Section 4: Payson to Superior
"She's back, baby! Make way for the road crusher."
I met a traveller from an antique land…
Hello! I'm in Oracle, AZ. An appropriate name for a town, given the mysticism this stretch of desert has awakened in me. The end of the trail is in sight, which is bittersweet. We should finish up on the 14th, and I'm looking forward to getting back to Whistler with my lovely Baleine, my van's proper name. (Her friends call her Big Blue). Shiny Objects will likely remain one section behind my actual pace, which is fine. I've been in a reflective mood, and my daily writing on trail has taken an inward turn. Stitching together a post I feel comfortable sharing takes some time, since highly personal stuff is scattered throughout and hard to seperate from more conventional observations. I'll keep you updated on my whereabouts. Only one resupply left! Wild.
Our nearo in Payson had fully restored my energy. Our crew on the PNT rarely took actual nearos - hiker speak for a "near zero", a day where you hike so few miles that you may as well have hiked none. Most hikers would set the threshold for a nearo under or around ten miles, under fifteen miles at the high end. However, while hiking with Constantine, we had gotten in the habit of referring to any day that we got to town before dark as a "nearo", or a "big nearo" if we'd done over twenty-five. A big nearo is a patently ridiculous concept, and the oxymoron was a joke until it wasn't. Payson was my first true nearo day in a long time, as we had camped only three miles from the highway and gotten in by 8am. It felt good to have a real rest, completing our town chores with plenty of time to chill. We started hitching out after a sleep-in and an unhurried diner breakfast, and were back on trail by noon.
The half day out could count as a nearo too. The trail was fairly steep and rocky for about a mile, then left the Mogollan Rim on seasonal flood channels and dry creekbeds. They were somewhat overgrown with short prickly trees, and soon the loose tread turned into a maze of wandering horse paths that looped back on each other or petered out to nothing. It was impossible to determine if any given track followed the AZT. Each trail was as sketchy and speculative as the others, and we frequently had to backtrack or fight through the brush to the next open space that might be The Trail. GPS is a great tool, but the chips in a standard smartphone are only accurate to about ten feet, so it didn't help much with the tightly packed, multiply branching forks.
Our single water source for the day was a creek - dry at the trail crossing, but recent Guthook comments said that it had pools of relatively clear water father up the creekbed. A group of dilletantes on horseback had tied their animals in a line across the only passable tread and left them, an act of unthinking discourtesy that forced us to choose between the risk of getting kicked and the certainty of a thorny bushwhack. The horses were tied on short lines and facing away, so they couldn't see us well and seemed nervous at our unexpected approach. We chose the bushwhack. I felt bad for the animals; it's cruel to leave a horse tied up in the sun where it can't even turn around, and some of their tack was ill-fitting and causing painful chafe. Minutes later, we emerged among the weekend cowboys at the pools, scratched up and annoyed. They gave a half-hearted apology, and continued sipping their beers and rinsing sweaty clothes in the water we would have to drink. They were turning around to go back to town in an hour, and could have just waited to shower at home. Nobody went to re-tie the horses in a sensible way, and nobody offered us a beer. Assholes. I have no respect for people who treat animals like toys, and their lack of consideration for other trail users was outright dangerous. The horses might panic and get hurt, and someone could get kicked! It made me angry, and I fumed silently as we filtered our water upstream and left the careless jerks behind.
My irritation didn't last long. The trail grew more defined, leaving the maze of thorns and softening into a wide valley. Its shape reminded me of Northern Washington on the PCT, all dressed up in desert clothes. A recent wildfire had cleared away the brush and revealed intricate striations of rock, swirled into pinwheels and arabesques by prehistoric volcanoes. Beautiful. We climbed gradually to the spine of the opposite ridge, where the trail joined a little-used forest service road. This ridgeline would take us south, into the Tonto National Forest and the mountain range known as The Superstitions. It tended generally downhill, but was cut with short, steep drops that bounced immediately back up, losing only a few feet of altitude overall. It looked easy enough on the elevation profile, but my knee wasn't too happy about descending on loose pumice. I struggled a little on the last few miles into camp, taking care to land on my good leg when I needed to jump between stones. We'd done a bit over twelve miles, pretty respectable given our late start. I was satisfied.
Haze from a distant burn tinted the sunset red and gold, and The Superstitions were glorious with fiery light. Scorpio dominated the heavens, making its debut for the year in characteristically dramatic fashion. No moon tonight, so the constellation took center stage against a backdrop of purple and inky black. I was born under Scorpio, and there's Scorpio all over my chart - not just the sun sign, but rising, Mars, and Mercury too. (The rest of my personal planets are in Sagittarius. If you believe in astrology at all, you're probably wincing right now. I am kind of a lot, it's true.) With the influence of the name Superstitions, I let myself believe that I was rising along with the stars, coming into power with the sign I call my own.
The next day, we finished our bumpy descent and entered the mountain range proper. It was an iconic Sonoran tableau of cacti and red rock; coral-like fingers of cholla, teardrop prickly pear, the massive, thick-limbed Saguaro. This is the desert you know from old movies. It is exactly like you imagine it would be, only moreso. The terrain was rugged and steep, dotted with mesas and wind-carved hoodoos, precarious towers jutting out where the mountains fell away to canyons far below. We sweated up the climbs and sent rocks skittering with our feet, hugging the mountainside tightly where the trail narrowed. The drops were a straight vertical, down, down, down, and a slip off the edge would be fatal. I loved every moment of it, even with a heavy pack full of water and food. My body was obeying me once again! No, collaborating with me. I gave it food and water and rest, and it gave me miles of endorphins in return. Still, I had to be careful going downhill, and take advil every four hours on the dot. The inflammation was much reduced, but if I was late on the ibuprofen or skipped a ten minute break after an extended descent, it ached like a bad sprain. Even with care, my knee sent occasional flares of nerve pain to remind me to slow down.
We didn't quite make it to our goal that night. I was perhaps overcautious, but I didn't want to push the injury too far and prolong the recovery time. I felt a little sheepish at my need for rest, but was determined avoid the mistakes of the last section. The bullying men in my head will not defeat me ever again! We'd set modest goals for our mileage, high twenties max, and adjusted as needed throughout the day. I was trying to see the rest breaks as opportunities to soak in the beauty of the desert, and the slower pace was actually making me really happy. I took photos of wildflowers and wrote in my journal. Constantine was experimenting with different camera shots and looking for tarantulas. Our campsite was windy, and we didn't get a sunset view, but that was fine. We'd seen five tarantulas on the last mile into camp, so I felt a bit spidered-out, and ate my dinner within the safe enclosure of the tent. An early night meant more time to cuddle and talk, and we were beginning to make plans for projects after this trail that went beyond idle fantasy. Serious plans, a year or two in the future. I guess I have a boyfriend now? I've never really liked that word - I fly solo and don't feel the need to co-habit or financially entangle myself with a partner, though I do seek out emotional intimacy and commitment. Whatever we call our relationship, it feels good to be together.
We had been excited to watch the sunrise over the mesa, but both slept in til 6:30 by mistake. We were awakened by footsteps, and a man in full camo appeared out of the brush next to our tent. "Are you hikers, or hunters?" he asked Constantine quietly. I was in the middle of a good dream, and pretended to be asleep while they talked so I could hold onto it a little longer. White beaches, hammock in the sun, fresh pineapple... The Telefrancais theme song popped into my head at the thought of pineapple and obliterated the last shreds of my dream. Damn. It'd be stuck in my head all day. "Des ananas ne parlent pas," I mumbled sleepily. Constantine looked perplexed. Fair enough - "Pineapples don't talk" is an unconventional morning greeting in any language. "Remind me to show you Telefrancais when we get to town. Canadian kid's TV is a trip." Introducing Americans to the fever dream that is L'ananas Qui Parlent is my favourite prank.
The morning scenery was gorgeous and I was feeling strong and happy, though my knee began to act up on the long sandy drop down to Roosevelt Lake. We could see the entire lake spreading out below us, rimmed by green and rumpled slopes. Evidence of vulcanism past was made obvious by faded craters that distorted the shoreline. We took a break under the radio tower to rest my knee, which is where I posted my previous update. There was a little corner store at the RV park down the road, so we split from the trail and got popsicles and soda, and hung out for a while in the shade. When I was ready, we set off, accidentally taking a detour through private property to a locked gate before we found the trail. A kind old lady came out of the house and gave us directions to the correct trailhead.
We popped up on another mesa, then dropped to a dry but leafy creekbed. Flowers decorated the bottom of the sandy wash, and I took my time admiring a lovely streak of green copper flowing through the rocks. There was good cold water in a box spring, and we took yet another long break for lunch. There was no rush, we had plenty of food. I wasn't up to big miles yet, and there was no point pushing if it would only save us an hour or two on our town day. It would be my birthday tomorrow! I was a little disappointed that we wouldn't get into town for it, but it just wasn't possible with my injury. This was my last day of being 26, and it was a little bit weird to think about. 27 kind of seems like a big deal. I'm really in my late twenties now. I feel like an actual adult, which is interesting and new. Hopefully I can keep learning from mistakes and make different choices, but my personality is pretty much set. The way I am is how I'm going to be, and mostly I like what I've got to work with.
I'm not one for New Year's Resolutions. January is no time to make changes! It's too cold for good habits and discipline. January is for eating leftover Christmas cookies and crossing out the last digits when you write the date. I make birthday resolutions instead. Last year, I decided to work on being a better listener and stop interrupting people when they spoke, and it's gone fairly well. ( I also resolved to finally finish Foucault's Madness and Civilisation instead of just pretending I've read it. That project was less successful.) This year, I'm going to work on being kinder - to myself, and to everyone else too. I started a practice of giving at least one genuine compliment per day after my friend Hayden died in September, in tribute to their positive, loving way of being in the world. I'm surprised by how much it's changed my perception. When you're looking for nice things in other people, you can't get stuck in your head and ruminate on everything that's going wrong with you. I'll keep doing that, and also try to start noticing the good things in the world that have something to do with me. My philosophy project this year is Kirkegaard's Fear and Trembling, which has been sitting half-finished next to Foucault in the Milk Crate of Shame for ... an unspecified amount of time, let's say. At least it's a short book? Knowing me, I'll probably end up reading everything in there except Kirkegaard.
I woke up to a surprise on my actual birthday - a raccoon had visited our camp! I'd actually woken up and heard it rustling our food bags, but thought it was a chipmunk or something. I banged the tent wall near the packs and was satisfied that it had run off. Not so: Constantine's trekking pole was dragged ten feet down trail, and one of my water bottles had been rolled under a bush. I guess the would-be bandit was annoyed that I foiled the heist. The mesh pockets of my pack were chewed for no obvious reason - I don't keep food in there, just water bottles and sunscreen. The tracks made the identity of the critter plain, and I was thrilled to have a visit from my heart animal, regardless of the damage to my pack. Being a feral dumpster-diver, I feel a great affinity and kinship with raccoons. "Trash Panda" was actually floated as an early trail name for me, before being dubbed Magpie after my propensity for collecting sparklies and colourful string. Shiny microtrash is no match for me!
The animal sightings kept coming. Later in the morning, we came across a few scraps of black and white fur and the distinct odour of a skunk. Something had evidently attempted to take a bite and gotten sprayed for the trouble. Not an hour later, a pissed-off skunk came trundling out of the brush next to the trail, tail raised in our direction. We jumped out of our skins and hastily backed away, giving it a wide berth. I love skunks as much as I love raccoons, but have no desire to smell like one! A golden eagle soared overhead, and I spotted a gigantic black lizard sunning itself on a rock. Not a Gila Monster, but not your typical fence lizard either. I'm not sure what species it was, but it was definitely cool.
We crossed Reavis Creek and followed the stream for a while, a green grassy paradise at the bottom of a shallow canyon. A family of mule deer, three mommas with adorable fawns in tow, were totally unperturbed by our presence and grazed peacefully in the shade. The feeling of being in the Gila returned. This was a friendlier trail than the Gila, soft tread and no thorns, but I was transported all the same.
. . .
I had my 25th birthday in the Gila River Canyon, and it was a formative spiritual experience. I was southbound on the CDT, late in the season, and I knew there was nobody around for miles. I had the canyon to myself. The river banks were rugged and overgrown, so I frequently walked the river instead, wading through shin deep water rather than thorns. It was slow going, but I had no concept of time. I had been alone for so long that it had ceased to have any meaning, so I walked or slept whenever I felt like it. I'm naturally nocturnal, and the desert nights were pleasantly cool. Searching for camp one night, I was walking by the light of the full moon, ankle deep in a ribbon of living silver. A warm current tickled my shin, and I stopped, curious. There was rumoured to be a secret natural hot spring in a slot canyon near here, with good camping nearby. Checking the maps on my phone, I realized it was nearly midnight on the 28th. It would be my birthday in thirty-one minutes. I followed the hot current as it it increased in strength and temperature, and came around an oxbow to a narrow side canyon. There was indeed a good grassy camp spot with a small fire ring, and I gathered some dead wood and twigs for a campfire later. I laid out my sleeping bag next to the circle of stones, then stripped off all my clothes and stepped into the deep, muddy pool.
The hot spring opened into the flow of the river, and alternating currents of hot and cold water heightened my sense of touch to a new sensitivity. I was perfectly relaxed and comfortable, but keenly aware of every physical sensation. I floated on my back, and my hair stirred gently with the river's touch, a cool breeze highlighting the tips of my toes. I filled my lungs with river smells, algae and leaves and a hint of sulfur, watching my ribs expand towards the moon. I've always been strong, but I'd never been this thin. I marvelled at the visible landscape of muscle and bone. I traced my hand over the contour of my collarbone, down to the low mountainous pectorals. My breasts were mostly gone, just two soft foothills overlooking the ridged plain of my torso. The promise of a six-pack rippled beneath my skin, framed on each side by deeply cut obliques. The ligaments in my hips flowed like tributaries around the bone, and joined in a confluence of ropy muscle at the top of each thigh. They were as clear and visible as an anatomy illustration. Running a hand down my back, I counted every tiny muscle, each knob of spine. I was sleek and gamine, androgynous even. The thought of having no gender at all pleased me greatly. Neither a man nor a woman, but a desert sprite; a creature born of the river and the stones. All the suffering and abuse that my body once held had been burned away into pure movement. My ghosts had fled. I contained only myself. The moon officiated my baptism, and I emerged from the spring a new being, healthy, clean, and whole. I was twenty five years old.
I dressed quickly against the night's chill, then shimmied into my sleeping bag and lit my tiny fire. I watched the flames for a long time, silent and still, until finally they began to flicker and die. I doused the last of the embers and lay back down in perfect blackness. The moon had disappeared behind the canyon walls, and only a sliver of the milky way was visible between them. I hadn't used my voice in a few days, and it sounded rusty when I spoke. "Happy Birthday, self. It's nice to finally meet you."
. . .
"Hey, where do you want to stop for lunch?" I was brought back to reality by Constantine's question. Entranced by the memory, seven miles had flown by like a dream.
"Uh... um... where are we? Oh, it's later than I thought!"
"Deep in your head, huh? How you feeling, birthday femme?"
I considered for a moment. "Peaceful. Happy. Really, really happy!"
I had mint M&Ms in my pack, too! Yum. We set a lunch spot on the next saddle, and Constantine took the lead for the climb. Most thru-hikers are faster than me on an uphill, and I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. I drifted back into my daydream and scrambled up the gravelly wash with a shoegaze soundtrack in my ear, one headphone dangling loose so I could listen for rattlesnakes.
The top of the ridge was absolutely staggering. Taking a short side trail to the top of Montana Mountain, we were surrounded on all sides by bare promontories and spires, windswept and lonely in a sea of sand. No single geological process could account for such a scene. In places, rock walls seemed to have been piled aside by glaciers, the work of a snowplow on a incomprehensible scale. Ancient volcanoes had eroded away to their eeriely organic cores, layers of sedimentary rock on their flanks turned to towering ruins, which looked as if they might topple in the slightest wind. In all my peregrinations, I had never beheld anything quite like this.
Gazing upon the view, I was struck into silence by a feeling of religious awe. I've long parted ways with the strict evangelical Christianity of my parents, but am equally distant from the obnoxious atheist stage of early deconversion. The land is divine, and I worship with my feet. Breathtaking landscapes like these are my holy places, to which I offer pilgramage. I was overwhelmed with the existential terror and magnificence of my own mortality, manifested before me in monuments to geologic time. It is that Old Testament feeling that was once called the Fear of God, and I was enraptured and humbled. It was the reverence of Moses before twin tablets of stone, the astonishment of Elisha beneath the winged chariot, the jubilation of Noah at the recession of the flood. Old things have passed away; behold, everything has become new.
I was raised so thoroughly on these tales, and so isolated from the secular world, that as a child I was absolutely convinced that Israel was a metaphysical destination for good Christians. The angry bearded men on the news were trying to blow up Heaven, and the President of America was trying to stop them. I thought the TV pundits were sadly lacking in faith, for no mortal man can hold a candle the Army of the Lord! The trumpets of Jericho would sound, Jesus would turn all the AK-47s into squirt guns, and the world's leaders would turn to grace like Paul on the road to Damascus. I did my part to help by practicing the trumpet, very, very loud. (I also thought that police radios channeled the Holy Spirit directly, and God told them where to find unrepentant sinners. I was terrified that if I took the Lord's name in vain or dishonored my father and mother by getting bad grades, the police would show up and whisk me off to jail/Hell, where where all the coveting adulterated murderers would call me names and make me pray to a brass bull. I also thought adultery meant putting inedible substances in food, and once told my brother he would get arrested for making me eat yellow snow.)
Of course, I learned pretty quickly that Israel is just a complicated country, that the voice on police radios is the dispatcher sending out calls, and that adultery usually doesn't involve deception via Slurpee cup. It should be mentioned here that over the last decade, both my parents and the church they belong to have enormously chilled out, which makes things easier. I've worked very hard to exorcise the black-and-white mindset of fundamentalism, which has a way of creeping in to even the most secular convictions. Substitute Marx for God and The Revolution for Heaven, and you have my early twenties. I'm glad to put my days as an ideological puritan behind me. But my capacity for deep devotion and spiritual awe has never left, and I never want it to. The mountains before me inspired a transcendent ecstasy, an abandonment of the trivial self that I would not trade for all the conventional childhoods in the world. Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair! The lines of Ozymandias came unbidden into my head, and I tried to recall the rest of the poem, which I had once memorized:
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
“Wow.” I said to Constantine.
“Wow!” He agreed.
We took two hours there, eating Sour Patch Kids and various tortilla sandwiches, then set off down the mountain for town.
What I'm listening to:
To suit my meditative mood, I've had my favourite Efterklang album on repeat, with some Emancipator and Bonobo tracks thrown in for variety. I've chosen a contemplative song for you; I recommend listening while staring out a bus window or driving alone at night through a light flurry, to really enhance the feeling of being in an introspective indie drama.
My update from the last section will go out when I get to Tucson, if I can find a quiet moment to write. We'll meet up with Hardy and Sie on their way home, and I'm looking forward to seeing my friends again! My journals are still crowded with self-reflection, so the next one might be rather long and difficult to compile as well. It gets deep out here, with nothing between you and the desert. I'm shedding my skin in all sorts of wonderful ways, and the pattern beneath is softer and more beautiful.
Talk soon, and take care.
-Magpie