I spend a lot of time on hiking trails all over Arizona and am quite proud as a Gen-Xer to still consider myself competent at several of the double black diamond variety. That said, nothing humbles me faster than wheezing up the side of a mountain, only to be asked politely if I might step aside so an octogenarian can pass me by. I am routinely humiliated in this way, and the last time I was lapped by a club of senior hikers, I realized that behind has always been a familiar and uncomfortable position for me.
Over the years, due to any number of bad decisions and/or circumstances, I’ve often found myself trailing behind where I thought I should have been. Always something of a late bloomer, in some cases I never bloomed at all. I’ve never been married, for example. I was thirty before I had my only child and thirty-five by the time I finished college. I was forty-eight when I wrote my first book and fifty when I decided to change careers. I still don’t really know what I want to be when I grow up.
As I look back on what I used to believe were missed milestones, I now understand that the nice thing about being behind is that, but for a few delightful kindred spirits, the trail is virtually empty. The pace is mine to set and the rules are mine to make. There’s no pressure from the crowd and since I’ve finally learned to take my own pressure off, I am finding true joy in doing whatever, whenever it’s best for me.
It was a hard-won realization that I still have to remind myself of on occasion; but I’ve grown and changed and learned a LOT in fifty-two years and I plan to do the same over the next fifty. Not trailing behind, just trailing along with plans and goals but no hard destination in sight. It’s freeing, and it’s fun. I’m lucky to even be on this trail and I know that as long as I don’t give up, I’ll get there—wherever that may be.
On any given day desert hikers risk basic irritants like dehydration, sunburn, and the occasional murderer. We also contend with plenty of things that bite, sting, and claw, which is great stuff for us writers to imagine but encountering them in real life is considerably less fun.
Even the fluffier, more benign creatures out here in the wild west are tough. The jackrabbits on the trails I frequent don’t scamper away when hikers approach. They can be huge, and they will stop what they’re doing to stare you down.
This observation prompted me to invent one that’s three-feet-tall with giant ears and rows of sharp teeth who hunts teenage girls. He’s evolved a bit over the years, and I love that character, but all jackrabbits still get the side eye from me.
With spring approaching I’m reminded of last year when Mike (my longsuffering, not so stoic partner) and I came across two rattlesnakes in as many weeks. The first one blended into the trail so well that I accidentally kicked him before I ever saw him. I don’t know if he struck at me when we first made contact, but I do recall screaming and jumping and doing all the things that an Arizona native knows better than to do. Perhaps both woman and snake were so startled by the incident that neither performed admirably under the circumstances.
If you’re wondering, AZ Game and Fish has a great five-minute video on the appropriate response to coming across a snake on the trail.
Mike is more concerned with what doesn’t scare me. As a creative individual, I’m also curious beyond reason and capable of convincing myself of absolutely anything, especially when I’m alone. He doesn’t love hiking, but apparently loves me enough to come along most of the time. As devoted as he is, he will occasionally decide that he’d rather mourn my loss than be dragged out to the desert at 5am; and, sometimes I just want to be alone.
One morning in January, I was about a mile into a solo outing when I heard some rustling in the bushes just off the trail. The sun was on its way up, but my headlamp couldn’t quite cut it, so I turned the flashlight on my phone and set off to investigate. In such a situation, I’m hoping for aliens or a portal to another dimension but, alas…
It occurred to me that we’d seen a javelina in that area a few days earlier and since they can be pretty aggressive, I prepared myself to stomp and clap if necessary to scare it away. Another thought occurred to me, and I suddenly could not remember—is one supposed to make lots of noise or play dead if attacked by a mountain lion?
Whatever it was started huffing and the rustling grew louder and then I fell backward screaming as a cow poked her head out of the bushes to see what sort of idiot was out that early in the morning.
The conversation later went as well as could be expected. Mike said, “You mean to tell me that, in the dark, armed only with your cell phone, you went in SEARCH of the noise?” He also explained they are expert stalkers and what one does when attacked by a mountain lion, is die. I Googled it later and confirmed that’s not always the case, but his point was well taken.
I was raised in the desert, back when our parents used to say, “go play,” and we spent our days running around flipping over rocks, looking for scorpions and spiders—which we always found. And, in all seriousness, my adventurous streak is tempered with a deep respect for the potential dangers.
I have a love of this terrain that I’ve joyfully immersed myself in, to the point where I even created a magical desert world where the characters in my books live out their continuing adventures. Though middle age has hit me with some unpleasant realities, I’ve also gained some incredible insights. I credit that, in part, to my time spent outdoors and along with my characters, I too plan on adventuring for as long as I possibly can.
