AZT: Gila River to Rain Collector, 18 miles

The tent is soaked.

It didn’t rain anymore overnight, but fog has settled in the canyon and when I unzip the fly, it weighs a ton.

The birds are singing loudly, the black throated banging their tambourines. Fortunately I’m warm and dry inside my bag even if the surface is damp.

My site is high up, but a cliff blocks the rising sun. So I dawdle with breakfast until it hits me square on and I dare to put on my soaking wet hiking clothes in the chill air.

I love being alone and love it here even though I’m a drowned rat. My hair is wildly curly, unexpected in the ‘dry’ desert. The flowers hold droplets of dew. A rock wren sings to me sounding like a kind of tabulation machine.

I really was stupidly lucky yesterday finding this flat spot in the one short interval between soaking downpours. I get a late start but as the fog lifts, the sky clears and a wonderful day is ahead.

I sing on trail, heading around an arroyo, only to see another hiker catching up. His calls himself Stevo and immediately enlightens me that he’s already hiked ten miles this morning.

As I stop to let him pass, he stops too. “Since you’re the first person I’ve seen, I’ll let you hear my story!”

Oh, goodie, precisely what I needed to make this morning even better.

He stands in front of me so I’m stopped in place for the gift of his ‘story.’ Apparently he decided to camp at the parking lot (not ten miles back as it turns out) and a couple of locals come racing in, did a few donuts, then shot guns over his tent.

Rule Number One: Never camp where people can drive to.

I make the right noises of concern, then encourage him to talk while we walk, and soon he races ahead which is just fine with me.

The canyon begins to widen and enormous red rock cliffs appear like ramparts. I can’t get over how beautiful it is here – and how comical the saguaro look. Some are just pins, others classic with branching arms upright. Many appear half dead yet optimistically sprout round newborn arms, fresh like a prickly melon. Some have arms so long, they drag on the ground. One sports a fan – and I wonder if it’s a different species.

Ozoner told me to get my water from a wash access to the Gila River, but I see another a few miles further on which looks even closer. This will be my last water for 10 miles with a massive climb, so getting it as late as possible makes good sense.

Stevo is here with all his gear drying on a grassy area and I join in by pulling my dripping tent. “Where ya from?” he asks, an invitation set out for him to tell me he’s from Boulder, Colorado.

What is it with some hikers?

I tell him I played flute in Boulder’s Chataqua, but he seems more interested in his own voice.

To access the river requires a climb over barbed wire and a bit of a muddy path, but it’s close enough, chocolate brown and racing. I use a bit of nylon sock to filter it of mud before sending it through my filter, and it comes out clear and reasonably tasty.

Stevo is still hanging around and asks for my story in yesterday’s rain. I say it made for dramatic pictures and that seems to satisfy him before he heads back up trail and I eventually plod forward.

Had I mentioned how much birdsong I hear? The sloapy song of the canyon wren and the Austin Powers theme of the black throated sparrow follow me down towards the AZT’s lowest point at 1,646 feet.

I remember my first day on trail climbing up past 9,000 feet on Mount Miller as the sun set and finding a wee spot on a magical peninsula. It got to 19 degrees that night and I panic a little now hoping two liters will carry me through this hot climb.

It’s extremely steep to start on a road filled with rocks leading me finally to a trail that follows a gorge filled with magnificent cliffs and spires. The saguaro follow along punctuating the vertical prowess of my scenery. All the way, lupine and Mexican poppies burst with color.

It’s a long way up, over 2,000 feet, and I often go down many switchbacks to avoid deep gorges or rock outcroppings. But this is designed for mountain bikes, so feels gradual and very doable. Though I must say, I’m glad I hiked laps on Ramsey Hill in my hood for practice.

Just as I spy a magnificent spire ahead like a raised fist, a hiker bounces down the path. He’s fully loaded with a pack in back and in front, a can of bear spray attached to it. His orange lens reflect me in them and he asks me over and over if I’m all right.

I tell him I am and mention his pack is from my state of Minnesota. He then shares with me that he asked god for this pack, and it appeared at an REI, just returned by an unsatisfied customer.

Ask and ye shall receive.

He tells me his trail name is Ain’t-see-nuthin-yet, then offers information on the best way to access the rainwater collector and also that there are plenty of flat spots to camp.

I thank him and wish him luck just as he asks again if I’m all right.

I meet steep bits that then cross flat areas, green and full of flowers in between the cacti. Like hanging valleys or giant steps, I climb up and up, following the rock fist to a straight on view and lunch in the shade.

There was a moment at the Gila that I wasn’t really sure if I was going to be all right. I wonder if I should have mentioned that to my hiker friend I just passed? It doesn’t matter now as I keep riding higher and I will make the rain water collector my goal for the day.

Often with long water carries, I set small goals for when to drink so I can ration the supply. I drink down a liter and decide I’ll have the next one at the ‘high point’ only four miles further and just two from the water.

The trail crosses a long flat section circling the raised fist, then climbs next to it on switchbacks offering one spectacular vantage point after another.

I cross a wash with a deep green rock exposed. No water is here now but one tiny puddle.

Up and up I go, finally – and seemingly impossible – above the fist. Across a canyon is a cliff of yellow and blood red rock. I sidle this canyon on a long trail in shade now and see another hiker coming towards me wearing a bandana over his face.

He removes it to say hello so we can take pictures of each other and I see he is Asian and somewhat familiar. He tells me he is not walking the AZT but the GET, or Grand Enchantment from Phoenix to Albuquerque. He says his trail name is K1, Korean One.

David?!

It is! One and the same from the Te Araroa five years ago. He and I, plus three other men, shared a container-room with bunk beds then paddled the Whanganui. He hikes all over the world and I’m impressed since he might be a bit older than me. He sweetly tells me I look the same and we shake hands to say good luck. “Good to meet you!” he says over and over before disappearing around a zigzag.

I get nearer to the top and can see Mount Lemmon’s snowy side glowing so far away now. Hayden and the bikers I met yesterday have staked out a camp spot but I need water and have to keep moving to my ‘high point.’

Friends, let me admit right now I never overstudy a trail. Is it laziness? Maybe. But more likely it’s that I want surprise and delight and to be kept on my toes.

As I leave the bikers and crest the top, it opens to a monstrous gorge with one spire after another like castles on cliffs. I’m confused by it, not entirely sure where I’m meant to go, until I realize that wee bit of grass between those massive slabs with a drop to certain death is my path.

Now the bikers got themselves over this, so it’s at least doable, but I feel a small bit of uncertainty that I’m even in the right place.

Did I momentarily black out?

It’s aerie on the ridge, I zip my phone tightly away, loop my wrists onto my trekking poles and check the water bottles haven’t popped loose then carefully proceed. The ‘high point’ is more a high point at a long saddle before I circle this entire canyon, up and down, around on long sidles, past another spire that looks downright phallic and all the while trying not to trip – or maybe worse, drop my phone while composing a shot since there will be no chance for a retrieval.

The sun casts long shadows and what’s still lit is golden. Finally I reach the gate and a sign that Ain’t-seen told me about and follow a road to the beautiful rain collector.

I set my tent looking at a more gentle slope to spires and cliffs and the end of my trail beyond. Just as my dinner begins to boil, a hiker approaches and asks if I mind if he sets up here.

Yes.

“OK,” he says and begins to leave and I burst out laughing and tell him I’m just kidding. John is a local and is only out for the night.

We chat briefly and have a few laughs as the wind picks up and the stars come out in force. Then it’s quiet except for one owl and my flapping tent.

How nice of John to ask.