Why I Wanted to Become a Master Naturalist

By Suzanne Wright

I first fell in love with the Sonoran Desert when my then-employer held a national sales meeting at the Boulders Resort & Spa in Carefree, Arizona. I was 24 and I was blown away. 

Walking amid soaring saguaros, encountering a rattlesnake, hearing the staccato hoo hoo hoo of a great horned owl, experiencing blazing pink and orange sunsets, smelling the perfume of a monsoon-dampened creosote, craning my neck to the inky star-strewn night sky—it all felt surreal, like a movie set or a dream.

But being here also felt familiar and comfortable, which is rarely true for newcomers to a desert. I believe in past lives and I believe I’ve lived one, maybe more, here in the Sonoran Desert. 

That indelible first impression was seared into my soul. And though I lived amongst skyscrapers in Atlanta for many, many more years, I returned to the Arizona desert as often as I could. 

So decades later, when I finally uprooted my good life in Georgia, it may have seemed sudden to some, but it was really epochs in the making, in the dreaming, in the yearning, and finally, in the doing. 

The Sonoran Desert embraced me and I embraced it. The Sonoran Desert has remade me. 

My relationship with this fierce and fragile place is the most powerful and the truest I’ve ever known. Living here is not without drama—searing days, angry winds, unexpected snow, fearsome floods, the Bighorn Fire—but never turmoil of the human kind. 

It’s drama that eventually heals itself and that’s been an ongoing teacher and a balm to me.  

I build hours, days, weeks, months, years—this is my 13^th year here—and ultimately, my new and improved life around being outside, exploring, pondering, learning. I find myself falling in love again and again and again in this lush desert, in every season.

I’ve always been curious, adventurous, observant, and capable. But never more so than here. I’m stronger and smarter, too. And surprisingly, more compassionate. 

Because I make a living as a freelance writer, I’ve increasingly turned to telling stories about the Sonoran Desert, Arizona, and other regional Southwestern destinations. I’m passionate about the issues we face collectively in our ever-shrinking wilderness.  

In my first year living in Cave Creek, I met a woman while hiking. She invited me over for a glass of wine. It was an upscale custom home that backed up to an arroyo. Out of the brush, a mama javelina and three reds the size of fat bread loaves ambled through the wash, their hooves clacking on the rocks.

This woman was immediately up. Cursing, she grabbed an empty glass bottle, and hurled it at the family, sending all four into a running panic.

I was stunned and saddened and enraged in equal measure. 

I set down my glass, pushed back my chair, and began to speak, saying this was their land first, it was we who were the interlopers. How this was the behavior of any animal ensuring the safety of its young. 

She dismissed me with her hand and something about her toppled flower pots.

I thanked her for her hospitality (I’m still a Southerner, culturally), but said I didn’t believe we shared the values required for friendship. 

Then I left while her jaw gaped open. 

That was the impetus to channel my fury into volunteering at the Desert Foothills Land Trust and the McDowell Sonoran Conservancy before I eventually settled in Tucson.

As more and more people move into the Sonoran Desert, there is a pressing and greater need to educate, whether formally or informally, in person or online, one-on-one or to groups.

There’s a necessity to debunk so many wrong-headed actions: trampling wildflowers for a selfie, building cairns, poisoning packrats, killing snakes, flooding yards with bright lights, feeding wildlife, going off trail, pulling native species, planting thirty grass lawns, decrying migrants. 

Grrrrrr. 

This is far from an exhaustive list. I’ve had endless conversations on all these topics and more. 

Sometimes I’ve gotten a point across to someone or at least made them think. Other times, I can tell their opinions are unshakeable, their hearts are hardened. Regardless, I’ll continue to champion what I know is right and what matters now and into the future. 

I relish a debate and I’m committed to continue speaking out. 

It’s a good fight, a necessary fight. We need impassioned crusaders advocating for our remarkable place on the planet, our beloved Sonoran Desert. It feels like a duty. Like a purpose. Like a calling.  

The efforts matter. The results matter. We make a difference.

Titles have never mattered much to me; I long ago tossed my college diploma. So the paper certificate I’ll be awarded for my course completion isn’t the reward. 

Being a Master Naturalist is a fast-track to creating greater awareness, changing hearts and minds, and plugging into a community of like-minded souls. When my energy flags, I need to be surrounded by and inspired by the many others who share my desire to safeguard the place we call home.  

In the spirit of the raven, I’m proud to crow about being a Pima County Master Naturalist.