My SUV was still filled with bits and tag-ends of my recently-ended contract; the subject of many long days of labor and planning, long nights of number-crunching and personnel management, meals missed and days flown away seemingly in the blink of one bloodshot, watery eye. For too long, I'd wrestled the demons of bureaucracy and pretentious procrastination, the casual indignities visited by the rich upon the surrounding world. Finally, and for good, I was free.

An hour away on the cacti-covered, boulder-strewn plateau surrounding Devil's Canyon lay a pack of climbing gear, waiting for my impatient attention. The cache was in a small cave, positioned in one of the most quietly spectacular canyons in the country. Alone, in this season of uncertain weather, my course was questionable. But every fiber of my being screamed that it was right.

Saguaro and cholla vied with the insane expansion of housing, developers' mania, and the influx of snowbird money as I negotiated the long straight line of Route 60 towards Florence Junction and across Gonzales Pass, Weaver's Needle rising above the Superstitions to my north. Barren hillsides marked the line of a fire three seasons ago and reminded me of just how fragile this seemingly harsh and unforgiving environment really is.

I'd spent a lot of my time in the desert building trails, or rather, choosing from the assortment and linking the sections, for there were many. There are miles of them, first dictated by the geography and habits of local wildlife, then by following feet, and later, ponies of the tribal inhabitants. They, in turn, were followed by the efforts of ranchers, miners and power companies.

Finally, this sprawling spider web network was reclaimed, to a tiny degree, by nuts like me. I passed the winter of 1997 and spring of 1998 with a bow saw and a pair of snippers clutched in cut and bleeding hands, hair limp with sweat, lower back and shoulders screaming for respite, and feet as sore as a pack mule's hooves. Only some rare genetic deviant can stop, look back at several hundred yards of good trail through the mist or rain or snow of an otherwise rotten day, and soaked to the bone, grin a small grin of some demented satisfaction. If a day ended like this, I'd call it a good one as I headed for camp: a smoky fire, a warm beer, watery stew, stale bread, and a damp sleeping bag. Oh God, the ROMANCE of it all!

"Only some rare genetic deviant can stop, look back at several hundred yards of good trail through the mist or rain or snow of an otherwise rotten day and soaked to the bone, grin a small grin of some demented satisfaction..."

Driving through the town limits of Superior broke my reverie and I ducked into a convenience store for water and MORE CAFFEINE!!! The ladies there were ever polite and helpful, whether to a single questioning climber or the mad, bovine throngs of the Phoenix Bouldering Comps. As usual, my coffee was free, waved off by Wilma, the transplanted Tennessee manager.

Heading back onto 60 East, I passed under the 177 bridge and wound up through the beauty and splendor of Queen Creek Canyon. The morning light colored the volcanic stone a thousand shades of crimson and purple stained to hues of gray and blue in the shadowed depths of the creek bed. Carved by time and storms into walls, pillars and outcroppings of varied difficulty, this area never failed to delight me, washing away all the mundane trivia left behind in metropolis.