Temperatures for our backpacking trip were predicted to be
in the mid-sixties with partly cloudy skies and no rain, all of which was
wrong.
Our guides for this journey were Southwestern wildlife
painter Anne Coe and her
husband Sid. I consider Anne to be the queen of the Sonoran Desert. She can identify every plant, animal, insect
and pottery shard that has ever graced the land, and each time we passed a herd
of cattle, she knew which rancher owned which cattle and the first names of the
head wranglers patrolling the ranches.
That’s important to know, she warned us, because trespassing is about as
popular now as it was in the Old West.
Ted, Roofie and me. |
Anne warned me a few weeks ago that the road we were taking
was bumpy and no whining from the backseat was allowed. Her last trip up that
road was with a man who complained about a migraine and nausea most of the way.
“Don't worry, I never get car sick, but I'm a notorious backseat driver,” I
confessed.
“Me too,” she said. Then
we looked at each other sheepishly and crawled into the back of the vehicle.
Roofie took the seat between us. Ted sat up front with Sid.
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Cat Claw Pinstripes on the FJ Cruiser |
For the rest of us, all we had to do was sit back, relax and brace
ourselves against skull fracturing drops in altitude. The closer we got to the end of the ride, the
more ragdoll like we had to become or we risked knocking ourselves unconscious.
Roofie was brilliant. He never barked a syllable. Anne kept her shrieks to a minimum. I was on my best behavior and didn't scream. I found the trip very
soothing. Each time we flew into the air,
my hips received an adjustment better than a chiropractor could produce. Of course Ted remained calm throughout most of
the three hour journey. It’s easier for him to do that these days since the
removal of his right frontal lobe, but even Mr. Calm had a brief moment of
panic.
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Cholla-meanest plant on earth |
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Anne directing Sid between a rock and a rock |
Ted's borrowed backpack a.k.a Dusty |
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Turn left at the rock and right at the cactus. |
Just as we were about to part ways, Sid made a few more adjustments to Ted's pack. He grabbed hold of the long strap that goes from the shoulder to the hip, the one that holds it all together, instructing me, "Pull
this strap here and...", but before he could finish his words the strap snapped in two, leaving a puff of dust in its wake.
For several more minutes, we stood around contemplating our
next steps. Sid found a small tie the
size of a shoelace and jury rigged the strap back onto Ted’s waist, but the
backpack was still catawampus and putting too much weight onto Ted’s hip. And what if the other strap broke? This wasn't a good sign and not something I
wanted to deal with out in the middle of nowhere.
Did I mention that Anne had been entertaining us along the way with stories about a local rancher who regularly took “cute” videos of bears and mountain lions drinking from his water trough?
Did I mention that Anne had been entertaining us along the way with stories about a local rancher who regularly took “cute” videos of bears and mountain lions drinking from his water trough?
I decided to pull the plug on this adventure. Ted agreed. We hopped back
into the SUV, the skies burst open and hail pelted our windshield. A dark mass swooped down over the mountain, devouring the Superstitions beneath rolling black clouds and rain shafts. The temperature never got above 51. We went
home, unpacked our gear and poured a glass of wine. It was a nice day in cancerland.
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