For Desert, Tucson

The first little prairie dog poked up from the burrow and snapped its head left, then right, then left again. The coast was clear.

It darted aboveground with a mouthful of dried grass. Moments later a second prairie dog appeared. Pretty soon Prairie Dog Town at the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum was buzzing.

Interpretive signs explained that these prairie dog suburbs can sprawl just like the human kind. One underground warren in Texas measured 100 by 250 miles, with more than 400 million residents. Fittingly, this Prairie Dog Town was smaller. Tucson-sized.

While sprawling Phoenix has sprinted hare-like into sixth place among the most populous U.S. cities, Tucson has played the desert tortoise. With 487,000 residents, Tucson is about one-third the size of its booming neighbor 100 miles up Interstate 10. And it’s still a little wild around the edges.

In November, in the mood for that kind of sunny, soothing peace that has seemed so elusive lately, I laid down tracks across southern Arizona: through the western half of Saguaro National Park, where hiking trails cross otherworldly, cactus-filled valleys; to Mission San Xavier del Bac, the city’s most beloved attraction; and to Tumacacori National Historic Park, about 45 miles south, a 1691 mission that was the weekend’s best surprise.

On the north side of Tucson near the base of the Santa Catalina Mountains sits the Westward Look hotel, where I paid $109 per night--plus a $7 “resort fee” and tax--for low-key, quiet accommodations. (I found that deal, called the “Spirit of America” special, on Westward Look’s Web site.)

The property originally was the home of a couple named William and Maria Watson, who bought the land in 1912. Their living room is now a pleasant sitting area off the lobby. Two hundred forty-four guest rooms have been added in one- and two-story casitas across the surrounding 80 acres.

The guest rooms looked unremarkable on the outside but were comfortable, nicely decorated in dark woods and restrained Southwestern art.

My room, called “suite-sized” by the resort, was large enough for a sitting area.

I checked in late on a Friday night but got a jump on Saturday with breakfast at Tohono Chul Park. The 49-acre nature reserve, a few blocks from the hotel, has gardens, nature trails and a tearoom. I arrived around 7:30 to wander the paths and admire a sea of cholla cactus, their inch-long needles glistening in the morning light.

When the tearoom opened at 8, I loaded up for the day: a pot of Earl Grey tea, French toast doused with maple syrup and powdered sugar, berries in a lace-cookie cup. Pleased that such dessert-like fare can masquerade as breakfast, I drove off for Saguaro National Park, about 15 minutes away.

The park is split into halves flanking the city of Tucson. The more popular Rincon Mountain District, with 8,482-foot Rincon Peak, sits east of town. My sights were set on the Tucson Mountain District to the west, smaller but no less beautiful.

The first stop was the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum just outside the park, where nearly two miles of paths pass 1,200 kinds of plants and 300 animal species, many in outdoor enclosures that mimic wild habitats. Black bears and Mexican wolves took siestas in the shade, raccoon-like coatis scavenged for food and an ocelot sunned on the rocks. I stopped for a sandwich in the museum cafe and, never one to pass up dessert, got a cookie for the road.

I bypassed the snake exhibit--I hate snakes--and found my way to the black-tailed prairie dogs. After a while, though, I wanted the real thing: wild desert minus the craftily camouflaged walls of a zoo.

So into the national park I went. Most saguaros spout in humanlike form, with arms reaching skyward, but I prefer the misfits, the ones with arms drooping or twisting in bizarre angles. Winter frost causes fluid in the spongy flesh to crystallize, and when the cactus thaws, damaged tissue turns to mush and sags. I made it a goal to find the weirdest saguaro.

But on the Valley Overlook Trail, I saw only a plain of stately, conventional ones. The sun was higher and hotter on the Signal Hill Trail, where painfully obvious out-of-towners, led by a woman trekking in medium-heeled strappy sandals, complained of thirst. We all switchbacked up a rock formation to see petroglyphs etched by the Hohokam people, who lived in the area from about 200 to 1450. Trails so far had been short and easy. I wanted a workout. One that would require real hiking shoes, lots of water and sweat. Manly hiking!

Back at the Desert Museum, a trail across the street led toward 4,687-foot Wasson Peak. Because I was hiking alone, I made sure the cell phone worked, and I signed in at the trail log. If loved ones reported me missing, rangers would know my inherent sense of misdirection had guided me off the King Canyon Trail.

The first two miles or so I was surrounded by cactuses that seemed to sprout from every square foot, green arms coloring an otherwise barren landscape. At the first trail junction, other hikers appeared, a noisy family that veered right, up a river wash. Silly novices!

I, a relatively frequent hiker and the only person holding a map, stayed left, where a sign marked a trail that I thought would lead to Wasson Peak. So I hiked along in confidence. And hiked. And hiked. Gradually I got a sneaking suspicion something was wrong, but I kept hiking until my trail dead-ended in a rock wall.

I retraced my steps and in due time was back at the junction where the family had veered right. I kept going until the wash split into a high and a low road, a little disturbed that my map showed neither. No sooner had I chosen the high road than I heard a rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat. It grew louder.

There might have been hissing too. I’m not sure, because by the time I realized a rattlesnake was at my feet, all I could hear was my own voice, which sounded something like “eeee-owww!” I jumped, not sure which direction was best but figuring anywhere but here was an improvement. It was. When I looked back, the snake was coiled over my footprints, its rattle quivering nonstop in the air.

That was enough manliness for the day. I headed for the car. When I scrambled up a rocky hill to reach the road, my right foot got stuck in a cholla cactus. When I took off my shoe and sock, a dozen barbed needles were lodged in my big toe.

So there I was, hot, tired and out of water, hopping on one leg, flying insects embedded in my hair, cactus needles anchored in one foot and blisters rising from the other. It got worse: Somewhere along the way, I had lost my cookie.

Leave it to dessert to make things right again. My appetizer that evening at Daniel’s Restaurant, spicy gnocchi with sun-dried tomato and pine nuts, was nice. And my entree--mesquite-grilled beef tenderloin atop crisp rounds of polenta, with tomato ragout--was delicious.

But it was dessert at Daniel’s that made the day seem more humorous in retrospect. Delicate slices of baked Bartlett pear were layered over a thin pastry shell, then drizzled with warm caramel sauce. Even better than breakfast.

On Sunday, ashamed that I had put away so much food the night before, I skipped breakfast and started with a walk on the Westward Look’s two nature trails, each about two-thirds of a mile. They wound under paloverde and ironwood trees, past prickly pear cactus and the resort chef’s garden. The trail was blissfully free of rat-tat-tats.

After checking out, I drove to the southern edge of town to see San Xavier del Bac, the 17th century mission whose 18th century church is considered one of the finest examples of Spanish colonial architecture in the U.S. I looked inside but didn’t want to intrude on Mass, so I set off for the last stop of the weekend: Tumacacori National Historic Park.

San Xavier del Bac gets most of the glory, but it was the Tumacacori mission that Father Eusebio Kino (to Arizona what Junipero Serra is to California) founded first, in 1691. In the early 1800s, the original church was replaced by a larger one that remains, but as a shell of its former self. Columns have crumbled and decorative cornices are chipped. There are no pews, just a naked floor dusted with footprints.

A self-guided tour took me up to the sanctuary, then moved on to the mortuary chapel outside, the granary and the adobe ruins of the convento, or priests’ quarters.

I returned to the dark stillness of the church, noticing details I had missed: the modern tile beneath my feet and deep gashes in the 5-foot-thick adobe walls--both the consequences of thieves looking for Jesuit treasures.

Battered by the elements and scarred by vandals, the structure looked forlorn. I brushed dust off a bench and sat quietly as other visitors passed. But none paused to feel the cool rush of wind blowing through the wooden doors or to listen to the whir of dragonflies sweeping across the floor.

I listened to the quiet as long as possible, but all too soon was on my way home.

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Budget for One

Round-trip air fare,

LAX-Tucson...$103.50

Westward Look, two nights...252.36

Rental car and gas, two days...57.38

Breakfast, Tohono Chul Tea Room...12.45

Dinner, Daniel’s...58.63

Park admissions...12.95

Other meals, snacks...25.91

FINAL TAB...$523.18

Westward Look Resort, 245 E. Ina Road, Tucson, AZ 85704; (800) 722-2500 or (520) 297-1151, fax (520) 297-9023, www.westwardlook.com.

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Craig Nakano is an assistant editor in the Travel section.