03.14.21

 We’ve walked from I-83 to Greg Zimmerman Trailhead. I pause to learn about Greg. Ah, yes. Now I remember. America. You shake your head. You keep walking north, winding through ever more saguaro, cholla, prickly pear, mesquite, yucca, ocotillo,  fish hook barrel cacti. The crunch of fine granite underfoot. The trail weaves in and out of washes, hills, under train tracks, through National Parks. The sun drops lower. The nerve in the neck against the fresh weight of the resupply from Green Valley. A figure approaches. It’s the French man you met the night before Patagonia. He’s gone into Tucson for new gear. Hiking shirts, trekking poles. He looks happy. He got his trail name. We all learn about each other for a few miles until we break and he splits off toward camp. We pass him in an hour, setting up his tent in the soft sand of wash. “Nice.” We move north until we come across Lumber and Paul Bunyan and Rampage under the awning of a picnic area. All three met on the CDT a few years back and randomly found each other today. A man approaches. “I’ve got trail magic two miles north. Big grill, sodas, everything!” We talk it over while refilling water. It’ll get us that much closer to Mica Mountain in the morning. We go for it. A mile later we catch up with Lumber, humming to himself  over the hills. We talk about Edward Abbey, Whitman, Everett Ruess. The sky turns blazing orange, purple, yellow all at once and we stop and stare in silence. When we reach the trail magic it’s a full event. Two other hikers join and we sit around talking trail and why we do what we do. We’re given home-made ice cream cookie sandwiches. Paul Bunyan turns out to be from the Verde Valley. One girl is silent, listening; taking it in. The other girl, Pulp Fiction is lying with her foot elevated on a chair to reduce the pain from what might be a hairline fracture in her foot. She’ll pull off trail for a bit and hope for the best. In the morning we wake early for the ascent, grab coffee. Big hugs to our trail angels, both stewards for AZT sections in the vicinity. Our approach is slow, coursing over desert and rising into more granite boulder-strewn hills until we’ve got a view of the valley below. Water is filtered from small clear ponds with mosquito larvae bobbing around. As we push toward Manning Camp at 8,000 feet, the trail steepens. Small streams run through pine trees and only the occasional hiker passes by. At Manning it’s us and a solitary woman “Popsicle” who we chat briefly with before setting up. I walk to a nearby hill that I know will give me great photos of the approaching sunset. It turns out to a be a gravel helicopter pad as well and I take a few photos while Hanne sips her tea from the Jet Boil. It’s a cold night but the down bags and jackets let us sleep deep enough. In the morning it’s still cold and we’ve got to get down the other side. One wrong turn leads us half a mile down a ski trail. In the largest canyon we stop to collect snow-melt water. It always tastes better coming out of a mountain. The day wears on our knees. Step descents, rocks in the trail, slippery sand. It’s best to take it slow and careful. It flattens our a bit and we talk to a local couple who recently traveled to Switzerland while we sit under a bush for shade during lunch. We catch them just leaving as we approach the trailhead and wave goodbye. A water cache that was full last week is nearly empty and I leave an update for people behind us in the online group. We both start feeling the fatigue after 19 miles and opt for a little site directly off the trail. At camp it goes like clockwork. The Hilleberg goes up in 3 minutes with stakes in the ground. Pads are blown up and put in the tent. Sleeping bags are put on top. Various gear, electronics, and headlamps are thrown in. Dinner is going soon after with butane flames popping and cooking ramen. It’s a hodge-podge of cheese, leftover things in bags, and a vague estimation of what’s needed for the remaining stretch. “Hiker midnight” is somewhere between 7:30-9pm at the latest. As soon as the knees stop hurting I’m out. The best is when you’re so tired that just lying on your back feels like such an opiated relief that you remain in the same position until sunrise. In the morning we head toward the next mountain. Mt Lemmon will offer different challenges but the initial approach isn’t as abrupt. We cross over Catalina Highway making small talk with day-hikers and dodging mountain bikers until we enter Sycamore Canyon with an excellent section of winding cliffside trail that leads down toward a running stream. It’s a long day in various pockets and switchbacks that leads to Romero Saddle just below steep sections that look vertical to our weary eyes. It’s a windy night with weather expected in the morning. I just want to make sure we’re at it before any snow builds around the summit. It’s another quick camp and a night punctuated by howling winds that push the tent walls from both sides. It’s not excellent sleep but it’s enough. We head out bright and early with fine sleet already accumulating here and there. The trail steepens to an incredible degree while the rocks grow slippery under the precipitation. There’s minor exposure, but the greater risk is just slipping at all. It takes 2 hours to reach the level part of the mountain where ancient rock formations or “hoodoos” appear out of the mist. It’s a mysterious vibe with the weather changing by the minute. There’s so much exposed granite in places that the trail is replaced by fields of boulders and direction is figured by moving from cairn to cairn; two or three rocks on top of each other to indicate the route. Around noon we’ve gotten through and found ourselves in the seasonal resort village of Summerhaven at 8,000 feet. It’s a nice little place. It means food, coffee, and a small resupply to get us into Oracle. We fill up and talk with a few other hikers. The weather’s coming in and we’ve got to head out and get low. From there it’s down the Oracle Ridge Trail which seems unassuming as first, then takes us directly over everything in the ridge’s path. The whole area is in recovery from a massive fire that recently took the mountain. The trail was only re-opened with the past few weeks but it means trail crews haven’t been able to get in a clear anything out. It’s a few miles of scorched black trees, occasionally in the trail until we meet with a steep jeep trail that leads us straight down toward Dan’s Saddle. Camp is just below 6,000 feet and we’ve got a great view of the sunset and blue vistas to the southwest. By the time we climb into the tent there’s a little sprinkle coming down again. We’re going to get hit. By 11pm we’re knocking snow off the sides of the tent so it doesn’t cave in on us. I feel the tent walls with my hands to measure how much is coming throughout the night. By morning the trail will be almost indistinguishable and windswept with the wind still howling and we have an "exit strategy" before heading into the cold. Everything gets packed in the tent. Shoes on. Rain covers on packs. When we look outside Hanne’s first words are “Oh f***”. It’s going to be a fun one. Hanne left her poles upright. Mine were laid on the ground. It’s only by pure luck that the first place I plunge my hand under the snow touches a rubber grip. We head out. Guthook gets used here and there as we make out short stretches with a little intuitive guesswork. Forty meters: “Check.” A quarter mile: “Check!” Hanne looks at our GPS and we occasionally correct course until we’re low enough to make out the edges of the trail. We slip and slide our way down to another camp where Tai and Wing-it must have been the night before. Their footsteps will lead past the Cody Trail detour that will take us down into Oracle, accidentally through a private community, and onto a main road. It’s the first high-five of the trail. A 3-mile walk to Rancho Robles for our first full day off in 13 days. We’re weather-beaten, red-faced, and sore. It’s the little things. A warm shower. A bed. A trail angel that takes you to the place you lived with your mom and two sisters decades ago. Nothing has changed. Hanne in I sat in a couple steel chairs outside the main building of Oracle State Park in the midday sun that was steadily melting what little snow was left. “We just grew up like this...you don’t know your childhood is any different when you’re that young. That can be a good thing.”