By Rachel Barchus
Longlisted in the PureTravel Writing Competition 2023
For my 60th day of birth, I wandered off into a topography that I don’t find beautiful or comforting: the desert. I wanted to be spiritually stripped bare to the bone, hoping the intense exposure would shed light on my existence…43,800 sunrises and sunsets. I’ve been struggling to muster enthusiasm for the next 20 or so years.
I chose an adobe resort lodge built in the 40s, with its heyday in the 50s, a Southern Arizona summertime playground as my base camp. Nestled in a mesa, it offers inspiring views of the rugged Santa Catalinas mountain range rising across vast blue skies with whisps of cotton clouds.
Tumamoc Hill.
Set in an archaeological and sacred 860-acre ecological preserve in the Sonoran Desert, I was immediately drawn to this volcanic hill, not knowing its name means “Horned Lizard Mountain” in the tongue of the Tohono O’odlham tribe: Tsyumamoc. In Texas, we played with Horny toads as kids, believing they were mini triceratops.
Only 1.5 miles from the base to the top, the walk up the paved trail is deceiving with its steep incline and multiple switchbacks, including a 700-foot rise in elevation. I started as I always do with life: lean in to the incline.
Along my huffing-and-puffing trudge, two millennials jogged by with their Camelbacks, excitedly discussing their next climb, which was going to be “stupid hard.” No, my young friends, this right here is stupid hard: hiking with high blood pressure, sinus congestion, blown shoulder, leg lymphedema and heel plantar fasciitis.
At the halfway point, I shed my jacket, tied it around my waist, and considered turning around. My 60-year-old Rachel was pleading, you don’t need to push on, to prove. But my 10-year-old Rachel was insisting, what if there’s something awesome at the top? We can’t miss it!
Okay, okay, onward we walk.
Following a few rest stops to take in the green giant saguaro vistas leading to the brown Tucson valley below (and to rest my pounding heart and wheezing lungs), I finally reached the summit, raising both arms high to the sky in a gesture of hallelujah! I also dry spit into the stony dirt, having forgot to bring a water bottle.
I plopped down on a red granite rock to recuperate, when a younger woman with tattoos and headphones came up to me and asked, “May I give you a high five?” I was like, hell yeah. Slap! I admitted to her I had thought about quitting at the halfway mark. She had been ahead of me on the trail at the ¾ mark, stepping aside to tap her chest over her heart to steady her breathing. I passed her, but taking a cue, I also pulled over and mimicked.
After a few minutes of listening to the solo serenade of a Canyon wren, a prayer crystallized in my mind: I ask for health, peace in my relationship, and gratitude for life.
With that offered up, I wiped my sweaty face, dusted off my bottom, and hobbled down the switch-back descent, the clear air now much cooler.
I don’t know if I shed my old skin of 60 years, but I was given a gift from the desert: a renewed willingness (if not enthusiasm) to walk on…
