I wake before sunrise after an anxious night. Snow is forecasted late tonight and I don’t want to be at 9,000 feet when it comes. Mom makes me toast and Dad packs for their trip back to Tucson. I have only spent a few hours with them but without worries or deadlines time has slowed down. We sat outside last night drinking, talking and watching the light fade in the little canyon behind the house. It is harder to say goodbye this morning because I realize I won’t see them again on this trip. Dad drives me about a mile to the trailhead where I had stopped the afternoon before, and we say goodbye.
From Shultz Pass, I hike steadily up the south side of the Peaks. The forest is beautiful thick and green. Mature ponderosa pines then, after I cross the road to the Snow Bowl, fir and aspen and views back over Fort Valley. When the trail turns north and I close in on 9,000 feet, I walk into the sunshine of Hart Prairie. I have come here so much over the years that it is the mental image I recall when I need peace (or sleep). Frank Hart ran sheep here in the 1880’s. The western view over meadows and mountains stretches for a hundred miles. I look over old cattle chutes, Fern Mountain just near, Bill Williams Mountain far to the southwest, and Kendrick Peak to the northwest. It’s raining down there and while I sit in sunshine I can see the mists in the distance.
The San Francisco Peaks are behind and above me. In 1629, 150 years before the California city got the name, the Spanish founded a Hopi mission in honor of St. Francis, then gave the same name to the Peaks. The Hopi believe the kachina spirits live here. The Navajo see the Peaks as one of four sacred mountains that mark their ancestral lands. I sit in the sun and eat lunch propped against a smooth warm stone, then walk again. After few miles I descend into Hansel and Gretel style deep dark forest, then end the day with good water from a long cattle trough below Kelly Tank. The cows don’t mind. I camp amongst cinder cones in the dormant volcanic field north of the Peaks, and beyond the worry of heavy snow.
I wake to sunshine and wonder what happened to the snow. Then it hits. Brief and beautiful. I quickly pack up before it gets heavier. I walk through a valley of red, brown and black cinder hills with sides covered in green grass and trees. The light is unique: the upside of being out here in a snow and rain storm. The clouds still swirl but out by me they are side lit by sun and thus pink and orange against the shockingly blue sky. The Peaks are shrouded in clouds and mist but I can see snow by Kelly tank where I was only a few miles ago. Those poor cows.
Below me the trail continues a long descent in elevation. I drop into what I always think of as Maynard Dixon country. The blue of the sky, the white of the clouds and the red and light green on the plateau stretching north. I take another look south: the peaks are still covered in clouds. I walk for hours in this open countryside. Each cloud is its own little rain shower and they mostly pass me and rain far away. I can see showers 40-50 miles away but I’m dry. I pass the cattle guards and fences around Tub Ranch and try to make good time but can’t help stopping every 15m to try to capture on film what I see all around me.
I marvel that in this huge valley I have yet to see another soul. Then a white pickup truck motors along the dirt road from Tub Ranch. It slows and a middle aged Navajo man leans out, smiles and asks “water?”. There is a boy next to him in the cab and a dog in the back on top of a load of freshly cut wood. After I take the water they slowly drive up a canyon and I follow. Every time I glance back, the Peaks are still shrouded.
Above the canyon the mesa is dotted with pinyon. It’s peaceful and I am as well. I listen to the remainder of the Snow Leopard and think about acceptance. It starts to rain softly around me. I’m happy and thinking about nothing but now. I notice the purple wildflowers, the smell of the rain, the rain drop that swings back and forth from the brim of my hat as I walk. I don’t stress and try to take the perfect photo or think about logistics. At dusk I remember to look back at the Peaks, and realize they were cloudless just 15 minutes before.
The Arizona Trail 
