AZT day 6, spectacular site to spectacular site in Los Colinas, 20.5 miles

I drink a bunch and eat a bar then set off toward Kentucky Camp. It’s the original headquarters of the Santa Rita Water and Mining Company which went bust when the owner dies falling from a three story building in Tucson – I wonder what the story is there? 

The adobe buildings are beautiful and available for rent. Most important to me, the water spigots are on. There’s no good water for nine miles+ so I plan to camel up and fill up. 

I meet John and Jane, newlyweds trying out thru-hiking in their late 60’s. They tell me they slept in the bathroom last night. 

I love meeting the people of this trail. Everyone seems so happy to be here. I barely see a soul all day, so it’s a treat when I do. I must admit, I love the solitude though. 

We chat a bit, then set off. I am moving so well, I lose them in the first mile. It’s so interesting in here. Steep ups and downs like waves heading from one gulch or canyon to the next with names like Sucker, Barrel, Oak Tree, California, Mulberry and Papago as well as Enzenberg and Scholefield. I wonder who they were? 

Nothing is too hard for too long and I walk mostly on Forest Road. I pass one RV tucked into shade with a massive spread and compliment her choice of spot. 

The grass is flaxen, tall and graceful. I walk at the bottom of a gulch and frost glistens in the morning sun. When I climb out on a path creating a shortcut between roads, the views open to long views of grassland hills like an ocean. To my left are enormous rock cliffs curling over at the top like Hokusai’s ‘The Great Wave.’ 

I begin to sing with delight and notice my sun hoodie matches the ground I’m walking on exactly. Barrel cactus lurk under gnarly oak. The Rincon Mountains appear ahead, tall and severe. I’ll climb over those in a few days. 

For now, this beautiful landscape presented before me will have to be walked – and there won’t be one flat stretch the entire day. 

Down I go from my perch into a canyon. A long black ‘snake’ of a pipe follows me. Someone’s water source. All of these gulches and canyons have water rushing through during the monsoon in late summer. They’re mostly dry now, but I have to go all the way down in them and back out. This often requires a long, winding descent deep into an arroyo on a U-turn and then back up and out.

Not only is this not a flat day, but no part of the trail is in a straight line. I join road every so often, but now I’m mostly on trail, the AZT association placing many signs at junctions to indicate the correct way. 

I’m a few miles from water, a bit off trail from a trough. As I cross a dirt road, I spy color in the bushes. It’s trail magic! As I get closer, I see three large coolers, a huge plastic box, and about 10 gallons of water. Cooper is the trail magician and leaves a note inviting us to take a chair, sit in the shade and enjoy. 

One cooler is filled with bags of candy, twinkies and bars. Another has oranges, apples, hard boiled eggs and cheese. And the third carries beer! The large box also contains a note – in case you forgot anything and is stuffed with sunscreen, lighters, sewing kits, medicine and first aid as well as electrolytes, which I snag. 

All hail, Cooper! Who does this kind of thing?!? Certainly the best trail magic ever, though a close second was the time in Oregon when a couple brought high quality liquor to a road crossing and I sipped 12-year Scotch at 9 am.

I sit on a comfy chair in the shade as I’m told and sip my Bud with a few Laughing Cows. Ah, the life! And I won’t have to try and filter trough water. 

The beer goes down more like a hit of carbs and I continue on, up and up to another glorious view. As I ascend, I hear a, “Hi!” I never heard anyone approach and suddenly a biker is there. Paula – and later Cathy who catches up – tell me they’re biking the AZT in sections. I imagine it must not cover all of the same trail, but it does explain why this tread feels so good, it’s meant for mountain bikes. 

They push on, Cathy jumping off to push right near the top. As I crest, I see them flying down fast and out of site. Not a bad way to go. More cactus appear, huge barrel with buds just appearing and sprawling prickly pear in bright green and deep purple. 

I pass the trough and continue on, up and down and around and around like a Diana Ross hit. I can see a highway paralleling the trail, cars in and out of sight behind hills. I also hear gun fire near a forest road, but never cross the highway or see a soul. 

It’s getting hot as the wind is blocked. Not enough to be a problem but certainly noticeable. I realize how lucky I am as a NOBO or north bounder. The sun is nearly always at my back and never in my eyes. I sometimes have trouble focusing when I walk into my shadow, but I’m never blinded by the glare. When I crest a high point and feel the breeze again, I wing my arms like a cormorant to dry the pits. 

There’s little shade, but I do find a rock in the trail with an oak offering some relief. I sit down and eat the cheeses and oranges Saint Cooper left for us. Just as I make myself comfortable, Steamboat shows up coming up the trail towards me. He lives in Phoenix and is finishing the trail bit by bit. 

The best part about meeting someone coming the other way is that they can share beta on what’s coming. He assures me there are small, clear pools of water ahead – “the best at the second wash in three miles.” He must have been taking notes. 

As far as camping, he tells me it’s ‘catch as catch can’ with clearings in random spots along the trail. I thank him and head on towards wash #2

It’s more roller coaster, grass, oaks, cactus and views. I absolutely love it here and sing all the way to water. It’s one tiny clear pool in fine gravel, fed from underground and absolutely perfect. 

I brought a cup to scoop and carefully fill a collapsable bag, screw on the filter and attach it to my empty bottle. There’s nowhere to hang it, so I dig my walking stick into the gravel and lean it against my backpack, then use the other stick to hold it steady. Then I hang the bag from the stick and let it pour in. 

I fill two liters, sling on my pack and keep moving, planning to look in earnest at 6:00 and stop no later than 6:30 because it’s dark at 7:00. 

Up and down and around and round I go. I feel really strong now. It’s as though my body finally said, “Oh yeah, we like this!” I pass a few of those random sites, but it’s too early. Then the trail goes steeply down into a gulch, but I see it rising on the other side and a possible spot under a tree. 

Down takes extra care because of loose stones. I sit back and let my legs sway as I step down, sticks at the ready. Up is all power and air and for some reason, I tend to end strong. Maybe it’s the air cooling of knowing my walking is done for the day, who knows.

The trail skips the flat spot I thought I saw and veers to the left on a narrow ridge, not a single site along the way. It’s steeply down again into shade, the sun blocked behind me. Yet again, I spy a flat crest and think surely there’s a spot. 

The trail again turns left before the crest and sidles the mountain. Then it turns abruptly and heads to the top. And there it is! My perfect camp spot. Sure, there are prickly pear about, but the grassy clearing is wide enough for my cowgirl set up. 

I roll a rock over to sit on, which promptly breaks. I piece it together and make dinner, setting my sleep spot between bites. The view is directly at pointy Mica Mountain, turning pink right now as I eat garbanzo beans in lemon dill mayo. 

The air is only slightly chilly, the wind light as the crickets begin chirping. The moon is so bright, I don’t need a lamp. A poorwill calls from far below in the upcoming canyon. Another perfect end to another perfect day.