Saguaro Wanderings: Seeing 2014 (#3)

For your consideration: a narration of one my life's most amazing experiences.

Un hommage à mon grand-père.

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I took the photograph below during what was, in some respects, an ill-advised solo hike to the top of the highest peak (4,687 feet) in the Tucson Mountains. It was taken under unexpected extreme conditions; the farthest peak in the background is the summit. The increasingly lightness of the sky as it meets the horizon in this image is a reflection of the vast amounts of dust in the air . . .

This is a favorite trek of mine; since my (long ago) college days I've taken this walk a number of times in every season of the year. Not apparent in this image is the (normally — I'll qualify that momentarily) commanding view afforded of Tucson to the east, Picacho Peak to the north, the telescope domes of Kitt Peak and the Baboquivari mountains to the west, and the Santa Rita mountains to the south. In simpler times the access roads to various picnic grounds such as Signal Hill and Ezkiminzin in the Saguaro National Park were not locked up at sundown; back then my cousins and I took in a couple of spectacular sunsets (and actually managed to build a fire) from Wasson's spectacular viewpoint.

No such radiant moments were in store for me during the quite unexpectedly extremely arduous adventure I endured on the April day of this photograph. Not that I didn't have fair warning.

It started out innocently enough. I was in Tucson accompanying my wife Julianna, who was attending a function on the campus of my alma mater, the University of Arizona. I actually forced myself to arise from a perfectly comfortable bed in our hotel at 4:30 a.m.; my intent was to be in the desert early enough to photograph the holiness of a new day's dawn caressing the saguaro and ocotillo. I deeply miss the severe beauty of the Sonoran terrain and flora; being an incurable night owl I'd only very rarely experienced the silence and freshness of this wonderful environment in the morning hours.

My ungodly-early riser efforts were nicely rewarded, as I wrote of in this earlier entry. It was a sublime time of communion with my soul's home ground.

Unfortunately, however, I chose to ignore the "Hazard" warning I happened to (fleetingly) notice on my cell phone's weather app before leaving the safe confines of my hotel.

All was bliss and sweetness for the first two hours or so of my casual, meandering photographic exploration of the trail head's immediate surroundings. The temperatures were perfect, the sky utterly, impossibly clear, and spring's bloom was in resplendent form. My wife was going to be occupied until 5:00 p.m. or so; I was in no particular hurry to begin my ascent from the desert floor as I had literally all day. This being the case, I lingered, luxuriously, at the mountains' foot until approximately 10:00 a.m.

Wow. What was that supposed weather hazard's warning, exactly? Oh yes: a high wind advisory. Something bizarre about 60-70 mph winds, possibly sustained. Yeah. Sure. I'm a Tucson native; I've never witnessed winds anywhere near those velocities for any significant period . . . in fact I was quite sure no such hurricane-strength had been seen in the area in my lifetime, surely. The app had to be misinformed.

Unbelievably, like a scene from the Truman Show, no sooner did I turn serious attention to starting my actual hike to Wasson's summit did the wind-spigot open. Completely. With abandon.

To adequately describe the sheer intensity of the rest of the day is difficult to do.

One marker is that I saw precious few other hikers throughout the entire day (and none after 11:00 a.m., I'd estimate); yes it was a weekday but ostensibly (in my mind at least) the weather couldn't have more perfect. The only other person I actually met and spoke with happened to be a park ranger; this was perhaps thirty minutes after I begin a serious assault on the trail. We converged at a saddle between peaks, one of several trail junctions; by this point the winds were veritable blasts without abating. The ranger and I exchanged bemused grins at our mutual disbelief, and laughed at the surrealism of the weather. I asked him if he'd seen anyone else (nope), then we bid one another adieu as he headed down towards the visitor's center and I continued my self-appointed mission.

The brutal, unrelenting force of the winds began to take a significant toll on my energy level in surprisingly little time. It didn't help that I was weighed down with more than few pounds of camera gear. As time went on (and I kept forcing my way upwards) I became incredulous — and increasingly discouraged by the utterly unflagging, and extreme velocity of this full-on gale. I wouldn't fully acknowledge this to myself, but notions began to whisper to me that for the first time ever I just might be thwarted from completing this normally moderate hike.

No. No way. On I labored. I had to, for I had a secret mission: I fully intended to reach the top and visit the scene of where I spread my grandfather's ashes; it was my intense desire to honor his memory and, in so doing commune with him in a fashion, that motivated me to willfully continue what had become a forced march.

On a normal day reaching the top would've taken perhaps ninety minutes. I required more than three hours, and there were more than a few times when I stopped and considered whether or not I could make it. My fatigue level became substantial. The winds more than once nearly blew me completely off my feet; as the trail ascended there were fewer and fewer rocky outcroppings behind which I could take temporary shelter. It didn't help my state of mind that I'd forgotten how many "false summits" are on this trail; after rounding a bend I'd see a somewhat distant knoll which seemed to be the top . . . only to discover hidden behind it yet another higher point ever further off.

Yet by my perseverance I was more than amply rewarded.

A moment came when the trail essentially vanished, having blended into bare rock. This was quite high up, at a point devoid of shelter, and I was exhausted. I had to kneel; I had to rest. Go on? Could I? Should I? I remained hunched and bent over against both merciless wind and the compounded affects of several hours of an equally unrelenting desert Sun. I paused.

As I remained there I found myself reflecting on my grandfather's life and what he'd brought to me; I gazed down and noticed the color of the rock at my feet. There was a pervasive rust/rose hue. Marshall was a bricklayer and stone mason; he loved rocks. Many times he'd take me rock collecting, usually on Mount Lemmon; he had a particular affection for rose agate. He and I built a bird bath out of such treasures on the Tucson property where he had designed and built five homes, a semi-compound where I spent most of my early life exploring and playing.

Then it happened.

As I gazed at the wind-blasted rocky terrain at my feet a small, black-winged moth appeared. Out of nowhere. Impossibly present: at this point the winds were unimpeded by any natural barriers and were as viciously harsh as they'd been the entire time I was on this largely barren mountain. How could this tiny, frail, virtually weightless moth be here? Yet what struck me even more was this: the moth's color, and the pattern on its wings were salt-and-pepper gray. Exactly the hue of my grandfather's perpetually thick "Ronald Reagan" hair.

As I continued to crouch there, a profound sense of Presence infused my consciousness: "You can do this, Jim [which is what he'd call me]; thank you for making the effort to visit me . . . now don't quit when you're so close to your goal. I'll be with you."

Yes.

One of the two or three most profound spiritual experiences of my life.

I remained still for a few more moments. Then, briefly, the photographer persona attempted to inject himself: maybe if I move slowly I can capture this moth on my camera . . .

Just as instantly as that notion made its appearance I knew that THIS was NOT a Kodak Moment. This nearly ethereal visitor was not fodder for pixels, it was messenger of the most divine pedigree. For another brief moment I watched the moth remain unbelievably resting in its private pocket of protection from the howling winds; with next blink it was simply gone.

The next step was obvious and without retort; I struggled to my feet and resumed my plodding towards Wasson's summit. Eventually I made it. I was so completely tapped that I had to lay down on the wholly rocky peak for nearly an hour, and I ate what meager rations I'd brought along (for what I expected to be a trivial, short jaunt). As I gazed around I was shocked, and stunned, by the scene: by this time (1:00 p.m. or so) the winds had been blowing for so long and with such force that the entire city of Tucson, right at the foot of this modest mountain range, was virtually invisible beneath of blank of muddy brown dust; vistas in all directions were just as obscured.

I found out later from my wife (who was NOT happy with the risk I'd unwittingly put myself in) that the situation down in the civilized world was so intense that the authorities barred pedestrians from the streets during the worst of it; she and her seminar mates were virtually imprisoned indoors by what amounted to be a massive dust storm of epic proportions; at least parts of the University lost power. Amazing.

This entry is already of epic proportions itself, thus I won't extend it to serialization-worthy length by recounting every detail of my descent. Suffice it to say that it took nearly four hours, wherein I found I was forced to carefully ration what little water I had remaining after "summiting"; I was near total exhaustion for nearly the entire effort and at least twice gave serious thought to trying to call for official search/rescue help if only my cell phone had enough reception. I saved my last few sips of water until I could actually see my car in the parking lot . . . and that sight was its own form of heaven, a vision beheld much closer to sunset than I would've ever imagined when I set out at 4:30 a.m.

So, dear reader, I shall now bring this entry to a close. Today (April 2nd, when I started writing) marks the 20th anniversary of my grandfather's passing. It was nearly one year ago exactly that he visited me on Wasson Peak. It's to his honor, and to the never flagging love that he gave me, that I dedicate this piece.

I miss you, grandpa.

Marshall Weston Petersen, February 11, 1911 - April 2, 1994