April 24 & 25: East Verde River 

The miles after the Mazatzals are notable for how much easier they are, and for my gradual return to civilization. Sometimes civilization can be nice, but sometimes it can get weird. 

By the afternoon of the 24th I’m getting hungry. Nothing urgent, but I’ve lived for seven straight days on water, beef jerky and freeze dried dinners. I won’t get a hot meal until the town of Pine the next night, so I make a pit stop at the LF Ranch on the banks of the East Verde River. Other hikers have said the ranch has free water and electricity for AZT hikers, and serves dinner for $15 if you’d like it. 

I walk up the road to the ranch as the shadows start to lengthen in the late afternoon. There’s an old house with chickens and dogs on one side of the road, a small bunkhouse on the other, and a barn in the middle. I can’t see a soul at first, but soon I notice four hikers sitting on a couch on the porch of the bunkhouse. They look forlorn, like souls waiting in Dante’s Purgatorio. None want to be there, but they all paid the $15 for dinner and are waiting for two hours until it’s served. Turns out the friendliest one is Chow Mane, the hiker who met my dad in Lake Roosevelt. We have a great time chatting about his home state (Massachusetts) and the Pacific Crest Trail (he hiked that one just before the AZT), but soon he gives up and gets back on the trail. 

There’s no way I’m waiting around. In addition to the lonely hikers, there’s a guy named Shawn who stomps around feeding the cattle, barking instructions, and perfectly fitting the definition of an ornery ranch hand. I knock sheepishly at the door and ask if I can pay anything to get any food the owner, MaryAnne, has in the kitchen. MaryAnne says sure and makes me two of the best tuna fish sandwiches I have ever had. She is the reason hikers love the place. I wolf down the food, give hurried “good lucks” to the three remaining hikers and continue north. They look sadder than ever. 

That night and the whole of the next day I gradually gain both elevation and miles. I cross the pretty eastern fork of the Verde River, then walk the red dirt roads and meadows of Hardscrabble Mesa. The trail is nice, the pace is fast, and by early afternoon I’m deep in the pine forest below the cliffs of the Mogollon Rim. I’ve earned a break and a bed. 

I walk up highway 87 and into Pine with enough time to wash clothes, buy supplies and have a couple of beers and a burger at Sidewinders Saloon. Game seven of the Black Hawks/Blues game is on one of the TVs inside and the place is jumping. By nightfall I’m talking hockey and hiking with a bunch of locals at the bar. We are all perfectly happy being just where we are.