Phoenix to Flagstaff
It’s hard to breathe here.
1086’
Phoenix. It isn’t long after day break that everything seeks shelter; accustomed to the night which is easier somehow. Even the salamanders with their tiny feet pick them up and put them down quickly. Don’t dally. Everything has adapted for protection - spikes on the prickly-pear, the odor of the javelina, people with their shutters. Closed. Separate. Browned hills are reminiscent of construction if in any other place. Rather, nature left this pile of rubble and nobody has the fortitude to move it. Green is the aberration here, so much so that it’s hard to imagine how there is enough oxygen for those who dare to dwell in the desert. The entrancing colors of the sky, however, are enough to make you risk another day.
4350’
Sedona. The Verde Valley boasts history in striated colors that spike and then blur from greens to burnt orange depending on the season. Each layer burgeons with stories that the rock refuses to tell. The sun pimps this sandstone as if to claim it fully every time it rises and then sets. Up and down. Up and down. He named her Sedona. She is speckled with vegetation that her lower neighbors covet like dainty, filigreed tattoos. But she will grab you shamelessly by the ankles if you hit her vortex and you will tingle from head to toe. The sun watches as she plays naughty at Devil’s Bridge or nice at Cathedral Rock. No visitor leaves unsatisfied as he hits the trailhead.
5,000’
Slide Rock. Stripped river beds that never get any action run barren along the highway until, without warning, there is suddenly birdsong again. Smooth stone cradles Oak Creek here; and the water grooves that stone. Compatible lovers sliding against one another in the dead of day. A thread of color marks throngs of people who bake in the sun waiting for the cool of the creek as they ride it through the canyon. The thrifty box elders and buck bush supervise from above keeping their shade to themselves.
6,670’
The Squiggly Bit. Red to white and back again; the rocks mimic the switchbacks with wild discontent. Towering hardened sand mounds punctuate the red; petrified remnants of giants at play. Even time has not eroded them. Unlike the others, these rock walls come to points as if to say “…north, north…”. Bearings are difficult to keep as the road both climbs and winds in the very same moment. Then pines and speckled campgrounds sites emerge as if magically dropped here by Auntie Em or the desert wind.
6,909’
Flagstaff. Brick row buildings line the streets welcoming you back to 1960-something. Even the scaffolding for the Hotel Monte Vista still stands the test of time. Route 66 casually saunters through the center like a movie star incognito in a Manhattan coffee shop. Misshapen letters adorn hand drawn sidewalk boards; “Espressos, sandwiches, and snacks.” Up here things are clear; the view and the air. Priorities. Mount Humphrey and The Peaks beckon boasting 108” of secret snow; a gift for this sleepy town high above the desert. There are four seasons here. There is hope here. And waterfalls, prairie fields, quaking aspens, lakes, and sunsets. Oxygen.
Despite the altitude, I can finally breathe again.