with it the echoes of a community now lost.

Dust Dancer: A Night in My Desert

I'm Dustfoot, a Merriam's Kangaroo Rat. The sun's long gone, tucked behind the craggy shoulders of the Superstitions, and that means it's my time. I'm made for the moonlight—born with feet like spring coils, eyes wide as acorn caps, and ears sharp enough to hear a coyote's whisper in the dark.

The desert is still but not silent. Beneath the creosote's dry limbs, I pause, my whiskers twitching. The night carries stories sung in cricket chirps, told in owl shadows, whispered by the wind brushing over cholla spines. This place is not just where I live. It's who I live with. Every root, every rock, every breath belongs to us all.

I tap my hind feet twice (my own little ritual), then leap across the powdery earth like I've got music under my paws. My first stop: the mesquite grove. The beans are sweet here this season. Not many folks know this, but Mesquite is family. Its roots reach so deep they taste water from another time, and in return, they share it with us in seeds rich enough to keep my belly full and my body fast. I nibble on a bean, and as I chew, I listen to the ground.

Rumble.

Not danger. It's just Oldshell, the desert tortoise, stirring in her burrow. She's slower than saguaro bloom but wise as the stars. I bound over to her as she noses out, her leathery face lit by the moon.

"Evening, Dustfoot," she murmurs.

"Moon's high, and the mesquite's generous," I reply.

She smiles, slow and wide. "You young ones move fast, but don't forget to listen slow. There's news in the soil." And just like that, she's still again, a stone among stones.

I carry on, cradling a mesquite bean in my cheek pouch. I've got a cache to build. The packrat left his scent here last night. He's always rearranging my stash, that long-tailed trickster. Calls it "borrowing," but he lines his den with everything shiny and edible within a half-mile. Still, he means no harm. He's kin, too.

I hop across the sandy wash and stop beside a palo verde. Its green bark glows faintly under the stars. In the day's heat, it offers shelter to the cactus wren and nurse's young seedlings in its shade. Tonight, it stands silent sentinel. I brush against its trunk, a quiet thank you.

In the distance, I hear the soft whir of wings of the burrowing owl. She and her mate have a nest two jumps past the saguaro ridge. She's after the scorpions and beetles tonight. We nod when we cross paths, which is to say I freeze, and she gives a soft hoot that means, "Not tonight, little brother." That's how things work when the desert is your kin. It's an entangled choreography.

At the edge of the cactus grove, I pause again. The saguaros are humming. Not with sound, but if you stand still long enough, you feel it. These towering giants are elders, keeping memory in their ribs. This one here, with two arms stretched to the stars, once cradled a Gila woodpecker's nest. When the woodpecker left, the elf owl moved in. Each one leaving space for the next.

I press a paw against the saguaro's thick skin and say a quiet greeting. She listens. Some say that's foolishness, but not me. Bees dance in her blossoms, and bats drink from her fruit. That's kinship.

I keep hopping, weaving between ocotillo wands, their red tips tucked in tight for the night. A breeze carries the scent of blooming datura, with its pale, moon-faced flowers that open only when the world cools down. Hawkmoths often visit them, and I've seen coyotes pause just to inhale their fragrance. Everything in the desert has its admirers.

Suddenly, I stop. Something's not right. The air is as tense as a coiled spring.

Coyote!

I hear the faint pad of his paws long before he sees me. He's fast. I'm faster. I freeze, then shoot sideways, launching into the air with every ounce of spring in my legs. I zig, I zag, I disappear behind a boulder, heart drumming like monsoon rain.

He sniffs the ground, then lifts his head. He won't chase. Not tonight. Maybe he already fed. Maybe he respects the dance. Either way, I slip away, thankful.

By now, the stars have shifted. The east horizon begins to pale. Dawn's coming. It's almost time to return home.

I stop once more near the yucca grove, where bats still flutter. A Harris's antelope squirrel, groggy but curious, peers out from behind a rock. "You're late," she chirps.

"I was talking to the saguaro," I reply.

She chuckles. "You always are."

Before I burrow down into my den, I take one last look at the sky. The moon is fading, but the desert still pulses with hidden and holy life.

In the cool silence beneath the soil, I curl up, mesquite beans safely cached nearby. And before sleep takes me, I think of Oldshell, of the palo verde, of the owl's hoot and the packrat's mess, of the scent of datura and the hush of the saguaros. We're all stitched together by sun and soil, wind and root.

I am small, but I belong. This desert doesn't just contain us, it is us.

The Ancestors Stand

We have stood here, side by side, since long before the roads and roofs, before the fences cut across paths worn deep by hooves and paws. They call us saguaros now, these beings who come and go so swiftly. We have always been ancestors, guardians, and silent watchers to our ancient kin. Our arms are raised in greeting, sheltering those who come to us—bats and birds, bees and people—all our kin beneath this vast sky.

The eldest among us remembers when the stars were clearer, when quiet filled the nights, disturbed only by the howl of coyotes or the distant rumble of summer rains. Her many arms carry the stories of generations, whispers from the Tohono O’odham, who speak of us as their ancestors. We were once human, they say, and perhaps we still carry their dreams. We stand tall, our roots deep in this earth, drawing life from the monsoons, blooming flowers to feed those who depend upon us. Our fruit is sweet, our seeds scattered by desert kin who carry our future.

We watch. We watch as the sun scorches harder and longer each year. Our kin who once thrived here, the small, swift creatures, the mighty owl families nesting within our bodies, find it harder to stay. One of our cousins, standing just beyond, fell last summer. Her body, once proud, now nourishing the soil, feeding new life even in her passing. The smallest among us lost an arm, a wound bleeding dark sap, a tear shed for the changing world.

Humans build their homes closer now, disturbing soil and seed alike. Yet, they spare us not from kindness, perhaps, but from recognition. Our forms add value, they say, our presence desired for beauty, forgetting we offer more than a silhouette against a sunset sky. Beneath our spiny exteriors, we hold water, shelter, food, and life. We offer ourselves entirely because that is our purpose.

The middle ancestor speaks softly to the wind, reminding us that change has always been. Yet, this Anthropocene—this human-made era—challenges us all. Our slow, deliberate lives are not meant for swift adaptation. Still, we remain, standing firm and resilient. Our DNA, quietly adapting, holds stories of survival. The scientists know this; they study our resilience, marveling at our persistence through drought and heat, through changes that come faster than rain.

We weep silently for lost kin, displaced friends, and lands scarred and reshaped. But we also work. We stand as shelters, our branches open wide, a sanctuary for the Gila woodpecker raising young, for bees gathering pollen, and for bats seeking nectar beneath the moonlight. We stand witness, not passive but active in our care. Our roots intertwine beneath the surface, holding soil, moisture, and life; all of us are interconnected in ways humans sometimes forget.

We will continue to watch, nurture, weep, and stand. We are ancestors, not merely saguaros, and our work, like our arms, extends ever outward, touching the lives of every kin around us. We will remain here, sentinels in the desert, telling our quiet story to anyone who chooses to pause, listen, and perhaps remember what it truly means to care for kin.