The Arizona Trail: Superstition Wilderness to Mt. Lemmon

Days 20-25 // 144 miles // +23,326ft

Day 20 (11/30/21): 24 miles, +4,632ft

Beastly—the northern portion of the Superstition wilderness is thorny, overgrown, barely-there-trail, steep, wash-ridden, remote.

Even more challenging for me than the Mazatzal and Four Peaks wilderness areas, this wilderness area nearly broke me. But not actually, because at no point during the nightmarishly sharp, convoluted, tangled bramble did I want to quit the AZT.

But this particular morning was mentally challenging for other reasons.

I’d packed up camp with Roadrunner and we started hiking just as the sun was coming up, it bathed the hills in golds and pinks. My body felt tired but the first mile or so was all downhill, steeply, so I stumbled along, still half asleep.

And then I realized I’d forgotten something. I’d left my paracord (for hanging my food bag when trees are available) tied around a holly bush.

I had been afraid the branches would tear through the thin, dyneema walls of my tent, and so I’d woven the cordage through the bush to hold it at bay.

Uhg. I’d probably walked half a mile or more down the hill already. But I had to go back.

The climb felt arduous, but took less time than I thought. And before I knew it I was on my way South again.

By 11AM, though, I’d only made it six and half miles to a spring, and I was exhausted. No matter how deep I dug, my pace never exceeded 2mph.

I hadn’t been drinking water because the stuff I was carrying from the day before tasted like literal cow sh*t—no exageration. It felt greasy in my throat and my burps tasted of urine.

Truly, I had never had a worse taste in my mouth.

I dumped out the garbage water and rinsed my bottles and filter as best I could. The new water tasted so good I could have cried.

Four miles later I hit a gorgeous creek and rinsed the salt off my feet; the water was ice cold and felt invigorating. I dawdled there for a while. I knew I could do the miles, I just didn’t feel like rushing.

After the creek the trail was lost for a time, in this eerily tall grass. It was bleached and dried—for all intents and purposes, dead—and I could barely find my way through it. At points, I thought I sensed some other presence in the maze with me.

I fought my way forward, checking my gps every now and again to make sure I was generally headed in the right direction.

After what felt like miles, the landscape opened up clearly before me. And then things got steep.

I battled my way up and down, in and out of washes for the better part of the afternoon. Then the trail dumped me out on a FS road. It plunged down for miles into another valley, another canyon, another wash.

By the time I was approaching my destination for the evening, mud spring, I was so scratched up, worked over, irritable, and exhausted, I could’ve snapped one of my trekking poles in half.

Then I saw Roadrunner!

He had had a hell of a day too, it turned out, and decided to stop early, same as me. But he had bad news, the water source was bone dry. He had filtered water out of a gross puddle on his way here, and he said it stunk.

“What?! On the ap everyone said the water here is some of the best on trail!” I was furious. And completely out of water.

I rushed over to the trough and sure enough, it was totally dry. Then I went over to the ammo box tucked under a nearby tree, I remembered reading something about “needing instructions to find the water”. I found some notecards and began reading.

“Yes! It’s this way!” I jumped to my feet and plowed my way up the wash, with Roadrunner close behind.

About a quarter mile up, we saw a man made wall, like a well, sticking out from the side of the canyon, and inside, was water—clear water.

The day ended better than it started, and sometimes that’s all a person can ask for.

We ate dinner and chatted, talking mostly about food, and then I hit the hay (literally, because I pitched my tent on a pile of that bleached grass and have been picking seeds out of the mesh ever since).

Day 21 (12/1/21): 32 miles, +3,840ft

The Superstition Wilderness gave us a few more miles of hatefulness and then calmed down drastically. Once we hit Picket Post TH, the trail had turned into some of the smoothest I’d ever had.

Roadrunner departed there, though. He had to go home for a while and tend to his painting business, but he’d be back to finish before the year was over.

I had a long dry stretch ahead of me, 11 miles through very exposed terrain. Eleven miles really isn’t that far, but it felt merciless when I imagined all the things that could go wrong between here and the rainwater collector that I was headed for.

Halfway through my walk, I was overcome with sadness. I found myself talking to my grandmother, who’d passed away earlier that year. There were just so many birds, and they made me think of her. For such a harsh place, there was a tremendous amount of life.

I found it a fitting place to say goodbye to her—in this “in-between” land. I felt exposed, vulnerable, uncertain, desperate to just arrive already, and I wondered if she were there with me, guiding me through this struggle.

The trail itself was smooth, but my surroundings were nebulous, I couldn’t guess which way I was headed at any given point, and I felt close to breaking.

So I sobbed and walked. And talked out loud to myself, to BB, to God, anyone who I thought might hear me.

Eventually I reached the rainwater collector feeling relatively peaceful. It was a welcome sight, it almost looked like a spaceship, and the water was the freshest yet.

I sat in the shade and chugged electrolytes. It was 3:30 PM; I’d come about 23 miles so far, and hoped to do another 9, but decided to give myself a 30 minute break, regardless.

A man appeared at the gate of the enclosure. He introduced himself as Vern, and said he was just out doing a section. We chatted for a while, he was aghast that I planned to go on another 9 miles.

I wanted to make it to the Gila River, or at least get close to it, so that my day into Kearny would be shorter tomorrow.

I stopped stuffing cheetos into my mouth and packed up. John Wayne’s saying, “We’re burning daylight” flashed across my mind’s eye.

The portion of trail to come was some of the most stunning I’d yet to walk, and I caught it just as the sun was beginning to set. I spun in circles, took pictures, walked slower than I should have, and just soaked it all in.

When night fell, I was descending into the canyon that would lead me to the Gila.

This proved to be an exciting evening, I’ve written about my nighttime run in with the Javelina, in: The Hungry Hoard, if you want to read about it!

Day 22 (12/2/21): 18 miles, +2,454ft

I groaned at the sun.

Morning already? Which is saying a lot, considering it wasn’t getting bright until about 7:30 AM these days.

I crawled stiffly out of my tent and surveyed the area. My 32 mile day had gotten me into camp around 8:30 PM last night, and after battling it out with the resident fauna, I’d passed out pretty quickly.

The canyon was stunning, and I almost regretted having hiked so much of it in the dark. But the larger part of me was ready to get to town and eat hot food and regroup.

When I reached the Gila, I ran into some of my “friends” from the night before; they squealed when they saw me and took off through the brush. Their small grey bodies contracting, tiny hooves hammering away at the sand. They seemed incredibly harmless now.

The river itself proved to be a great water source, though I hear that it isn’t always running this time of year.

And now that I was down around 1,000ft, it was murderously hot. River walks look deceptively easy when considering the elevation profile—flat, almost. I assure you, they are anything but flat.

The trail wound up and down, one switchback up, two down, and so on, in full sun.

By the time I made it to the TH, I was out of water, sunburnt, and exhausted. All of which could have been avoided, had I taken the time to filter more water, put zinc on, and rest, but town days are really challenging for me to pace out.

I was always in a rush.

And then I couldn’t get a hitch into town. There were very few cars on the highway, which I’d walked an extra mile to get to, and none of them would stop.

I felt panicky (in hindsight, I was very dehydrated) and called Logan, but realized quickly there was nothing he could do for me. So I called a few establishments in town, none of whom provided shuttles.

And then finally, some kind soul from the pizza place took mercy on me and came to get me.

Kearny was tiny. Once I arrived, it all made sense. There was Old Time Pizza, the soul of the place, and a grocery store, and that was basically it.

I charged my devices while eating a ham, bacon, pineapple pizza, and called Logan back to catch up for real. I went grocery shopping and organized my pack. I spent the better part of the afternoon just rehydrating.

I had found a weak point for me—resupplying—and it was glaring. I had the power to execute town days with more organized precision and less stress, but I simply wasn’t doing it.

Then, when something went wrong, I was already at a deficit, and used it as an excuse to panic.

I felt bad about it and wanted to do better. There was a certain attitude of entitlement I fell prey to, when it came to getting a hitch into town. And now that I was aware of it, I knew I needed to work on it.

Around 6PM the owner of the pizza place came in, he was a jovial guy, and he offered me a ride back to the trailhead. I gratefully accepted.

He told me about a good spot to camp maybe 2 miles up the trail.

After saying good-bye, I hiked off into the night to find “home”.

Day 23 (12/3/21): 25 miles, +3,800ft

My backpack felt like it weighed 500lbs, as I trudged across the open desert the next morning.

And the day grew seriously hot as I wove my way beneath the crackling power lines on forgotten dirt roads and single track.

I stopped every 2 miles, it seemed, to give my shoulders a rest. My backpack probably only weighed about 27lbs, but it was really only designed to carry about fifteen, comfortably.

The pain in my shoulders was so sharp, that it made my jaw ache, but I didn’t want to skimp on food this go-around, and given the dry stretch before me, I was carrying about 3.5L of water.

I stopped beneath the power lines at one point, collapsing in the shade of a scrubby little mesquite tree, wondering at my desolate surroundings. There really was nothing and no one out here.

The AZT was so different than any other trail I had ever hiked; the lack of water made it feel more high stakes—this wasn’t even a dry fall—and the lack of people often left me wondering if I was on a trail at all.

At mile 18.5, I reached my first water source of the day. It was about half a mile off trail, but easy enough to find by following a fork in the road.

When I arrived at the source, I saw a bunch of cows hanging out in a putrid mud puddle; I marched passed them and approached a strange apparatus which turned out to be a well with a pump, enclosed in chicken wire fencing. Beyond it were two large, rusted—presumably water—tanks on wheels.

I climbed over the fencing and dropped my pack in the dirt, trying to avoid the cow patties.

The cows stared blankly at me from their spot in the slop 50 feet away.

I felt bad for them as I filled all my bottles with fresh, clear water from the spigot. One of the cows was so thin it was painful to look at; the rest seemed healthy enough, but I knew their lives must be hard ones.

I cold soaked some ramen, chugged electrolytes dissolved in half a liter of water, and then headed back to the trail.

The remaining 6.5 miles felt long, and I was sick of listening to the hum of the power lines.

But just as the sun was beginning to set, I spotted headlights and the silhouette of pop-up, rooftop tent. I’d nearly reached the trailhead where I would camp.

I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to camp at trailheads, but I’d camped at one the night before and really didn’t care at this point what was right or proper. I just wanted to be “somewhere” besides the featureless desert.

I sat on a cement bench, and ate dinner in the dark. Immediately after pitching my tent, I heard scuffling and scratching in the grass next door. A disgruntled neighbor.

This was becoming the norm as the temperatures got warmer—more wildlife.

But I was too tired to worry. I hung my food as best I could and crawled into my tent for the night.

Day 24 (12/4/21): 23 miles, +3,000ft

I woke up feeling recharged and ready to take on a new day of walking.

I packed up before dawn and hit the trail.

The day broke lazily around me; I could practically hear the cactus yawning, see the desert birds stretching their wings and fluffing their feathers, feel the chilly air giving way to what was sure to be another hot day.

The desert was a friendlier place in the morning, I’d come to realize.

I stopped for snacks at a random point along the trail. I’d found these tiny “protein” cookies, by Lenny and Larry, that I was completely obsessed with, and so I stuffed a few of them in my mouth while I surveyed the scenery.

All around me were Cholla Cactus, which dropped their spiny pods—almost impossible to get off of your shoes if by chance you stepped on one. The quills were at least 2-3 inches long and deadly sharp.

I reached my first water source in some time. It was Beehive well, and the water was clear and cold. I took what I needed and marched up the road to take a break in the shade.

After I sat down and exploded my pack, I noticed a cow staring at me over the hill at top of the road, which was actually very steep. It just stood there. Watching.

I ate a chip, cheese and salami tortilla and then was on my way again. My brain had plummeted into a dark place. I was missing home and wondering what the heck I was doing out here, in the desert, all alone.

Some razors whizzed by me in a wash and kicked up so much dust that I couldn’t see my hands even when I held them right in front of my face. I cursed the machines and kept walking, uphill now.

I felt mired in self-doubt, which made hiking rather hard.

Around 12:30PM I reached the turn off for the second water source of the day. I had seen it along my climb, a giant, rusted, above-ground-pool-looking thing. I practically ran towards it.

The shade it cast was epic, the water inside of it, cold, and I wound up taking an hour long break beside it.

I had to improve my mental state, I realized, if I was going to go on.

I felt immensely better when I started walking again. I was no longer in a funk. And having already walked 15 miles, I only had about 8 to go.

Around 2PM, the sun took a break from it’s relentless glaring. And beneath a blanket of clouds the desert looked almost lush; it’s greens appeared more vibrant, it’s cool blue undertones more prominent.

No more negative thoughts plagued me. I continued my hike into the pre-dusk light, until a spray of neon pink laced its way through the clouds. The birds sang cheerily as I descended into yet another sandy wash, at the bottom of which I found a 16oz aquafina water bottle!

I decided to camp exactly there; the little bit of extra water felt like a good sign.

And then I heard gunshots—not entirely unusual, it was hunting season after all—but they seemed loud and close.

I suddenly felt nervous, the wash no longer felt welcoming, it felt more like a trap, the low-point between two steep hills with only one direction for escape. My tent was half-pitched and I debated my next move.

I listened for more shots; like an animal, my ears seemed to prick, waiting for even the slightest noise to signal a presence other than my own in the sandy pit. Nothing.

Humans shouldn’t mean me any harm, it’s true. But as a rule, I don’t readily trust large men in remote places, with guns—especially when they might have spent all day in the heat, drinking beer.

There are moments in every hike when I am struck by feelings of vulnerability, this was one.

The silence held, though, and eventually I went to sleep.

Day 25 (12/5/21): 22 miles, +5,600ft

My hike unfolded at a relaxed pace after I left the wash. I had a few steep climbs and descents, took a break at a trailhead, and then continued my overall uphill trek toward a growing wall of mountains.

I would pass Oracle today, a town that many thru-hikers hitched to for resupply. I would be skipping it, though, in favor of a quick stop in Summerhaven, the town that sat literally on top of Mt. Lemmon.

I heard there was fudge up there, and trust me, it is way easier to climb 5,600ft when you know that there is fudge waiting for you at the summit.

Mt. Lemmon is one of Arizona’s sky islands, some of which rise nearly 6,000ft from the surrounding desert; because they gain so much elevation, they have entirely different ecosystems near their summits.

I continued my march upwards through the growing heat, I couldn’t wait to be back in the ponderosa, even for a brief while. Their shade and soft pine needles called to me.

I passed a ton of trailheads on my walk, all of them sporting impressive water caches. I avoided taking any water from the jugs though, I figured it was more important to leave it for people who were in dire need and I’d planned to not see water until I got closer to Mt. Lemmon.

When the real meat of the climb began, I kicked my walk into high gear, pausing briefly at the water trough that was directly on trail to refill my bottles.

There were dozens of birds—dipping, flitting, chirping, bathing—all kinds, gathering at the lip of the trough. I plunged my Be Free bladder into the water, well below the feather coated surface, to scoop the clearer stuff.

I loved climbing, I really did, and the trail only got steeper after the water source, but it was graded really nicely.

I got into a rhythm and barely noticed—until I was right on top of them—two hikers yard-saling their gear on either side of the trail, a ways up the climb.

To be clear, they weren’t selling their gear, that’s not what yard-saling means; they just had their packs exploded all over the place kind of like the contents of a house when one has a yard sale.

They seemed happy enough, but exhausted. I said hello and marched on.

The trail gave way to a FS road—a steep one! It had my calves burning and my feet sliding out from under me, there were boulders to climb over and a trench down the middle deep enough for me to disappear into.

And then. I heard. The razors.

They were coming towards me, actually driving down this mess. I stepped to the shear side of the “road”, sweat stained, dust coated, in awe of the people in charge of steering these machines.

The people smiled and waved, seeming just as surprised to see me as I was to see them. Right then and there I developed a newfound respect for 4X4’s.

Eventually I made it to the top of the ridge and slipped back into the trees on single track. I’d read on the app that there were “long-term campers” up here in the spring, but I saw no sign of them now.

I chose my spot carefully, out of the wind, and began setting up my home. I managed to find a little cell service and reach out to my loved ones.

The sunset was all pastels, nothing dramatic but plenty beautiful. Tomorrow morning I would walk into town—though it was hard to imagine that there was a town tucked way up here.

I fell asleep thinking about fudge.