Caught Between Rocks in Sedona

I have learned--by the rock-and-a-hard-place method--that there is a difference between strolling and walking, between hiking and climbing.

Sometimes that difference is speed. Sometimes that difference is angle or terrain. I have always enjoyed brisk hikes on the straight and not-too-narrow. I have tried to avoid trails ranked as strenuous.

Therefore, I was unprepared when my husband said, “Let’s climb a mountain,” as we finished a green-chili-omelet breakfast in Oak Creek Canyon. I had envisioned a day near a hearth and a book.

“It may be our only chance,” he went on. “Snow is predicted all over northern Arizona for the weekend.”

I had intended to explore some of the tougher canyon trails, there above the town of Sedona, but not necessarily yet. I was still relishing my mastery of the West Fork Trail, which rambles amiably along a branch of Oak Creek and often fords the stream.

The West Fork Trail is a wondrous introduction to hiking, to the vagaries of slippery rocks, to the raw red beauty of eroded cliff walls. The trail head is 10 miles north of Sedona, near a meadow where weekend artists gather. It is possible to end up in a rocky cul-de-sac on the wrong side of the creek, but it is virtually impossible to get lost.

The West Fork, however, was a familiar romp and nothing that would qualify as a challenge. And so I laced up lug-sole boots and snapped on an emergency-orange down vest. An apple and a canteen of water went into my pocket, and I donned a good-sport smile.

We left our car at the Encinoso Picnic Area, about six miles north of Sedona, and started up the North Wilson Trail. In the beginning the climb was simple enough. The trail sliced through a fragrant woodland of evergreen oak, big-tooth maples and trees with rough, hide-like bark that are called Alligator-bark juniper. Swirls of rocks formed teapots and candlesticks. Blue jays nattered above.

The canyon walls began closing in and then the trail broke into a steep series of switchbacks, a ladder up the mountain. The wind in the ponderosa pines was matched by my heavy breathing. At the top was a plateau--the flatland called First Bench.

I sprawled in the shade to enjoy it, and then began to wheeze. The exertion--or some gorgeous growing thing--had triggered an asthma attack. It sounded like a rude squeal of air being slowly let out of a balloon. But no one passed by to complain, and the gasps subsided.

My husband took this break to read aloud from a natural history and trail guide:

“Wilson Mountain is named in honor of bear hunter Richard Wilson who, one day in 1885, decided to go after a huge grizzly bear whose tracks he had seen between Sedona and Indian Gardens. Wilson’s large caliber rifle was being repaired so he only had a small one to use. Nine days later, Wilson’s mauled, decomposing body was found by two horsemen not far up what is now called Wilson Canyon.”

I decided it was time to move on.

The springy forest path had turned into a broad lava floor, there above 6,000 feet, and the trail was hard to find. We backtracked a couple of times to locate small cairns, the stone-pile markers that are not so obvious in this rock-strewn country.

Finally, beyond a screen of pinon pines, the trail started to zigzag down the mountain. This was the dry side of the canyon; cactus began to sprout between boulders. Far below and in the distance was the croquet wicket of Midgley Bridge. Farther away we could see the runway of the tiny Sedona airport, atop a mesa.

Dark clouds now hung overhead like rumpled quilts of blue and purple, with the odd stormy stitch of chartreuse. No doubt they carried snow. I tried to pick up my gait, but it was the wrong end of the day.

More than an hour later, we trudged around the last turn and into the picnic area by Midgley Bridge, which spans Oak Creek along highway 89-A. We had covered almost six miles; we had only to walk to our car.

But we had underestimated the distance. I never knew that asphalt could feel so hard. Along the road, which was steadily uphill, fatigue set in . . . and thirst and the hint of blisters.

Cars whizzed by, mostly in the wrong direction. We clung near the gravely shoulders.

Four miles--and one shared apple--later, the gold of sundown glinted on the windshield of our parked car. We fell into the front seat and drove in silence to the cabin.

After hot showers and a glass of wine, we entered the rustic dining room of Garland’s Lodge. A guest from Tucson greeted us warmly.

“I saw you two hiking along the highway this afternoon as I drove into Sedona for some film,” he said. “I was impressed. That road is steep. In fact, I started to offer you a ride but I thought it might embarrass you.”

My mouth fell open.

“Next time,” I begged, “embarrass me.”