departure
I am somewhat gratefully jolted from restless non-sleep by Mia’s effective if jarring alarm. It will not be light for hours. We dress quickly, gather our things, and head into the early morning drizzle. Our generous middle of the night driver Lydia switches lanes in the dark, depositing us curbside where we say our goodbyes on wet pavement, shivering in our down jackets. Lifting off at shortly after 5AM, I watch the pink suggestion of Camel’s Hump to the east, tapping my sternum and concentrating on a deep inhale, the pause, an extended exhale. On the rare occasion that I board a plane I marvel through tight shoulders and clenched jaw at the miracle of just all of sudden leaving the earth. We humans are meant for terra firma. And yet.
At our DC layover, I hold hot coffee in both hands and soak in the warmth of a sunny window by our gate. Endless trail running and hiking awaits us 2500 miles to the west in Coconino National Forest. For now though, we are strapped into tiny seats at 30,000 feet, peering through tiny plexiglass ovals at the weirdly geometric high tech irrigation systems and crops of the mid-west. I fidget my restless legs and peer through dehydrated travel eyes at striking snow capped mountains flattening themselves into dusty plains.
And then we are touching down in Phoenix, greeted by palm trees and swaying spiky tendrils on blooming ocotillo. It’s been all day and then some already, but moving westward thrusts the traveler backward in time. We have hours and hours of sun left in this day. We hurtle north on highway 17 to Sedona through prairie and cactus fields, parched earth and big skies, our cold and muddy dark Vermont morning just a memory.
sedona
As I explore our new neighborhood on foot, a Gambrel’s quail scoots across the road in front of me, headpiece flopping as he joins his mate under cover of a creosote bush. Northern cardinals, mourning doves, and sweet finches flit about and there is bird song everywhere.
We unload our duffels, put food away, grab a beer, and head outside to get the lay of the land. Our casita is at the base of Sugarloaf Mountain. The air is dry and hot. Desert plant scents fill the air. It is red sand and dusty green gray and late afternoon blue sky. This rich landscape gives me a second wind and I forget I’ve been traveling for 15 hours. This place is energizing, inspiring and just plain happy-making. It’s hard to feel anything but an overwhelmingly full heart.
In the morning we are out the door to greet the sun from the top of our little mountain. The days follow a predictable pattern: sunrise hike & stretch, back to the casita for coffee & breakfast, pack up and hit the trails for a hike or trail run or both, a bit more exploring, some kind of food, local beer, another walk or hike, perhaps some art-making, watch the sunset, flop exhausted into bed. Repeat.
The approach to Brins Mesa run is river grade — minus the river of course — gradual at first, then a bit of a scramble up red rocks and through piney woods bathed in the scent of boxwood, ponderosa, sage, juniper, and cypress. We climb and climb, hearts and legs complaining for more oxygen. As we crest the mesa we find ourselves gasping as much at what we see as to fill our lungs. It is a stunning silver green soft and warm mesa scattered with burnt skeleton trees from a wildfire nearly two decades ago.
Coyote scat is deposited on top of a rock in the middle of the trail. We run on, dropping off the mesa into soft yellow sand and wide dry empty stone stream beds leading to the Seven Sacred Pools. Further down the winding trail we come upon Devil’s Kitchen — an enormous sinkhole which, when I tentatively peer over the edge, inspires a kind of primordial fear manifesting deep between my thighs. We wind our way up and over boulders and along the dusty meandering Soldier’s Pass trail — presumably namesake from a long ago white man’s story in which nothing good happened. Today though we cover five or so miles through soul-feeding landscape. The wind blows all day long, and a soft and lovely cloud cover protects our pale eastern skin.
As the sun threatens to set, Mia and I find a spot on the lee side of the little mountain outside our casita, sketch pads in one hand, a beer in the other. We sketch and sip and share big feelings. Late afternoon glow spills across my drawings, the slant of light and color wash the rough terra floor, desert succulents moving in the wind.
tucson
Today we leave Sedona’s red rocks and head south for the Sonoran Desert and Tucson’s sprawl. On the way out of town we stop at Bikes and Beans for coffee and one last look around at the magic of this place. Working our way back through rolling hillsides of Saguaro cactus, we watch the landscape change in reverse. Goodbye dramatic dusty rock faces and spring desert flowers; hello open cattle fields and tumbleweeds. South of Phoenix jaggedy peaks emerge from the haze pushing up through the intense desert heat. We pass an ostrich farm and rows and rows of pecan trees. Two cows languish in the afternoon heat as clear water rushes just out of their reach through the irrigation ditch.
As the sun begins its descent we lounge in the courtyard at Moto Sonora Brewing Company, sipping Fog Lights IPA and catching up with Kate and Ted while we wait for our food. We learn that the stunning yellow green trees we see everywhere are palo verde. Tucson sits in a bowl between the Ranco, the Catalina, the Santa Ritas and the Tucson mountain ranges. The Superstitions, Picacho, and Catalinas are likely what we saw on our way from Phoenix to Tucson. It is 94 degrees.
Later, the sun has sunk well below the horizon behind us as we rattle along washboards with windows down and soft dark air on our bare skin, mile after mile to The Land With No Name. Stray dogs appear from nowhere, staring into our headlights. A young couple runs laughing across the road in front of us. A confetti filled pitcher of stars spills out of the sky. Hot air, dust, and the smell of desert sage drifts through the window. At the Studio House, we unload our things and open windows. Kate tosses mouse carcasses into the brush as coyotes move and yip through the desert night.
the land, day one
Just before 5am the moon spills through the window pulling me once and for all from the light sleep I’ve dipped in and out of for the past couple of hours. A repeated chirp drifts in from my left — the call of a lone desert bird seeking something in the dark while I finger an emerging sore on my top lip.
Mia and I watch the sunrise from the roof, light creeping slowly over the range behind us and bathing the stark desert in soft pinks and golds. We bring coffee and sketch pads up there and listen to the sweet desert owl, the wind pushing through window screens and tilting grasses steadily north.
We wander up the road for a walking tour of the sculptures, passing wild onion, desert dalea, fairy duster and a craggy oak dying of thirst. Humans are not meant to live in a place with so little water. And yet.
On the return walk down the dusty road I pause to watch the golden grasses move around in the wind, trying to capture the moment while Mia and Kate stride ahead. I see them pause, stooping over the imprint where a fat rattlesnake crossed the road.
the land, day two
The wind tears through here in a way that unsettles me and stirs my brain. I rise before light, make coffee, and head up to the roof to watch the light change. A desert woodpecker moves from one ocotillo cactus to another. Mourning doves fly together over palo verdes and up and out of rocky washes, disappearing into the softening shadows behind me. A hummingbird inspects the nearly budding tip of the ocotillo and is then chased away by the mating dance of two pale green birds.
Kate has been sharing stories of those who have come through this place. Artists come to experience the magic of the space, watch light and shadows move across the ridgeline, engage in whatever process comes. It is a retreat, a place for quiet study and opportunity for undisturbed creative pursuits. Some leave their work here, others take their work with them when they go. Still others come as a group to participate in a workshop or collective creative experience in this space.
It is such a gift to be here, to experience the opportunities and offerings of this place. Kate and Ted move through their 24 hours with abundance and generosity, offering all of themselves, all of this place. To walk the land with them and get a glimpse into their deep knowing of the natural world around us and the stories behind each sculpture piece and each artist is staggering. Every moment here is practiced gratitude.
It is impossible to leave this place unchanged.