I’m so comfortable sprawled out at Hector’s house. We speak of getting up at the crack of dawn to get me back out there, but neither of us make a move and it’s a lazy morning of eating, talking, laughing and dawdling.
I should mention that this house is amazing. Perched on a hill, the view is straight to the snowy top of Mount Lemmon. It’s dry here, so the house just sort of opens up to the outside. The walls are covered with photographs, bookshelves and art, especially from Zimbabwe. In fact, the garage was converted to a ‘man cave’ Africa Room and is filled with masks and one wild nude painting.
Finally Hector extricates me from the comfort of his awesome space and we drive toward the Tiger Mine trailhead just on the other side of town. It’s an ordeal to get started because I’ll have a 12 mile dry stretch to a cow pond. I drink glass after glass of water and fill three liters.
I’m not particularly jazzed about what’s to come. More of the same flora as I descend to the Gila River and hotter days with long, dry stretches. I’m still pretty battered from the string of mountains, but I put on a brave face and plan to take it slow.
As we meet the highway, Hector tells me his verdict on Alison is she’s “fucking crazy.” I laugh with no argument. Then he pulls his car to the shoulder and says he really has a mind to take me further up the trail. It’s not just the lack of water that worries him, but it’s really, really rough and frankly not at all lovely. “I guess if you like this kind of stuff, you’ll like this kind of stuff.” he comments with a laugh.
I think on it. I loved my mountains, but the Oracle Ridge was a death march and I passed the same clumpy, brown, dried plants over and over. I don’t have the luxury of unlimited time and I’ll likely have to skip something anyway and, to use a word from my Kiwi friend Neal, it’s all getting a bit ‘samey.’
I ask Hector why he wants me to skip where he lives. He says he loves it, just not to walk it. Only a bit further north, the terrain changes and is far more varied and interesting.
His last job was as mine inspector and he’s driven every inch of this region, but he does not want to wreck my hike and leaves it up to me. It’s funny how this lovely man feels like an old, trusted buddy in such a short span of time. I really feel he has my best interest at heart and wants my hike to be a joyous experience and not s slog. I say let’s go!
We study the map and head for Kearney, about 3-4 days walk. The road takes us near the San Pedro River, an important riparian region even though the river runs mostly underground.
We pass Hayden, a dying town next to an open pit mine with billions of tons of tailings like a multi-colored mountain. The whole way he makes me laugh, pointing to a clump of yellow bristle brush and saying it’s lovely, but not exactly what I’d pay money to see and that he’s happy to see me walk all day if i like but he’s not coming with me.
I needed a laugh at myself and the oftentimes tight grip I keep on my plans, my ideas of things, my ideas of myself. I should know when I’m out of whack because I don’t take as many pictures, I don’t sing and whistle, I just want to get there, wherever ‘there’ is.
We drive through Kearney the turn off the highway and head toward the trail. Just before the river I notice a hiker on the side of the road. Hector slams on hid brakes and just backs up, needing to slide to the side to avoid a car coming up behind him.
It’s a young bearded man in tights and shorts named ‘Rip’ or Larry. He tells us someone is coming to get him because he hurt his knee. He’ll come back later and section hike, but it’s all over for now. Mind you, he says all this with a smile, much to Hector’s bemusement.
Then Larry gives me a tiny charcoal filter to attach to my Sawyer Squeeze to get rid of ‘cow flavor.’ It’s such a sweet parting gesture and impresses Hector. We drive on and find the trail – a sandy bit of forest road under the highway. At once we say, “No way!” and continue north to the next town of Superior.
The terrain changes almost immediately with huge basalt mountains surrounding a high desert including giant Picketpost and Apache Leap. Of course we stop for second breakfast and continue yammering away before it really is time to send me on my way.
I am so lucky I just happened to be I the post office at the same time as Hector. What a fun time and I feel rested and refreshed, physically and spiritually.
We hug goodbye and I’m back on trail, one that is flowering. In the other sections, a strange kind of ivy was covering nearly everything close to the ground. Dead now, it was blond, but almost as if a net fading out the beauty.
There’s no sign of it here and wildflowers are everywhere – pink fairyduster, purple fleabane, yellow desert marigold and wiry lotus, orange mexican poppy and purple desert verbena. The ocotillo are greening with red flags, the palo verde tree an electric green and the cactus at least look bright and eager to show their flowers soon (I hope)
I pass a woman on horseback covered head-to-toe from the sun. Another woman on foot tells me her name is Mama Turtle and she’s section hiking, having just started a thru-hiker on this section. I remember how much I loved it when friends walked a bit of a section with me just to see me off.
Soon I come to Queen creek running well still in a verdant patch of green grass. I sing to the cows and wake a backpacker taking a siesta under his umbrella. Dragon takes it in stride as I fill a liter bottle.
From here, the trail heads into a canyon of deep red rock. Buzzards glide overhead, their shadows crossing mine. A big, black butterfly flutters past. The trail is luxury. There are few rocks and it’s nearly all level. It’s just what I need to ease back in after such tiring days. I barely get out of breath, even as I slowly ascend. Birds are noisy in a bright green cottonwood. I can hear squeaks coming from the bushes.
The saguaro are back in odd shapes, some hilarious, some pornographic. The bright green grass and soft red rock give way to an open area where I see a windmill spinning and hear cows complaining from an enclosure. Still, some are on the range and pause chewing to watch me pass.
I follow a long contour to a new canyon, Reavis, and find water again, the last before a huge climb. It’s late, so I’ll set camp as far up as water goes.
Two young hikers, Clothes Line and John the Baptist catch up to me, one asking if I’m Blissful and mentioning she went to Macallester College. Oh right, I signed my name in the register at the trailhead.
They’re fast and head on to a trough for water while I move another couple tenths of a mile to flowing stream and a grass patch for the tent. All filled up for a hard climb tomorrow, I’m tucked into the quilt Richard sent, an owl hooting and the water singing me to sleep.
