The Hellish Hike

 10-19

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I woke up to another rainy morning, albeit a much more gentle one. A pleasant light drizzle swept across the front of the Superstitions, small raindrops pattering soothingly against my tent’s rain fly. I checked the weather radar and saw that it was just a patchy storm moving through, so I was happy to settle in with my book and wait it out.

Around mid-morning the drizzle moved on, so I packed up my hiking gear and hopped in Jane to go in search of a hot breakfast. Not that I couldn’t make my own hot breakfast, but there is just something unappealing about eating a hot breakfast while sitting on a sodden bench. No, today seemed like a fantastic day to go find a diner where I could sit in a booth and have hash browns and bacon and read my book (when I’ve got a really good book, it’s hard to dig me out of it).

I ended up at Toast Gio’s, a smallish diner with a lot more patrons than expected. The clatter of dishes in the kitchen was underlain by the steady hubbub of a busy restaurant, the sound of many people sharing their lives with each other. Incongruously, against one of the walls a man had set up a small stage, where he was apparently going to play music – at 10AM! I squeezed myself into a small booth nearby, wondering if there was a special event going on or if the place is just the kind of place that attracts enough people to be able to justify having a live musician in the middle of the morning.

A waitress came by to take my order – eggs benedict with home fries and a hot tea, please – and as she left the musician started up, opening with a fantastic unique cover of Hotel California. He proceeded to serenade the busy diner with a string of fantastically-done covers of classic rock songs. At one point he commented, “Some of you may be wondering if it’s hard for a musician to play at 10 in the morning on a Saturday. The answer is yes, definitely yes!” Apparently, he had been brought in for the day to commemorate the diner’s anniversary, although I didn’t catch how many years it had been open. But that did explain the festive feel in the air.

I could have easily stayed there in that cozy diner longer, but I felt like I should get a move on with the day, especially considering that I didn’t do much of anything yesterday. So I headed around the corner to the nearest Autozone, with the intent of borrowing a torque wrench from them to make sure that one wheel was appropriately torqued following me messing with it yesterday. I got there and discovered that it was one of “those” Autozones – the kind where they don’t know what they have, they don’t understand what you want, and they have very little ability to help you in any capacity, even for something as simple as attaching a tire to a vehicle. I finally was able to get a torque wrench from them, but it was the wrong drive size for my sockets, so I asked if they had an adapter. The girl behind the counter took me to a cart with a sorry half-complete socket set – apparently all that they had available – and waved expansively, saying, “We have all of these… pieces… bits… and whatnot.”

I really hate these kinds of Autozones.

Why in the world would you hire people who know so little about cars that they couldn’t even find an appropriate socket to change a tire?? When you’re a shop dedicated to selling car parts????? I will never understand.

Anyways, I was able to rustle up the correct adapter (which they of course made me buy) and went out to check that my tire wasn’t going to fly off into outer space the next time I got on the interstate (it was not). I returned the torque wrench to them (but not the adapter – non-returnable, of course) and got out of there before I had time to be more aggravated. Well, not before the girl had the chance to chip in with a vapid, “Oh, is that your car? How much did that cost?”

Brutal.

Fortunately, I had a great plan for a nice easy hike to start the day, so I figured that would sooth my irritation quickly. I headed out to the Hieroglyphic Trailhead – kind of around the southern margin of the Superstitions – to hike the popular Petroglyph Trail. It’s a short route that traverses the foothills up to a rocky tank. I made my way up the trail, enjoying the sprawling views of the Sonoran landscape trapped beneath thick rolling clouds.

I arrived at the tank in short order. The destination isn’t really the tank, though, even though it is scenic – the star of the show is the petroglyphs there! I really didn’t have high expectations – in sites this close to cities, there’s usually only a few faint weathered glyphs, the rest having been destroyed or carried away over time. But what I found up there in the rocks surrounding that tank was absolutely staggering. Hundreds upon hundreds of drawings etched into the desert varnish, some clear as day and more emerging the longer I looked. Hikers lounged about the rocks having picnics, the bowl-shaped tank capturing their voices and transforming them into a hum of overlapping echoes, an intersection of many lives and many stories. How long has this tank listened to the everyday commune of humanity, I wonder?

I had my own lunch – half a stale peanut butter sandwich and a couple nuts – and spent a while perusing the site, reveling in the simple fact that here there were no barriers. You know how it goes – usually, there’s chain link fences or blockades or polite signs to keep you at a distance away from the rock art, ostensibly protecting it from graffiti and other human-related damage. But here, there was none of that. Visitors are free to get as close as they like. And indeed, some people were in fact sitting or leaned up against some glyphs, mostly because there’s so many glyphs and they are all (not coincidentally) located exactly adjacent to the best seating. Against all odds, especially considering the proximity to Phoenix, there was very little graffiti. Here, then, was a success story: an example of a peaceful interaction between the present and the past, a gentle reaching back through time to those who came before as newcomers share a meal just as they once did, sitting in their seats, watched over by their mountains, regarding their same views.

I sat long enough that the thick cloud cover diminished, rapidly revealing a spectacular bluebird day. Energized, I set back off across the low hills towards the trailhead, excited to finally really see the Superstitions in all their glory. And oh, they are glorious.

I scooted around the southern margin of the Superstitions and hightailed it back to camp, ready to tackle some of the trails from Lost Dutchman. The mountains beckoned invitingly, so I packed up my gear and a map and hiked out from my site in pursuit of the range’s fabled views.

Originally I planned on hiking some of the loop trails, but they all stayed in the foothills and I really wanted to get up into the mountains. There was exactly one trail on my map that went up from my campsite: the Upper Siphon Draw/Flat Iron hike. Now, I did note that Flat Iron is one of the tallest points on this side of the range, and I was starting at the base, and it was 2:30 in the afternoon… but you know, I figured I’d just go as far as I could. Call it unfettered optimism brought about by the return of the sun.

I hiked out a mile or so along a steady grade, ascending about 600 feet in elevation. I paused to get my bearings and figure out where I was going – surely that giant shadowed jutting outcrop in the background couldn’t be my destination, could it?

 

See that thumb way in the background of the center-right of the photo? Yeah, I'm going there.

I pulled out my AllTrails app and loaded it up while I still had signal (for once, a good decision on my part). That’s about the part when I saw that this trail is a little over 2.25 miles one way… with an elevation gain of 2,627 feet. And I had somehow traveled nearly halfway already, and only gained 600 feet. Uhhhhhhh. Well, 1.25 miles and 2000 feet of elevation to go, I guess.

Nevertheless, I persisted. You know, power of the sun and all that. The trail quickly got steep – or what I thought at the time was steep – but it was well-marked, and the rugged terrain was stunningly beautiful.

Flat Iron swings into the center of my view, and I have a hard time telling how big it is or how far away it is. Except I know it's 1.25 miles away. Lol.

I slogged my way upwards, the trail getting narrower and less well-traveled, the terrain getting more rugged and substantially steeper. At some point I turned around, ostensibly to observe the majestic views (but really to catch my breath), and found that I had gotten quite high up already.

Then, I hit a stone wash. Not your average wash full of boulders – although I would encounter those shortly as well - but a smooth, nearly paved chute worn smooth from thousands of years of water (probably with a small contribution from peoples’ boots). I clambered up it, noting that the drainage was already quite shadowed in the late afternoon. “Hmm, this would probably be pretty hazardous to climb down in the dark,” I thought.

Probably fun to sled down, though.

I carried on, eventually staggering my way up to a section of tall narrow spires. Here the trail nearly disappeared entirely, dwindling down to a thin goat track sized thing – and what’s worse, there were multiple paths. I made my way up to a flat spot to get a lay of the land, straining to see if I could see any trail upwards, or even evidence of people climbing around up there. I saw nothing, just spires rising out of scrub-covered stone.

There were people on the trail, though – I had passed about a dozen, none that had made it to the top but many who seemed quite confident about the validity of the trail. So, I knew I was on the right track. But what I started to worry about was that I was a solo hiker in a wilderness area with poorly marked (or totally absent) trails… and the light was getting awfully low.

I stood there debating for a couple minutes, when a girl sharing the outcrop I was standing on hailed me and asked if I was thinking about going to the top. I told her I was worried about the lighting and being a solo hiker, and she said she was as well – but that she had done the trail before, and had even hiked down in the dark on a previous escapade. She was just looking for someone else to hike with so she wouldn’t be alone on the mountain, she said.

Boy, I just love serendipity sometimes.

We decided to join forces, and so – after she had taken a photo of me at our meeting point – we set off up the little track, which was now mostly just kind of a part-scramble situation.

Her name was Rui, and I found out that she was an indomitable force who specialized in multiple martial arts disciplines – arts that she practiced every day, sometimes twice a day, she informed me.

Let me just say, I am not nearly as dedicated to cardio as Rui is. But what I am, is persistent. And that makes up enough of any gap I encounter, usually.

“Usually” is the key word here.

I was doing a pretty reasonable job keeping up while we were on the goat trail. Then, we crested a little rise and the trail ducked off almost imperceptibly to the side, something we would have missed entirely if I hadn’t stopped to talk to a man at that exact point. I queried him on the trail and he said something to the effect of, “Yeah, from this point out there isn’t a trail, you just climb straight up that wash and the trail picks back up mostly at the top, you kind of just freelance it from here and make sure you come back down the same wash or you won’t find the trail again to come down.”

Okay, cool.

After that, I mostly didn’t keep up. The trail turned into a horrific boulder-filled wash, and all there was to do was climb them. Rui very kindly waited for me if I started to fall too far behind, which of course ensured that I never stopped moving, out of politeness and consideration for her wishes. And also because that sun was getting real, real low in the sky.

The "trail"

Attempting to use Rui as a scale to show how steep this damn thing is.

At some point my quads decided they were done, and then my hamstrings, and then my glutes. Eventually, it mostly just felt like I was hiking on knee strength alone. Probably not ideal, but by this point I was bound and determined to get to the top of this dumb mountain.

The mountain watched me drag myself up its slopes impassively, not caring about the state of my knees.

We nearly turned back several times, discussing the height of the sun and the fact that we hadn’t seen any people in quite some time. But eventually around 4 PM we broke out of the shadow of Flat Iron and into the sun, which improved our outlook substantially. And hey, we were out of the bouldering part now!

The goat track trail picked back up, arrowing upwards through a grassy slope before dumping us out on a wider path that followed a rocky ledge. My knees screamed in protest and my legs weren’t working quite right, turning me into a bit of an automaton-looking person as I marched, but I had gotten my second wind (solar powered, remember) and I passed Rui expeditiously, steaming towards the tip of Flat Iron.

We passed the mountain’s crown off to our left – the true pinnacle, but not the target destination. It blazed with late afternoon light, an earthy golden hue set against an impossibly blue sky.

Beautiful, but I was also glad to not have to climb it.

And then – then – a short but rapid walk later, we had made it out to the tip of Flat Iron. I must admit, the whole way up the mountain, every time I would pass a person I would stop them and ask if the views were really worth it. You know, because I don’t want to completely destroy my knees for anything less than spectacular. But all of them had said, “Yes, go to the lookout, it’s worth it.”

It was worth it.

I have seen a lot of incredible vistas in my lifetime. But there was just something special about this one. Maybe it was because I had to work so hard (although over a fairly short period of time – 2 hours) to get up there to see it. Maybe it was because of the near-sunset late afternoon light, which highlighted every little reflection and westward face in molten gold even as it plunged the lee sides into deep purpling shadows. Or maybe it was because it was so perfectly, crystallinely clear, all the way to the horizon, courtesy of the morning rains. Whatever it was, it was special. And I got to experience it.

The most fascinating thing, to me, was how far I could really see. Range after range of low mountains marched off towards the horizon, only finally obscured in the far distance by the final remnants of the day’s storms. It was incredible how MUCH of the world I could see. I later looked on Google Earth and did some measuring, and found that I had been able to see over 65 miles away with near-perfect clarity – clear to the mountains north of Phoenix. Incredible.

We spent nearly a half hour at the summit taking it all in. By this point I had figured out that Rui is actually quite afraid of heights, which promised to be a possible challenge going down the mountain – she could go up because she didn’t have to look down, but going down would of course require her to look down. But she’s done the trail before, so I didn’t worry about her getting down. However, I was getting a little worried about the light. I had a headlamp, but Rui did not, and I really was not anxious to be going down in the dark. But she didn’t seem worried at all, and it wasn’t like I could make the sun stop going down, so I kind of just shrugged and figured we’d leg it.

The sunset promised to be another incredible one, but we didn’t dare wait any longer so we started our long descent. Down the rock ledge, down the grassy slope, down the boulder-filled wash, down and down and down. This time, Rui and I’s roles were reversed, with me finding the best path and her making her way down more slowly after me. The sun dropped lower. Rui navigated her path and her fears. I took a couple pictures of an advantageously-placed yucca to avoid thinking about hiking in the dark.

We hiked down for an hour, my tension rising in a directly inverse relationship to the sun’s retreat. Even with Rui being cautious, the way down was much quicker than the way up had been, but I had a hard time telling where in the trail we were, considering the whole thing was so steep I couldn’t see any of it below us. We missed a couple turnoffs a couple times, ultimately getting back on track pretty quickly, but increasing my concern every time we made a mistake. Were we destined to stumble around in the dark trying to get off the mountain? I knew I couldn’t get truly lost, per se, as I could see the lights of the campground from our position, but it sure would make it a lot harder to come off a mountain if we weren’t on a trail.

At a certain point, I’m not sure which was louder: the screaming of my knees, or the internal screaming I had going on. Oh, and by this point my chest hurt as well, as I’d used my arms to swing down the bouldery section to try to save my knees a bit. Oof. I was really glad to have Rui for company to chat with to keep things firmly in the “still good vibes” category of hike.

Fortunately, we reached the smooth stone chute – the start of the really hard part – just after sunset. I skittered down, followed by Rui, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. From here, the trail would be visible even with a headlamp.

I let go of my worries and slowed my quick march to a nice stroll. If I was going to be in the dark regardless, it didn’t really matter when I made it back to camp, so I figured I might as well enjoy the nice night. Rui and I ambled along, talking about life in academia (it turned out that she’s a researcher as well) as the sun’s afterglow spilt across the sky, all golden fire and outrageous violets bleeding into deepest blues. Below us, the city flickered to life, its lights stretching to the horizon in an endless blanket. Saguaros and nearby outcrops made velvety subtle silhouettes against those lights, a subtle reminder of a most interesting foreground.

We ended up having enough light to walk by nearly the whole way, only losing it right at the campground fenceline. Funnily enough, just as we arrived at that passthrough, so did a large group of people: a bunch of visitors on a ranger-led full moon tour. Rui and I popped out of the fence right behind the ranger, who it turned out was the very same that I had been bugging these past few days.

“Hello! It’s me!” I said boisterously as I emerged from the dark, no doubt scaring the hell out of some people but somehow not scaring the ranger at all. She seemed utterly unsurprised to see me. Huh, I wonder why.

Rui and I parted ways at the campground after exchanging numbers and well wishes – it was truly a pleasure to have someone like her to hike with. And I’m so glad that I completed that hike in its entirety. But as I collapsed into my camp chair back at my site, too tired to even make dinner, I did wonder if I would sorely (har har) regret this in the coming days.

Well, probably not. Soreness or not, that hike will always have been worth it. But man, that was probably the gnarliest one I’ve ever done – not for distance, but for sheer grade. 2,700 ft of elevation gain, 2000+ of it which occurs over a little over a mile, is absolutely insane. Hey, where there’s a will, there’s a way.

And I certainly had the will today.

Kelly signing out.