Stone Mountain Park

It’s a late spring day and the hot desert sun is already beating through my windshield, stinging my cheeks with a slight burn even though it’s only mid morning. I’m finally driving up into Stone Mountain, a mountain smack dab in the middle of the deep valley that is Tucson. I stare every morning at its cracked, rocky surfaces and saguaro cactuses from my balcony as I sip hot coffee, and make the large loop around it each day as I commute. Today is the day I get to visit the top and this time see if I can view my apartment.

After 20 minutes of driving a windy path so steep my head is pressed into the head rest, I park my car to begin the long hike to the outcropping near the summit. The sun is even brighter here and I have to shade my eyes. The smell of smog that permeates the air right below me has been replaced by a clean, dry breeze.

I reach the end of the path and find a cool, shaded place to sit under a stone gazebo built by Native Americans probably before white settlers were in the area. I slowly sip cold water as I finally feel rested enough to take in the view. It’s breathtaking to see past the factories, the freeways, and the buildings all the way to the mountains, mountains so high their peaks are obscured by the clouds. Over the roar of traffic from the nearby interstate, I hear a crow caw and am reminded of Don Juan and his omens. I just heard my own omen and decide it’s time to make my way back down the mountain. I take in one more deep breath and can smell a hint of moisture, the last remnant of a spring monsoon that had fallen the night before and lingered in the plants. I sigh and start walking.