Days 26-30 //93.7 miles // 24,600ft+

Day 26 (12/06/21): 24.5 miles & 4,500ft+

I woke up in the dark.

The wind had died completely overnight and the world around me was silent.

I rolled over in my sleeping bag and groaned, dreading to expose myself to the cold, but also really wanting to be on my way to Summerhaven. I only had about 5 miles until I’d be eating fudge.

Plus the name sounded nice—Summerhaven—a place I’d like to linger in for a while.

I packed up, donned my headlamp, and got moving.

The trail continued to follow the ridge for a time and then plummeted sharply off the narrow, rocky spine of the mountain. I contoured the west side of the mountain as the sun broke over the east.

The features on my side of the hill were bathed in that strange, pre-dawn glow, as if the rock faces were absorbing light from the air; despite the sun not having touched them yet, they shone.

I dropped down into a saddle and then wove my way back uphill, switching between dirt road and single track, past what I can only guess was a ski resort that hadn’t seen enough snow to open in quite a few years.

Finally, I hit the paved road that would lead me into town. But alas, for all my hurrying, I was too early. Nothing was open.

I looked around for the public bathroom; finding it unlocked and heated, I spent an hour in there—washing the zinc-dirt-scum off my face, charging my phone, and warming up.

There were signs posted on every wall, stating that it was illegal to sleep there; I felt almost criminal just sitting on the floor. I hated feeling like I was breaking the rules, but I had nowhere else to be.

Around 9AM I made my way over to the general store—the employees were seriously the kindest—they gave me a free piece of fudge and coffee, and then I bought a bunch of snacks and made sure to tip them before leaving.

I called Logan for a chat, while I relaxed in the sun. And then I called my mom on my way out of town. I was feeling totally rejuvenated and ready to knock out the remaining twenty-some miles to Tucson.

The hike for the next 3 miles or so meandered through tall ponderosa, following a lovely creek. Natural water sources never ceased to amaze me and I made sure to fill up before I parted with this one for good.

My hike then wound upwards through an impressive “rock garden”; huge, bulbous rock formations jutted up from increasingly sparse tree cover. Some of the stones looked like goblins, lumpy and hunched, others tall, stood smooth and proud.

I reached a sweeping overlook and contemplated the descent, it looked steep.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was climbing down to Romero Pass, traversing a section many hikers dread. Later I would read comments on the app with some amusement—how dramatic people were!

For any prospective AZT hikers, I want to tell you not to worry, there is no hand-over-hand climbing involved, and while my pace was slowed down a bit, not once did I feel afraid.

When I reached the pass, I took a moment to really soak in the view, I was in Sabino Canyon and it was a truly spectacular sight to behold—by far my favorite canyon of the hike (besides maybe the Grand).

The day melted away as I wove my way ever down, a creek babbled to my left and far below me, the grasses swayed and the birds sang, I was utterly alone and had been for some time.

I hiked well into the dark, finishing my day about 2 miles away from the Catalina Hwy crossing. There was some excitement when darkness fell, a pair of yellow eyes scared me away from my initial campsite—you can read that story here: “Watchful Eyes”.

Day 27 (12/07/21): 2.5 miles & a day off in Tucson

I woke up to the same lacy pink sky I’d grown so accustomed to seeing. I would be meeting a friend at the highway crossing at 10AM, but I’d woken up early and I wasn’t in a hurry to get there.

I cleaned trash out of my medical kit—bandaid wrappers, empty neosporin packets—and consolidated my remaining food. I used the privy and was relieved to find some toilet paper in there since that wasn’t something I carried.

Finally I got to walking, startling a few small deer—a kind known as Coues Deer—which hunters called “grey ghosts”, seeing as they were so hard to get close enough to, to kill.

I never seemed to have a problem finding them though. Either my steps were quiet enough, or I didn’t smell like trouble to them.

I arrived early to the crossing and killed time next to the highway on my phone. I didn’t have any service so I scrolled through the photos I’d taken so far. It was now 10:40 and there was no sign of my friend. I was starting to worry.

Tons of road bikers flew by me going down the highway, others struggled past me going up. I waited.

Finally I saw a subaru, it was Sarah’s roommate! Apparently Sarah had tried to reach me to tell me her class schedule changed; I was just relieved to be getting into a car.

I spent the day and night in Tucson eating food, showering, doing laundry ane resupplying. I felt totally recharged and ready to take on the last 160 miles of trail when Sarah dropped me back off on Catalina Highway the next morning.

At this point in my hike I was feeling really strong, and all I wanted to do was keep moving.

Day 28 (12/08/21): 17.2 miles & 4,700ft+

I walked away from Catalina Highway in the dark, my trusty headlamp lighting the way. I climbed upwards for a mile or so, to a saddle which marked the end of my time in Sabino Canyon.

I stopped at the gate and turned around. Molten, hot pink streaks raced across the sky; dawn arrived on the horizon, a screaming riot of color. I hated to tear my eyes away.

I felt like I was on the edge of something—the end of my journey, perhaps? Or maybe it was something more… a beginning.

So often, beginnings are mistaken for endings.

And I felt sad for all I was losing, or saying goodbye to, without realizing how much I stood to gain.

The Taoists believe a bowl that is already full cannot be filled—only an empty bowl can be filled.

So there really are no endings, if you look at life this way. Sometimes we have to be emptied out, lose everything, before we can begin anew.

I passed through the gate at the top of the hill, an empty bowl, filled, and kept walking.

Today I would reach the northern boundary of Saguaro National Park at mile 637 of the AZT. I’d looked forward to this part of the hike since I left Utah, never knowing if I would make it this far.

Gratitude washed over me as I navigated the nebulous, rolling hills leading me towards Mt. Mica.

This mountain shone when the sun lit upon it—like it’s rocky face was covered in diamonds—it was the mica, of course.

I marched onwards until I came to Tanque Verde Canyon, a wash choked with boulders and dotted with sparse, thorny vegetation. There was supposed to be water if I followed the wash “upstream” a ways.

I wound may way over and around the rocks; it felt like I had walked a long way before I saw some smooth boulders appear just beyond a stretch of sand. On the boulders’ surfaces were holes carved into the rock, either by many years of water pouring over them, or by people.

Indigenous people carved reservoirs into the rock where water frequently flowed, enabling them to efficiently collect rainwater in places as dry as the sonoran desert.

I thought about this as I sat on that boulder, drinking water I barely had to work for. Thru-hiking, while physically demanding, is not really a game of survival.

My climb began in earnest after I left the canyon. It was still so early in the day and I knew I’d be getting to camp well before dusk, a large part of me did not want to stop at the NP boundary.

The issue was, I had made plans with Judy, the woman I’d met in Flagstaff a while back, to pick me up from a particular trailhead on a particular morning, and I didn’t need to rush to get there in time.

I also wasn’t allowed to camp in the National Park, which was only about 17 miles long, without a permit.

So I hiked up the remaining 2,000ft to camp just before the park sign. It was a great spot, relatively wind protected and covered in ponderosa needles.

I spent the rest of the day writing in my journal, laying in my tent, eating dinner, and eventually, falling asleep.

I was definitely annoyed for having stopped so early, but there were lessons to be learned from stillness, too.

Day 29 (12/09/21): 24 miles & 3,000ft+

I woke up later than I expected I would, the sun was already up.

I packed quickly and made my way up to the Saguaro National Park boundary. I actually signed the trail register—I hadn’t signed in at a single one so far.

My climb continued for another 2,000ft past Italian Spring. And man oh man, let me tell you, did I feel fancy sitting next to the spring, enjoying my instant coffee.

The grass surrounding the pool was lush and the water was so clear and cold.

I’d snagged my puffy jacket on some thorns along the climb—no surprise given how shredded my pack was at this stage of the game—so I took a moment to patch the holes.

Mica was a beautiful mountain; a gorgeous ponderosa forest covered its summit—which I walked to considering it was only .1mi off trail.

The descent was even more spectacular than the ascent.

I followed a crystal clear creek a ways down, until I left the last of the cinnamon barked trees behind. At which point, the landscape melted into a warm desert beneath a grey sky.

I paused only once for a snack and then carried on. Eventually I spotted the first saguaro cactus, and then hundreds more as I continued to lose elevation.

I hit another creek at the base of my descent and stopped for a real break. I peeled my shoes and socks off, I hydrated some ramen, I organized my pack a little, and then just sat, staring at the ribbon of water before me, as it slipped its way through the sand.

Three mountain bikers appeared across the creek. One of them asked me where my journey had started, I told her Utah, assuming she knew about the trail.

She laughed and rolled her eyes, “Yeah, no, I mean where did your hike start.”

I smiled wanly, “Utah. I’m hiking the Arizona Trail.”

“What?!” She seemed almost angry.

Her two companions pulled their bikes up next to hers. “You don’t know about the AZT? We have been biking on it for most of the day…” One of them said.

She looked flabbergasted when he explained it was about 800 miles long.

I said my goodbyes after receiving their well-wishes, finished my break and got moving. I still had about 8 or so miles left for the day.

I felt peaceful walking into the golden hour. The trail looped strangely about, I was walking nearly parallel with the way I’d come down Mica, practically doubling back, I think to avoid some private land.

As I approached La Selvilla Picnic area, where I’d intended to camp, I heard quite a ruckus.

My eyes and brain took a minute to take in and process what I was seeing.

About 20 slender, racoon-like, lemur-tailed creatures were running about with bits of garbage in their mouths. In fact, there was garbage everywhere.

The trash cans were large barrels with no lids, and the monkeys were in the cans, passing the trash to their friends waiting on the outside.

I rushed forward saying, “Party’s over!”

And began picking up trash to put back in the bins, which felt like a fruitless task. This place was overrun. And even as the Coatimundi (their true name) ran for the trees, I knew they’d be back.

I sighed. No chance I was camping here tonight. I went over to the spigot; a few of the critters watched me lazily from the nearby pagoda.

After filling up my bottles, I trudged on, hoping I could find a spot to sleep.

Day 30 (12/10/21): 25.5 miles & 2,900ft+

Pit… pat… pit, pat, pitpatpitpat—

I woke up to rain.

I was so shocked I barely knew what to do. I pulled out my inreach and requested a weather report. So unnecessary, given how lightly it was raining, but it was windy too, and pretty cold.

Supposedly the rain would clear out around 9AM; I took my time getting ready.

Packing up a wet tent has to be my least favorite thing. But at least it wasn’t frozen stiff.

I made the decision to hike in shorts. Why? I honestly am not sure, but in my uncaffeinated state it seemed like the smarter choice.

I was very cold.

At first the rain was lovely. I was blown away by the sweet, herbal fragrance in the air, the stellar display of color—vivid greens and blues and yellows—and each thorn on every cactus was bedazzled with jewel-like raindrops. The birds sang with joyous fervor. Everything around me seemed so alive.

The vividness reminded of the Appalachian Mountains for a moment.

I walked through a fine mist and moderate wind for some time. The rust colored sand beneath my feet squelched and slipped. My eyes remained wide with wonder.

I was smiling in spite of the cold, which sneakily crept over me.

My hike had me gaining elevation and when I reached the crackling power lines, the terrain was very exposed and it had become very windy.

I was now bitterly cold.

I practically ran to keep myself warm; the scenery was so beautiful, though, I wished I could go slower.

I sprinted beneath the train tracks which crossed high, over a canyon, with a creek running far below. I continued my jog across a paved road, my pack bouncing against my back.

My hands were frozen in a wet death-grip around the handles of my poles. It was now 9:30AM and the sky did not look like it would clear anytime soon.

Raindrops hit me like bullets from a pellet gun as I rushed ever lower, down to the creek I’d just seen from far above.

The trail was hard to find when I reached the water. I flew along the banks and then up out of the wash onto another exposed mesa.

I wasn’t eating and I wasn’t drinking water, I needed to find a covered spot to do both, and throw my puffy jacket on under my raincoat.

The wind continued to pummel me as I passed a trailhead and made for the underpass beneath hwy 15. It was a well-known underpass in the thru-hiking community, one end of it is adorned with a snake’s mouth, complete with fangs and a darting tongue. You walk right down its throat into what has to be the longest, darkest underpass ever.

I stopped close to the other end to stuff my face with food and add a layer.

The rain began to let up around noon, and the sun peaked out just as I passed the road crossing for Sahuarita. I marched along, observing the large houses perched here and there in the hills.

They were unusual, and not entirely unpleasant to look at. They seemed to blend into and complement their surroundings as if they really belonged out here.

I continued walking with my sopping wet gear on my back until I reached a large cow pond. I took advantage of the scant sun and began drying all my things out. I was sure I looked like a mess.

A silver SUV drove by the pond on what I can only assume was a rather heinous dirt road, the way it was bumping and jostling. Then it drove by again. I began to feel conspicuous and so I packed up and hit the trail.

I had six more miles to do before camp.

I flew along the winding trail, over a rollercoaster of hills, passed a hunter, and then saw a deer, which I told to “run” with my hiker telepathy.

The sun sank lower and lower, creating a deep and lovely display of purples on the horizon. I was so close to camp, but had to descend into one more wash before climbing up a final hill.

When I reached the spot, it had only just gotten dark.

It was a cozy little nook-of-a-tent-spot, nestled in the grass between the only two trees around (which were really more like bushes). I was careful not to snag myself on their thorny branches as I set up my hobbit house, and as soon as it was done, I collapsed inside.

“What an ordeal,” is usually my last thought at the end of a long day of backpacking.

It’s not just the walking that is tiring, it’s the camping, and the eating, and the self-care. It’s all the other things.

The walking is the easy part.