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.

One thing Virginia voters were sure of was that, once the votes were tallied, they would have a female governor. Both the Republicans and the Democrats nominated women candidates for the top spot. I’m glad we got the woman we did, Abigail Spanberger. But more than that, I’m glad that for the first time ever, the Commonwealth will soon have a woman in charge.

I interviewed the first female governor of Kentucky years ago. (When I looked her up just now, I discovered that she died four days ago. Rest in peace, Martha Layne Collins.)

The Commonwealth of Kentucky was one of the first states to elect a female governor. At this point, only 17 states have never elected a woman to their top spot.

I’m proud to say that my state is no longer one of them. Yes, Virginia, we have a woman! We will see how life is on the other side. I’m looking forward to it.

The Brahms Intermezzo in A Major Opus 118 No. 2 asks questions with no answers. It’s a wistful, nostalgic piece, one I’ve played for years. Several passages feature what I’ve always called “two against three,” but which I’ve learned is also called a polyrhythm.

I’ve been playing this rhythmical pattern so long that I don’t think much about it, but it was difficult at first. It’s a little like rubbing your stomach while patting your head. In the intermezzo, it’s playing four eighth notes with the right hand as the left attempts a ripple of six triplets. “Attempts” is the operative word. My fingers are too short to ripple out notes that range across the keyboard as Brahms’ do.

Still, I try. And as I do, I ponder all the feelings the notes contain, how the right hand holds back as the left hand rushes forward. Some of the highest notes of the piece, the A, the C sharp, are played in this configuration. There is a reaching, a yearning, a sense of never quite attaining one’s heart’s desire. And in fact, Brahms dedicated these pieces to Clara Schumann, the woman he loved but could never marry.

To play these particular eighth notes against these particular triplets is to hold two truths at once: the head, the heart; the will, the reality. It is the story of life, in a handful of notes.

I arrived as a light rain began to fall, jacket looped around my waist. It would be there to ward off the bigger drops, to keep serious downpours at bay.

I started on the straightaway, across the top of the dam, moved quickly past the playground and ball fields, crossed the street and strolled by the lakeside homes, then into the woods.

The path doesn’t go directly around the lake, but it’s variable and interesting with exposed and shady stretches, those now covered with crispy brown leaves.

The longer I walked, the dryer it became. I reached the end of the circular trail, which was also the beginning. It seemed dry enough to do it again. Which I did. Then one more time for good measure.

Three loops, three miles, and a jacket I never needed.

(Lake Newport on a sunny day)

Travel is limited, by definition. To optimize it, I make resolutions. Do I always follow them? Of course not. But I keep making them, just the same. This year, returning from an art-filled few weeks, I resolved to visit more museums. On Friday an opportunity presented itself, a meeting downtown. So I got myself moving earlier than planned so I could visit the National Gallery of Art.

It was the right thing to do. Right in so many ways. For one thing, it brought me off my European high horse. Do we have world-class art in the United States? Of course we do — and it’s time I started enjoying more of it. After all, I live in the D.C. suburbs, endure the D.C. traffic. Should I not enjoy the artistic treasures of our nation’s capital?

The visit was worth it most of all because of the paintings themselves. I hadn’t visited the National Gallery in years, thanks to the pandemic and the busyness of life. But from the moment I walked up the imposing stairs, I knew I was in for a treat.

There were Monets, Cezannes and Renoirs: the bridge at Giverny, the cathedral at Rouen. There were Gainsboroughs and Constables and Turners. There was a portrait of Abraham Lincoln by George Healy, who I’d just been reading about in The Greater Journey.

For a moment I thought I was back in Paris, turning my head sideways to take in every angle of a precious canvas or tapestry. But no, I was an hour away from my house. The precious canvas was close to home. It was, of course, a view of Paris.

(Boulevard des Italiens, Morning, Sunlight by Camille Pissarro)