EDITOR'S LETTER

WASN'T EXPECTING to see a pickup truck. Not that early. And not in a place so far away. Yet, there it was. Intermittently peeking out from the cyclone of white dust swirling behind me, like a pirate ship moving in and out of the fog. At first I thought it might be cowboys, early risers on the hunt for a lost Hereford. But the truck never slowed down and never veered off onto one of the side roads. It just kept following me down that narrow, dead-end dirt road into the far reaches of the Prescott National Forest. This is weird, I thought. There shouldn't be anyone else out here. Not this early in the morning.

After about 10 miles of that, I turned right at the George Wood Canyon Trailhead, expecting the pickup to move on past. It didn't. Instead, it followed me into the small parking area and stopped about 50 feet behind me. Oddly, no one got out. The truck just sat there, its engine running, as if the driver were waiting for me to make the next move a Queen's Gambit in the middle of nowhere. Usually, serenity and reassurance cradle the dawn in a mountain wilderness. Robert Louis Stevenson called it “that subtle something, that quality of the air, that emanation from the old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit.” But there was no serenity in that moment. Instead of the subdued chorus of western bluebirds, I started hearing banjo music. And thinking about Ed Gentry being stalked by the “toothless man.” I sat there for a few minutes, wondering. Then I opened my door and slipped out. When I did, the truck slowly drove past me and parked up ahead, under some trees. I watched as the doors began to open.

Turns out, the truck belonged to Laura and Trale, an intrepid young couple from Prescott with a similar appreciation for the Juniper Mesa Wilderness.

“What are the chances of running into someone out here,” Dale said.

“Yeah, no kidding,” I answered, relieved to see that he still had his front teeth.

We talked as we gathered our gear, and then he figured out who I was. “I love Arizona Highways,” he said. His enthusiasm siasm for what we do was humbling. It was a quick hello and a quick goodbye among kindred spirits. And I was still marking GPS coordinates in my notebook when the young couple - with their son, Summit, riding high in a child carrier on his father's back - crossed the North Fork of Walnut Creek and began their journey into the wild.

I smiled as I watched them go. I'd been in their shoes so many times, hiking with my wife and twin daughters on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, along the Black River in the White Mountains, up in Oak Creek Canyon, on the slopes of the San Francisco Peaks and down in the Sonoran Desert. There's a joke about hiking that I tell my kids. They say it's a “dad joke.” It goes like this: Two guys are out on the trail when a mountain lion creeps out from behind a big rock. Without a second thought, the first guy rips off his backpack and throws on some running shoes. As that's happening, the second guy screams: “What are you doing, man! Do you have any idea how fast a mountain lion can move? You'll never outrun it.” To which the first guy responds: “I don't have to outrun the lion. I just have to outrun you.” The joke is funny, even though my daughters won't admit it. Mountain lions, however, are a serious matter. Although encounters are rare, they do occur. So far, I've faced two big cats on the trail. Neither one of them threatened me, but they're out there, and they decide the rules. Black bears, Mexican wolves, wild turkeys, javelinas ... they're out there, too. Along with flash floods, poison ivy, rattlesnakes, lightning strikes and jumping chollas. Most of the risks in the backcountry are avoidable, but Mother Nature can be capricious, so it's important to wear a thinking cap on the trail and follow some simple rules, including: Watch the weather, study the maps, carry a compass and a first-aid kit, take enough food and water, wear plenty of sunscreen, and know your limitations. Another rule suggests that you should never hike alone. In a general sense, it's good advice - we include it in our hiking books - but it's a rule intended more for novice hikers.

If you know what you're doing, there's no compelling reason not to hike alone. There's risk in everything - “You'll shoot your eye out, kid!” What's more, solo hiking can be meditative and therapeutic. And it doesn't matter whether you're a man or a woman.

“We tell women it's something they specifically need to be afraid of,” says Megan Spurrell, a senior editor at Condé Nast Traveler, “while pointing to dangers that aren't actually gendered.” Safety on the trails, she adds, is far more nuanced - every hiker has their own set of concerns.

What's important, if you're planning to hike alone, is to tell someone where you're going, the route you'll be taking and when you'll be home. And it's a good idea to have a personal locator beacon or a satellite messenger. I carry a Garmin Montana 700i, a hand-held satellite communicator that allows two-way messaging and location tracking.

I've never needed it, but had I gotten lost in the Juniper Mesa Wilderness, it would have gotten me back to my 4Runner, which, so many hours later, was parked alone at the trailhead. By the time I got back, the young couple from Prescott was gone. I regretted not getting their phone numbers, but they left a note on my windshield: “We hope you enjoyed your hike. Really nice meeting you. Arizona Highways is seriously the BEST. Warm regards, Trale, Laura + Summit.” Thank you for the kind words. Until we meet again.