Patagonia

Waxing Crescent Moon

I wasn't supposed to be here yet. All this confusion is Amtrak's fault. Originally, I booked my ticket to Tucson for mid-February, still winter but leaning toward springtime in these parts. But Amtrak cancelled my train and the only available alternative was the one I settled for, the end of January/beginning of February - right smack dab in the evil heart of the howling polar vortex.

So how did I get to Patagonia, 50 trail miles from the border? Well, I didn't posthole my way over the snowy Huachuca Mountains, that's for sure. Joelle and Clyde, my newfound Sierra Vista trail angel buddies, talked me out of that one. Something about "winter advisory in effect" with a ton of new snow and temps in the teens. Details, details, details.

Instead, Clyde offered to take me to Sonoita in his sporty blue Prius as blustery rain held court beyond the windshield. I took shelter at the Sonoita Inn, a western style hotel that was once a western style shopping mall. I liked it. The rooms are named after local ranchers. Mine was called Blaine Somebody, and I was glad to be warm and dry in his brand-sizzled, all wood domain. Wind and rain continued to pummel the window glass all night and into the morning.

Cleone the friendly, personable inn manager, told me that that lady who owned the place used to be part owner of the super horse Secretariat. How cool is that?

I left the Sonoita Inn at about 9 a.m., headed for the lonesome gas station-turned-diner about a quarter mile up the highway. I knew it was a diner because, hanging up above the old gas pumps, there was a big red-lettered sign that read "DINER." It was blowing cold rain, I was hungry, and no way was I going to walk the 13 miles to Patagonia on an empty stomach.

Inside, there were half a dozen ball-capped dudes eating and two eyebrow-pencilled women working, one cook, one waitress. I could have been anywhere in the bloomin'  USA, it was so classic. I was at a DINER in America and I loved it.

I don't much care for hitchhiking, especially in the goldurn rain with the dadgum wind turning my fricken rain hood into an annoying air balloon. Prospective ride-givers might think I'm an alien with a giant head and pass me by. Who could blame them?

So I did what I always do. I asked the waitress politely in an audible but respectful tone if she knew anybody in town who could cart me to Patagonia. I offered to pay for somebody's breakfast or chip in 10 bucks for gas. Then I ordered my vittles, ate it all up, and sure enough, Rod from Wisconsin sauntered up and offered me a ride. Rod has a cool bird dog and a Chevy Equinox and soon I was in town.

I like Patagonia. I wonder what it looks like when it's not inside a raincloud.

This hike, if you can call it that, so far is an exercise in semi-manic flexibility. I have changed plans by the hour every day since I left home. Those first 50 miles of the trail? Not happening this trip. The remaining 750? It's anybody's guess. The AZT is divided into 43 passages. Tomorrow, I will leave from Patagonia to hike passages 4 and 5.

And then I'll go on to Tucson and make some more plans. Sooner or later the polar vortex will go away. Or else it won't. It's a good thing I don't give a sh*t!

Peace, Love, and Roll With It,
Jim