8-23-12 ROAD LESS TRAVELED
I woke refreshed Thursday morning, despite the groggy encounter the night before that was still trying to find some order in my muddled memory. One benefit of sleeping in the car was that the sun urged me on my way not long after it started the day, yielding a few extra hours of driving and sight-seeing.
Train full of tanks.
I knew I had to be in Tuscon by dinner, but didn't have any other plans for the day, so I cracked open my dog-eared 2006 Rand McNally Road Atlas and traced a basic route through southeastern AZ's Coronado National Forest and Chiricahua National Monument. I was tempted to deviate, however, when I reached a fork in the road with one of its arrows leading to Paradise, AZ. The other arrow, leading to the National Forest, pointed down a narrow road that squirmed its way out of sight between two mountain ranges, and looked like the next best thing to Paradise.
The road continued to wind into the valley, the pavement gradually giving way to gravel. The gravel began to rise. And rise. Up the mountain I climbed, with switchbacks and hairpins whitening my knuckles. Signs began to inform me that I was on my way to "Rustlers Park", and glimpses of the road further up the mountain let me know that "Rustlers Park" was very high up. The road was ablaze with wildflowers, red, yellow, purple, as if to mock the charred skeletons of fir and pine, standing testaments to nature's fury.
And then it leveled off. A still and cool meadow lay atop the mountain, and for the intrepid motorist, respite. Rustlers Park is a National Forest campground at 8,500 ft with views clear into Mexico, and a destination for bird-watchers and solitude-seekers. I walked around for awhile with library quietness, and listened to the whoosh of wind in the canopy and took in evidence of last year's 365,000 acre wildfire. In the early 1900's, outlaws used the meadow to hide stolen livestock, but these days the folks up there are probably hiding from cubicles and cell phones.
Down the mountain, I followed signs for Chiricahua National Monument, a small green blob in the atlas that caught my attention. The bulk of its trails and scenic drives were closed for repairs (more wildfire victims), so I wandered around a historic ranch property; one of those mile-long educational hikes. An ominous cloud crept into the valley, and I took that as my cue to move on.
On to Tuscon, and an old-time friend I hadn't seen in seven years. We got re-acquainted as his two gargantuan black labs slobbered on me, and then met up with another high-school friend for dinner. Thankfully I didn't have to fight the dogs for the couch when we got back to the house.
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