A Storm of Turbulence or Renewal?

The wind now blows. It isn't like the monsoon seasons of years past, but a summer storm is still a summer storm. Air blowing tree limbs and sheets of dust. Clouds creating chaotic shapes across the sky. Color dancing between dark and light--between pink and blue. Light flashing on the horizon and thunderbolts stretching their fingers.

A good summer storm always once more puts me in the mood of Lucy Snowe in Villette: "It was wet, it was wild . . . I could not go in." (Charlotte Bronte) Nothing like a storm to take everything out of one's soul and pour it out into the landscape. Every burst of lightning is like one's own emotions playing out in visible tangibility. It's irresistible. But is the chaos of a storm good or ill? Is bursting out of one's skin a good thing or a bad thing?

Well, for Lucy Snowe it certainly felt like an encumbrance--and like an irresistible pleasure. She says she dreaded weather incidents like storms because of all that they stirred up within her. Yet when she's watching a storm, does she not look more alive? So was it indeed better for her to stay in the quiet calm, or to let the storm awaken her? 

Sometimes what can appear turbulent has its place in creating renewal. A summer storm can be incredibly violent. Clouds of dust fog the horizon. Tree limbs break off. Flash floods begin. But through it all, the earth is fed and regenerated. The storm that awakens the sleeping land ushers in a brand new day.

Adrift on the Water

From whence comes fear, and does the where matter? In terms of how we react to the fear, yes, it matters quite a bit. After watching 2018's Adrift recently, the concept of fear was what stayed with me. In the based-on-a-true-story film, Shailene Woodley plays a woman named Tami who is adrift in the ocean for 41 days. What was so striking to me was her lack of fear of the water.

The cinematography and music did an excellent job in supporting her perspective towards water. Before the disaster, we see Tami so comfortable around boats and the ocean and other water. At one point, she dives straight in to a river and sits underwater holding her breath while waiting for Richard to join her. The camera lovingly hovers around the surface of the water, blurring under and above water to show that it's all the same to her. She is just as comfortable under as above. Usually when cameras do this, it shows vulnerability and often danger; here, it just shows that comfort. 

Yet Tami, of course, can recognize when there is real danger. When they are caught in the storm and an impossibly high wave towers towards the yacht, she knows that their lives are at stake. That is the moment when the ocean is a vast, formidable foe--in the presence of which Tami is simply a tiny, near powerless human. In the aftermath, she likewise knows that her chances of making it safely to land are slim. And yet still she does not fear the water. She jumps into the ocean at different points for various necessities with the same gumption as she had before. Amazing, no? 

Fear exists to keep us from danger. But fear also has a tendency to be irrational. It is good to fear jumping off of the roof of a skyscraper because that fear keeps us from dying. But it is unnecessary to be afraid of being on a rooftop because there is no more danger there than there is anywhere else--and yet so many people with a fear of heights would be greatly afraid. 

What I saw in Tami's interaction with water was the ability to separate out the rational and irrational fears. Also, she separates what she is able to control and unable to control. All of that is much easier said than done. She knows she can swim, so she doesn't fear jumping into calm waters. She knows a fierce storm in the ocean is a great danger, so she fears being caught in a strong storm in a small craft. She knows she can make ship repairs and navigate, so she doesn't fear doing so. She knows her target is small and her resources are limited, so she fears missing the window for survival. 

And yet she still does not fear the water. For the water is no more threat than the land. Danger can exist anywhere. But to live always in fear robs us. If we could allow fear to simply be a warning of danger rather than a rampant emotion, wouldn't that be so much simpler?

To Reach the Top

In the middle of the McDowell Sonoran Preserve, Tom's Thumb has long caught my interest. Before I even realized it was a place to which one could hike, I would stare at it while passing by on the freeway. The granite boulders, from that distance, make it look like the ruins of an ancient tower--especially given that the rest of the mountain, from that view, has no granite boulders. So those stand out as if they were brought in versus being part of the mountain. 

Hiking still is a newer thing to me. I'm still figuring out what my ability level is--and how that matches up to trail descriptions. Tom's Thumb I thought was out of my range. But not so. There are two ways to get there, the longer way through the Gateway Trailhead and the shorter way through the Tom's Thumb Trailhead. At around four miles, the latter is a similar length to the Gateway Loop, with which I've come to be very familiar. So a couple of weeks ago when the weather was nice and cool, I decided it was time to seize the moment and go.

Terrain-wise, the look is more similar to nearby Pinnacle Peak. The backside of McDowell Sonoran (where the Tom's Thumb Trailhead is) has more of those granite boulders, whereas the Gateway side is more about sharp, dark, volcanic rock. From the parking lot, the Thumb looked so close, like I could reach it in twenty minutes (since this side starts off at a higher elevation). But of course the trail doesn't go straight up and distances look closer than what it takes to travel them by foot, so it took me about an hour and ten minutes to get to the top.

All the little look-points offer great views, though the extra few steps it takes to get to them can be reluctantly traversed when you're on the uphill. The trail was much smoother than the Gateway Loop, which has those aforementioned sharp rocks. But here of course the smooth gravel was also much steeper. Yet there's grace in that: because it's steep you can go as fast or slow as you like. And you know what, even though Pinnacle Peak is a shorter little route, I preferred Tom's Thumb (among other reasons) because it doesn't have steps. We people with shorter legs prefer to take small steps up the steep slopes than to have to be stepping so high onto pre-made steps. 

It was a pleasure to be able to see things I'd seen only in pictures and to get closer and closer to the treasured Thumb. Close to the top, this lion-profile boulder reminded me of the Cave of Wonders in Aladdin. 

There's a certain power in having stared at something for a long time and then finally trying it and realizing it's well within your ability, after all. This was a beautiful hike, and each McDowell Sonoran trailhead has such different terrain and views that it's well worth exploring them all. To step out and see possibility and to step out and have the most pressing thing on your mind be the physical steps that you are taking--that's quite enjoyable and refreshing. 

The River Runs On

Water brings life and death as it flows along, and the seemingly ever-present river is always changing. (As Pocahontas put it, "you never step in the same river twice.") The river, in a sense, is change. And a drop of water will travel from one river to another and to another and down from one region into the next. Ever flowing, ever growing. 

The Salt River has long been a favorite Phoenix pastime, especially among the young. Yet I had avoided it as a college party zone. And also of course you can add to that any concerns about the unpredictability of said changing rivers of water and their rapids. Earlier this month, however, I found myself floating down that very same river which I had always avoided. I happened to be there on my thirtieth birthday, and it happened to be a good way to usher in the new decade. 

We visited mid week and after the tubing company had mostly finished its run for the season. So there were very few other people, neither any beer cans nor marshmallows. Instead there were ducks and a plethora of butterflies. The late summer rains brought an abundance of caterpillars that by this point had made their transformation into winged creatures that flew around us. One landed on my shorts and tried to suck nectar from the printed flower on the fabric. Sorry to disappoint you, little butterfly.

Despite it being a warm day, being on the water (and not even being in it) did keep us cool. It's quite a treat to be able to spend time outdoors in the sun during summer without melting. The rapids we floated over didn't cause any trouble except for when they brushed us over to the trees hanging over the edge, but even then there were no mishaps. There is certainly great wildness in rushing over rapids over which one has no control; it's a little different from the controlled environment of Disney's Grizzly River Run, where you have no fear of anything going wrong. 

Because of time constraints, we made the short distance between Points 1 and 2 before exiting. It was also nice to start small. The time passed quickly. While it is possible that the fear of the ever-changing, never again the same river will keep me from going again, yet it was such a pleasant float down the water that it would be nice to begin participating in this favorite pastime regularly. 

Do you fear change, do you fear the unknown? Maybe this is why I have a sometime fear concerning watery situations. The doers infected with wanderlust dive into the water. Whereas I stare into its foggy depths overwhelmed by the possibilities. 

Gila Monster Crossing

As I was meandering along, suddenly I noticed that there was a Gila monster a couple or few feet from me. It cared not for my presence; it was simply walking across the path. So I walked on, on the opposite side of the path from the (adorable) venomous lizard. 

What a delight to see such critters. Lizards are a favorite of mine because of my bearded dragon at home (or perhaps I have a bearded dragon at home because lizards are a favorite of mine). So though a Gila monster is much larger than a bearded dragon, I delighted in the shape of its limbs as it stepped slowly forward. It seemed bigger and chunkier than the ones in captivity that are usually curled up asleep in their enclosures. And that's the gist of it, isn't it?

Have I been the Gila monster curled up in captivity? So now as I am struck by the lizard out in its true home, I think of myself stretching out, reaching out, stepping out. 

The breeze feels nice on a sunny day. Gentle inclines seem to matter little after you've passed the steepest ones. Ocotillo fill up with leaves after rain and lift their limbs up to the sun.

And maybe, just maybe you might catch some early ocotillo blossoms, the bright red tips on the green octopus limbs. So go on, walk across the metaphorical path, just like the Gila monster did. 

Gateway Loop Trail - McDowell Sonoran Preserve.

The Mountain and the Cactus

I was climbing over a little mountain. 

The path stretched up and around and down, then up once more and down some more, and then all back and over again. 

There were ocotillos, ripe with leaves after the rain. There were saguaros and teddy bear chollas in abundance. The rocks were mostly pale. 

The sky was bright blue above me, and far away were the Four Peaks up against the horizon. 

My feet paced over the dirt and gravel. I didn't mind the light inclines and declines, but the handful of steps that were as high as my knees did give me pause. I found myself not much taller than the children on the trail--except that I had not quite their youthful, scampering energy. So I paused for half a beat to look at the view or lean on a boulder. 

On the first part of my walk, there was a story--that is, a story not my own. Or was it? 

The slides told in words and pictures of a cactus. The prickly one who tried to be content on its own, until it realized it was lonely, and others were lonely, too, and maybe they it would be better if they could be together. 

I smiled at the cactus in the pictures, and stretched my legs toward the next peak, the next bend in the path. Do you know what might be there?

In less than two hours, I had gone there and back again. I soaked in sunlight and perspective both. 

Pinnacle Peak Trail.

Burning Across the Mountain

Last year I walked across the mountain of dried lava; I wore a green lace dress.

This year I walked across the same mountain while wearing the same dress.

I felt free and alive and happy.

My heart was stretched across the land.

I came home and thought of you and was sad.

I will never forget you. I burn with life.

(Boyce Thompson Arboretum State Park)

A Late Summer

Summer so far has been more like summer in the Verde Valley (about an hour and a half north of the greater Phoenix area) than in the Valley of the Sun. We barely started reaching 100 degrees in June rather than May. Now we're barely inching towards 110 as July is settling in. So there has still been a big enough difference between the highs and lows that there are parts of the day in which it is tolerable to be outdoors. It's the type of thing you don't want to complain about, but it's also so unusual that you have to comment on it.

So I've been able to visit the Desert Botanical Garden more than I usually do during summer. Sometimes I'll go months without visiting because even after sunset it's just too hot to want to be outside. Not so this year. This year I've been going in late morning, when it's hot but still under 100, which is tolerable. I go for a quick little walk to get some sun and some nature.

I'm seeing certain plants in bloom that I tend to miss just because I don't usually see them at this time of year.

And I'm getting the garden almost to myself. Only a few other people want to be there during summer, so I get the peace of solitude. The garden becomes a place for contemplation, a place where thoughts run through a stream of their own power.

Sometimes they're watering the plants and I can smell the wet desert. Monsoon season will be coming soon and there will be even more wet desert scent around. The smell of the wet desert is one of the most nostalgic scents, as is the scent of desert plants baked by the heat of the sun.

This is the land where my child's imagination ran free.

And so there is something wondrously enticing about an Arizona summer, especially one that is more Verde Valley than Valley of the Sun. My heart is home.

The Apache Trail

Well, you know I was just going to visit the Lost Dutchman Museum. I figured Lost Dutchman State Park would have to wait for another time, but I could go ahead and visit the museum. This was the closest I had been to the mountain that I usually only see from far off. It's an imagination-sparking piece, that's for certain.

Four Peaks

I went to the museum. It's basically a little room with lots of reading material and some collections of artifacts and antiques. In fact, there is enough reading material to fill quite a decent-sized museum, so I definitely recommend going ahead and reading as much as you can while you're there. History about the area, some geology, stories from various Native American tribes about the Superstition Mountains, and stories of all the searches for the Lost Dutchman Mine (they all end tragically, just adding to the "superstition" of it all). Outside, you can visit the church and a couple of other buildings left from the old movie filming location. When the weather is nice, they do have other events and things going on outside. Mainly, though, it's just a nice little spot to visit. Lots of books in their gift shop (a fact they even advertise on their website--and it is true).

That one's Lost Dutchman

It was a nice visit, but I am, as I mentioned earlier this week, so burning alive right now that I couldn't stop there. I was like an addict, like, I can't just sit here and drool at this awesome volcanic thing jutting from the earth and then turn around and be home in half hour. I need more. So I thought, well, maybe I can drive up a little bit more, just to get a taste. But then, you know, I was looking at the map and thinking of all those stories of the people who walked all over this land looking for that mine and I thought, I want to see it all, so why don't I just make the circle around and then go by way of Globe and Superior back to Apache Junction and then back home? (For those unfamiliar with the area, this route starts Southeast of the Phoenix area, continues east and north and then goes back south and west again. A true circle. It is Arizona's first historic highway, the Apache Trail.)

Twists and winding shapes brought me to Canyon Lake, this beautiful body of water surrounded by cliffs. Picturesque, yes, especially after driving through volcanic, crusty, rocky desert (beautiful volcanic, crusty, rocky desert, yes, but quite a contrast to a body of water). That brings you pretty soon to Tortilla Flat, which is a gift shop, a restaurant, an ice cream shop, and a (literally) walk-in-closet-sized museum. A place to stop and take pictures and look at the view.

I kept going and where there had been other cars, suddenly there were done. Where there was pavement, suddenly there was none. When the pavement ended, so did my normality. I got out of the car, just randomly on the side of the road because there was no one there, so why not? Oh, all the rocks and plants, all the colors and textures, they were at their height, more beautiful than anything. My soul stretched across the land and I declared my love for the beautiful of it all.

I got back in the car and kept going. Now, um, I may have not quite realized that the whole unpaved thing was coming until I saw it on the signs. I could have turned around, but it was all too much fun--even getting more than I'd realized I'd been getting myself into was fun. An unpaved, steep road through canyons means driving at fifteen miles per hour. And forty miles of road means, well, I'll let you do the math. The simple fact: longer than I'd expected. I drove more that day than I've ever driven in one go before, so it was kind of exhausting. But completely worth it.

All of the winding quality meant that there were gorgeous views around every corner (and there were lots of corners). It was like adventuring and exploring without getting out and walking. It was almost like off-roading (can you tell I never go off-roading?). The road is so old and so steep and windy that many sections are also one lane. So, you know, if you do meet someone coming in the opposite direction, you both must be careful. And given all of the turns, you have to be extra slow and careful at every turn. But everyone knows this and there weren't too many other cars, so it was all fine. Do, though, make sure you only make this drive with a car that's in good condition and with plenty of water (other supplies are always good to have, too, just in case). Even if your car is fine, you could end up stuck behind someone else whose car breaks down. It's the desert and kind of far from aid, so just be careful.

Knowing all of this just made me enjoy the drive all the more, though. I had music on and I was making loud declarations of all sorts there in my car. A wonderful time for self-reflection.

You can just see the road I'd just come down in the middle of this picture

By the time I passed the sign mentioning that there were ten more miles to the 188, I was getting exhausted from driving on all those curves. So the lookout point over Theodore Roosevelt Lake and above the dam was a welcome stop. After climbing those cliffs and seeing the river flowing through, it was like a reward up on top to find another huge body of water, this time with the crazy bridge running over it. This water was much bigger than the first--and also more open-feeling because it was above the cliffs instead of in their midst.

I've never been so excited to see pavement, too, I might add.

After this, the drive felt more like civilization. Technically this other half of the circle is still part of the Apache Trail, but mainly people use that name to describe that unpaved stretch. The second half was more just a usual, scenic drive. Great views of the mountains. A swing by Globe and a drift through Miami (this little town really caught my eye; I want to learn more about the history of it), then on through to Superior. Rocks and a tunnel and then back through past Boyce Thompson Arboretum, which I talked about on Monday. It was nice to be back in that newly familiar territory I'd so enjoyed about a week earlier. Then back to the city.

A scenic road trip through nature and history. A touch of the past, a touch of the trail. A full immersion into thrilling isolation. That was a fantastic unplanned trip of mine.

Did I Make Up Boyce Thompson Arboretum?

I am alive, burning alive. I'm writing at night when I get home from work. And I'm adventuring, exploring. This is why I don't understand the great desire people have to explore other countries: I still have so much to explore in my own state. (Not that I'm saying you shouldn't explore other countries, or that I would mind doing some of that traveling someday.) How many undiscovered corners are there, how many roads I've never driven, little museums I've never visited?

On one of these I went to Boyce Thompson Arboretum State Park. I had somehow never been there because it's almost an hour drive from where I am, enough to make me say, oh, I'll go some other time. When I finally did go, my, my, I certainly chose a beautiful day for it. The weather was perfect. Warm without being at all hot. A light breeze and cloud coverage helped maintain the temperature, too. Absolutely stunning day to be outside.

Driving to Boyce Thompson from the greater Phoenix area is like driving out to the Renaissance Festival--and then going on for another twenty or thirty minutes. Absolutely gorgeous land. That land over by the Superstition Mountains is wonderful. Keep driving a bit and it develops more. Bushy yellow flowers decorated the hills, which were themselves beautifully scabby pieces of volcanic nature. A multitude of textures and colors, not entirely unlike Black Canyon City (which is one of my favorite parts of the drive between Phoenix and the Verde Valley).

When I passed the sign that let me know I was entering the Tonto National Forest, I looked at the saguaros around me and laughed at there being saguaros in the forest. It was a moment of, I love Arizona, Arizona the land of so many different environments, which sometimes intersect and brush against one another with beautiful contrast. Then I rounded a corner and saw Picketpost Mountain and I fell in love. I declared my love to the mountain then and there. (I now lament seeing that the Picketpost trail is rated as difficult--that means I'll just be admiring the mountain from the road, at least for the foreseeable future.)

Given that I came to Boyce Thompson just after this, my declarations of love continued. Out loud, too, I might add. A weekday in May meant that I didn't encounter too many other people, so I was mainly by myself. So why not declare to the plants and the view how beautiful they were?

There is a main trail with little, windy trails that go off of it. Certainly there was more ground to cover than I'd been expecting. I spent close to three hours and could've easily spent longer except that I was running close to closing time (I'd thought a couple hours would be plenty). Everything is less "cultivated" than other arboretum spaces can tend to be. That is, there were more cultivated sections. The greenhouses, for instance. But the Chihuahuan Desert Exhibit? It was like walking out in wild nature, though with a path running through it.

Then I turned another way and found myself surrounded by eucalyptus. Shady and lovely. I kept walking and came to the Clevenger House and I was in love again, like I'd just discovered a secret garden. All alone, I was suddenly at a house built into a volcanic hillside and surrounded by an herb garden; I thought my heart had created this place and my imagination was suddenly manifest physically around me.

Then I saw the suspension bridge and said, I want to go on the bridge. I was looking at the gorgeous wash under the bridge and the rocky, hilly, voclanicness in the view--and then I stepped over two more steps and saw Picket Post House, which belonged to the garden's founder, William Boyce Thompson (he built the home in the 20's). I laughed because I had fallen in love with the place he fell in love with all those years ago--of course we both fell in love with it: it's amazing. Then I stepped up the High Trail, which winds up along the hill/mountainside. It's rocky with steep steps, so no flip flops or bad knees for this one. Probably not the best idea to walk alone, either, but I figured that my green dress would act as enough of a beacon if I stepped on a rattlesnake under a rock or something. I'm not a hiking alone person, so this was as close to hiking alone as I feel like I can go: I was completely alone, not another person in view, just the hills and the trees and the sky and the views.

I've had a volcano obsession since I was six or seven (I used to fear them, even "extinct" ones, now I love their symbolic nature). So that's why I say I was in love with everything I saw; it was all me.

I went back around by the Drover's Wool Shed and the Cactus and Succulents Garden and the South American Desert Exhibit and then finally came around to Picket Post House from the other side. Lovely views once more and then the nice shady areas below the house. So many great places to sit at Boyce Thompson--and yet I didn't sit at all.

Now I'm wishing this park were a little closer to me. I could go there all the time. Certain more "northern" aspects of it like the trees and even the washes reminded me more of the Verde Valley, where I grew up--so it had that home feeling even while it had more of the deeper desert feel that I've come to feel akin with after living in the greater Phoenix area for years now.

I would definitely recommend allowing plenty of time to explore and enjoy. For those who need to avoid the High Trail or even the steeper section of the main trail, there are still plenty of quiet paths. Just sitting under the eucalyptus and visiting the Clevenger House would be wonderful. A gorgeous park, with its combination of cultivation, wilderness, and history.