Oak Creek Canyon is dark. It reminds me of a fairy tale, where shadows take over and black, rumbling clouds roll in as soon as the character enters the woods.  Much like Zion, the canyons are so steep on either side that only a few hours of sunlight meet the pine needle floor. Small cabins belly up to Oak Creek, and brightly lit cafes look both welcoming and strange in such a deep forest. Steep switchbacks guide us up, up and out, back in the sunlight, where it all seemed like a dream.

We are looking for a campsite. My heart thrums in my chest with want—I want to go out, I want to explore, I want to sit out at night in the pine needle air. We are approaching Flagstaff. Our first choice was booked for the night, and, trusting our resilience, we figured we could find a forest road to accommodate us. The free campground we had researched was, to our dismay, up a 45 degree road with ruts as big as our wheels. So here we were, making our way past Sedona and Oak Creek, thirty minutes south of Flagstaff. The elevation change was a shock. With a twenty degree difference in temperature, we pulled out our warm blankets and, with flashlights and books in hand, we crawled into bed at Walmart.

The next morning, with sleep still in our eyes, we made our way back down to Sedona and pulled into the Ranch Sedona campground (you can kind of see the campers in the picture below).

Rancho Sedona campground is in the heart of Sedona in a basin of sycamore trees next to Oak Creek. We could hear the river while we slept, and squirrels bounced around the trees above us, causing Emmylou to shake with excitement.

From our campsite we could walk to Tlaquepaque Arts & Crafts Village, which had vine covered stucco walls, cobble-stoned walkways and high arched entryways, making one feel as if they’ve stepped back in time a thousand years.  We walked through Main Street, where one could buy overpriced Sedona apparel, local art, and a $6 cup of coffee. We looked longingly at couples eating at the extravagant restaurants, sipping their salty margaritas. We’ve learned to use my uncle Andy’s horizontal method [of spending]: to lay down until the desire passed. Once we came to our senses, we hiked back to camp and made some eggs.

Let me tell you about the beauty of Sedona. It’s beautiful. So, so damn beautiful. The cliffs swirl with cream and butterscotch and bright orange, reaching for the sky in all directions.  The trails are shaded with twisted juniper trees and our feet are muted by the soft, red sand.  The first day we hiked Cathedral Rock, and then continued on a bike path for miles; Emmylou zig-zagging and losing us every chance she could, only to dart back when called, panting and happy.

The next day we hiked up to Devil’s Bridge. Wide open views surrounded us with little to no view of any civilization. A cool breeze cut through the sun’s heat, but it was still warm, and we foolishly used a good portion of our water to cool Emmy off.

We made our way up an off-road vehicle trail to the base of the hike, waving at the pink tourist jeeps hauling white haired patrons with sparkly visors. We would wave, they would wave, and I would see a glimpse of Mike and I in our golden years, still at it, happily exploring through sunglasses that look like goggles.

The last leg of the hike was steep, but it was worth it.

Devil’s Bridge

On the way home we went a different way and got terribly, terribly lost. Out of water, walking miles on the main road, we finally flagged down a truck who knew the area and pointed us in the right direction, handing us a gallon jug of water. Burnt and tired, we collapsed in our camper and slept like newborns.

That night I heard a bump under the camper. Emmylou growled. I dismissed it, trying to fall back to sleep. We’d seen our fair share of wildlife on the trip—Mikey forgot to mention the wild burros screaming through the night at Martinez lake—the sound was so unnatural and spooky to hear from a deep slumber, but this creature made no sound. Next I heard very audible crunching. I sat up, alert, and Mikey and I opened both the window and the screen to poke our heads out. I squinted and saw something slow moving and small—I thought it was a racoon. I tiptoed down to get a flashlight. One click and my stomach flipped. A family of about seven giant javelina were rooting through Emmy’s food bowl. Wild boar are not something I understand. Living in minnesota I understand raccoons and coyotes, little brown rabbits and foxes. Dark, hairy tusked pigs remind me of something tropical, of aborigines rotating one on a spit, of The Lord of the Flies. The momma was bigger than Emmylou. We shooed them away, and, very carefully, I ran outside and grabbed the rest of her food. They can be surly, I’ve heard.

The next day we went to the Amitabha Stupa and Peace park, where we meditated under the buddha.

Oh Sedona, we love you.

 

Next stop, Grand Canyon!