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.
It’s not the oldest library in America, but it is the oldest library in Arizona, and a few years ago it was named the best small library in the nation. Bisbee’s Copper Queen Library offers literacy services, chess boards, even a seed library. (This innovative program allows borrowers to take up to ten packets of open-pollinated or heirloom seeds a month.)
In this gracious two-story building, you can find newspapers on sticks, chess boards on tables and an elegant stairway to a bustling second floor.
Visitors are encouraged to sign a guestbook and mark their hometown locations with a pin on the map. We did the former, but there was no room for a pin on the eastern coast of the U.S. It was the most high-density region of all. At least from what I’ve seen, though, it has no libraries like the Copper Queen.
I’m writing from a bungalow on a hilltop in Bisbee, Arizona. The town is spread out below us and fir trees frame the view.
To reach this special place we flew from Dulles to Denver to Tucson, picked up a rental car and drove 100 miles southeast through the old west town of Tombstone. The road curved around mountains that caught the lowering light in their folds.
After we arrived late yesterday afternoon, I sat on the porch and watched the sky redden above the dark, wrinkled hills. I had seen the sun rise in Virginia from the airport tarmac, elevation 313 feet. Now I was seeing it set in an old Arizona mining town, elevation 5,533.
Sunrise, sunset. With a lot of traveling in between.
If the airlines cooperate today, we will be winging our way west and south, out to the desert southwest. Bisbee, Arizona, is our destination. A family celebration is the excuse. Not that I need an excuse to travel. I was packed three days ago.
We’ve been to Bisbee before and found it highly likable. We’ve walked its streets and climbed its stairs, toured its museum and its mine. That was in April, this is November. I’ve never visited the desert at this time of year. I’m wondering how it will look and feel.
I expect no blooms. But I do look forward to the big sky, the limitlessness, the pure majesty of the Basin and Ridge.
It may not look like it, but I was 30 minutes from Washington, D.C., when I snapped this shot. And even closer to the shopping behemoth that is Tysons Corner. But on this hike I could hear every nattering crow, every gurgle of water (at least in the streams that still had some).
Speaking of streams, hiking this section of the trail involves a stone crossing that has bedeviled me before. This time, enough of each stepping stone peeked above the water’s surface to allow for cautious navigation — plus I was wearing hiking boots.
But the crossing, scary as it was, brought me to this place, to this rural idyll. I say this with tongue only slightly in cheek. The Cross-County Trail, which I’ve often praised in this blog, is the magic carpet that takes hikers to scenes like these. No simple feat in a county as developed as Fairfax. That the trail is here at all is nothing short of a miracle.
Though I used to pass Arlington National Cemetery on my way to work, the national cemetery I’m thinking of this Veterans Day is Camp Nelson, tucked away in the rolling hills of central Kentucky. My parents are buried there.
Visiting their graves has opened my eyes to the beauty and value of our veterans cemeteries. There are 170 of them in the U.S., most managed by the Department of Veterans Affairs. Though I’m not sure of their current upkeep (have they been affected by the shutdown?), every time I’ve visited Camp Nelson I’ve been impressed by its beauty and precision.
This is not your romantic, moldering cemetery. There are no tall oaks or mossy stones here. Strict rules govern the placement of flowers or flags. National cemeteries are regulated, spit-polished. They are about community and esprit de corps.
Through the years, I’ve found this more comforting than I thought I would. After all, death is our common fate, the great democratizer. National cemeteries don’t hide that fact. In fact, they celebrate it.
Acorns are falling. They hit the roof and the siding. They pile up in the yard and on the driveway. When a stiff wind blows, they sound like a burst of hail. On the ground, they slide under the feet, making for a crunchy or even a treacherous passage. When I’m walking under an oak tree, I consider myself lucky if I’m not beaned in the head.
My yard is not alone. All up and down the street and throughout the area, I’m seeing a bumper crop of acorns. Which leads me to believe it’s a mast year in Fairfax County.
Masting is when a plant produces an abundance of fruits, seeds or nuts. Theories abound for why this happens, but animals are the beneficiary. Squirrels, deer, and even blue jays, which I just learned eat them, too.
The marvel of the mast year is how it affects all the trees in an area. “Not one tree in a grove, but the whole grove; not one grove in the forest, but every grove; all across the country and all across the state,” writes Robin Wall Kimmerer in Braiding Sweetgrass. “The trees act not as individuals, but somehow as a collective. … All flourishing is mutual.”
You’re born to walk. I’m born to walk. All humans are born to walk. Not a revolutionary statement, right? But it is. Because too many of us sit for most of the day. We sit at work. We sit in our cars as we drive to the office and run errands. We sit during our leisure time, consuming entertainment.
I walk in the suburbs — but I sit in the suburbs too. In fact, I’m sitting right now, writing this post. But at least I’ve already walked this morning. How could I not after reading Mark Sisson and Brad Kearns’ book Born to Walk: The Broken Promises of the Running Boom, and How to Slow Down and Get Healthy–One Step at a Time?
Sisson and Kearns primarily address runners in this pithy and persuasive tome. Walking can give us the cardio hit, can help us burn fat, can do most everything a hard run can do, but it’s much easier on the old bod.
“Walking makes you supple, mobile and flexible—unlike chronic cardio, which makes you creaky, achy, stiff,” Sisson and Kearns write. They urge us to “regard walking as much more than a fitness to-do list item: rather, it is a big part of what makes you a healthy human.”
Walk first thing, the authors say. That used to be my routine. When I lived in Manhattan I’d roll out of bed and walk to work, three blissful miles through Central Park and into midtown. I’ve gotten out of that habit through the years. Not out of the walking habit, but out of the walking-first-thing-in-the-morning habit. I remedied that today, left the house before my first cup of tea, before writing a word. It felt good to be out and about early. And why not? After all, we’re born to walk.
(Central Park was part of my route when I walked to work in Manhattan.)
