AZT – Flagstaff Coyotes and Bad News

Hiking the Arizona Trail south, days 4-8. Flagstaff to Blue Ridge Campground.

Day 4 – tree women

«Aspen»

“Pineapple” and I can’t help but laugh, two hikers named after trees. Surrounded by, you guessed it: aspen and pine trees.

The woman lifts one pant leg and shows me a beautiful aspen tattoo on her calf. Shades of warm yellow and sunny orange spread across her skin. I shudder, it’s cold this morning and we’re standing here among Aspen’s half-packed team as their phones light up. It died last night and my battery still had a lot of charge left.

We say goodbye, she will meet her partner in Flagstaff and unfortunately I think the chances of seeing her again are low. Damn dream job that I have to start in a few weeks. I almost said no to the manager who interviewed me when she said she starts in November. Non-negotiable.

Closer to the flagpole, everything is drenched in bright yellow light. The sun shines through the poplars and melts my cold hands. It’s really beautiful but I’ve run out of food and I’m nauseous with hunger.

Day 5 – 14 miles

I’m in no rush to leave Flagstaff, but I can’t bring myself to enjoy the city either. My body feels heavy, the tension from the previous section having sunk into my muscles. My mind feels confused. Restock, open cardboard boxes, and repackage everything into ziplocks: raisin bran cereal, instant brown rice, sweet candies, sour candies, smoked almonds. Granola bars, 4 packages of tuna, flour tortillas, coconut cookies for dessert, electrolytes, instant coffee. A jar of peanut butter. 80 grams of protein a day. 3,040 calories. I counted for once. I sigh and check the bus schedule to the equipment store. 10:52, just before check out.

Day 6 – 33 miles

I try to take a sip of coffee- SCHEISSE! The dark liquid burns my tongue. My coffee is too hot and I forgot to set an alarm the night before. I’m late if I don’t want to go on a night walk again. Just one day, choosing a daylight campsite and spending time enjoying the Arizona sun would be nice. But I’ve been too late or too slow every day since I left the South Rim. Although my day started late, I had the perfect time to watch a coyote in the morning sun. I can hear them barking every night, but I rarely see them.

«Helloooo, is anyone home?» I try to sound confident and optimistic, but there’s something about approaching trailers that always makes me uneasy. I stop at the door and listen. The car is parked outside. There are some movements from inside and an older man with white hair appears.

«Hi, I was wondering if I could get some drinking water? I’m getting up on AZT,» I say awkwardly.

“Yes, of course, thanks for asking,” he explains. «It has a little chlorine, but it’s good, very good. I stopped buying bottled water.» His name tag says «Dennis.»

«Thank you Dennis. That’s very kind.»

“Do you see any moose?”

«Tons. And coyotes»

“Do they scare you?”

I chuckle, “not really, sir.”

«Good for you. Stay safe out there»

«You too»

I leave the pine forest campsite behind and reconnect with the AZT. The trail runs parallel to an old railroad, which was built more than 100 years ago by the Flaggstaff lumber company and closed in 1927 because the price of lumber plummeted. A small information panel informs me in the middle of the pine forest. The endless pine forest of northern Azt. Someone said it stops after the handstand. It must be, right?

I hadn’t seen any hikers since meeting Baha Gringo in the morning, a hiker from the northbound section. It was getting late and I had lingered too long at lunch and with the campsite closed, I will be back on night hikes. Damn.

Just before the sun began to set, I see a small tent at the junction with Mormon Lake. The rainfly is still open. Oh, a hiker?

“Hello,” I pause awkwardly, for the second time today. The tent is set up next to the trail, so I couldn’t help but stop by. The man inside waves at me, I can’t really see him behind the mosquito net. He asks me how I am and tells me about the weather warning, a lot of rain these next few days. Danger of flash flooding.

“That’s good to know,” I thank him and we tell each other to be safe.

Darkness comes quickly and today I am deep in a spooky forest. No moonlight, just my headlamp. “Tomorrow I’ll be on my way at 6 in the morning,” I promise myself through gritted teeth. My feet are killing me for reasons I don’t understand.

Day 7 – 30 miles

“There were three shots already,” I tell the squirrel who has been circling the picnic table. I don’t know much about hunting but I think that person is not very good at it.

At 06:10 I had left the gooseberry TH that morning. Ready to not stop in the rain

Unless absolutely necessary, I had made some crunchy peanut butter cereal wraps that morning and stashed them in my fanny pack. Today I want to be fast. 20 miles at 1:00 p.m. My feet are in agony. I can feel every damn rock on this road. I don’t normally have this problem, is it the AZT, is it my shoes, is it my feet? I reach for the small plastic bag and swallow a tiny red pain reliever.

in the shitter

Neither on the PCT nor on the CDT had it crossed my mind to sleep in a toilet (a pit toilet). I can get behind a lot of hiker trash shenanigans as long as they don’t cause any damage, but not that. I don’t even like using the disgusting, smelly rooms. I prefer to dig a cat den and enjoy the fresh air while doing business.

But last year on my bike trip it was pouring rain in Louisiana, pouring rain so thick you couldn’t see anything. It was also dark and when I finally reached a rest area with a roof for shelter, I was attacked by mosquitoes the size of moths. There was nothing around. In addition to the pit bath. (I can’t tell this story without adding that the next morning I was woken up by people trying to get in, I was mortified to be in trouble and when I opened the door, it was two very polite drug addicts lol. Louisiana is something else, I’m telling you.)

Anyway, the reason I was running the AZT today was because of the Blue Ridge campground after 30 miles. The taps were supposedly still running and the toilets were running. Of course, I’ve had my sleeping tarp and even a new custom-made bivy to go with it. But it will also rain the next day, and the next day, and the next day. The ideal would be to keep my things dry for as long as possible. And it’s not ideal but it’s practical, that means I’ll sleep in the camp toilet.

So that’s where I am now. Alone in the camp. Well, with the shit hunter nearby and the squirrel. I haven’t seen any hikers today, according to the trailhead log, the closest hikers are two days ahead of me. The closed campsite looks deserted and sad. Memories have been made here: I imagine hot dogs at barbecues, kids playing, and puppies napping next to the trailer. The end of summer tastes like bittersweet melancholy.

Thanks to the forest service for leaving the water and toilets open!