And so it begins . . . Again. This iteration of my writing
about my experience of the Arizona Trail starts, appropriately enough, on my 67th
birthday, and with two grandchildren. So, it’s now “Grandpa does the Arizona
Trail;” this is a far cry, and 23 years, from my first hike on the trail
(Passages 23 and 24) in 1999, with Richard Duerden. It’s taken until retirement
for me to redefine my basic goal of hiking the entire trail; I’d originally
conceived this as something that I’d do in passage order, all the way through.
Wiser heads have convinced me that Gramps is probably not up for that, and that
I ought to, instead, fill in the gaps that are left from my 23 years of travel
on it so far. I will still probably retrace some steps, as well as filling in
the gaps, and I may not walk all the way, since some of these passages are
bikeable.
I’ve got other goals as well this time around. First, I want to give back something—I plan to participate in trail management and restoration activities as I have the opportunity. Second, I want to acknowledge: the Arizona Trail Association has begun to highlight the fact that we walk on Native lands, and I want to learn about the Indigenous perspectives about the land, as well as meditating on what has been my academic specialty for the past forty years or so—non-fictional European travel narratives of the Early Modern Period (approximately 1500-1700). Though my focus has been on British narratives and collections, I’ve also examined the Iberian exploration and conquest narratives that dominate this region. I’ve looked at the ways that the Spanish and British conceived of their colonial projects, and considered their perspectives on new landscapes.
It’s no surprise that my academic specialty has become politically incorrect, but that’s the problem with history—it often fails to correspond to ideals of historical progress. It’s also the case that, for better or for worse, there is a syncretism between various perspectives on the land and its meaning. We do need to deal with what is, rather than recast history into what we would ideally like it to be. I would like to think more deeply about this troubled relationship.
Wow. That was philosophical/pedantic. To get back to goals—I’ve gotten interested once again in photography. In its digital incarnation, photography has become much more versatile, and I’d like to document my travel in photographs and video, as well as words. With new digital equipment, I can do that now. I can also be more connected, using social media. Let’s see how much all this purpose modifies itself as I go.
So, here we go, with Passage 1. In September 2013, in the course of another trip, Chris and I had driven to the Montezuma Pass Trailhead, which is the nearest vehicle approach one can make to the Mexican border (unless, of course, one is a contractor working on the Trump-era border fence). I began to hike down the trail from the roadside overlook, toward the Coronado Monument on the border. I was smart enough to notice that it would take too much time to get there.
We saw a total of two groups, both at the trailhead parking area. The rest of the trip, we were alone. The trail winds down to the border, losing just under 1000 feet in altitude, providing panoramic views all the way to the end. Surprisingly, the trail (which may have been rerouted by fence construction) approaches the border from the northeast, so that many of the loops of the descent give a view of a broad swath of Mexico. Some small buildings seen from above are actually on the Mexican side of the border. In the absence of the high border fence, the border is essentially invisible. At the small obelisk monument that anchors the southern end of the trail, the ironies of the border become most apparent. The border fence has been built from what looks like the memorial boundary to just west of the small monument itself. The area immediately north of the border seems to have been graded (strangely, there is a bench at the top of a grade cut opposite the actual obelisk, suggesting that at one time there was a 30-foot or so descent by the trail from the viewpoint bench.) Now it is about a 15-foot bank.
The segment of fence lends a surreal air to the landscape. The wind hums through the bars of the fence, and the scale of the construction suggests a scene from “2001: a Space Odyssey.” This surreal air is not dissipated by the sight, about a mile to the west, outside the memorial boundary, of the interim double-high “wall of containers” currently being built by the state of Arizona. But the whole situation is incongruous. One warning sign at the entrance to the memorial warns individuals: “Do Not Flee from Law Enforcement.” A volunteer at the memorial office said that travel in the memorial was “very safe in the daylight.” The volunteer also mentioned that the Arizona Trail is at this point relatively highly monitored by state authorities and the Border Patrol. (I’m not sure what I think of hiking under surveillance when I do the rest of the passage.)
As I explore more fully, I'll enter more.
Here's the map of the hike from that day: https://hikearizona.com/dex2/profile.php?I=3&u=146&ID=46&start=15&MI=T200563#T__200563_______1
10.30.2023
 |
| View from Parker Canyon Trailhead, Looking east. |
Past these fences we began to see bear sign/scat on the trail. As we walked the scat became more and more common and fresher. There was a significant crosswind and a fair amount of brush; we did have bear spray, but still felt a little exposed, as we wouldn't have in a larger party. So, at mile 3.2, still seeing scat, we turned around.
The trail itself winds from some Sonoran grassland upland that looks somewhat like California, down through a set of canyons, climbing up toward Miller Peak and the Miller Peak Wilderness north of the Coronado National Memorial. The land around the trail from Parker Canyon Lake looks a lot like historic ranch country, given the grasslands and the water-bearing canyons that bisect it. The cow skull we saw, carefully set on a cut stump, indicates that cattle have been run here in the recent past, and the bear sign suggests wildness. The piñons, junipers, and live oak woods in the canyon bottoms parallel the creek, and the trail is bisected by downed timber and washouts. The windmill, an mixture of old (the windmill) and new (solar panels, which now apparently run the water pump for the tank), make it feel as though the 19th century has met and married the 21st.
