I went out to the desert where Cleopatra camped out with her

In the words of Stacy Schiff, we hear of a queen’s journey: “I went out to the desert where Cleopatra camped out with her mercenary army. It's a desolate outpost. Nothing has changed since her day. You realize how far she had to travel. Not only is it a good 150 miles against the current, you can't take a ship.” These lines are more than history—they are a meditation on endurance, distance, and the power of will. They remind us that greatness is never born in comfort, but in the heat of trial, in the wilderness where the soul must choose whether to falter or to press forward.

The desert is not merely a landscape; it is a teacher. Its silence whispers of isolation, its sands testify to the passage of empires, its barrenness strips away the illusions of ease. When Schiff tells us that “nothing has changed since her day,” she binds our age to Cleopatra’s. What Cleopatra faced—loneliness, the weariness of a long march, the knowledge of forces arrayed against her—we too must face in our own form. Time changes the costumes, but the desert endures, as do the battles of the human heart.

The distance—“a good 150 miles against the current”—is not only geographical but spiritual. To move “against the current” is to resist the natural drift of human weakness. It is to row upstream when all would prefer to drift down toward comfort or surrender. The queen of Egypt had to lead men through desolation, without the aid of ships, trusting only in endurance, courage, and the flame of her own ambition. This is the eternal pattern of leaders, visionaries, and dreamers: they walk where others dare not, and they endure what others flee.

Consider the story of Alexander the Great. In the deserts of Gedrosia, his army nearly perished for lack of water. Soldiers collapsed upon the burning sands, and a small vessel of water was brought to Alexander. He could have drunk, for he was the king, but instead he poured the water into the sand before the eyes of his army. By this act he showed them: if the king can endure thirst, so can you. Like Cleopatra’s march, Alexander’s trial in the desert is a tale not of conquest alone, but of endurance and the strength of example.

Thus, the meaning of Schiff’s words stretches beyond Cleopatra herself. They speak to all who must face their own deserts—those lonely places where progress seems slow, where every step is uphill, where the currents of life resist your advance. Whether in the struggle to build a vision, to defend one’s honor, or to keep faith alive when the world is hostile, the desert waits for each of us. And as in the queen’s day, nothing has changed: the road remains long, the current remains strong, and the ship is denied us.

The lesson is clear: do not wait for ease, for no ship will come to carry you. Instead, gather your strength, as Cleopatra did, and march with purpose through the sands. Know that the journey itself shapes you; the very distance against the current makes you worthy of the destination. Let not the barrenness deceive you—fruit is born only to those who do not abandon the march.

To the listener and the reader: when you face your own desert, do not lament its emptiness. See in it the arena of your growth. When the current is against you, row harder, and let resistance build your spirit. When comfort tempts you to abandon the path, remember Cleopatra, remember Alexander, and remember all who endured before you. For if they could march through desolation, so too can you endure the desert of your time.

Practical wisdom is this: each day, take one step against the current. Refuse the drift of idleness. Pursue your goal, however far. Build endurance with small acts of discipline—rising early, speaking truth when silence would be easier, choosing effort where comfort beckons. In this way, you will transform deserts into pathways, and outposts of desolation into strongholds of triumph. For nothing has changed since Cleopatra’s day: greatness is still found in the desert.