I need an alarm to wake up. Inside, there’s no morning star to signal the day’s begun. Even in gloriously comfortable sheets and absolute silence, I sleep poorly, concerned about soreness, low energy and nausea. Jerry at the Stage Stop assures me I need to drink a lot more water than I think I do, so I camel up while checking in with Richard.
Off I go, a new me, starting on pavement out of this sweet town. Puddles in the street indicate it rained, but I never heard it. I just see beautiful remnants in clouds catching the rising sun. I stop at the market for a breakfast flauta and wave at truckers passing. A Day of the Dead Museum proudly displays skulls on the front lawn. A coffee shop uses the honor system for fresh grounds left in a locker.
I love this aspect of thru-hiking – leaving a town by a paved road, past the school and homes, one with a Trump flag, another with water for thru-hikers. Soon the road becomes dirt, slowly gaining altitude and aiming straight for a massive peak I saw from the Canelo Hills. Am I meant to climb that?!
I don’t think so, but I will climb 2500 feet+ today (that plus is because I go up, then down and up again.) It’s going to be a long one, but I feel good after my rest and all that water is having an effect; I’m more alert and energized and less sore, though I do pee every half hour.
It’s easy walking, slowly ascending. I reach a sign that tells me I’ve entered the national forest and that all who drive here need a license. I am carrying two liters and I stop at some pools of water for a snack and another liter – if it’s inside me, am I still carrying two pounds?
The views back to the mountains I crossed these past days are stunning. I can see all the way to Mexico. I sit on a downed log and see a spot recently cut. It looks flat, so i choose it. My mistake not to place down my mini sit-pad because something bites me on the back of my leg. I don’t see anything, but I feel a burn.
As I continue, the road gets rockier and much harder to walk on. Just then, a truck shows up. In a split second I create a new rule: if I’m walking an actual road, it’s not cheating to hitch.
Henry and James are happy to pick me up, though they reckon it’s only a half mile to Anaconda Spring where they’d drop me. No problem, I don’t need to walk this.
Henry leases land from the forest service for his cattle. He’s heading in to supplement their diet since the grass is dead now. I tell them how much I love Arizona and the people – “are so nice!” They both say at once.
Yes, they are. I think they like the stream of backpackers coming through. It shakes things up and supports the economy. I like meeting working ranchers who love the land. They tell me it’s supposed to snow this weekend.
It feels like more than a half mile and I’m grateful since they take me deep down and back up one section I was glad to skip. I do ask for one more favor, but I have to take my pants down (!) I can’t see the bite because it’s at the back of my leg. I wonder how bad it is and James takes a peek.
It’s only a red rashy bit so they give me a half empty tube of hydrocortisone and wish me luck. I sit on beautiful limestone smoothed by rushing water. Right now, it’s more a puddle, so I use a bit of panty hose to pre-filter the water before pushing it through my Sawyer Squeeze. I no longer squeeze, to be honest. Instead, I let gravity do the work.
I take in another liter and continue heading up. It’s lovely in here. Faded, blond grass, oak and juniper and mountains in the distance. The air is a perfect mix of frigid breeze and hot sun. I barely sweat.
Two backpackers come towards me. L’il Furnace and Crackin section-hiking. They seem happy enough and I wonder if they camped nearby. It’s still a long way to the final confirmed water and now on rolly rocks. And just when I need it, Henry and James show up again and say, “Hop in!”
Again, it’s not far, but an ankle twist waiting to happen. Henry drives very carefully over huge boulders, steeply down and steeply up. They deposit me next to a slow-moving pool and I know this time is for real because there is no water up and over this mountain range until a few miles down the other side.
Let me tell you, being properly hydrated feels amazing. I realize there’s always a risk of drinking too much, but I think i might have had such a deficit with the altitude and arid climate, my body really needed it.
My strategy on the desert portion of the PCT, was to bring a four liter capacity. I only used it once for San Jacinto Peak, a 10,000 foot climb over 20 miles with water near the top. On day one of the AZT, I also carried four liters. The big difference this time is I drank less and carried more. Today, that changed.
I’m taking enough, of course, but I’ve ‘cameled up’ feeling full for the next big pulls. Surprisingly, it’s still a road that heads up – straight up. I guess whoever drives this doesn’t need switchbacks.
The loose rock makes it slippery, but I put it in granny gear and power up Temporal Canyon slowly. It’s one of the mountains that hides the view of what’s to come. Just when it appears I’m heading for blue sky, another section appears somehow managing to be just a little steeper.
I’m breathing hard and fast, but this is my favorite thing, pushing upwards, step by step, and watching the mountain shrink under my feet and the views grow.
Finally, the road crests and begins a steep descent. Is this it? Can’t be, I’m in a canyon, a kind of bowl with no way out but up. Put it in granny gear, I say, and measure my breaths as I slowly crawl into the bowl.
But what is this? A jeep! No, a fleet of jeeps heading to the top. Of course I ask for a ride and get a crazy one over seemingly impenetrable boulders, steeply down over an eroded wash, then up in what feels 90 degrees.
Again, it’s not far, but it’s enough. Ron is a good driver and tells me I’m wearing rubber shoes and the rubber of his Jeep is on the road, so it all counts.
There’s a small turnaround in forest and they all get out chairs and lunch and ask me why I’m here. I discover they’re Minnesotan snow-birds and do the jeep tour every Friday somewhere in the area.
I have lunch, then head on as finally I’ll have a real trail to the top. It’s only a little over a mile, but it’s an endurance test of switchbacks into an agave-dotted sky island. I don’t climb the tallest one, Mt. Wrightson, like a shark fin way in the distance two days ago. Still, it’s a lot over a saddle and suddenly into a new world.
I’m surrounded by tall, straight-trunked pines, cool in the shade. Beyond is desert and one mountain range after another. I drop down into Walker Canyon on a seemingly endless series of switchbacks, dropping quickly to Bear Spring. Funny, I drank so much but don’t need to collect more, so just take a break in the cool silence sharing a log with a lizard.
Soon the trail is level through the soft beauty of the Santa Rita Mountains. On a balcony, I look deep into a chasm with rock ramparts standing proudly above. Beyond is the flat expanse and more ranges. lime green lichen adorn a stairstep outcropping of rock.
I join a dirt road again at Gardner Canyon, absolutely empty, though many large campsites tell a story of what might be coming this weekend. I cross a stream and leave the road for a beautiful path, again on a balcony as if walking on air.
Along this gorgeous path, signs tell the story of a complicated hydraulic mining venture to use jets of water to get at gold deposits. With scarce resources, the plan was to create a system to move the water uphill to where it was needed. It worked and I walk over the original pipes, but, alas, there wasn’t enough gold to make it profitable.
I leave this lovely trail and drop into the gulch. A campsite sits next to green algae water. It will be an ice box in here tonight. I come out to a road surrounded by grass and gnarly oaks.
A backpacking couple is there.
Olivia and Brandon are newly engaged – “We started the thru-hike before.” She tells me all smiles. That means he popped the question within the last few days. Sadly, she twisted her ankle and they’re waiting for a ride.
It’s still early, but I look for a camp spot. Two men are riding horses and trying to lasso a steer. I keep moving. At the trailhead I wave in the distance to a backpacker with his tent already set. It’s low and will be cold plus it’s Friday and bound to get busy.
I stay on trail and walk steeply up eventually reaching a plateau. Near a gate a small trail leads to a central high point, a sort of island within an island. Mountain ranges surround me on three sides including the monster I climbed today.
As the sky turns pink I get dinner ready and set the alicoop. I need my legs to hang akimbo, and that’s easier in a tent – where I am now, so excited for this perfect day of short rides appearing magically, to just the right amount of water and food to feel strong, and a magical campsite in the air.
