Outdoors/Adventure

A few days in the desert (with lots of sunscreen) is the perfect break from an Alaska winter

A few months ago I booked a work trip to the southwest for the middle of winter. As I was finalizing the itinerary, I hemmed and hawed. After a full week of work, wouldn't I just want to go home? Or should I take the opportunity, extend the trip and hang in the desert for a weekend?

The decision was easy when I realized that a friend from Alaska had recently moved to Phoenix. I got in touch and we confirmed the weekend. I pondered what it would be like to pack for a full week of work followed by backpacking, with the requisite extra empty suitcase to bring back full of Trader Joe's.

In a brilliant move, I put off packing until the last possible moment. Laundry rolled around in the dryer until late Sunday night. I stuffed my sleeping bag into my backpack, made sure I had at least four packets of Starbucks' Via Instant Coffee (priorities), and shoved in some sneakers. I also packed a scarf and some jewelry. I figured I should at least attempt to look semi-professional for the main point of the trip.

In Phoenix, I realized I was missing a tent. I sighed loudly as I shuffled with my bulky luggage toward the rental car center. This is basically my approach to life in a nutshell, I thought.

I was told 80 degrees was unseasonably warm for this time of year in Arizona. I didn't argue — on the first day of my desert trip, I took five obnoxious selfies and sent them to my husband with the announcement that surely I would be a blonde by the end of the week.

Later I realized he was replying from a sub-zero situation in Anchorage and felt only slightly guilty. I was, after all, sun drunk.

The real guilt set in late in the week as I re-shuffled my gear once again to get ready to go camping. Scarves and jewelry went into a side bag, along with my pile of Trader Joe's. Out came the sleeping bag, pad, instant coffee and headlamp. With a zip, I was ready to go — minus the tent, of course.

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My friend graciously offered to share her tent and, after picking up some stove fuel, we were off. Our trailhead in Sedona was only a couple of hours north of Phoenix. In the car, we slowly climbed from Saguaro country and finally saw the distinctive walls of red rock in the distance. I'd seen them once. But I'd never camped there, much less backpacked.

We rumbled around on a red dusty dirt road off the main highway, until a small sign announced our trailhead. It was 2 p.m. and the sun blazed down on this Alaskan's snowy white skin. I sprayed sunscreen until I was sure every part of me was coated.

At the beginning, the trail was pink and sandy. We were surrounded by beautiful views of nearby red rock formations jutting into the sky. Knotted, smooth maroon knuckles of Manzanita grew on either side of the trail, with iridescent green leaves. Lighter green and purple prickly pears lay in clusters, alongside bursts of yucca every few steps. Shockingly, there was quite a bit of tree shade.

We started to climb through a pine forest that smelled like sand, sun and the many straw-colored needles on the ground. Switchbacks led us up the side of a yellow and pink canyon.

Overall, it was about a 1,500 foot climb — no small feat for me, since the altitude was in the 6,000s and I was carrying more than two gallons of water. But like always, the awe that took over from the emerging view over Loy Canyon offset the increasing difficulty.

We stopped at a natural outcropping and noticed two flat spots, clearly used by tent campers and punctuated by a well-established fire ring. There was no question where we'd camp. It was about 4 p.m. and we dropped our bags, grabbing water to continue a little more up the side of the canyon.

We returned to our camp just as the sun was setting in a brilliant orange, red and pink burst of color in the sky and across the canyon. We were lit in the same pink light and marveled at our luck at finding this spot and having not seen any other humans nearby.

My friend remarked that perhaps we were the only people in the entire canyon that night. It was a Saturday and the forecast was for temperatures in the 40's. Maybe for Phoenix residents that's prohibitively cold, but we were both used to Alaska. It was balmy.

We set up camp, added layers and ate pasta by the fire pit. We jabbered until 10 p.m. and then decided to turn in.

Except, I decided not to go inside. I rolled out my foam sleeping pad right next to the tent, pulled my bag out of the stuff sack and lay down. After pulling 10 sharp red rocks out from under my pad and squirming as far up as I could without actually hitting my head on a yucca plant, I settled down and looked up at the sky. Stars were everywhere. I could see Orion and the subtle belt of the Milky Way across the sky.

Halfway through the night I opened my eyes and saw that the stars had been drowned out by a bright white moon. Everything around me was silver. A slight wind stirred the tent. I burrowed deeper into my warm sleeping bag, telling myself if a mountain lion wanted me he would have won by now.

In the morning the moon hung on in the sky as long as it could as sunrise lit the canyon in the reverse order from the night before. Pinks turned to yellows and finally bright, warm light shone down on our campsite. I changed into shorts and a tank top and pulled my sunscreen back out, spraying until it seemed excessive.

Alaska is magic, but so is the desert. Taking the opportunity to tack on some extra time to a work trip so you can go explore is the way to go — especially in the middle of a dark winter.

Next time I may just make the stand-alone trip. There is something spectacular, freeing and rejuvenating about walking through the quiet desert. For me it feels as awe-inspiring as my favorite parts of Alaska.

Alli Harvey lives in Palmer and plays in Southcentral Alaska.

Alli Harvey

Alli Harvey lives in Palmer and plays in Southcentral Alaska.

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