Tufty and Co. That’s the trail name for Sarah; her husband, Derek; and their dog. They do not take hiking lightly. If Sarah says it’s a moderate hike, it’s difficult. If she says it’s less than 10 miles, it’s at least 12, if you count the distance from the end of the trail to the car (and why wouldn’t you?). If she says it’s dog-friendly, I’m fully prepared to carry the dog while scaling a mountain.
We are bleary-eyed and hazy on directions when we approach Picketpost Trailhead, just west of Superior, on a Thursday morning. Picketpost is the beginning of Passage 18, one of 43 passages that make up the roughly 800-mile Arizona Trail, which wobbles through the middle of the state, north to south. Some people day-hike it in sections. Others “thru-hike,” completing the trail all at once. According to the Arizona Trail Association, just more than 100 hikers finished the whole length in 2017. Some of them did it in a month or two. One spread it over 21 years.
Tufty and Co. have a grand plan to complete the Arizona Trail in its entirety over their lifetimes. Sarah likes the self-sufficiency of hiking, the sense of accomplishing something hard and setting goals. Derek likes the gadgets — and Sarah.
We’d been planning this trip for months, maps sprawled across a restaurant table in the beginning stages, when we determined the bones of the route — passages 18 and 19. A month later, the maps migrated to our coffee table, where we hammered out logistics such as which cars could handle the roads and what days to take off work. Finally, the week before leaving, we sorted out who had what gear, how much water to take, and where and how we’d find each other at the end of each day.
My husband, Tyler, and I are neither day-hikers nor thru-hikers. This time, we are shuttle drivers. It’s not that I dislike hiking. I just prefer my hikes to resemble nature walks — flat, about 3 miles and, if I’m given the choice, on a loop that leads us back to the car. Because we know Sarah’s inclination to underestimate the difficulty and the distance (and overestimate the enjoyment), Tyler and I have signed up to be Sherpas on wheels.
Our car, a Jeep I’ve borrowed from my brother, is packed to the brim with all the weighty luxuries of car camping — chairs, cast-iron pans, a stove that won’t fit in a pocket, a maxed-out ice chest. And 30 gallons of water.
At Picketpost, Derek and Sarah park their car, heave their daypacks onto their backs, suit up the pup — who has her own pack — and start their slog. We see them off and drive back onto U.S. Route 60 to find the exit for Reavis Trailhead, where we will meet them that evening.
We find a pull-off close to the trailhead, set up everyone’s tents and start food — vegetables in tinfoil, mashed potatoes and, for dessert, warm granola with apples. Derek and Sarah roll in about 2 p.m., and we spend the rest of the afternoon waiting for our food to cook over the flames, and then cleaning up the mess.
As the sun lowers in the sky and the air begins to bite, we build up the campfire. Suddenly there is nowhere else to be. It’s too dark to explore. We are out of cell service range, and even reading by flashlight attracts too many bugs to be pleasant. We listen to the fire crack and pop and spark. We argue about what makes a good s’more and watch our marshmallows melt around themselves.
Derek and Sarah pack up their backpacks, top them with sandwiches and head out early. We won’t see them until the following evening, because there’s no way to access them with a car at Reavis Ranch, so they pack accordingly.
After the highway turnoff, Tyler and I drive just less than 3 miles up a manageable dirt road to a ranch where steep and pitted Forest Road 83 begins.
Two cowboys, who I presume live or work at the ranch, approach us in an ATV. “Where are you headed?” one asks. Mutton chops dominate his face, and he’s holding a can of beer in a koozie.
“Two Bar Ridge Trailhead. This will make it, right?” I point to the Jeep and then toward the turn-off.
The man looks at me the way my dad looked at me when I first told him I’m a Democrat. “Oh, it’ll make it,” he says. “But it’ll beat the hell outta you.”
Forest Road 83 is: Stop. Get out. Open gate. Pull through. Get out again. Close gate. Repeat. We brake every 100 feet or so — sometimes for gates, and other times to reread the route description to ensure we’re going the right way. There is no place to turn around. We are committed, in low four-wheel-drive and crawling up the steep, narrow clay road.
We have seat belts on, but our stuff is bouncing all over the back seat. When we arrive at the top, our abdominals are exhausted from trying to stay upright. Our brains are scrambled, our stomachs nauseated. But it is gorgeous up here — a panoramic view of the Superstitions at sunset. We gather what little wood we can find before dark and set up our tent. It’s windy enough that we struggle to keep the fire going, so we turn in early.
We have no concept of time except the light — a progression I seem to notice only when I don’t have other distractions or an alarm clock. The gradient bounces and catches and changes so subtly. Darkness at false dawn blurs into the gauzy forgiveness of morning light. It is impossible to sleep in. But we still make it a slow morning.
Tyler and I didn’t get out of this trip completely hike-free. We agreed to hike in 3 miles from the Two Bar Ridge Trailhead to meet Tufty and Co. for the night. We carry in dinner and enough water for all of us. The trail descends into a piñon forest with a few camping spots. We dump our stuff and I hike in another mile — to see if there’s a better spot to camp, and also to pin a “You’re almost there” note under a rock where they’ll come across it on the trail.
Derek and Sarah stumble into camp, exhausted, about 4 p.m. We expected them closer to 2, based on the distance, but this was by far their most difficult day. The day before was long and strenuous, but at least they’d had Reavis Ranch to look forward to. This day was like trekking on a slippery seismogram: a thousand feet of elevation drop in the span of a mile, then a thousand feet of elevation gain the next mile, all while trying to avoid twisted ankles and slipping on the shale slabs. They’d also planned to refill their water in this valley but found none, despite the source’s credibility.
Their necks are sunburned, and their legs are covered in angry scratches. The dog’s paws are torn and gummed with stickers and sap. On his feet, Derek sports blisters the size of golf balls, which he doctors with a Purell-doused pocketknife, Neosporin and moleskin. The road, as the cowboy had told us, certainly beat the hell out of us, and it seems the hike was no different.
I’ve learned that, whether hiking or sitting around in sweatpants with coffee and a good book, being outdoors like this also beats something into you: perspective. It’s pretty cool you can survive out here with so few supplies. But there are parts of this trail — these passages in particular — that are difficult to do alone and difficult to plan for. Hikers must either carry in all their water, cache it along the trail or depend on friends.
It’s early as we start our ascent from the junipers and pines. Agave forests round out the trail’s curves, and there are parts of this hike where I feel like I’m in the Great Smoky Mountains. Blue mist lines the ridges of the Superstitions at our backs as we climb.
When we reach the Jeep, Derek and Sarah dump their stuff, except water and a first-aid kit. They leave the dog, sore and limping, with us, too, and keep walking. We pack and slowly drive down the mule path we worked so hard to summit. A few hours later, we can see them walking across the bridge at Theodore Roosevelt Lake — the end of Passage 19. Next time, ready to start at 20.
We live in Phoenix, and there, we can see almost no stars. Light pollution shields us from the bigness and busyness of the sky, from how much of the universe we don’t pay attention to on normal days. Our daily routines blind us to our most basic requisites: water, food, shelter, friendship, wildness, stillness.
Out here, where there is a wallpaper of astronomy, our perspectives shift and these requisites are so clear. Unknown twists splinter our plans; quiet, instead of cellphones, interrupts; and the most important conversations happen without the distractions and encroachments of civilization, usually sitting around a dying campfire.
To learn more about the Arizona Trail, visit aztrail.org.