I’m from Texas. I thought I knew what hot was.
I did not know what hot was.
I flew into Phoenix in June for a shoot with a wonderful family out in the Mesa area, and the moment I walked out of Sky Harbor Airport, the air hit me in the face like I’d opened an oven. Not a metaphorical oven. An actual oven. The kind you use to roast a turkey at 400 degrees, except somehow you’re inside the turkey.
It was 115 degrees. In June. Not July. Not August. June. The month that, in Texas, we call “kinda warm.” In Phoenix, June is the surface of the sun.
I’ve spent entire summers in Houston. I’ve filmed in East Texas in August when the humidity makes the air feel like warm soup. Like an armpit. I’ve loaded gear into my truck when the metal was so hot it branded my forearms. I thought that was suffering. I was wrong. Houston heat is wet and heavy, like wearing a hot towel. Phoenix heat is dry and violent, like standing inside a hair dryer the size of a building.
I kept looking at the locals, trying to figure out their secret. They were just walking around. Living their lives. Grocery shopping. One guy was jogging. Jogging. I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and ask if he was okay. If he needed water. If he had a death wish.
The shoot itself was great. The family was warm (pun intended, and I’m not sorry). They had a beautiful story, and they were generous with their time and their memories. I set up my gear in their living room and thanked God for air conditioning. Because outside, the neighborhood looked like a place where humans were not supposed to be. Beautiful, sure. The desert is gorgeous. But gorgeous in the way that a volcano is gorgeous. From a distance.
At one point between setups, I walked outside to grab something from my rental car. I was out there maybe ninety seconds. Came back inside and my cameraman looked at me like I’d just returned from war. “You good?” he asked. I was not good. I was medium well.
Here’s what I’ll say about Phoenix: the people are wonderful. The sunsets are unreal. The food is fantastic. And I will schedule every future shoot there between November and February, because 115 degrees in June is not a climate. It’s a practical joke.
I survived. Barely. The footage turned out beautiful. And I have a new respect for anyone who calls that oven home year-round. You’re tougher than me. By a lot.