The Old Bible Trail
He needs to find his center.
Philbert moved to Phoenix when he was 22 for college. His very first friend introduced him to wilderness hiking and it became a big part of his life for reasons he could never tease out. When classes ended on Friday he was off to the mountains. At that time he could only stay for the weekend because of school on Mondays.
After dropping out of school for a stupid reason (relationship problems) he stuck around the Phoenix area, living in modest apartments and working odd jobs. He honed his backpacking skills. It became a science to him.
Today he was on a flight to Phoenix where he would pick up his supplies and rental car. The advantage of a three-hour time difference is that he could prepare his pack for an early departure in the morning.
He did not sleep well in the motel but still woke energized. With a quick breakfast he was off to the mountains.
The Old Bible Trail followed a creek from the desert floor to the headwaters at the continental divide gap. Many years ago it was a cattle herding trail from the east side of the mountains to the west. It was named for a wandering old guy who evangelized Bible prophecy at the cowboy camps.
There was a time when Philbert would hike all the way across in a single weekend (but often arriving late for work on Monday). He was having no part of that for this trip. Besides the fact that he was much older, he also hoped to stay for a week or ten days, so his pack was over 70 pounds. He would be in no hurry.
At the trailhead he went over his checklist. That list had been developed over a hundred or more trips, and was obsessively detailed. Satisfied that everything was in order, he started up the trail. The feeling was exhilarating — the Arizona sun, the perfect temperature and a staggering view of the desert floor all energized his walk.
He didn't get very far. The first part of the trail was steep in spots and Philbert realized that sitting on his ass for months working on the Array had not been good for his health. He found a nice spot and set up camp.
In the old days he was way up into the manzanitas by the end of the first day. He liked this area, there was prickly pear, Palo Verde trees, water-efficient plants like creosote bushes — and those damned jumping cacti.
He wandered about, talked to a horned toad, saw a couple of diamondbacks and witnessed a hawk swooping down on some unsuspecting prey.
The daylight was waning so he set up his tent and collected firewood. The first night had to be basic prepackaged camp food, filling but kinda bland.
The best part of an evening is building a campfire. Philbert rarely cooked on an open fire, it was there for comfort from the evening coolness. He was a complicated man. The fire was not. This was the point.
There was always something hypnotic about a small campfire on the trail, in particular this kind of trail. Starting at the desert floor and hiking to several thousand feet in elevation meant that the indigenous foliage was different every day, so every campfire burned different wood. The scent of the fire was unique every night.
There are no bears or other animals to get into your food bag at night when in the desert, a chore he was glad to skip tonight.
Philbert let his fire burn out and called it a day. Snuggled into his sleeping bag he wondered if Passant was watching. He was asleep in two minutes. He was at home here.
The first morning breakfast on the trail is always special — bacon. It doesn't keep long in the warmth so it's a special treat on the first day.
"Well crap. I left the bacon in the car," he lamented. The bacon was on the list but he must have glossed over it. The list was 47 items long. Bacon was number three. He hoped that it was his only mistake.
Coffee is required. In the old days Philbert fixed cowboy coffee: boil water with coffee grounds then wait for the grounds to settle before drinking. Yuck. For a while he tried cup-sized paper filters but the waste was a problem. The answer was a linen handkerchief used as a filter. Just shake it out and hang it up to dry for a bit.
The first day hike was a moderate elevation change but he cursed himself for letting his cardio health go. He stopped often to rest but also to take in the beauty. Millions of years ago this creek was a wide river that carved its way through the mountain. Now it was only twenty feet across, meandering through the canyon.
For the most part the trail followed the creek, although the crossings were many. The creek was shallow and was easy to cross. In the warmth of the desert day it was quite invigorating. There were places where the canyon walls meet the creek. Here the waters are fast, and the trail goes uphill and around to avoid this. It was a steep hike with a 70lb backpack. Philbert wondered where the original cattle trail was. There was no way a cattle herd could manage this much elevation change.
Finally he came to the top; the hike back down to the creek would be easier. It was midday and Philbert decided to take a break and fix something to munch. He ate a little pita bread stuffed with preserves, then grabbed his bag of pistachios and reconnoitered the area. He walked to the edge of the canyon. The view was breathtaking; he could see the creek below, and even at this height could hear the frogs chortling. He could see the desert floor in the distance. The air was clear and had a scent of something ancient.
It was only the second day on the trail but that first feeling of belonging was taking hold.
On the way down he noticed that the creek formed a small sky-blue pond. The frogs were loud now and sounded like fat-assed bullfrogs so he pulled out his field binoculars to get a look at them. Not fat, these prolific speakers were only an inch or two long and bright green.
"Oh holy cow! Are those fish in the pond?" were the first words he'd spoken in a day or two.
Philbert loved to fish ever since he was a child fishing with his Dad or Uncle Bill. As an adult he was a catch-and-release guy but felt bad torturing the creatures for his enjoyment. On the trail though it was different. Fresh fish fixed over an open fire is too much to resist. He was excited to get back down to the creek level. Too excited as it turned out.
"Ouch, dammit, oh shit!"
The trail was steep and he had stepped down over a rock that gashed the back of his calf. It was too steep here to stop so he continued down to a flat spot. By the time he got there his shoe was filled with blood.
"Bad, bad, bad!"
He had to get the rest of the way down to the creek to deal with this properly so he got some gauze and crudely taped the cut and headed down.
When he got to the creek he was disappointed that there were no flat spots to set up camp. He would need to ford the creek with an open wound.
He got his ground cloth and med kit from his pack and flopped down, half afraid to look at how bad the cut was. Finally, lying on his back, he lifted his leg and took a look. The water had rinsed the blood away and the coolness of it had stopped most of the bleeding. The cut was about three inches long and looked to be about three-quarters of an inch deep.
"Shit, shit, this is going to take stitches and it ain't going to be easy."
Years of experience had increased the number of items in his med kit to deal with minor injuries, but this was not a minor injury. He only had an ounce of alcohol and very little tape and gauze. He did have a good selection of sewing needles and thread. He still had his second quart of drinking water to rinse the wound with. He had a little packet of lidocaine for pain.
He found a low, flat rock to sit on that allowed him to bend his lower leg back so that he could see the wound. He spread his cloth out and put together what was needed to do the job.
The first stitch was painful because he forgot the lidocaine, but after application it was much better. Twenty-two stitches later and he was done.
The thoughts began. "I'm going to be here for a while." Infection was his first worry. Who could know what was on that rock and what organisms live in the creek water.
The next thought pissed him off. He had allowed himself to be distracted thinking of fishing and food, dumbass! The backcountry required focus; there is no help out here for the careless. This was either admirable self-possession or a diagnosable condition.
The next thought was astounding to him. He had done a beautiful job of stitching the wound and was pretty unstressed in the process. Philbert was ordinarily a wimp when it came to blood and needles.
"There it is," he remarked out loud.
That feeling of confidence and harmony that he had felt many times in the backcountry had returned. It occurred to Philbert that this feeling was why he was compelled to do solo wilderness hikes.
He started to set up camp but noticed something disturbing. About three feet up in the bushes and trees were clumps of leaves and small debris. This area floods!
Occasionally there are heavy rainstorms far upstream. The water has no place to go but down this narrow canyon in an unstoppable flash flood. The danger is that it may not be raining here, and there may not be any warning of a wall of water bearing down on the unsuspecting camper.
He had to find higher ground for his camp.
He had hiked down the one side of the canyon, not much flat space there, so he headed toward the other canyon wall. The canyon was only a few hundred yards wide here, mostly flat, completely beautiful.
Not far away was an old riverbed and beyond it looked to be an upward slope. Sure enough, there was a meadow-like area of short grasses, bordered by bushes and some small trees. It was well above flood level and also not far from the creek. Perfect!
He went back to the creek, gathered his stuff and returned to set up camp.
He so wanted to wander around and check the area out but there was work to be done first. Backcountry camping is a lot of work. Gather firewood, get rocks for a fire ring, set up the water purifier, find a tree to hang his food bag at night and set up the tent.
After his tasks were done he munched a little and threw some stuff into a fanny pack for some exploration. The old riverbed would be first.
He had always loved the dry riverbeds. They were a combination of a rock garden and jewelry store. He rock hopped his way downstream, and his leg felt fine. He felt fine.
A ways downstream the old riverbed and the creek converged at a rocky overhang and around a bend was a breathtaking pond bordered on the canyon side by a large flat rock. A perfect fishing spot.
He went to a small sandy beach and sat quietly looking for fish. A tiny crawdad caught his attention. "Better watch out buddy, you might be bait tomorrow."
As he was watching the crawdad, a water beetle darted up and grabbed the poor thing. Apparently it injected it with something because it was motionless when the beetle backed away.
The A. herberti is a sit-and-wait predator that catches small animals — invertebrates, aquatic insects, snails, even small fish and tadpoles. Prey are seized with strong front legs and stabbed with a proboscis that injects saliva to incapacitate and dissolve them.
It was a creepy experience but also a reminder of how life evolves through difficult steps. Tomorrow he would be the predator.
He wandered back to camp and on the way found an animal path that followed the old river bed. It would be an easier walk in the morning with his fishing gear.
He dropped his camp stove prepping for dinner, which required cleaning the sand out of the ports. He was still not quite right in his head.
The remainder of the day was mostly one of rest and a long logbook entry.
He fell asleep to a symphony of frogs and insects.
He was surprised that his leg felt good in the morning. When he removed the bandage there was no evidence of redness or infection.
He had gotten lucky to set up here. It was a wide, more-or-less long open area with a mix of mature trees and other riparian vegetation. The old riverbed was a mix of pebbles, rocks, sand and some car-sized boulders. The creek had long ago meandered away from it.
He thought it best to spend the day here fishing and exploring and then decide in the morning whether to continue with the hike or to head out for medical attention.
It was a gorgeous Arizona morning, sunny with a slight breeze. He did his morning due diligence, put snacks and sunscreen in his fanny pack, grabbed his fishing gear and headed to the pond.
His enjoyment of fishing had begun decades earlier, on a backcountry trip with the wife at the time. It had been raining and the wife stayed in the tent reading. He had put on his rain gear and gone to a nearby stream to play. He only had 20 feet of monofilament fishing line and several small hooks for survival utility. With a stick and some makeshift bait, he fished for Apache trout. It was a blast. He was hooked. Over the years his fishing gear evolved but still only weighed several ounces.
Philbert settled in on the flat rock, got his rod and reel together and put himself into the "I'm smarter than a fish" mode. Where are they and what do they want? The first target was the sunfish seen darting out from a rock overhang. It didn't take long to figure out what they wanted, and soon he had caught and released several nice ones. "Sunfish will do, but I want bass," he thought aloud.
He cast his line around without a bite. "Must be the wrong time, wrong bait or wrong place," he thought. It was time to explore a bit.
He put his fanny pack on and started downstream. The pond yielded to the creek, which followed near the canyon wall. He wondered why there was a clear path even though he knew that it did not meet the main trail. The answer soon came; a spring!
The area was a lush oasis with grasses and vegetation, and in the middle was the spring gushing cold, crystal clear water from the canyon wall. Cold water, or cold anything, was a luxury in the backcountry. Philbert indulged with vigor.
He felt sticky and he had been in the same clothes since the first day.
"It's time for a bath." There was a small pool with a pebble bottom, a sweet bathtub. He stripped down, washed his clothes with camp soap, and hung them up. He indulged in the cool, invigorating water.
He took his wet clothes and went back up the trail to the flat rock. He hung his clothes in the sun, got his sitting pad out and sat on the flat rock naked.
Looking across the canyon he was struck with the image that he was in a cathedral. The rock pillars and afternoon shadows were breathtaking. The feeling of the sun on his skin, the sound of the frogs and gurgling creek, the scent of scrub pine and clean air, all combined to force a contemplative state that bordered on epiphany. Here we are, God — a naked man in a heaven on earth.
Back at camp he gathered firewood for the night and suddenly realized that his water bottles were almost empty. He regretted not filling one at the spring. It would be dark soon but he decided to walk back to the spring for water. By the time he got there he needed his flashlight to walk safely. He filled his water bottles and sat down on a nearby rock.
The frogs were in full voice. With a quirky impulse he turned his flashlight off. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he was flabbergasted at the sight. Glow worms covered the ground and clung to the bushes and the canyon wall. It was magical and also disorienting, like being in space, surrounded by stars.
"What the heck is going on?" The glow worms were fading in and out in waves from the spring and outward. It made Philbert feel like he was moving. How did the glow worms organize this show, and why? He felt privileged to be a witness to it.
He made it back to camp, ate and sat with the fire before turning in. Sleep came almost instantly.
Dawning is the day. He woke antsy to get on up the trail. The leg wound was healing quite nicely and he decided that fording the creek would be OK. After coffee and breakfast he packed up and started out.
It was an easy hike with most of the trail following his side of the creek. The elevation was such that cottonwoods, willows, and mesquite trees dotted the landscape. Mesquite meant that tonight's fire would be aromatic.
Backcountry trails are marked with cairns, just simple piles of rocks to indicate the best route. It's almost impossible to get lost when hiking in a canyon but a lot of time can be wasted following bogus trails.
Every decision that we make in life takes us down a different path to the future. Too bad there are no cairns in real life to guide us, he thought.
A couple of hours of hiking brought him to a wide meadow. There were softball-sized buffalo gourds under lush leaves. Philbert took a couple for a treat at dinner time.
He took frequent breaks to munch and explore. He found some beautiful quartz crystals in the creek and what looked like gold flecks in the sand. No time for panning today, he had a goal to make before sundown.
Another hour of walking and he found what he was looking for; a hot spring. Hot water poured from a fissure in the canyon wall feeding a tub made of piled rocks. The tub may have been made by cowboys many years ago. He would set up camp nearby and indulge in a warm bath in the morning.
Much of the area was lush wildflowers and grasses and he found a nice spot with an old fire ring already made. He set up his water purifier first as it took about an hour to fill both of his bottles. He had gotten Giardia once that turned a nice hike into a continuous horror of latrine runs.
With his tent set up and firewood collected he reconnoitered the area. A hummingbird buzzed him!
Philbert had carried a tiny hummingbird feeder and food with him for many years. It never took the little birds long to find it and they were also interested in people. They would fly right up to his face when he was sitting still. One little guy seemed to follow him around.
In the morning he was sitting down and making notes in his logbook when a hummer flew up and hovered in front of Philbert. Its colors were brilliant in the sun. He had heard that the indigenous peoples thought that a hummingbird kiss was good luck so he puckered up his lips and said out loud "Kiss me little one," and it did! It shot its little tongue out right between his lips and then zoomed off, likely offended by the taste of coffee and pistachios. It was pure joy — a feeling that harmony with nature is harmony with reality. He wondered how many others have had this experience.
Engagement leads to exposure. Exposure leads to interest. Interest leads to passion. Passion leads to discovery.
The rock tub was perfect! The flow rate and temperature were high enough that it didn't have the sliminess that most hot springs do. The water was chest deep and crystal clear. He got his camp soap and rag and had a wonderful bath with a good wash of his hair as well. The warmth and the view were relaxing. He leaned back and took a nap.
He woke with an odd feeling that eyes were upon him. There on a tree branch was a ringtail raccoon staring at him. "I hope my nudity does not offend you, little guy," he offered. The raccoon chortled something back in another language.
"Can Passant see this? God could," — it was his first thought of Passant in days.
Sitting at the campfire that night Philbert decided to head up the trail the next day. It was sweet and comfortable here, but he was looking forward to the manzanita groves on up the trail.
His topo map indicated a difficult hike today. The trail showed many cutbacks leading up to a mesa at the top. He felt strong starting out after a good breakfast.
The trail was steep in places, and he had to stop often to get his breath back. Again he cursed himself for not maintaining his conditioning. After three hours of pain he came over a rocky knoll to a spectacular view.
To the west he could see the gap in the continental divide and the dense forest of pine trees. To the north were the mountains extending toward infinity. Far in the distance to the southwest he could see the desert floor. He thought that he could make out range fire smoke.
He was pretty well tanked and decided to stay here for the night. The area was mostly flat, sandy and rocky, with dense groves of manzanitas. He found a nice sandy area next to a giant boulder for his camp.
After the tasks of setting up camp were done he was tuckered out. He put his groundcloth down and leaned against a rock with his pistachios and a lime. After several days on the trail a lime is an incredibly refreshing treat.
He was soon greeted by a troupe of chipmunks attracted by the scent of the nuts. He tossed them one by one and the little guys charged quickly to claim their prize. They soon realized that he was no threat and came closer. Minutes later one was begging from the tip of his shoe while another sat on his shoulder and tried to snatch anything he could. Philbert was highly entertained.
He spent the remainder of the day exploring the area. He had always loved this kind of landscape. The contrasting colors of the manzanitas with their burnt brown trunks and bright green leaves were striking. Manzanitas tended to grow in dense groves ten to twenty feet in diameter. They are seldom over twenty feet tall. The blooms are close arrays of tiny pink upside-down vases. They are gorgeous.
He was getting tired and the day was waning so he headed back to his camp.
From the corner of his eye he saw something fall from a tree into a grassy area. He thought that it might be some kind of fruit but when he got to the tree there was no evidence of other fruit on the tree. "Must have been a branch or piece of bark falling," he thought. But there in the grass was something that made his mind reel.
Eyes on a beautiful black face looked up at him. "No, no, no, not a good time for an LSD flashback," Philbert exclaimed even though he had never had an LSD flashback.
What he saw however had to be a hallucination.
He knelt closer. There she was, staring up at him with dark brown eyes and an expression on her face like that of calm dignity. He looked up and focused on the distance to gauge if maybe he was hallucinating other things. When he looked back down her eyes were closed. Philbert could only say "Hello."
She did not move but still looked alive, vibrant and outrageously beautiful like pictures that he had seen of ancient African queens.
Her body was much too small for her head, undefined like the stem of a polypore mushroom. Her face was deep black with shiny, smooth skin. Her hair was short with small curls falling to her forehead. The sight was difficult to look away from. He stared for many minutes. The feeling that he got from the expression on her face was profound. He didn't know what to think but he did feel overwhelmingly "spiritual."
Philbert was not much of a photographer but he did always carry a camera. It was the only technology that he permitted himself to have on the trail. He broke his gaze and went to get it.
It took a few minutes to dig the camera out of his pack, a few more to find the battery, and still a few more to adjust the settings.
When he got back to her spot it was disturbing. Now all that was left was a black powdery mass. No shining skin, no big beautiful eyes, only shriveled black powder. Philbert burst into tears. Sadness and loss flowed over him; he felt ill.
"Buddy, I overdid it today, it's time to sleep it off."
He fixed one of his favorite camp meals just before dark and then indulged in a hot chocolate with whiskey and Kahlua. He got his campfire started and hunkered in for the evening. Life is good but very, very strange, he thought.
He needed to empty his bladder before turning in, so he grabbed his flashlight and walked off for a ways. When he stopped he clicked his light off. There was no moon tonight and after a few moments his eyes adjusted to the darkness. "Oh my lord," as the stars and the Milky Way became visible. The light pollution of city lights always prevented this astounding view. Here it was obvious.
"The stars extend all the way down to the horizon," he piped out loud.
He went back to camp and got his sleeping pad and bag. The boulder next to his camp was perfect for his purpose. The top was more-or-less flat and he put down his pad and snuggled into his sleeping bag.
He could feel the warmth of the boulder on his back. He could hear the slight rustling of the bushes in the cool breeze.
The stars extended to the periphery of his vision. He was no longer on Earth. He was no longer an Earth man. He had an overwhelming feeling of belonging.
He felt the Magnificent Perfection of this world.
This was not an image on a screen — this was reality. He remembered the thoughts and events of the last several days as pointers to a new path, a path more verdant than any before now.
"Magnificent Perfection" was a phrase from an old Moody Blues song, "The Balance." The comforting sound of Graeme Edge's voice brought tears to his eyes every time. It occurred to Philbert that much of his life philosophy was rooted in music.
He woke with a clear memory of a dream. He was at the bottom of a great cavern. The top was open and the sun shone through.
The floor of the cavern was lush with vegetation. To one side was a field of ferns, and to the other was a meadow, bright with colorful flowers and low grasses. Before him were great leaves the size of a man. There was a little meandering creek gurgling its way through a carpet of moss.
A little creature that was like a cross between a hermit crab and a turtle followed his movements. It had a short conical shell with many little legs underneath.
He had little eyes on stems that protruded from under his shell and they watched him intently. Philbert tossed bits of ramen to the creature which he gobbled up. He called him Nimbie.
He could hear the sounds of civilization from the surface above. He looked for a way to climb out but the walls were steep. Nimbie followed him around.
He gave up and sat down, and leaned against a rock. Nimbie crawled onto his leg. "I love it here, little guy, it's warm and beautiful but I need to go home."
Philbert loved it here.
Nimbie soon brought friends. They did tricks.
They went to the walls and clung firmly to the sides. Philbert woke up as he was climbing out.
It was time to go home renewed. He had found his center.
Different emotions are dealt with in different pockets of the brain. Every one of them was full today.
It is important that Philbert has had this epiphany. It is work, and there are dangers and inconveniences, but this is a heaven. The idea of Magnificent Perfection and oneness with reality will help him accept what is coming next.