The Valley
Is it just me or does every state have a valley to hate one? Multiple times since arriving in the park I have heard someone grumble that they have to go into the valley that day. CT is the same way. There’s always a raised eyebrow or a smug little “heh” in the direction of someone who says their from the Connecticut valley. Now, don’t tell any of my fellow coastline natives but I kinda like the Connecticut valley. It’s beautiful there! It’s basically just a green dipped canyon; what’s not to love?
As it turns out, the Arizona valley is not the Connecticut valley. As I drove down from the mountains the temperature climbed even though it was nearing midnight. By the time I was passing through Phoenix it was well over 100 degrees with a high that day of 110. This is not the dry heat of the mountains, my friends. I even rolled my car window all the way up and turned on the AC, which is a first for this trip. I am, historically speaking, a windows down year round kinda lady.
I spent the night in a parking lot in Saguaro National Park. I had wondered the whole ride down what madness drove me to drive into the valley on a night like this but as the moon lit the 200 year old cacti and I could hear coyotes and owls singing out, making up the heartbeat of the desert, I felt some most welcome chills. I sat outside for a while listening to the symphony before exhaustion drove me to my all too familiar drivers seat bed.
I woke in a veritable greenhouse a few hours later. I kicked off my sleeping bag and opened my driver’s side door to gulp down some fresh air. A wave of ever hotter air hit me like a high school bully. I looked at the clock- 6.45am. What fresh hell is this?
The desert. That’s what it is. I’ve referred to Petrified Forest as a desert but I learned on my prairie dog feeding expedition that it is, in fact, largely short grass prairie, not desert. Saguaro, on the other hand is decidedly desert.
Unable to get back to sleep, I laced up my Lowas and set off to hike Signal Hill trail. From the petroglyph laden top I could see babies, juvies, and mature Saguaro cacti that had grown cactus arms, which they only begin to do at age 75. I imagine being hugged for the first time by my Dad, age 75, this year. Thank god we get arms with birth, I think, as I reach out my hand to touch a plant I’d admired out the window ever since the train ride out west. A thorn pricks my thumb and I press it to my mouth. Perhaps I spoke too soon on the arms thing.
On my way out of the park I pulled into a parking lot to check out the view but I saw the map at the side of the road and before I knew it I was off.
There are two ways I know that this isn’t a oft-hiked trail. The first is that I hiked through a quilt’s worth of cobwebs on the way up. The second is that there were cacti everywhere. I don’t mean that there were a lot of cacti along the edge of the trail, I mean there were cacti growing mid-trail. It was a veritable minefield of thorns at a 95 degree angle. I stopped to assess my options and take a swig of gatorade.
Mistake. I’d made a huge mistake. I looked down at the label: Grape. I feel my stomach churn. How is this abomination of a sports drink still in production?! I close my eyes. It’s 110 degrees, I’ve been hiking all morning, I need fluids, and all I have is thinly veiled cough syrup. I contemplate dumping the gatorade, crying into the bottle, and drinking that but I shake off my dehydrated delusions, plug my nose, and chug. After that, I am determined that my suffering should not be for nothing so I summon my grit and hike the cactus minefield to the top of the mountain.
My regrets about this whim hike dissolve. What a view! What a breeze! I sit down to take in the Saguaro forest and I feel like Luke Skywalker at the end of the last Star Wars movie. Hermitage could be great so long as you take care with your gatorade stock.
Back in the car, I head out to see the second half of Saguaro National Park. At least, that was the plan. Instead, I am waylaid by another whim. This one is a sign for Colossal Cave. Having spent the morning out in the sun I decide to sign up for a cave tour.
My guide, Lauren, who had an affinity for the phrase “mmkay,” was a wealth of knowledge on cave life. She took our small group over tiny ledges, up tiny ladders, past tiny bats, and had us shut off our headlamps at the end of a passage and use the “left hand technique” to get ourselves out. Basically, you keep your left hand on the wall at all times and use the rest of your body to feel your way down the length of the passage. I found myself wishing the passage would never end. It’s exhilarating to rely on your sense of touch! The world is filled with possibility in a dark cave…
I came out the other end a few hours later feeling like a doozer. Lauren suggested that if we really wanted to see bats in action we should head over to one of the bridges in Tucson just before sunset. So I did. And sure enough, at sunset on the dot- 7.06pm- thousands of bats emerged in such an orderly procession it would bring an elementary school line leader to tears.
The parade of them looped around the sky, spiraling higher and higher. Suddenly a hawk swept through trying to break their ranks and catch a bat for dinner. This was neither animal’s first rodeo. The bird swooped in from the direction of the fading sunlight as the bat parade broke off into units, each heading in a different direction. Much to my dismay, one contingency was headed right for the thunderstorm that was quickly moving in over Tucson. I think again of my Dad, who is not a big fan of bats and has chased them out of the old farmhouse I grew up in with a broom. I swear, some animals just can’t catch a break.
“Wow, we never get storms like this!” I hear a jogger call out as she runs by. This is exactly what Sevilla said when that crazy monsoon hit us last week. I take stock of my surroundings and reach a local pub just as the rains start. I order a beer and head out to the covered balcony to watch the lightning. Between the light show and the bat show, I’m coming on around on the Arizona valley.
