Jack Burns Lives!

I loathe air travel. The whole experience from check in to claiming luggage, assuming you were lucky enough for your luggage to show up. Once you arrive at the airport, every stage of the process seems stressful and demeaning. But if you want to travel quickly for long distances, it’s still the best option.

My fear of flying is largely irrational, since statistics clearly show it’s safer than traveling by auto. But when I get on a jet, my brain shuts down and fear takes over. Every minute is excruciating, from take off to landing. Every bump creates a rise in blood pressure. In fact, I’m feeling one right now, as this essay is being composed during the Phoenix to Denver leg of my homeward journey.

I need a drink.

The most dangerous form of travel, the automobile, is my preferred mode, because I’m in control, or at least to a large degree, of my agenda and of my fate. I can see more of the country and can stop at all the quirky, interesting little places along the way. But too much car travel brings guilt, as I realize I’m yet another American packing the highways and burning fuel like there’s no tomorrow. And of course there’s the time involved. In order for me to drive from the Mississippi Delta to Four Corners, it takes over twenty hours. I have to remain alert and sober at all times. And as I age, I find I’m becoming less alert and less sober. Perhaps the two conditions are related….

Trains? Yes, a wonderful, dignified, greener method of travel, although once again, there’s the time issue. Due to the fact our national passenger rail system is at best, half ass, it can take nearly 20 hours to get from Memphis to San Antonio, and I’m still a long way from Arizona or Utah. The other option goes through Chicago, and I can’t logically see any reason why I’d travel to Chicago to get to Flagstaff.

Our journey was fairly smooth, except for one big bump on the initial Denver to Phoenix flight, and in less than five hours from leaving home, Allison and I were in our rental car headed north to posh, overpriced, over-developed Sedona, Arizona.

Driving northward on I-17, we’re both fascinated by the cacti covered desert landscape. The contrast between our home and our destination couldn’t be more extreme. In the Mississippi Delta, everything is lush and moist. Towering trees, dark, rich soil and eighty percent humidity. Here, the land is harsh. It’s arid and the vegetation seems stunted and sparse. It appears uninviting yet it has a beguiling quality that calls to us.

Unfortunately, too many Americans have responded to the call. Millions and millions have poured into the west and the continuing patterns of growth are alarming. On the flight to Phoenix, I decided to do a re-read of Edward Abbey’s The Journey Home, specifically for the chapters dealing with Arizona. Abbey hit the nail squarely on the head back in the 70’s when he wrote about “The BLOB” and the metastasis strangling the life out of place. I can only imagine what he would think if he could see it today, especially the sprawling ugliness of Phoenix. Why anyone else would move here is a complete mystery to me.

I had mixed emotions about going to Sedona, because I knew it was a tourist trap. But the desire to explore in and around the unique rock formations was too much to resist.

Sedona advertises its population as around 4500 people, which sounds pretty good until you realize a couple of things. One, it’s a ritzy, pampered populace, and two, over four million souvenir seeking people visit annually. Its “downtown,” if you can call it that, is crowded and expensive, packed with vendors selling cheap plastic shit made in China and “Pink Jeep Tours.”

The mountainsides are littered with multi-million dollar homes, monstrosities that suck enormous amounts of energy, so much so I imagined that I could hear it, like the sound of a suddenly opening clogged drain.

Allison and I did some research and found a great spot for our “base camp,” a cozy little inn on the edge of the town’s western end, far removed from the hustle and bustle of the tourist district. It was tastefully and modestly decorated and priced well to boot.

We were also fortunate to find a great breakfast joint, The Coffee Pot, a locals joint with a reasonable spattering of tourists. Yes, I’m a tourist, but I don’t want to be with my own kind. I want to do as the locals do which means eating at the local hangouts and finding remote trails only a local may tell you about.

The service was friendly and lightening fast and the food was delicious and hot. Should you have the good fortune or misfortune (depending on your view) to visit Sedona, this should be a part of your food agenda. You won’t regret it.

For our first day of hiking we select the Boynton Canyon trail, a popular, easy six mile walk to an open red rock hill side with views into the canyon. I had originally opted for the more remote Secret Canyon trail, but Allison was nursing a bad back, so we decided to put off the remote, challenging stuff for the next three days.

The trail is easily graded and gives the hiker a good introduction to the immense variety of desert life present in the area. Walking through the 275 million year old cathedral of rock is like taking a trip back in time. The Forest Service literature says “from bottom to top layer, one can observe about 80 million years of sediment deposition.” Most of the layers, from Tertiary to Mississippian, contain hematite or iron oxide, the element that gives the rocks their red color. But the entire trail is a collage of color, greens, reds, yellows and blues thanks to an impressive mix of desert flora.

Within the first two miles, we see Banana Yucca, Pinyon Pine, Cottonwood, Century Plant (Agave parryi), Juniper, Prickly Pear cactus and dozens of wildflower species.

I’m dismayed by the fact I can only identify a few of plants. Botany has never been my strong suit, and it’s one class in college I really struggled with. Too much memorization for my alcohol clouded, girl crazy brain, and besides, what difference does it make if you can’t name the plant?

In the case of Moon lily or Sacred Datura (Datura meteloides), a flowering plant I believe we’ve correctly identified at several points along the way, knowledge of species can make a big difference. Although it was an important medicinal plant to American Indians, all parts of the plant are extremely poisonous. Moon lily derives it’s name from the fact that its flowers open in early evening and close the following day when struck by sunlight.

The initial quarter mile of trail was amongst the best I’ve seen anywhere, except for one major issue. Running along side the trail for the first quarter mile is the Enchantment Resort, a sprawling defilement built for wealthy muckety-mucks. There are a few homes as well, massive, multi-million dollar enclaves for folks that apparently know a lot more about making money than nature. And I think it’s also safe to say they probably love money more than nature.

All the travel mags talk about the place like it’s some Taoist nirvana on earth, touting what Abbey called “zen bullshit.” Special services like yoga, qigong, tai chi, vortex excursions, blah, blah, blah. Want to find nirvana? Go on a long hike in the quiet of the morning. Come back in the late afternoon sunburnt and tired with aching knees and big appetite. Follow that with a hearty meal with a cold beer with friends and family. That’s nirvana enough for me.

Desert Living magazine, one of those worthless publications designed for the sort of folks that stay at the Enchantment Resort, claims the resort “blends into the Canyon.” I beg to differ. It’s a monstrosity, an unnecessary, ugly intrusion into an area that didn’t need “improvement.” As Allison and I walked along this section, we could hear the pounding of construction equipment building a new mega-home along the side of the canyon. The highlight, however, was the warning sign and security camera just before you reach the end of the first mile of trail. “HIKERS NOTICE” is written in large red capital letters and the sign goes on to imply that we’re being watched and taped by armed guards and gizmos and will be prosecuted if we trespass through their beloved ooh la la shithole.

The one thing I do know about Desert Living is this: none of their writers know a goddamned thing about living in the desert. It should be called Desert Raping. It’s all about extravagance and living a self-absorbed, consumptive life at the expense of all other life. As we finally got past the resort gate, I thought to myself how satisfying it would be to ride through their property with some comancheros, rustling the residents out of their comfy beds and hustling them into the parking lot for an announcement.

“Buenos días, amigos. This property is being confiscated and returned to its native inhabitants. You can collect your personal items at the Sedona Land Cooperative some time tomorrow. Have a nice life somewhere else.”

After this major annoyance, the rest of the trail is sublime. Red rocks rise over the flora, taking our eyes upward toward a brilliant blue sky punctuated by a spattering of white clouds. For the first two miles, there are few places to hide from the scorching Arizona sun, but luckily for us, the temperatures are unseasonably mild, so the heat isn’t terribly oppressive. It’s just enough to pleasantly warm our humidity oppressed Southern bones.

Lizards also bask in the sunlight all along the trail including what I believe is a Plateau striped whiptail. Its pointed snout and large eyes are alert to our movements, and it only allows us fleeting glimpse before scurrying for cover beneath a clump of undergrowth and organic matter just beyond the edge of an emerging conifer forest.

We turn north into a narrow gap known as “Boynton Bowling Alley.” Here the trees are taller, especially the Ponderosa pine. Allison and I stop and take a sniff of the bark which gives off a scent of vanilla or even praline pecan.

Standing beneath the mighty Ponderosa, we stop to simply enjoy the quiet of the forest. In the distance, we hear what sounds like a low roar. It’s wind, blowing up perhaps a mile or more beyond our location. We listen intently as it increases, an indication it’s headed our way. Within seconds, a few leaves on a scrubby Gambel oak begin to rustle and before we know it, the wind is upon us. The air cools significantly as the wind roars through the canyon, blessing us with a satisfying breeze. I imagine it’s a gift from the spirits of the ancients, the Sinagua, the Yavapai or the Apache, or perhaps a warning for us to not linger, to move on to another place.

We climb a little over 400 feet in the final 1/3 mile and are rewarded with a splendid view of the canyon and its sandstone cliffs. All sides are imprinted with manganese stains from melting winter snows and monsoon season rains. We rest in an open area with four or so other hikers that made the wise choice to complete the six mile journey. One gentleman came equipped with a guitar, a meditative, new ager type for sure. I resist the temptation to laugh as he poses and asks his wife to film him playing his guitar.

Noticing a slight trail continuance to the west, I decide to explore a bit and find a small saddle decorated with dozens of cairns constructed by previous explorers. I decide to make my own, just beyond where the river flows from a small desert garden. I arrange seven small rocks for all family members, including two beloved dogs. Allison does the same, although hers is much more interesting than mine since she’s more creative and generally more intelligent.

We pause a few more minutes to soak it all in before beginning our downward trek back to civilization. I feel great joy and a relaxed satisfaction from the fact that I’ve finally come west again and placed my feet upon yet another dusty, sandy path. I rejoice in how alive I feel and how happy I am to have a loving companion with which to share the adventure. All of my melancholy is swept away by the towering red rock, the gentle wind and the life that makes this place so special. That, and the knowledge that it’s protected, or at least reasonably protected, from the interlopers and opportunists that would destroy it if given the chance.