Part 10

Kearney to Superior

“A journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles.”
-Tim Cahill, Road Fever

At long last, we arrived at the great and now infamous Gila River and the town of Kearney. A small town of about 1,800 people, Kearney was founded in 1958 as a planned, unsegregated community for Ray Mine workers, making it one of the first integrated towns in the U.S. Named after General Stephen W. Kearny, it’s often called the “friendliest town on the Arizona Trail” for its warm hospitality to hikers.

Ice Cream and I avoided it for reasons stated in previous articles, but word is Kearney boasts a vibrant arts scene, with more artists per capita than 90% of U.S. communities. Nestled against the stunning Superstition Mountains, its economy hums along thanks to the nearby Ray Mine and Hayden Smelter.

We saw this mine as we approached from the hills above town, and after hearing a train and seeing the massive terraces of the mine, I went into a sarcastic soliloquy in biblical language about the production of consumer goods and the generation of shareholder value. By chance, Ice Cream was filming me from behind during this inspired moment, and we would watch this video for laughs for miles to come. We still quote it from time to time.

Thanks to noro, we scuttled on past the roads that lead into Kearney and turned over a bridge that crossed the Gila. For the first time, we saw it up close, and we were amazed by its speed. Not a wide river, maybe 30–50 feet across, it flows at 1–3 miles per hour, surging past 5mph after heavy rain or a Coolidge Dam release. At the time, it seemed to be churning fast, but I had no way to measure it.

The AZT climbs sharply into the mountains after crossing the bridge near Kearney, offering sweeping views of the lush river valley below. Bright, emerald-colored cottonwoods and mesquite fill the wide space around the river, while saguaros and red-flowering ocotillo plants decorate the slopes. Far below, a railroad track snakes along the river, a tempting shortcut some hikers take before the trail dips to its lowest point.

At lunch, which we ate near a gate along the Gila, we met a familiar face. Wayward again. “Two days in a row. What a pleasure!” I said, as I waited for him to tell me why he was here.

“I fell on one of my trekking poles yesterday. Messed up my leg. Had to take a day off in town.”

“Bummer,” I said. “You all right?”

“Just a little limp now. Feels a lot better. Got a nice bruise still, though.”

After some chitchat, Wayward continued on. It would be the last time we ever saw him, though we continued to benefit from his water source comments on FarOut for the rest of the trail.

After Wayward had gone, two new faces, Mouse Dreams and Chainlink, appeared. Chainlink opened the gate with his trekking pole, and both hikers were loaded to the brim with what appeared to be town water. Ice Cream and I greeted them and eyed their packs. Full water bottles on both side pockets, bladders strapped under the Y-straps. Each was carrying at least 5 liters, maybe more. The Gila was right there, so it had to be water from Kearney.

Chainlink said, “What are you doing about the noro?”

“Avoiding town,” I said. “Town is the most likely vector. And I have my gloves on for when I open gates. You?”

Chainlink and Mouse Dreams paused for a moment, sharing a look between themselves. “We went into town to fill up on water to avoid the river.”

“I see that,” I said.

“Maybe we’ll skip Superior,” Mouse Dreams said. “Are you going?”

“No. I have a friend in Phoenix. We will take some zeros there and resupply.”

Chainlink nodded. “Sounds nice.”

Ice Cream and I had finished lunch, so as they left, so did we, though they were slightly faster, even with all the water they were carrying, and we fell behind. We heard their talk for some time, though we couldn’t make out what they said.

Later, we passed them eating lunch under a mesquite tree’s shade. Mouse Dreams invited us to join, but we were parched and itching to reach the river access point, so we regretfully declined and pushed on.

I wished we could’ve stayed. They seemed like cool folks, having hiked the A.T. in 2023. I’d have loved to hear their tales of that year’s northern rains.

Near the low point, Ice Cream and I went down to the river to fill up on water. It tasted like a trail smoothie blended from pure desert dust, probably the worst flavor I had drunk so far, but with fine, powdery dust coating the banks, the taste wasn’t a shock. A few flavor packets worked their magic.

We filtered, rested, and carried on, joking about all the noro we were about to get. Spoiler alert: we never got sick, thank the gods.

From the Gila’s low point at 1,600 feet, the AZT climbs steeply through the rugged Tortilla Mountains, gaining nearly 2,000 feet in 7 miles to a 3,500-foot saddle, then peaking near 4,000 feet over 26.1 miles. Known for its dramatic rock formations and sweeping desert views, this hidden gem of the Arizona Trail is a must-revisit.

Backpacking Europe decades ago, I thought I could return to missed moments, but life taught me to savor special places now, as if I were seeing them for the last and only time. With that in mind, I soaked up the Tortilla Mountains’ views, stopping often for pictures or to stare in a futile effort to etch their ancient beauty in fleeting memory.

I also readied my eyes to look for runners, as this was where we’d likely spot the racers, Chris among them. The Arizona Monster 300, a grueling ultramarathon spanning 300 miles, would begin near Superior the next day.

Evening came as we climbed away from the river valley. The wind was calm, and the world was quiet, which was why it startled us when we heard a voice call from the wilderness.

“HELLO!” it yelled from somewhere we didn’t see. “MY NAME IS STRING CHEESE!” We tracked the voice and saw a tent pitched above us on a ridge. The storm doors were closed and we could not see who was inside.

“Well, hello!” Ice Cream greeted him. “I’m Ice Cream!”

“Zen!” I added.

“NICE TO MEET YOU! GOOD NIGHT!” String Cheese hollered.

“Good night!” we said in unison, then moved on.

“That was cute,” Ice Cream said as we hiked away. “I wonder if we’ll see him tomorrow.”

We camped that night above a wash. There was a chance of rain, and we made sure to camp on the other side just in case. No rain fell. When we woke, we carried on through the Tortilla Mountains, and the views were more stunning than the day before. Eventually, we reached another water catchment, perched high atop a mountain up a short blue blaze. We filled our bottles, and shortly after, the trail began to wind slowly downward until, without fanfare or warning, we saw our first trail runners of the Arizona Monster 300. The race had begun.

“I hope we see Chris,” Ice Cream said.

“Same. I’m sure we will.”

We didn’t bother counting the runners streaming past. We tried to step aside for them, though a few politely waved us through. Walkers, joggers, big packs, sleek runners’ vests—every age, gender, race, and size. A parade of humanity flowing down the trail. While Ice Cream and I are not ultra runners, we felt camaraderie with these people, as if they were members of our same genus, if not our species. Seekers and sufferers, adventurers and students of nature.

When a group of four or five approached, Ice Cream and I would flank the path, raising our trekking poles in an inverted V like a desert honor guard. As they passed under, I’d belt out Eye of the Tiger or the Star Wars theme, hamming it up. The runners loved it, flashing smiles, laughing, or even joining the chorus.

Eventually, maybe a hundred runners or so in, we finally found Chris. His pack was one of the larger ones, and he was hiking up a steep hill. We stopped to greet him and cheer him on, then snapped a photo. “Hey!” he called back to us after we split. “I’m still thinking about joining you for the PCT when you go!”

“Let’s gooooo!” I shouted back. He turned to continue the race, and we passed what felt like another hundred runners of all shapes and sizes. One, a tall woman with a big pack, didn’t look well. Just after seeing her, we saw a large puddle of vomit on the trail, and shortly after, a team of sweepers came.

“Have you seen a runner in distress?” they asked us.

“Maybe one,” Ice Cream said. “She didn’t look well, and we saw some vomit, but we don’t know if it was hers.”

“Probably her.” The sweepers went off to find her.

“God, what a bummer to have to drop out so fast,” I said.

“I wonder if they get a refund,” Ice Cream said. Apparently, the entry fee to run the race was $2,000, not to mention any costs for travel and gear.

Dusk was now an hour away, and we wanted to get to Phoenix tonight, if we could. Depending on the hitch, it was possible with some luck. We made it to the highway and stuck out our thumbs. My hitchhiking strategy is to bless every passing driver with a theatrical flourish—blowing kisses like a desert diva, flashing peace signs like a hippie guru, or throwing rock-and-roll horns like I’m headlining Coachella. I figure the right person will stop at the right time, and if no one does, well, the universe knows all there is to know, so I go with the flow.

After an hour or so, a Canadian couple stopped and picked us up. They had been out rockhounding and were now heading straight into the heart of Phoenix to stay at a fancy hotel, which just happened to be ten minutes from my friend’s apartment. Hell yes.

My friend, Professor Jones, picked us up at the hotel. He looked as he always had: short, about my height, and fit, with dreadlocked hair. He is of mixed race, with dark skin and a freckled face. Like the trail runners, Professor Jones was a member of our genus—an adventurer who’s captured and studied vampire bats in Costa Rica and sought out lost and ancient species in China’s deserts. Stepping into his world of chaotic books and scientific paraphernalia felt like slipping into an alternate dimension of a familiar world. Such adventures cover us with dust and sweat, but it’s these anchors—friends who know your stories, who don’t care how bad you smell because they know what you’ve been through—that remind us why we hike, why we run, or why we dig for fossils and prehistoric secrets.

 

 

 

-Unless given express permission for their use, all names and trail names in my articles have been changed. Any resemblance to real people is coincidental.-

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