Knight
In one way, all hikes are the same — one foot in front of the other.
And yet all hikes are different.
So far on this trip, the four of us: Becky, her brother Don, her sister-in-law Margie and I have done three hikes here in Tucson, each one with a distinct and different memory.
The first one was the climb to Wasson Peak, 4,687 ft. Four miles up and four miles down. Ascending then descending one foot at a time. Several people were on the summit when we arrived, including a couple and their two kids, 7 and 10 years old. They would pass us, then we would pass them. Leap frog. The 10 year old was intent on getting to the top with his mother in tow before his sister who stayed with his dad got there. This hike, to me, was about the incredible desert vistas and also about pacing myself for 8 miles.
The second hike was part of a trail on Mount Lemon, 9,159 ft. We drove to the top but it was cold and snowy, and we didn’t see the need to hike in that, so we drove down to a trailhead at 6,000 ft. with the intent to climb to 7,000 ft. Air still very cool but OK. This hike was about maneuvering up the trail through tall trees and around, over and along rocks. Large stones and gravel of all sizes. Sparkling flecks of mica shining in the cold sun. One foot in front of the other, yes, but some of the man-made steps were clearly designed for people taller than me and my aged knees.
But most of all, this hike was all about wind. Big wind. When the four of us reached our goal of 7,000 feet, it seemed momentarily conceivable that the wind might blow us off the side. But we held on and found shelters in some rocks. The 2.5 mile trip down was in some ways tougher than the one up.
Now, on this third hike, I am walking alone in the Arizona desert. The others are up ahead and out of my sight. I always seem to be last in line. At one time, I would have tried to keep up, but these days I just go at my own pace. Some might argue that I am quite often the rear end.
I tend to get distracted by things in the world. Something will make a sound, and I pause to listen. I notice an unusual plant or rock or a crawling creature and I stop to look and maybe take a picture. If I’m lucky, I freeze as a fox or coyote steals across the scrubs and cacti. And when I am really in the moment, I am captured by the entire panorama — from the barrel cactus right there in front of me to the far mountains on the horizon.
I pretend that I am in this wilderness centuries ago, before there were marked trails. Perhaps those large black birds flying above are ravens coming to feed me, or maybe I am looking for locust and honey to sustain me. (Biblical imagery and not quite right for the American Southwest, I admit but, still, it’s my fantasy.)
The saguaro cactus over there is in the classic pose, tall center base with two arms reaching up. It’s hard not to see these particular cacti — found only in the Sonoran Desert — as representative of the human form. Even a saguaro with several branches of varying sizes coming out at odd angles makes me imagine a person or at least a space alien.
Up ahead, through the desert vegetation of this twisting landscape, I catch a momentary glimpse of a red shirt and a white hat. Time to focus on the hike. Time to put one foot in front of the other.
