The Arizona Trail: Mather Campground to Flagstaff

An elk begging me to turn the water spigot on at Mather Campground. Unfortunately there were signs everywhere telling me not to.

110 miles; days 5-8

Day 5 (11/15/21): 27 miles

Around 8AM, Sarah and Tim dropped me back at the road crossing they’d scooped me up from the afternoon previous.

I felt ready to tackle my next stretch to Flag, excited to see more of what this rugged place had to offer.

The Arizona trail was challenging for reasons I did not expect—frigid cold and then hot, monotonous at times, lonely, and today, it was on fire.

I walked through several prescribed burns; my final 4 miles of the day were so opaque with smoke, I was genuinely concerned for my lungs and decided to hike in my mask.

I also found myself bored for the first time.

To entertain myself I talked to the trees and told them all my deepest-darkest, I cried with them and apologized for the state of things. I think they understood—I’m quite certain trees don’t hold grudges.

The ponderosa, pinyon, and juniper thrive here, in this dry landscape.

Sarah told me that the juniper trees I am walking by are probably very old—that they are slow growers. The Alligator Juniper is particularly impressive, with its reptilian hide. It only grows about half an inch in diameter per decade and can live for up to 500 years.

One of the prescribed burns I passed through was still relatively active.

There were charred and smoldering pits where stumps used to be, and wide rings of ash around healthy-looking trees.

I knew I was breaking the rules by passing so close to actively burning forest, and I know such rules are put in place for my protection; however, my curiosity will always get the best of me in situations like these.

Adequately informed of the risk I faced, it was my choice to proceed.

Stubbornly, I was out there to walk the “real” trail, and I was going to do that come hell or high water.

The smell of singed wood disappeared from the air in the middle of the day, and returned full force in the afternoon. I could see smoke clouds rising—brown and thick—on the horizon and I began to worry if there was an uncontrolled fire nearby.

Several helicopters had flown over me in the last couple hours, which made me even more nervous.

I turned my phone on to check for service. I had two bars and was able to look up the NFS forest fire map but did not see any uncontrolled or active fires in my area.

I kept walking.

Eventually I reached a dirt road, and just as I was about to leave it behind, I heard tires crunching on gravel. I waved down the passing truck and asked the man driving if I should be worried.

“Naw,” He waved his hand dismissively. “Tha’s all smoke from controlled fires. If there was a real fire it’d be way worse—tha’s why they do the burns, you know. And the helicopters are just tourists, you know. In fact, I helped train two of the new pilots.”

I thanked him profusely and walked into the thickest wall of smoke I’d experienced all day, relieved to know I didn’t need to worry about getting burned to ash in my tent overnight.

It was 5pm at this point and I wanted to do 6 more miles to camp near water, so I kicked my pace into high gear.

Once the sun was nearly set, I quit walking and pitched my tent in a bare patch of sand. Supposedly there was a wildlife drinker within a quarter mile, but that would be an adventure for tomorrow.

Day 6 (11/16/21): 24.7 miles (+2 water miles)

The water source was off trail a ways, up a drainage, but easy enough to find.

I’d woken to a sky of molten oranges and reds, bleeding through the bare limbs of trees, a breathtaking display that my tired eyes struggled to take in before coffee.

It had been another cold night and I was thankful for Tim’s mummy bag. I still felt exhausted, though, as if I’d spent the whole night running, and I wondered how far I’d make it that day.

Thankfully, the walk proved to be an uneventful one.

If you look closely, you can see elk in the tree line!

I startled a herd of elk when I crossed into the Babbit Ranch passage, and paused to watch them thunder through the scrubby juniper trees.

The vegetation around me was beautiful, in a sandy, dry, mint green, and evergreen sort of way.

I walked until close to sunset across alternately flat and undulating terrain, and stopped when I reached the dirt road which would lead me over half a mile off trail to yet another wildlife drinker.

By the time I reached the drinker the sun was setting in a quiet display of powdery pinks and pastel blues. The moon, nearly full now, glowed magnificently against the soft backdrop.

I filtered water from the tank which was about half-full, and then I turned around and headed back to the junction.

I pitched my tent in the dark and decided to sleep with my food bag for lack of any tree branches tall enough to hang it on.

I passed out quickly to the melodic cries of coyotes, my tired body finally still.

Day 7 (11/17/21): 27 miles

I woke up feeling desperately lonely. I reached out to two of my girlfriends back home and to Logan, dying to connect with someone familiar, even if just via text.

It was my three-year sobriety birthday, and though I didn’t announce that in my messages, I knew it had something to do with the emotional maelstrom I was experiencing.

Bolstered by the loving responses I received, I packed up my belongings, jamming everything into my pack as quickly as I could, and took off at a gallop. Today I would get a view of the San Francisco Peaks outside of Flagstaff!

At mile 10 I reached Tub Ranch and cautiously approached what appeared to be a giant above ground pool, and man wrestling angrily with some black tubing next to it.

He was spewing curses about “the damn horses ruining everything”.

I cleared my throat to announce my arrival and a woman in a nearby truck shouted to get his attention over the engine. Her chihuahua barked ferociously at me, tiny paws resting authoritatively on the dash.

The man finally looked up from the confounding mess of ropes and plastic and said, “I’m trying to winterize the tank, and the goddamn horses keep destroying it.”

I laughed nervously but with a deep understanding for this particular tribulation, thinking back on all the winter blankets my horse shredded on fenceposts, rocks, and god-knows-what-else.

“Is this the water source?” I asked tentatively.

“Oh yeah, help yourself!”

He got in the truck, apparently satisfied with the state of his project, and waved good-bye, the chihuahua still barking as they drove off.

I was alone again.

After climbing the ladder to scoop some of the clearest water I’d seen yet, I ate a salami-cheese-cheeto tortilla and drank some electrolyte.

The next five miles were completely exposed, following a dusty dirt road towards hillier terrain.

I had one more water source, and then a 22 mile dry stretch. So I took my time when I reached the last cow tank of the day. It was another surprisingly clear source and the view from it was sweeping.

I spread out my foam sleeping pad and took off my shoes and socks before flopping down; I ate some of my favorite chocolate peanut butter cups in silence.

Tiny birds flitted over the overflowing tank, dipping low to sip. They were nervous about me at first, but eventually decided I was no threat in my sweat stained, blistered, dust covered state.

I was feeling tired but also content with the progress I’d made so far.

The rest of my walk that day was on badly rutted forest service roads that wound through charred trees and burnt scrub—a recovering wasteland.

My walk took me higher and higher in elevation, and I was thrilled to be climbing again, my heart longed for the mountains.

As dusk fell, the temperature dropped sharply. I could see my breath and shivered against the penetrating chill. I quickened my step; the trail had transitioned back onto single track shortly after it reentered the ponderosa—which only grow between 5,500ft and 8,500ft.

More elk in the trees; though, this image was taken at a different point in the hike.

I spotted a bear box in the fuzzy evening light and decided to check it, earlier in the day I’d peaked inside one and found a hand-warmer! The boxes seemed to appear sporadically at trail heads, and I was curious what this one might hold.

Water! I was able to top off my bottles before crossing another dirt road and making camp in the dark.

The night was bitterly cold, another one which had me cursing against the condensation (soon to be frost) coated walls of my tent. Even the outside of my sleeping bag was wet—moisture which quickly froze.

I hated the wet. Camping in the cold is a whole adventure unto itself, and I was over it.

Out of the dark, I saw a northbound headlamp approaching. I stayed silent, unsure of what to say or do.

It belonged to a hiker named Q-tip. He stopped to chat for a while, almost finished with his thru-hike, and I felt so relieved to see someone else out here this late in the season.

Every time I thought I was the only person bumbling around in the dark, the trail proved me wrong.

Day 8 (11/18/21): 29 miles

I woke up in the dark and by 5AM, I had decided to walk all the way to Flagstaff.

It was another bitterly cold morning, and as I continued to climb upwards, I contemplated my emotional landscape.

I can experience my worry, fear, and overwhelm, fully, and validate the journey it wants to take me on. AND if I am brave enough, I will reach the peak and see a path forward, one extending beyond inner tumult.

I can navigate even the hardest moments if I breath, and keep placing one foot in front of the other.

Circumstances are always changing; a world of possibility exists in which my situation could improve.

My eighth day on trail was a long one. And even as my water bottles froze in the dark of the morning, the heat of midday would have me sweating through my sun shirt.

I reached an elevation of 9,000ft before the sun cleared the mountain, and entered an old aspen grove.

Suddenly I was surrounded by bone white sentinels—some gnarled and twisted, others straight and proud—all bespectacled with black, watchful eyes.

My breath was smoke as I marched up switchbacks, stopping every so often to study the ever evolving world around me.

Aspen felt familiar, momentarily I imagined I was back in Colorado.

At some point I cleared the saddle and began my descent, but the terrain was so gradual, the shift was imperceptible.

I stopped at a water source a few miles after the junction for the Arizona Snowbowl Resort and made coffee. I didn’t even need water, since mine had only just begun to thaw, but I wanted a break from moving.

I’d only come 9 miles so far and knew I had 20 more if I wanted to make it to town.

The hike continued to trend down through tall ponderosa, even when I got to the fork for the Urban Route into Flagstaff.

I decided to take this option because the other way would spit me out on a highway well outside of town; I wanted to walk directly through.

After the trail transitioned into a very uphill “descent” past Mt. Elden, I reached Buffalo Park and it’s smooth, flat, highly peopled running paths.

I was able to call an Uber from the parking lot to take me to a motel—I’d reserved a room online earlier in the day.

It was about 4PM when I arrived at Motel Du Beau, a quaint, hiker-friendly inn with a communal kitchen and laundry, I greatly appreciated the hostel vibes it was serving up.

After doing laundry and showering, I went to a pizza spot that Logan recommended and was enamored with the honey, sausage and mozz. pie I ordered (not to mention the salad). Greens are hard to work into a “stoveless” diet on trail.

It felt like a nearo (near-zero day) even though it was actually a giant day of walking. And I planned to hit the trail again around noon the next day, milking the motel room for every precious hour I could.

My spirits were high as I went to bed that night. I felt hopeful, thinking the nights would be getting warmer now that I was 200 miles further south.

Little did I know I was in for another 100 miles of cold…

Two male elk I caught rutting near a water source in the next section. They, of course, spotted me almost immediately and ran away. 

Up next: Flagstaff to Pine, 5 days // 111 miles