Chimney Rock, Sedona, AZ.

I meandered down to Arizona last week with a friend. Our goals were to commune with the sun and the rocks, and to meet a member of our writers group who had moved to Flagstaff. Our home base for the week was Sedona. I’d driven through the town two or three times over the years — each time sparking a desire to stay longer. I was glad to finally have my chance.

Our first outing was meant to be an easy hike. My friend Linda and I had never traveled together before and she is ten years my senior, so a hike of just a couple miles with little elevation change would be a good test run. We chose a trail around Chimney Rock, which is basically right in town, and doesn’t require any special permits, at least not from the trailhead where we parked.

The morning sun soaked some much-needed Vitamin D into our pasty white Minnesota faces, which felt divine. The air at this elevation (4,300 feet) was cool, but much warmer than the snowy atmosphere back home.

The first part of the hike around Chimney Rock went as planned. The walking was easy and scenic. With lots of energy left, we chose a side trip around Little Sugarloaf Mountain, a formation as squat and square as Chimney Rock is vertical and finger-y.

Then we came to the sign marked “Summit.” I asked Linda if she wanted to try it. She made the mistake of shrugging and saying, “Sure.”

By way of explanation, I must say that neither of us did any research on the trail beforehand, other than looking at the general guide we had, which listed distances and elevation changes. So we embarked on the summit trail in oblivious innocence.

I figured that since it was an official trail, it must be safe and relatively easy. I was about to get an education. The path quickly became a vertical scramble up loose rocks and dirt — no railings to grab onto, no cautionary signs.

Our lungs worked hard in the thin air and we stopped several times to rest, but also to enjoy the view that was unfolding below. As we neared the summit, the trail got worse. At one point we stopped and debated turning around. Then another hiker approached us, coming down from the summit, and he told us the 360-degree view was worth the climb.

Little Sugarloaf Mountain. We climbed this sucker!

Linda and I looked at each other and decided to slog our way up the remaining twenty-five feet or so. The man was right — with the city spread below us and the red rock mountains in the distance, the view was amazing!

While we rested, we realized we would have to hike down the slippery rocks and loose gravel we came up. Linda was not wearing her best shoes because we hadn’t intended such a challenging climb. I told her we’d be okay as long as we went slowly and carefully. Her gaze was skeptical.

Nevertheless, after having our fill of the view, we headed down. It wasn’t as bad as we had feared. We just picked our way cautiously through the rocks, sometimes sliding on our butts, sometimes holding onto rocks or twisty juniper trees. On the way down, I noticed part of my tennis shoe sole had torn loose and lay mingled with the dust on the trail.

Once we reached the bottom, we congratulated each other for surviving. I asked Linda if I had any red sand on my butt that needed brushing off, sticking out my derriere for good measure. She spanked it much harder than required to remove a bit of sand.

I probably deserved that.

But I knew right then that I had a spunky travelling partner and that this was going to be a good trip.

What my shoe looked like after the hike. (It’s missing a few pieces in the heel.)