Part 11: Superior to Roosevelt Lake

“The veneer of civilization is only three meals thick.”
—Apocryphal saying

One of the beautiful things about thru-hiking is that nearly every tiny convenience and pleasure take on a magical aura: television, Netflix, countertops, refrigerators, stores, laundry machines, showers, the hustle and bustle of cities. Life, once without much visceral connection to the world, is infused again not only with meaning but with gratitude.

Phoenix filled us with these feelings as we zeroed there at Professor Jones’ apartment. The last significant time we had spent together might have been a decade prior at the Reserva Ecológica Bijagual in Costa Rica, where I acted as a research assistant on one of his early field studies. We captured bats, specifically looking to catch vampire bats for further examination.

Over the days, Jones and I nerded out on science, mostly paleontology, using words like crustaceans, mammalian woodpeckers, Anthropocene, and convergent evolution while Ice Cream’s eyes glazed over. It was a wonderful time for at least 66% of the people there.

After three days, Ice Cream and I felt rested and ready to go. Stepping back onto the AZT felt like trading one magic for another, civilization’s comforts fading behind the jagged silhouette of the desert mountains. They reminded me of the sort of place a fantasy writer might name the Dragon’s Spine or the Wolves’ Teeth. We pitched our tent there and went to bed after a three mile hike from the highway. 

Before the sun went down, Flex of Previous Articles passed by. She told us she had suffered from pretty bad heat stroke, but her symptoms sounded suspiciously like a GI illness to me. Other hikers, including one back in Patagonia, had described “heat stroke” similarly. I can’t be sure, but I suspect Mr. Poo-Poo Patagonia might have been noro patient zero. Still, we seemed mostly out of the woods, so to speak. With Superior behind us and another hundred miles’ worth of food, we had little to worry about. The mountain town of Pine would be our next resupply, with the camp store at Roosevelt Lake providing a minor top-off with snacks and drinks.

From Picketpost Trailhead near Superior to Roosevelt Lake, spanning roughly 44 miles, the Arizona Trail weaves through a rugged desert. The first stretch, through Alamo Canyon, climbs past Picketpost Mountain, crossing rocky washes. The trail then enters the Superstition Wilderness, tackling challenging ascents through the Superstition Mountains, showcasing Weaver’s Needle and fleeting creeks near Reavis Ranch. The first climb is steep, and Ice Cream and I took a nap halfway up. A few hikers passed—new faces. Our zeros in Phoenix had placed us in a new part of the bubble. We didn’t get their names, just a few friendly hellos.

Much of the desert at the top of the climb was burned—not a new sight for us, unfortunately—but burned lands have a burned beauty. Coal-black skeletons of dead trees reach toward the open sky with branches that will never again harbor leaves. The charred ground sprouts little flowers and shrubs. Life, swept clean, recolonizes.

Recently burned lands.

Eventually, the AZT winds up to mountain saddles and contours. Hikers get their first distant views of Roosevelt Lake. The amount of water is mind-bending, another simple thing we take for granted. Fresh water makes up only 2.5% of Earth’s water, and only 0.3% is readily available for human use. Seeing the lake was like viewing a molten pool of gold—desert gold. Here it sparkled and shone like a great diamond in the valley below. Wide, white bands ringed the lake. Currently, the lake sits at a healthy 70% capacity, well above its historic low of an estimated 20%–30% between 2002–2004.

Lake Roosevelt

But a lake in the distance can’t quench thirst. The Superstitions were the only place where we didn’t plan our water exactly right, and for the first time, we got thirsty. Our mouths dried out more than was comfortable, and I began to daydream of water. Thirst becomes uncomfortable quickly. But we knew we wouldn’t die, so long as the water sources listed on FarOut were reliable, which they had been, for the most part.

Sometimes a water source isn’t listed. For instance, FarOut will point hikers to a weak, dirty stream and fail to mention a literal riparian oasis a mile beyond it. We began to wonder if FarOut shouldn’t sponsor one hiker per year per trail to update the information, supplementing user comments.

Finally, after walking miles with mouths as dry as paper, we found a little pool in a wash. We used a scoop to get water out and drank nearly everything we gathered, but it was enough to take us to the next source.

Down in a valley at a little stream, we saw the Czechs again. We hadn’t seen them since Oracle. Juicy Jack popped around a corner, followed shortly by Classical. It was a nice reunion, but Ice Cream and I were finishing up as they arrived, so we said our goodbyes and pushed toward the lake.

Dusk had come and gone by the time we arrived at the Roosevelt Lake Marina. It was dark, but the place was well lit by security lights. The store was closed, but there were electrical outlets and a bench outside—a decent consolation prize. Flex was there, as was a guy named Part-Time. We didn’t talk much, since Ice Cream and I spent our time on the bench charging our electronics. We cowboyed in the little lot across from the store. There were port-o-johns and a shed that acted as a massive hiker box. Randomly and rarely, a local in a truck (always a truck) would drive in and, based on the time spent, take a fat durkin in the port-o-poopers.

As we lay down to sleep, a couple on a date rolled up in their golf cart and talked deeply, romantically, openly in front of six hikers spread out before them. After performing Romeo and Juliet 2025, Juliet got out of the golf cart and into a car parked next to it. She drove away listening to rap country with the windows down. She was the master of her own fate, the narrator of her journey. Just then, the wind could have been in anyone’s hair, but it was in hers.

Once Romeo and Juliet left—God bless them, may they have a happy and loving life—I was able to get some sleep. In the morning, I popped into the store for coffee and snacks, then raided the hiker box shed. The shed was full of old, stale food left by hikers after they picked up their resupply boxes. Roosevelt Lake is the only place on the AZT where a resupply box makes sense.

I cleaned and organized the shed while O hunted for goodies. I’m sure I mistakenly tossed a few good items in my cleaning frenzy, but it was a job that needed doing. I left the shoes, as they looked too good to discard. On the way to the trash can, I met String Cheese, the hiker who had hollered to us from his tent the day before. He was a grizzled, tough-looking guy with a wiry, white beard. Both he and his beard had hiked the AZT a half-dozen times with their Granite Gear pack, now half dental floss and patches, but it suited him and carried his stuff with apparent loyalty.

Another AZT veteran was there: Pin Ball, who had the look of a hiker despite his beardless face and recent haircut. “Gotta go to Pine,” he said. “You gotta stay at the Beeline Lodge. It’s amazing.” He shared other advice and experiences with us, and we tried to sell him on hiking the A.T., but like many western hikers, he had no interest in the “Green Tunnel.” To each their own. The Green Tunnel will always be the True Religion, though I understand why the Big Views People, spoiled by dry conditions, wouldn’t gravitate toward the rusted cheesegrater that is the A.T.

Eight in the morning came and went, and so did we. I saw the Czechs coming into the marina as we left. They were little figures on the other side of a ravine. I whistled to get their attention, and we waved at one another.

The AZT leaves the lake along a mellow climb, eventually crossing a large suspension bridge that spans the Salt River. The trail turns sharply upward toward the Four Peaks Wilderness. Somewhere between, hikers see the last saguaros they’ll see on the trail as the Sonoran Desert’s edges fray against the bases of the mountains of the Tonto National Forest.

Some of last saguaros ring the frayed edge of the Sonoran Desert.

One of the hardest climbs of the AZT begins here, shooting steeply up into the Four Peaks Wilderness. Most hikers carry at least three days of resupply here, if not more, and 3–5 liters of water, making the climb all the more difficult. Thankfully, the terrain remains smooth, for the most part—one of the blessings of the AZT. Another blessing is that the AZT tends to avoid peaks, instead giving hikers long paths high on rewarding mountain contours, maximizing views and minimizing the work required to get them.

Just before beginning the big series of climbs, we came to a water cache and a cooler full of chilled drinks. In celebration, I created a ten-second commercial for orange Fanta, the true drink of the desert. A note on the cooler said a trail angel named Gila Momma had left this magic. Bless her heart. May a thousand thousand suns rise on the spirits of her descendants. This had been one of the hotter days on the trail.

We met two hikers there, Chip and Dona, a couple in their fifties we had seen once before. They had camped just before Roosevelt Lake and were keeping an eye out for a local rancher’s lost cow. Ice Cream and I took a break with them in the shade of some high manzanitas. While we talked, we ate one of the fresh apples I had packed out of Phoenix.

“I’m jealous of that apple,” Chip said.

“I would share, but I won’t,” I crunched into it core-down then passed the good bite to Ice Cream.

Chip chuckled, but I felt it might have been more of a jab than I intended. Chip and Dona packed up first, but we caught them camped ahead on a jutting ridge with a 180-degree view of the valleys below. With an eastern-facing view, they would watch the sunrise in the morning.

“Nice spot,” I said.

“You want to camp here too?” Dona asked. “I’m sure we can make room.” She started toward a flat spot next to their tent.

“No, thank you,” I said. “We want to get a few more hours in.”

“You sure?”

I nodded.

“Good,” Chip said. “You didn’t share that apple, so…” He waved his hands to the sides. I laughed.

Ice Cream said, “Thank you for offering,” and then later, “I like them.”

“The apple thing was funny. Maybe we’ll see them again in Pine. Probably some apples there.”

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. If you enjoy my writing, please feel free to subscribe.