On Wednesday, my first official day off from work, I head back to the Superstition Mountains, a place I haven't been since 2022, when Doug and I scaled Flat Iron. Driving there feels indulgent, speeding on the freeway in Dad's six-speed, cruising to the radio's alternative rock: mostly 90s. It's approaching 8 am and rush hour traffic isn't really a thing, at least not in this direction: East on U.S. 60. I'm in a much better mood today and already feeling whispers of minor revelations, swirls of optimism and content. With each nostalgic song that plays on the radio, I think more and more about the joy of spontaneity, of micro-dosing on novelty: creating small opportunities every day (via the radio or random playlists, asking a waitress what she recommends, taking a backroad, etc.) for moments that really draw you in.
The drive to the Fremont Saddle via Peralta Canyon trailhead starts friendly enough through neighborhood roads, but then I see the “Pavement Ends" sign and for the next several miles I'm crunching on gravel, passing offshoot after offshoot of other trails (Wave Cave, Lost Goldmine, etc.). The road ends in the parking lot I'm looking for, complete with a pit toilet and a few fellow hikers. The trail bulletin is huge and it's the first hike, at least in years, where I've had to open a hatch and write my name and "start time" in a binder. This whole region has dedicated bus and RV parking (all deserted today), so it’s probably an attempt at collecting monthly visitor counts.
I slather on sunscreen and walk. The trail is a steady gradual up, a heart-pounder but not lung-crusher, covering 500 feet in the first mile. The sun is already too hot at 9 am, and under the bill of my cap I'm eyeing the ground for rattlesnakes as my shins graze the edges of wildflowers and grass.
Somewhere close by, there's a mourning dove; beneath my feet, there's scampering lizards, which seem to get bigger and bigger the higher I go. Against the drone of flies and bees is the trickling sound of water-- a small stream!--as I scale slabs of smooth stone.
The trail dips several times through a wash, and in these lowlying areas I hunker down in pockets of shade, inhaling a deliciously skunky breeze.
The higher I climb, the closer the line of towering cliffs. Their jagged edges remind me of Bryce Canyon, rock formations carved by water and time into razor sharp points. Above the rocks, the half moon fades into the Arizona blue. Dad said just yesterday you just don't get blue skies like this in Tennessee, and that's true for the sun, too, the way it bakes your skin in an oven heat.
At 800 feet there's another shade tree, followed by agave bones: just sinewy husks, grey and shriveled next to pops of marigold. Another 100 feet up, at 1.6 miles, death spikes of the succulent interrupt the silhouette of the first good overlook: the giant blue, with a thin layer of mountain underneath. I think so often here in Arizona how this whole landscape is designed for doodling: there's contrast, thick lines, whimsical shapes and bold colors.
At almost exactly two miles, there's a shaded cave; it's literally right off the path but feels like a discovery, trail magic since there's no one around. I've only passed a handful of hikers this whole time and I have the cave to myself, so I crouch in the mouth and swing off my backpack. I don't stay long, because the sun is so hot and the summit so close, so I scale the final soft switchbacks until I reach the "saddle" around 10 am. It's a wide hump with sweeping views of the valley and Weaver's Needle, a famous rock structure in the Superstition Wilderness. There's just enough shade behind a giant rock to rest and recoup. The trail from here connects to others on the ridge, but I head back down.
On the way home, I take the wrong turn and find myself in Carefree, a tiny little town. The cacti all around are massive and some of the weirdest I've ever seen. The desert will remind you there's abundant sameness in nature but also so much natural variation, the way some cactus grow so huge and others so small, some with five arms and others with none. Cacti overflow with personality, not so much that you want to name them but you want to explain them, you want to imagine their stories and why some are all twisted and torn.
My rock music is up, window slightly down. Skin slick and red with sweat and sun. As the highway approaches, I search for cacti with insane numbers of arms: rewards for presence, for paying attention.
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