“Dry,” announced my sister. She stared down into an empty cow water tank. Our maps listed several water sources for the day’s stretch of desert, but so far the two we’d passed were bone dry. We had enough water to last at least half the day, but with each dry source, my concern mounted.

We approached the third supposed source several miles later. It was a windmill, our maps proclaimed. What greeted us looked more like a shredded relic on stilts, and missing enough parts that the wind couldn’t even turn it anymore. I caught a glimpse of stagnant green water in a small tank at the base of the broken windmill. I dropped my backpack from my shoulders as Britta dug out her filter and peered into the tank.

“Hey,” Britta said, “there’s a dead possum in here.”

I quickly stepped over. Sure enough, a bloated dead possum lay on the grimy tin bottom. Red flags started shooting up so quickly, it’s honestly a surprise the nearest ranchers didn’t come investigate. I’d seen this scene before, in every Western ever. Some poor, ill-fated soul stumbles through the desert in search of water. They’re so thirsty by the time they reach a pool that they quench their thirst without paying attention to the skulls and bones littered nearby. After an agonizing death, the unlucky wanderer is no more than a cautionary warning to the next traveler.

“It should be fine if we filter it,” my sister said, water bladder in hand.

Oh no. “I’ll take my chances at the next water source,” I said quickly. “I’m not drinking dead possum water.”

And so we continued on. The blazing sun beat down on us overhead as the sand crunched under our shoes, mile after mile. I began to doubt my hasty decision. What if the other sources were dry as well? What if dead possum water was the best we were going to get?

As we approached the next supposed source, two black crows stared down at us from a dead tree hanging over the trail. Their beady black eyes followed our every move. Ahead came the eerie screech of a windmill turning.

“I’m going to laugh if this one has dead rodents in it too,” said my sister, ever so sympathetically.

We scrambled down the embankment from the trail, following the sound of the windmill. And then: a miracle. There, underneath the windmill, was an actual faucet, powered by a nearby solar panel. I turned the handle and clear water gushed out. I breathed a sigh of relief as we filled our water containers to the brim. Crisis averted. We’d live to hike another day.