By Adrienne Rubin

There's an immensity to desert landscapes that cannot be understood without experiencing it. Without trees, people, horses, camels, or vehicles for scale, it’s hard to know just how far it is to the rocks in the distance. Every day the sky is endless blue, the rocks hues of tan, red, orange, and brown that change throughout the day in the shifting light. Deep purples and dark blues lounge in the shade, the occasional sprig of green springs peeking out of the tracks where occasional rainwater trickles down the rocks. The valley floor is carpeted in soft green grass, dotted with miniscule purple wildflowers after a wet winter (by desert standards). Dust devils and the distant outlines of meandering camels are the only things that move except our horses and the light breeze.

We arrive at Captain’s Camp at dusk, so the next morning grants us the first true glimpse of the otherworldly landscape of rust-colored rocks and gold-tinged sand. The horses arrive in vividly-painted open trucks, saddled and ready to go. We mount up and begin our journey into the desert, past a 10km camel racing track.

Emmanuelle, our host and guide, could pass as a Bedouin, if not for her blond hair and French accent. She is as at home in this desert, which she knows like the back of her hand from 30+ years of wandering amid the valleys and rocks on horseback as she is in the French Alps she hails from. She’s fluent in Arabic, on a first name basis with every Bedouin within a several hundred mile radius, and knows this land inside and out. Umsara, the Bedouin call her, “mother of Sarah.” In Bedouin tradition, men are called after their firstborn, so Sameeh, Ahmet, Marmood, Mutlak, and the whole Bedouin crew have bestowed her with this sobriquet, which they use both as a term of endearment and to tease her. Each day we ride back into camp, we are greeted by a chorus of umsaras.

She, Sameeh, and Ahmet take turns guiding the rides and caring for the horses. They have a seamless rhythm together like a well-oiled machine, having run these rides together for well over a decade. They know each horse like their children, taking care to assign each accordingly with the right rider.

The landscape of Wadi Rum is a cross between Southern Utah and Mars. The resemblance to our neighboring planet is so much so that Matt Damon's movie The Martian was filmed here, which inspired a pox of bubble-dome accommodations now found in nearly every camp we ride past. The premise of the bubble in the movie was that it provided an airtight, secluded living space protected from the environment, which is essentially what it does here, offering a climate-controlled panoramic view of the desert without having to actually set foot in the heat and dust. With their wide windows all facing the same direction, they look like rows of giant astronaut helmets. What began as a gimmick, a unique accommodation, has become the norm, slowly becoming more prevalent than the more traditional Bedouin tents.

Each day we ride to different camps, passing through canyons and stopping at distinctive landmarks in the natural rock. We picnic at camps along the way, or tucked into the nook of a box canyon, where the camp crew meet us with lunch. We tether the horses in the shade and take a nap in the cool canyon while the heat of the day passes overhead, the only sounds the occasional murmur of the horses and the lilt of Emmanuelle and the guys joking in Arabic as they sit drinking tea.

The accommodations get more rustic as we ride further into the desert. All the Bedouin camps offer a taste of the traditional, with fabric tents, but have indoor plumbing and comfortable beds. Our last camp is by far the most rustic but feels the most genuine. Four modest tent rooms sleep two apiece with a panoramic view towards the open desert where the horses are tethered. We lounge in the heat of the day and take our meals on a carpet and pillows beneath a fabric canopy adorned with bits of Bedouin flair. Dinner is cooked in a pit, covered with a lid, carpet, and sand. The tea is nonstop. Mutlak, the camp host, clad in a red scarf turban and white galabaya, says it keeps the Bedouin thin - they eat rich foot to keep their energy up in the hot, dry desert environment, but the tea keeps them from getting fat. Where the logic lies on this one is a mystery to me, as I watch him heap sugar into the teapot. We spend two nights in a his camp, listening as he regales us with his version of Bedouin history and tells us of his love for camel racing. We eat sitting on the ground because the Bedouin say it brings us closer to the desert.

We watch the full moon rise over the rocks above camp, and lose count of the stars as they appear overhead. There’s a strength in the friendships that form in the far corners of the world, removed from all that feels familiar, and by the time our week in the desert comes to a close it feels as if we’ve known one another for years. We part ways with promises to return again and to visit one another, knowing that may or may not happen but it doesn’t matter. We will always have the memories of our shared time here in this otherworldly landscape.