Day 15. Wednesday, March 15. Mile 161.6 (Catalina Highway, Tucson), elevation 4372, to Mile 175.8, elevation 6014 ft. Walked 14.2 miles, 3620 ft up, 1923 ft down.
Dear Trail Friends,
I am sitting in my tent, and it is only 6:35pm. Still some daylight but growing dim. I am fairly quivering with amazement and gratitude that I found a piece of level ground big enough for a tentsite. There were perfectly good tentsites at mile 174.2 (elevation 5283 ft) - but I just didn't want to stop at 4:45pm, having walked less than 13 miles (my plan calls for an average of 15/day this week), and not having done much of the climb that begins this week's hike, either. (Tomorrow I will climb to about 8000 ft).
It quickly became clear to me that the trail was ascending steeply with mountainous terrain on either side. Rocky, nothing level. I began a conversation with myself about whether to trust that "the trail will provide" or to think about what if it doesn't. There weren't many options to think about. I simply don't have good enough vision to hike through the night (as young people might well do in my situation) and even if I did I wouldn't risk it with the next few miles (the app is full of user comments warning that the app isn't accurate, that cairns and signs are confusing, and it is easy to get lost.). The only option would be to cowboy camp in the most level stretch of trail I could find. Not an exciting prospect after encountering my first scorpion last night at Steve and Anne's. I trust my tent to keep such creatures out, but they could easily crawl into my sleeping bag with me if I were cowboy camped.
I was really stunned when I turned the corner and saw this tiny flat area that I was sure I could turn into a tentsite. I had to move some big (and little) pieces of wood and work around a Hugh tuft of grass, but photo 1 shows that i was able to do it. I call that luck.
I was thinking about Erickson's theory of stages of life and how the earliest stage in his system involves wrestling with trust vs mistrust. How to negotiate the fine line between trust (in a world that will inevitably let one down some of the time) and mistrust - which I think of as defensive pessimism: if I expect the worst then you don't have the power to surprise me with disappointments. The tricky part is that the world responds differently to trust and mistrust. Not that trust can manifest a perfect world (though some people believe faith can move mountains and I can testify that it can move one woman up and down mountains which is actually quite an accomplishment) but distrust can influence the world in the direction of its expectations.
I discovered that more than 30 years ago when despite my fear of travel ( which was at heart fear of new places and people) I was so in love with Chris that I wanted to join her in her passion. I was astounded. The world Chris traveled through with her trusting expectations was a world I had never encountered. Everywhere she went, she expected to be welcomed and loved. And everywhere she went, she was. Not only that but I was along with her. Her trust seemed to be stronger than my mistrust. It was a whole different world. Who knew?
My walks in Arizona have developed an odd rhythm. In the morning cool and the wonderful slant light, I am in love with the walk. In the midday heat and direct sun, especially if there is a challenging climb, I am miserably staggering, exhausted, worried about why I haven't gotten tougher after two weeks on the trail (at I getting to old for this? Is my heart unable to handle it? Maybe my body just can't train to be strong enough for what I am asking if myself, more miles per day every week, working up to 20. And what if I can't do it, and can't go all the way to the Grand Canyon and Ribbon Falls? Won't that be my pilgrimage then, that wrestling with falling short of my plan?). Then after my second rest, as the day cools down toward evening and the sun again becomes less direct (less painful, more beautiful) I sometimes experience a mixture of the morning awe and delight and the mid-day angst.
During the morning (when not surprisingly I took most of my photos) I wareflecting on some of my conversations with Anne. I loved her stories (and photos) of the wild ones that parade through her backyard: the photos of the three beautiful and quite different bobcats, the stories about the quail family she watched and how she repeatedly helped the littlest baby quail who couldn't ever quite follow it's parents and siblings back over the wall when they were ready to leave, the doves nested on beams that were structural parts of the deck roof (they had put bowls filled with rocks in the nesting places to discourage the doves but the doves happily nested on top of the rocks.) Anne told me the doves are constantly laying eggs - 6 times in a year. It was fun to see them there, fun to be a witness to them and to Anne's close attention to the natural world around her in this new home.
Anne had also mentioned to me that birds seemed to perch on cactus indifferent to the needles (I had noticed this from a distance and couldn't imagine how they did it - Anne thought they perched on the actual needles. She also mentioned her fascination with deer who seem to be able to bite off and chew the fruit of the prickly pear. Why don't the needles injure their mouths?
I was reflecting on these conversations when I turned a corner and saw the cholla in photo 2 - with a birds nest in it. I knew I was supposed to be careful about jumping cholla with their infamous needles that dig in and stay - but I wasn't yet sure which cacti were cholla. Anne pointed them out to me as she drove me to the trailhead.
These armored plants that I think of as the needle people (and that do remind me of Trump's wall at the border - and their lessons about respecting boundaries and giving others their space) contrast vividly with the nest as a safe place devoted to parental care and nurturance.
The poison people - scorpions, rattlesnakes and their ilk - also lead to wider ripples of thought. When my family first drove through Arizona, moving from Milwaukee to San Diego, I was about to meet the poison people for the first time. I was fascinated when my mother pointed out a black widow spider with the red mark on her belly as she hung upside down in her web in our outdoor sink. We had moved to a rural community east of San Diego at the top of a mountain called La Cresta then. Now called Crest. (Gotta keep put those foreign words). Soon after my mother was standing on a chair in a panic whacking a broom at a scorpion. I collected the scorpion's body after she killed it. I put it in a small white box with cotton under it and something transparent across the top. I kept it for years. I wonder if that was when I began to identify with the poison people (because of my astrological sign). It was mostly arrogance I think and wanting to be a god. I wanted to be like Shiva big enough and strong enough to hold the poison inside me and protect the world. Instead, I ended up blaming myself for poisoning whatever I touched. Somehow I outgrew that and feel very grateful as I reflect on it now.
Steve last night was so great with his black light on the scorpion. He told about how people had told him to go shine his black light in the desert and he thought it was one of those ways of poking fun at the gullible newcomer. But in fact scorpions glow in the dark. I love the idea that the same creature who carries poison carries the secret of how to glow in the dark.
Steve was putting together music for me to listen to while I walk and also talking to Alexa and having her play music to see if I liked it. Alexa lights up whenever you say her name. (She's the amazon version of google' s -- oops I can't remember the name of google's version of Alexa. They're both a little like Siri but they aren't on phones, they are separate little towers you talk to at home. Probably all of you know way more about them than I do. ).
"Alexa, tell us a joke, " Steve said. I forget the joke she told. Then he asked for a Trump joke. She said she didn't know any but would he like a political joke. He said yes and she told one about trees: the alders who won the poplar vote. I asked why she wouldn't tell a joke about Trump and got a garbled answer. Steve said she didn't answer why questions. Why don't you answer why questions, I asked her. I'm sorry, she said. Thank you for your feedback.
Then like magic a Trump joke arrived - a link to a you-tube from my friend Jo. I love this joke because it isn't mean and nasty toward Trump. It's laughing at ourselves. And I think it is hinting at something profound. (I just haven't figured out what it is yet. ) Anyway, I believe laughter is good for mind body and soul so long as it isn't putting anyone down. I think self-deprecatory humor is my favorite kind. It always seem so self-loving, an affirmation of love, like the nest in the middle of the cholla.
Here's the link to the Trump joke. And I think it's related to my/our pilgrimage because I suspect that one of the ways the people emerge out of darkness into light is my learning to take ourselves lightly. This one is especially funny for those of us involved in the mental health biz - either as therapists or as patients (or both).
This link is to a YouTube piece called Impeachara - its the Trump joke I'm talking about:
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=QXUlhT3-r0c
The cholla is Arizona's state tree, and the bola (Steve tells me) is its official necktie. Steve has been making beautiful bolas since moving here, going to gem shows to select stones he likes, then mounting them and putting the end gadgets on the cords and putting the whole thing together. I told him he should sell them and he said no, he was too good at that. People would start buying them and then it would turn into a job.
Steve's enthusiastic sharing of his music, his black light, Alexa - Anne's kindness and companionship - assured me in no uncertain terms that I was loved. That is a wonderful thing to feel assured of. And I felt just as strongly my love for them. If the Arizona trail had given me nothing else than this visit with Steve and Anne, it would have been enough.
I want to tell you more about today's walk and show you some pictures. But it's almost 8pm and I'm really tired. So photo 3 is in the morning whe I'm still in love with the walk and the beauty.
It also shows the clouds that softened the direct sun and kept the day so much cooler and more bearable. Several times I looked up and said "Thank you, clouds. "
Photo 4 shows the totally different ecosphere when I descended into the canyon - cool, shady, tall trees.
Oh there is so much more but I am too sleepy to share it. So this will have to do. To be enough. Like the sign in Anne and Steve's kitchen: It is what it is.
Thank you so much for walking with me. This might seem like a journal but believe me I would not be writing it if it were not for a strongly felt sense that you are there walking with me. That you serve me by sharing my walk and I serve you by sharing yours. Thank you.
And tomorrow we will climb to the top of Mount Lemmon and brave the portion of the trail where so many people get lost.
Oh - just one more thing before I turn out the lights. Every night I have told myself that tomorrow morning I will shake my shoes to get out any scorpions before I put them on. And every morning I have forgotten. I'm taking bets - will I or won't I forget tomorrow (after Scarlet O'Scorpion made her stunning appearance at Steve and Anne's, and Anne in her rush to rescue me even called me Sophie, her dog's name. I can't think of a higher compliment. Maybe Shiva? Maybe. )
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