Flagstaff, Arizona. It's late June of 2002. About six months ago, I moved from Chicago to a house here that my sister, her boyfriend and I shared. Now we've moved out of the house. All my worldly goods are secured with a padlock in a storage unit south of the railroad tracks. The little in-law apartment I've rented in Sedona won't be ready for a week.
My cat, Oliver, is staying with my sister and her boyfriend in their new apartment. My German shepherd, Shuby, is with me. We're in the Jeep. It's in the mid-80's and sunny. I've got the top down so I can enjoy unimpeded views of the deep blue sky stretching out over my head in all directions. I'm wearing a pair of cutoff denim shorts and a long-sleeved white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, sunglasses, and a blue bandana on my head to keep my hair out of my face. Shuby is wearing his braided leather collar. His tags jingle when he moves.
Shuby and I are on our way south out of Flagstaff. We're on 89A, heading to Oak Creek Canyon. The two-lane road rolls past turnoffs for the airport and Fort Tuthill, continuing on through part of the Coconino National Forest, where sheep and cattle spend summers grazing in the shade of the Ponderosa pine forests. The Forest Service has been working hard in this area already, clearing away slash that, should a wildfire strike under the right conditions, would cause the flames to spread fast enough to wipe out the entire thirteen miles of the canyon in less than an hour.
The air is cool, fragrant with the scent of pine. Shuby and I stop near the vista point at the head of the canyon, but I pull to the side of the road instead of parking in the lot. I leash him and we walk along the shoulder a short ways, then cross over to an open area near the viewpoint. We climb the short slope, and Oak Creek Canyon opens out in front of us, much narrower at this end than it is farther south, at Sedona. Oak Creek is one of the few places in this part of the state where water can be found - above ground - throughout the year. I can't see the it from this vantage point. The road, visible as hardly more than a grey ribbon, disappears through the canopy of trees that line both sides of the road twelve hundred feet below us.
A raven croaks at us with his raspy voice and launches itself from a nearby tree. As he swoops past us out over the canyon, I can hear the wind rushing through his wing feathers: whoosh, whoosh. Ignoring the raven, Shuby sniffs around, pees on the base of a pine tree, and we walk back to the Jeep. When I open the door and unleash him, Shuby leaps into the passenger seat and takes up his favorite position for descending the switchbacks: sitting straight up, looking straight ahead, nose pressed to the windshield. Tongue lolling out as far as it will go to one side. Eyes and ears alert. A huge doggie grin on his face. From what I can tell, he seems to consider riding down the switchbacks - any set of switchbacks - an extreme sport.
We round the right-hand curve that leads to the first long downhill slope, and I downshift to save my brakes till I really need them. I love driving these switchbacks. The road is steep and narrow in places; the curves are corkscrew-tight. The Jeep hugs each curve like a long-lost friend. Only in a few places are there any attempt at guard rails. It amuses me that, in the Midwest, no expense is spared to put up guard rails at the slightest little hillocks in the road. Here in the West, there's no such attempt to coddle or protect motorists. It's assumed that if you're driving, you know how to keep yourself on the road regardless of how precarious it is. If you don't know, tough.
I'm about halfway down when I glimpse a flash of bright color in my rearview mirror. I round a curve, slowing a bit to allow whatever is behind me to come into full view. It's a guy on a road bike. He's got on one of those spandex racing outfits like they wear in the Tour de France. It's canary yellow with black stripes and has a lot of words printed across it. As soon as I see him, suddenly the rest of them are there, too - about twenty of these guys altogether, riding in a tight knot. Wearing shorts and jerseys of bright primary and secondary colors, like the first guy's: red, blue, green, orange, more yellow. They're not going that much faster than I am, but they have momentum. It's more dangerous for them to try to slow or stop at this speed, on this type of sharp decline. I bring the Jeep almost to a stop and pull off to the side as much as I can to let them pass. The leader flashes a peace sign at me, and in the next instant they're fluttering past my like butterflies, shirt fabric whipping in the wind, thin tires droning on the pavement.
By the time I've reached the fish hatchery the air has begun to change. When I reach the bridge at Pumphouse Wash, near the bottom of the switchbacks, it's almost ten degrees warmer than it was when I left Flagstaff. The hot, dry air permeates me to the core, relaxing me as I drive the next few miles to the Cave Springs campground. I plan on camping there for a couple nights. Shuby leans back in the seat, props his right front leg on the door handle and tilts his head up to get a deeper whiff of whatever scent he's caught on the breeze.
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