On the Arizona Trail

Watchful Eyes

One of my senses is entirely removed save for the illuminating beam of my headlamp—a pin-prick of light swimming in endless black.

Twigs snap, I hear the toll of a disembodied cow bell, cloven feet shuffle, gravel crunches.

Then, silence—a far more frightening thing.

Tinnitus in my ears rings franticly. My breath is a train, roaring in my ears. I pause.

I suck air in and hold it.

Quiet. Then the ringing is back.

My neck hair prickles and stands on end. I spin in a circle, searching for my invisible foe in the dark.

Surely, I am being followed by something.

I exhale. I walk faster, almost running now, my pack bounces loudly against my lower back.

A dry feeling in my throat begs me to stop for a sip of water. I do, but only after spinning in another circle, searching the monochromatic dark with my headlamp beam.

I tip my head back, the bottle touches my lips, and my lamp picks up the glow of two amber discs.

Eyes, watching me from above.

The orbs are set about 4 inches apart and seem… close—how close?

I let out a snarl which morphs into a deranged bark.

“Get away!” I hiss.

The unblinking eyes do not leave me.

So I get away as fast as I can, taking off at a run down the trail.

I search the bouncing beam of my headlamp, my eyes glued to the trail ahead of me. I count the rocks passing beneath my feet.

After what seems like miles of running, I stop in a sandy wash full of mesquite and cottonwood trees.

The air is cold, I am tired and I want to camp.

I start kicking dead branches out of the way, rustling the dried leaves as I clear a flat spot.

I am being watched. I know it.

I raise my head and scan the trees lining the wash.

Eyes. Four of them. Green-blue. Large, wide-set, high off of the ground.

They, too, are unwavering.

In a fit of fear and anger, I start to bark and scream.

I lob rocks at the phantoms but their gaze is unflinching.

I grab my backpack and abandon the campsite I just uncovered.

More insane noises burst from my chest as the trail winds me closer to the bank where I saw the eyes.

I hear nothing. No crashing or running. My adversaries are silent, unconcerned by the absurd cacophony of sounds I am making.

I am climbing now, higher and higher out of the wash. I feel safer the further up I go.

There is water to be found in washes, more vegetation, more food—making them prime habitat for a variety of critters.

Up high on a saddle, there is simply less incentive for creatures to linger.

I keep walking, though, even after reaching the sway between two mountains.

I’ve heard many a strange noise in the dark, but never have I felt so seen, so visible; all I want now is to disappear into the night, far away from watchful eyes.

The Hungry Hoard

Exhaustion weighs on my limbs.

I just descended over a thousand feet through a canyon; I am nearing the end of the Superstition Wilderness.

I pass through a creaking, rusted gate and lock it behind me.

My headlamp shines on a flat spot of ground, across the dirt road from where I stand.

Home, is all my tired brain can muster.

I set about hammering my stakes into the hard earth. I suspect this spot will have quite the epic view come morning, but for now it overlooks a pooling, empty blackness.

I check my phone for the time: 9:00PM. I’d walked 32 miles.

Into my carefully erected hobbit house I crawl, dragging my in backpack behind me.

I begin stuffing food into my mouth—all I want to do is sleep but eating is pretty much essential at this point—tortillas, salami, cheese, chips, PopTarts. I will reach town tomorrow so I don’t need to conserve food.

Finally I lay my tired body down and get blissfully cozy in my sleeping bag. I pull the hood fully over my face and start to drift.

My eyes shoot open.

Grunt, oink, slurp, slop, screech, snuffle, munch—

Accompanied by the sound of a dozen or more cloven feet striking the hard-packed earth, shattering the peaceful quiet of the night.

The sound of the hungry hoard is growing louder; the awful medley of wet squelching, and feline screeching is getting close.

I sit bolt upright and heave myself out of my tent, which requires me to shimmy, slink, and crawl on my knees before I clear the tiny, zippered door.

I scan the night with my headlamp on its brightest setting.

The horror-show musical is still approaching. I picture twenty or so goblins, riddled with lumps and oozing sores, mouths-agape, tusks protruding from their jowls, on the move—coming right at me.

I see the hideous malfeasance in my mind’s eye, rolling over my tent like a wave, crushing my sleeping body and ripping to bits my delicate dwelling.

In reality, the creatures I fear do not exceed shin-height, are nearly blind, and they are most notably, tiny pigs—not actual pigs—peccaries, or javelina, as they are called in Arizona.

Javelina are not dangerous or aggressive, nor do they look like the fantastical menaces I imagine them to be, but their eye-sight is terrible and I am downwind of them. My concern that they might mow me over is not entirely unfounded.

I begin barking like a mad woman, slinging a few heavy rocks down the dirt road as I wail and howl.

The grunting gets very quiet. The clomping of small hooves on rocky soil stops.

I imagine the squadron pausing to consider its options—risk the screaming, lunatic maniac and continue on the tried and true path to the Gila?

Or change course and descend a different way…

If I was a mostly blind pig, trundling my way down a dark canyon, I’d likely stick to the path most familiar to me.

And that is what the javelina do.

Just as I am about to climb back into my impossible tent, I hear a renewed wave of shrieks, snorts and grunts. The herd is on the move again.

I bark myself hoarse this time, and lob more stones.

“Javelina, you shall not PASS!” I scream into the night. “I want to sleep!”

My desperate pleas and subtle Lord of the Rings reference must strike a cord with the new world pigs—who likely just want to make it safely down to the river so that they, too, can sleep.

They brave the unknown and go another way, their myriad of noises disappearing into the dark with them.

Finally, there is peace.

Walking in the Dark

Walking in the dark isn’t always scary; in fact, it can be quite meditative.

I did more “night hiking” on the AZT than any other trail to date, mostly due to the time of year and how short the days were.

My southbound thru-hike took place between November 11th and December 15th, 2021.

I found walking into the night much easier than waking up before dawn to walk. The coldest hours of the day are just before the sun rises (brrr), while the warmth of the day often lingers well past sunset, making evening travel the more pleasant option.

I thoroughly enjoy walking into the sunset, especially if I am on high terrain—a pass, a peak, or a ridge—and then continuing on into the dark to find camp 6 or so miles later.

My headlamp was an irreplaceable piece of gear on this hike; I used the Nitecore headlamp, which has a rechargeable battery via USB, and never once did it die on me.

A note on barking and eye-shine…

I am not sure why I bark. But it has become a regular thing ever since I had a run in with a disgruntled porcupine I mistook for a bear on the Appalachian Trail in 2017 (you can read about that here).

The information out there about eye-shine and which colors correspond to which animals seems a bit conflicting. As far as I can tell (with very limited experience), yellow eyes may belong to a mountain lion, a raccoon, or an owl.

And blue-green eyes may very well belong to cows or deer.

But the mystery certainly makes for a good story, don’t you think?

I hyperlinked the two photos in this blog that are not mine (featuring the eye-shine and the javelina). If the owners of these photos have any issue with me using them, please reach out through the contact form on my website and I will take them down. Thank you!