My Day in the Sky
Friday, May 29th, 2026: 2026 Trips, Regions, Road Trips, Sky Islands.
As my birthday approached, I wondered – idly – if anyone would remember and contact me. I used to keep track of dozens of birthdays, but since few friends ever reciprocated, I gradually gave up. Losing my mother last fall, I lost the last person for whom the day had as much significance as it does for me. And of course, our culture trains elders to either ignore or actively resent their birthdays.
But after years of stress and trauma, I’m taking every opportunity to celebrate my existence and treat myself well – even when I have to do it alone.
The birthday was planned to be the last full day of my mini-vacation – the next day I would check out of the hotel and drive back home. The birthday fell on a Wednesday, a day when I normally work out in the late afternoon. So I decided to leave in the morning, drive into the cool mountains above the city, and return in mid-afternoon.
I’d driven up into these mountains only once before, when I’d passed through the city in 2002 on a relocation scouting trip. 24 years later, the road and landscape were totally unfamiliar – apparently back then, it had been late in the day and I was desperate for a place to camp. And for me, that meant someplace informal where I could park near the road and carry my gear a short distance out of sight.
I recall driving a few miles through pine forest on a dirt road, then walking down a ridge to a rock outcrop where I watched the sun set and the city lights begin their sparkling far below. After dark, I set up my stove in a tiny grove of pines, made dinner, and crawled into my sleeping bag. Then I heard the voices of young people – high school or college students – chanting rhythmically, somewhere hundreds of yards away, as if they were playing some kind of primitive game. And later, I was shocked awake by a long line of young people tramping silently past the foot of my sleeping bag, in the dark, on their way to the rock formation. And returning just as silently, an hour later.
Today, midweek in late spring, the sky was clear and the high in the city was forecast in the low 90s. Heading northeast toward the mountain, the four-lane thoroughfares of suburban sprawl funnel decreasing traffic onto a two-lane road with sporadic stop signs, which proceeds into the foothills past expensive view homes.
There was relatively light traffic, but other drivers were either in a big hurry or pretending to be racers. I got tired of being tailgated and pulled off at an otherwise abandoned scenic overlook above a lush desert canyon. And heard the gunshots.
Across the highway is a much steeper canyon, and back at the hotel I found an article about it. It’s a well-known spot where gun nuts simply pull off the scenic highway, set up their folding chairs and coolers full of beer, and start shooting in full view – and hearing – of the passing tourists. It’s technically legal – more than 200 yards from a formal recreation site – and despite constant complaints from residents and responsible gun owners, the Forest Service refuses to do anything about it.
From there, the road winds up through high desert habitat, and this is where the tourists start pulling over for photos.
At an elevation of about 5,000 feet you reach a zone of spectacular hoodoos and dark Arizona cypress. At about 7,000 feet you hit typical Southwestern mixed-conifer forest with Douglas-fir and several species of pine. This is where the crowds begin to disperse on forest roads and hiking trails, to picnic areas and campgrounds.
Even at midday on a Wednesday, trailheads along the highway were packed with dozens of vehicles, reminding me of how lucky I am to live in a remote small town.
At 8,000 feet you begin to see aspens, and the road drops into the tiny alpine tourist village. I hadn’t brought lunch, expecting either to eat at the lone restaurant there, or to pick up snacks for a picnic at the general store. The congestion was such that I gave up on the restaurant and grabbed snacks at the store. I was too distracted by the crowds and traffic to take photos.
In the 90s in the city below, it remained in the 60s up here.
I’d considered doing a short hike down a northern ridge, but gave up when I found the trailhead being dug up by a giant backhoe. So I became the lone picnicker at a beautiful spot at 8,000 feet, overlooking the northeast canyons draining to a basin 5,000 feet below.
I made it back to the hotel in plenty of time for a birthday workout, followed by grilled salmon in the hotel restaurant.
