A Walker in the Suburbs

It was a rare autumn monsoon, pounding the dry desert earth for hours. There was lightning and thunder, but no sign of the Milky Way, which we glimpsed our first night in Portal. The locals welcomed the rain, which had been teasing them for days.

The storm left a world rinsed clean, pockets of blue sky, the Chiricahuas sharp-edged against it. I looked, took a photo, sighed. This is why they call it the Yosemite of Arizona.

After snapping the shot, I climbed in the rental car, punched the gate code one last time, then bumped over the cattle guard, heading first east and north on Historic Highway 80, then west on I-10 to Tucson.

It was a short trip but a powerful one. The American West is like another country. So much so that I expected to queue up for passport control after landing at Dulles. Luckily, that was not required. It was a quick return home to the muted colors of a mid-Atlantic November.

Yesterday we hiked halfway up Silver Peak. We think it was halfway. It certainly felt that way. But it may have been two-fifths or one-third.

It certainly was not all the way. At 7.975 feet, the Silver Peak summit would have provided an awesome view of the Chiricahuas. But we had an awesome view of the Chiricahuas from 5,500 feet, thank you very much.

We could see how far we had climbed. We could glimpse Portal, Arizona, in the distance. A scattering of houses, a single road. Portal is not a bustling metropolis.

Even part way up was enough to provide perspective, which may be the best reason of all to climb a mountain.

We left Bisbee yesterday morning, driving east across a landscape so broad and barren that I could barely take it all in. We tucked into New Mexico then swung back into Arizona, making our way here, to Cave Creek Canyon, where javelinas* graze and trogons** sing.

We hiked down the South Fork Trail, along the embankment of a mostly dry stream bed. Above us a canopy of yellow sycamore leaves. At Cathedral Vista we sat in awe amidst the splendor of the rhyolite cliffs. Here is nature in all its abundance, still and silent and peaceful.

Our hike was limited only by the lack of light. Once the sun dipped behind the cliffs we needed to turn back. And we did, reluctantly.

The mountains here are called the Chiricahua. I’d never heard of them until a few weeks ago. Now I can’t imagine a world without them.

*Javelinas are a type of peccary, similar to a pig. Here, a family of them cross the road.

**Trogons are rare birds somewhat parrot-like in appearance that make a barking cry. People travel here from all over the world to see them.

Copper mining made Bisbee, and when the mine closed in 1975, the hippies moved in. They reclaimed the miners’ cabins hanging off the sides of the hills, painted them purple and orange, hung Buddhist prayer flags from the rafters. They made art and sold it. They set pots of cactus on crumbling terraces.

Of course, the tourists came. And why not? It’s a special spot, only miles from the Mexican border, with a sense of community and people who’ve lived here for decades. There are stairs to climb, vistas to admire, and a southern sun to warm the bones.

We leave here today, drive east to the remote Chiricahua Mountains where there will be more scenery and trails and dark night skies. I’m so glad I’ve had a chance to visit Bisbee again.