Urban Wilderness

Urban
Wilderness

Dreaming of Doe Mountain in Sedona, but staying home.

Fay Canyon in Flagstaff is on my post-crisis to-do list

Four
blocks from my house, there’s a yard with the most gorgeous hollyhocks.  I must have walked my dogs past the little
bungalow dozens of times on our 5 a.m. and 9 p.m. walks, but the hollyhocks
never caught my attention.  A few homes
down the street, chickens scratched the ground behind a non-descript brick home.
African daisies bobbed among aloe vera plants in a weedy space between an alley
and a median.  For the more than 20 years
I’ve lived and walked in my Central Phoenix historic neighborhood, these
details were lost among doggie poop pick up stops, rogue chihuahua encounters and
occasional chats with neighbors who happened to be out and about at my fringy
walking hours.  Most of the homes in my
corner of Downtown are old, some coming up on 100 years in age, and encompass architectural
styles that include, among others, Tudor, Hacienda, Territorial, Art Moderne,
English bungalows and a few new-builds that made attempts at replicating the neighborhood’s
historic vibe with varying degrees of success.

Dreaming of Bill Williams Mtn Trail, but not now.

It took the COVID-19
pandemic for me to fully appreciate the diversity and weathered beauty of where
I live. 

Billy Creek in the White Mountains, can't wait to get back.

Prior to
the new reality of social distancing, my weeks were defined by a full time,
Monday through Friday job, a Saturday hike and Sundays doing house and yard
work, and those dawn-dusk walks.  Things
have temporarily changed.

Even though
most hiking trails are open for business, I’ve made the decision to forfeit my
weekend excursions to avoid adding to the headaches of our already overburdened
healthcare workers and first responders. 
Of course, missing my weekly trips to explore new trails and places
across Arizona has been tough. I miss it terribly. It’s as if a part of my
brain shut down.

The void
is blacker than I ever expected. Hiking is a big part of my life and its abrupt
removal from my weekly rhythm feels like losing a limb.

As a hiker,
risk-taking is part of my world view. And yet, these are not normal times. Choices
are no longer individual, they are collective. I’m not willing to put others
risk for my personal satisfaction.

To keep my
wanderlust under control, I’m hiking familiar sidewalks close to home, crossing
streets when others approach and not worrying that I’ll get lost or seriously
injured while doing so. It’s the same fresh air and mental health benefits I’d
get on a trail. While sidewalks may not provide the challenge of trails, rediscovering
the treasures of my urban wilderness has been enlightening.  Also, I made some really bad paintings from some
of my old trail photos.