Published in Arizona Highways.
I drove from Tucson to Sedona with thoughts of red rocks, epic hikes and meditation in the energy vortex. The plan was to sleep in my van on public land to be close to the earth, in solitude, and start the new year. Plus, there was a hike I wasn’t able to do the last time I visited, so this would be my opportunity. I expected a perfect trip, except that it wasn’t, not by a long shot.
It started with the rain. The weather was unusually overcast and drizzly, but I figured it would clear up soon enough; this was Arizona, after all. It was a four-hour drive, and I planned to enjoy every minute of it, leaving early enough to arrive with sunlight for a short hike.
The drive through the Sonoran Desert has got to be my favorite. Seeing the wide-open spaces only populated by Saguaro cactus’ and occasionally a tiny town was bliss. I paid particular attention to each city I passed, wondering if it might be a place I would live someday. I loved it that much.
It got busy once I neared Phoenix; the big city feeling took over. I used to feel relief at such places, but less so each day. I’m learning to make peace with and even embrace solitude and open space. A few years ago in Colorado, I hired a guide to take me to the Mesa Verde cliff dwellings near Durango. At the top of the mesa, we looked out over the four corners where Arizona, Colorado, Utah and New Mexico meet, and I nearly hyperventilated. All the open space made me feel afraid and claustrophobic somehow. I was living in downtown Chicago at the time and needed to have the people of the city around me to feel safe. Now though, after a year-long western road trip, open deserts bring peace.
Even though the Saguaro cactuses disappeared a few miles outside Phoenix, the views were still spectacular and filled with spice-colored open vistas. As the road gained elevation, the views included more open ranges with mountains in the distance and small communities in the valley below. This is the stuff of western road trip fantasy.
There’s a certain point where you can feel yourself enter the vortex near Sedona. Just like the last time, it pulled me. You feel the energy shift; become higher, clearer, filled with some possibility. I stepped on the gas.
Then, there I was, back in the bright red-orange wonder of Sedona. The beloved sandstone formations encircled me. To my left was Boynton Canyon, up ahead was Coffee Pot Rock, Airport Mesa, and in the distance, I knew Bell Rock, Courthouse Butte and Cathedral Rock awaited me. It was even more spectacular than I remembered.
Since I’d last been here, I’d seen many stunning places in Utah, New Mexico, Wyoming, Texas, Montana, Washington, Oregon, California and Mexico. I didn’t know if I would still find it as awe-inspiring as I had. Instead, it was better, except for the rain, which was dampening my plans.
At Bell Rock, there wasn’t anywhere to park, so I tried Coffee Pot rock across town, but there was a line just to get in the parking lot. Only in Sedona do you have to wait in line to go on a hike. Where I’m from, you can’t pay many people to get on a trail, to be fair, there aren’t many places you’ll find trails like these.
Instead of slowing, it was now raining at a steady clip. I looked up at the grey sky, took a deep breath, shrugged and drove to Boynton Canyon. I knew I’d find street parking there, even if I had to park a mile away. Once there, the rain let up, and I was finally on the trails again! I happily bobbed along, hopping over red mud puddles and humming to myself. Then I looked up, and a buck was just a few feet away. His antlers were about eight inches long, still young, but big. We looked at each other. He had the sweetest black eyes but also antlers that could have shish kabobbed me.
“Hey, buddy,” I said. He tilted his head, examined my character, and kept going across my path. Once, in Yellowstone, I saw two hikers in my binoculars exiting the forest mere feet away from a buffalo. They had no idea the animal was nearby. We’re never really solitary when hiking, even when we suspect we’re alone. After a few minutes, the rain picked up, and I surrendered to the weather and went to find my campsite for the night.
The public land just outside of Sedona has incredible views. It includes several large areas for people to park and camp for free. It’s right off the main road, but it’s lower and back far enough that you don’t hear any traffic. But none of the roads are paved, and after a full day of rain, the road was thick red mud. An electric sign at the entrance read, “Travel not recommended.”
As a solo woman alone, that gave me pause. I didn’t want to get stuck, but it was now nearing sunset, so I found a decent spot that seemed solid enough near a few other vans and RVs. I slid into my space and settled in for the night. It was as quiet as a tomb except for the occasional vehicle passing by looking for a camping spot. Eventually, the sun set in the distance, and nobody else came except the darkness.
In Sedona, the darkness is a presence. The last time I was here, I stayed in the city, and it was dark. This time, a dozen miles outside the city, there isn’t any light, and dark takes on a new shape. At 4 a.m., it was just 32 degrees outside, so I put on a hat and gloves and listened to the rain thumping on the roof. It stopped after a while, and the clouds cleared just above me, revealing the stars. For a time, they were the only thing in the entire world.
I’d planned to drive to the trailhead for Devil’s Bridge at sunrise. They say the views on the top of the natural red bridge formation are unparalleled. You’re like a king when you walk across it, looking out over the open expanse of red rocks. But it had rained most of the night, and much to my surprise and dismay, there was snow on the mountain tops. With disappointment overtaking me, I decided against the hike.
Now, crestfallen about my failed hiking plans, I drove over to Bell Rock to watch the sunrise. Finally, there was parking, and I was able to sit and watch the sky brighten, bringing to life the rock formations around me that I only suspected in the darkness. They were coated in snow, red sandstone peeking out most unexpectedly, my breath fogging the air around me.