August 28, 2005

The sun is just on the cusp of going down and my dad and I are driving down from Cave Creek, just north of Phoenix. The sky has gone from pale orange to a fiery ochre and has dimmed so that just the horizon glows like the city is rimmed by coals. In the twilight it's hard to see the streetlight poles, green lights glow here, receding down the street like a battalion of UFOs ready to take off. The wind rustles through an empty lot's creosote bushes and the whirr of cicadas hushes for a moment. The wind blows through our open windows and whistles away and behind us, gone towards the gathering night.

I had to turn the rental back in on the 31st and really was itching to get out of Phoenix for a bit before then. I've been back, visiting friends and family for a month. It's been a good chance to decompress from my last year teaching in Seoul. Without much of a plan besides a nice Sunday drive, my dad and I shot across the valley highways, northbound, mid-morning.



The traffic, like ever, raced along like water on a hot skillet. The heat waves in the distance turn the desert to a liquid haze; mercury lifting off the landscape. At 10:30 in the morning the temperature was already over 40°C.

Growing up in Phoenix is a childhood that is as much about learning to ride a bicycle and the tragedy of middle school as it is about the heat. By kindergarden, when you're big enough to buckle yourself in, you know to handle the metal seatbelt with care. Walking home from school in the heat of the afternoon, you amuse yourself by standing on the asphalt and twisting your feet to watch the tarred gravel twist with you. You can cook an egg on the sidewalk, but why would you? No one wants to eat an egg that's been cooked on the sidewalk. My memories of summer vacation are of searing pavement, blinding sunlight and diving into swimming pools that have heated to body temperature; like diving into thin air, keep your eyes shut and it feels like you're flying.

Leaving Phoenix, up on the north side of the 101, traffic slowed around an accident. Someone in a pickup had driven into and wrapped themselves around a sign post. Paramedics and police were standing around waving the traffic aside and walking around the crash. It looked really serious. All the lanes merged into one on the far left, then opened again a mile later. The flow staunched, then a torrent out the other side. The traffic pouring like a liquid.

Then, north on the main highway; out of town. I pointed to the last saguaro visible from the highway before you get to the high prairie. There was a comedy program on NPR. Parts of the desert along the way were burnt from wildfires earlier in the summer. We stopped a few times on the way up for some pictures. Neither of us had any agenda, no real place to be. We were just enjoying the trip and the company. I was taking pictures from behind the steering wheel, because lately I've found I enjoy those pictures the most.

We turned west towards Sedona. It was just an impulse, really. The combination of tourists and people who are just getting out of the valley for a weekend retreat to cooler climes generally makes the traffic on the narrow two-lane highway tedious. It was a little better than usual, but there's always the rubber-neck who must slow past all the souvenir shops and big rock formations.

The area around Sedona is kook central. It inspires an appreciation for it's dramatic scenery and for asinine New Ager nonsense. Driving through Oak Creek Village and then Sedona proper you pass businesses called things like "The Holy Heart Crystal Healer" and "The Tuzigoot Shaman Emporium." Authentic Native American "spiritual" iconography decorates nearly everything. It's also a great place to run around. The terrain is choked with Arizona Ash, Cypress, Sycamore, Juniper and Cottonwood. Dry grasses, Desert Christmas Cactus and Desert Prickly Pear. Banana Yucca grows out of cracks in the red rocks and along the edges of seasonal washes. The country is cross-cut by jeep trails, the popular way for tourists to get close to the monolithic formations: Bell Rock, Snoopy Rock, Cathedral Rock, Elephant Rock, Cathedral Rock, Courthouse Butte and Submarine Rock. Follow a trail out to the rocks and it's fun to boulder across, up and around the rough sandstone. While you're up there, be sure to look out for people wearing New Age rugs, bejeweled by large "healing" crystals and waving their arms around circles of stones, bilking tourists out of a few bucks.

Instead, we turned north and into Oak Creek Canyon. From there, about halfway to the source of the canyon is West Fork Canyon, one of my favorite places to go. It's convenient, not usually crowded because it's so far up the canyon, and simply beautiful. In past summers, when I was working for the Orme Summer Camp, I'd take the kiddos up there for day trips. We'd pack a lunch and leave after breakfast. It's always fun to splash around, hop from rock to rock and catch bugs. There are tiny fish to look at and impressive canyon walls to play on. I've never hiked the whole 11 miles of the thing, but the first three are beautiful enough to make me think hard about it, the next time I have the means. Which might be a while, I suppose.

We got hungry, drove up to Flagstaff for lunch at Beaver Street Brewery. It's easy to imagine living in Flagstaff. The whole city, even the tourist areas have such a laid-back, easy feeling to them. It's harder to imagine having a job that would allow me to live there. It's never bad to have wishful-thinking plans laid out for sometime in the future.

After lunch we turned around and headed back. About 100 miles south, we stopped and drove down Dugas road to the other side of Estler's Peak to have a look at the petroglyphs that are on a small rock outcropping a few hundred meters from a parking spot. Ash Creek runs past the rocks and the hills in the distance were all really green from a recent rain. Down in the creek cicadas were buzzing in the late afternoon sun. Grasshoppers the length of my hand bounded through the waving grass. Keeping a sharp eye out for rattlesnakes I picked my way through the desert, over cactus and found the petroglyphs.

I love this part of Arizona. It's empty ranch land and national forest. Every summer from when I was 15 until I graduated university I spent working and playing out here. The summer camp is nearby, where I taught small children to ride horses, played games, and grew up myself, out of adolescence and into my early adulthood. Looking out at the hills and weaving through thickets of sharp brush is nostalgic. The smell of the dust kicked up from my flip-flops and the sweat dripping down the back of my neck are familiar the way other people know their neighborhood block.

Returning, down into the low desert surrounding Phoenix, traffic from weekend travelers was backed up for miles. I cut out early, across the northern most highway to Cave Creek, looking for a quicker route. The sun was setting behind us, the air alive with sounds of the desert, a gas station glimmering ahead. This is what it's like, some days, to be home.