AZT day 21, Hopi Spring to White Rock Spring, 21 miles

My day begins with a rocky climb up the aptly named Rocky Ridge. Things are not too steep and the wind is up, so the gnats have yet to find me. 

I walk on baseball sized rocks but also rock outcropping where cactus huddle in cracks. None are blooming, but flowers are everywhere including deep purple desert verbena. 

From the ridge it’s mountain range after mountain range. It feels so huge and I am here all alone I feel momentary panic. Can I walk out of here? Do I have what it takes? I swallow it down and tell myself one step at a time. 

I have set a pretty big goal so that I can make it out by tomorrow evening. That’s when rain and snow is forecasted and I’d prefer solid walls around me. I have enough food and gear, but this hiking is hard enough without cold, wet and slippery. 

The expanse is enormous. It’s disorienting and staggering, but the trail is clear contouring down the mountain. I head down on a cruisey trail, deeper and deeper into a canyon. As I descend, the land seems to come down with me and I’m folded into it. 

I hit drainages with pools and trickling water, but I still have plenty and it’s early and still cool to press on to the next one. It requires a steep up and over, but again, I think I can keep walking to the next one. 

This time, it’s a big pull to Bullfrog Ridge, wide open to more views of mountains laid out in front of me and leading to the Mogollon Rim, a dark gray high and flat plateau. I will need to walk over all of that, I realize. Flowers bloom here and it’s grassy – and very rocky. I move well, but each step requires care. 

This time I head steeply down on tiny shifting stones, the pines are thick and tall. I come to ‘seeps’ deep in the woods and choose a pool to scoop from. Ten miles to the East Verde River but there should be some pools at Brush Springs. 

I eat in this beautifully shaded spot, such an oasis in the desert. I camel up and prepare to carry water, but as always, it’s a compromise how much I can manage on these steep pulls. 

The ups have me out of breath but are short, this one through a rock garden of succulents and long outcroppings marked with cairns. At the top, I have about a mile of flat in a grassy airy, fat and squat junipers sprawling happily. The wind is up and I hold out my arms like a cormorant so it can dry my pits. A vulture glides close to check me out.  

Again, the views are vast as I reach the edge and know I have to go down – very steeply down on ball bearing rocks. I imagine I’ll have the shapeliest quads when this is over, but I am working hard now to stay upright. 

Again, I dive deep into the canyon, following a draw with pools of water. I have no idea why I don’t take any, but I pass by large campsites under spreading trees feeling confident. 

Perhaps I shouldn’t have been quite so confident or cocky, is more like it because I’m sent straight up out of this canyon, and just when it seems there’s a place to begin heading down, I contour a mountain and go even higher. 

Eventually I reach the edge and start a five-mile descent on switchbacks to the river. How lovely it would be just moving along gently down the mountain, one lined with orange poppies. But that would be far too simple, and I instead climb steeply up over rocky landslips. Coming down, I wipe out twice, whacking my elbow and having to take off my pack to stand up. 

Now I’m getting thirsty. I find a rock and fill my final liter with electrolytes. I fill the small bottle on my shoulder strap and ravenously drink the remaining liter. It can’t be too far now. 

It’s far enough, pounding down shifting stones mostly contouring the mountain. The stones only seem to grow as I get closer, making each step a painful negotiation. The hills spread out before me come closer and I see I’ll have to climb right out of here. Will I make it to the spring beyond? Will I make it to town before the storm comes?

As I reach the bottom, alone, drained, thirsty, my feet hurting and my confidence flagging, the trail takes an abrupt right and sends me up yet again over a ridge. I want to cry, but what would be the point? So, I rejoice instead for my strength and power on the ascent and ask the goddess for protection. 

There’s a brief flat area with campsites before a drop on the biggest, boldest rocks yet. I pass around the LF Ranch where I hear wails from what I think is a peacock, and finally, I’m at a huge river. 

East Verde is flowing deep under large sycamores now casting long shadows. A couple sits on the other side eating and we yell, hello. 

I get right to it, filtering three liters and making a chocolate shake with the first. A section hiker named Steve comes the other way and assures me where the good water is ahead – also that the storm won’t hit until the evening and he plans to just hunker down. 

As I prepare to move on, I realize the couple is Frauke and Dennis! Am I ever glad to see them. They started after me from Roosevelt Lake, but never left trail  Their presence makes me feel brave and strong. 

It is a doozy of a climb out – straight up on dirt and rock. Frauke and I still talk on the climb how we are doing and what we’ve seen. Frauke has a beautiful, infectious smile and turns around on a particularly awkward bit to tell me she understands my name now. Blissful is ‘glückseleg’ in German, meaning happy soul.

At the top, I stop to drink one of the liters I’m carrying and marvel at the view of green mountains in deep folds, their shadows accentuated by the setting sun. 

It’s flat on the ridge and bursting with sound from so many crickets. The grass is turning golden and there are a few less rocks then before. Reaching the spring seemed an impossibility earlier, but I see Frauke bouncing along ahead and follow. At my feet are dozens of deep brown roly-polies inching along and I avoid stepping on them. 

I catch Frauke near the spring, eyeing lovely campsites with big views. She tells me that as she hikes she’s been thinking about happiness and what makes us so. I tell her seeing them, hearing the crickets, drinking a whole liter of water, big views, being strong enough to walk uphill over and over, wildflowers – basically surprises. Yes, happiness sneaks up on me and surprises me with something wonderful and unexpected. 

She remembers my telling her on that difficult descent to Roosevelt Lake on big rock, I sang a song to urge myself down – and she has been doing the same on the hard parts. That’s a lot of singing because this whole trail is ‘hard parts.’ 

Dennis is filling water below at a metal trough catching spring water. I pull out my dirty water bags and then my cup, which picked up a hitcher at the river – a big spider. We both laugh as I set him free to fill up. I’ll filter when I find a campsite, which I do in the first few switchbacks, a flat space for one looking out to the mountains as the sun fades. 

The moon won’t be up until morning and the stars are like jewels on velvet. This day was hard, but I’ve crawled under the covers and my body is resting now, happy and satisfied.