I live in the desert. To be fair, I live in an oasis of the desert. With the grand outstretched wall of The Sandias, the dusty winding Rio Grande, and a million folks bustling over miles and miles, Albuquerque is a civilized plot in the middle of brown dirt and shaggy shrubs. It is still the desert and at the mercy of the elements.

In America this year, it seems that there were two options of where you live. You either experienced heavy flooding rains or wilted in drought conditions. The rains were prevalent but concentrated in certain areas. In others, the skies offers nothing but white paintbrush wisps and deep blue. A pretty sight, but it can make you thirsty.

New Mexico is accustomed to drought. We are in our sixth or seventh year of drought conditions. You start to lose track after a while. You start to forget what heavy rain is like. You start to drift. 2003 has been especially dry. In January, we had nary a drop (the first time a calendar month passed without any precipitation since they started recording such things). February came with wetness, and we caught up with the average and then some. By March, the rains were gone, not to return with any significance again for months.

Wait until the monsoons, we all said. Our monsoons pale in comparison to those of the Far East. The monsoons of late July and August in the desert usually mean that clouds will roll in during the afternoon, drop a pleasant shower, and drift away only to do the same the next day for two or three weeks. A very nice cool off from blistering summer days. This year, the monsoons did not come. Clouds would topple over the Sandias, split when they reached the hot asphalt of the big city, and dissipate with a steaming mist at best. Our drought continued through the traditionally wettest months of the year.

By October, the average rainfall in town is seven inches, but this year we sat at about four inches of rain. The desert plants and people can survive in a drought, but it's a quietly delirious kind of survival. We laugh at things that aren't funny. We end up in all types of places for no apparent reasons. We cease to anticipate or recollect. We simply become. We simply survive.

This Tuesday as I drove around town in my big yellow cab, the rain I had long since forgotten about praying for came without pretense. Hurricanes from Mexico found their way to the desert oasis of Albuquerque with plenty to spare. The heavens opened up, and the streets filled with makeshift streams and ponds. As I cruised, I couldn't help but smile at the added driving challenge. I had never been so happy to cruise through the rain. An hour went by and then another. Just when it appeared it was all done, the clouds swelled up again and gushed out another round. The wet washcloth in the sky kept ringing and rinsing.

All told, we received exactly one inch of rain on Tuesday. It may not sound like much, but it accounted for twenty percent of the rain of the year thus far. It continued into Wednesday before going on its way. By that afternoon, you could not tell by casual sight that it had just rained. The puddles were gone, the dampness drained. The desert drank a hearty swallow and could have handled more. The annual Balloon Fiesta had to cancel a day of liftoffs, but no one in town complained. You learn to take what you can get in the desert.

The trees and shrubs have a touch more green and perk to them now, the town itself got a long overdue shower (it starts to stink after a while), and the drought looks a little less drastic. We will still end up under the average for the year, but the city got the rain we had been waiting for all year.

Our survival just got a touch bit easier with one cool drink.

Chris Jungle pretty much drinks anything he is offered.