Day 25: The Monsoon Cometh

Day Twenty-Five: The Monsoon Cometh

7/4/11:

Intending to relish our government holiday, Quentin, Joe, Noah and I took off for Parson’s Creek in Joe’s trusty green truck. A few hours south of Williams, we detoured through Cottonwood for Concho’s delicious horchata. It was the Fourth of July, and nothing made more sense to my mind than to eat la comida mexicana.

We made friends with our waiter, I drank my weight in horchata, and an hour later, Noah and I wedged ourselves into the truck’s tiny folding backseats. We continued southward, losing altitude and gaining heat. By the time we’d wound our way down Sycamore Canyon Road, a nasty, rough old thing, I was hot, sweaty, and more than ready for a swim.

Piling out of the truck, I surveyed Parson’s Trail, the mile or so path to the creek, while my very white compatriots slathered each other with sunscreen. I tried not to look directly at their sunscreen mambo line for fear of being blinded, although I must admit that their teamwork was fairly impressive.

With our essentials packed and our skin thusly preserved, we headed off down the trail. Other than the oppressive heat, the only truly memorable part of the hike in was Quentin, who routinely stopped to “call” for birds. Of course, this “calling” took the form of pshawing and loud kissing noises. The pshawing I understood, but the kissy sounds had taken a good day of getting used to. Quentin had pulled this call out during our first survey together, and I remembered being distinctly concerned, both for his sanity and for my safety. Undoubtedly in response to my alarmed expression, Quentin had quickly explained that these two calls were almost irresistible to birds. A few minutes later and I had been partaking in my own “kissy” calls to moderate success.

Fairly well dripping from the southern Arizona heat (I was used to the KNF which, at 7,000 feet, was a nice, mild, non-humid temperature), we poured onto the Parson’s Creek beach. Before I had time to pull out my towel, Noah, Quentin and Joe had fled into the water. I followed, skirting the camp of country folk (who protested our “city-slicker” selves), and waded into Parson’s Creek.

I poked around, exploring upstream and the nearby beach while los hombres hauled themselves up onto the rocks to sun their wee white bodies. There were stories, lots of rock jumping and a bit of banter with the yonder country folk. Following a good few hours of sun and water, we sleepily departed for Joe’s truck, encountering only minor bloodshed (mine, of course) on the way out.

The sky darkened promisingly as Joe took the wheel, and peering out the windows, we hoped for rain. It was just the beginning of monsoon season, and we’d been without rain since we’d all arrived (coming in staggered order: Joe followed by Quentin followed by Noah and me).

The clouds rolled, the rain came, and Joe pulled over. Spilling out of the truck, we all did our own rain dance and my already dry clothes were soaked again. Still enthralled by the monsoon, Joe was the only one to recall the flash flood warnings that had been posted along the road.

I wasn’t particularly bothered because I’d never experienced this weather before and didn’t know much about its capabilities, but los hombres wrangled me back into the truck and Joe took off, gaining speed as the downpour continued, small streams sloshing on either side of the road.

A flash flood sign popped up on my right suddenly, and Joe, unable to see out the windshield, pulled on his sunglasses, rolled down his window, and drove with his head sticking out of the truck. It was probably at this point that I started to get a mite bit worried. The truck kicked up mud, the road, which had taken us an hour to traverse on the way down, was no easier on the way up, and the rain was hitting the windshield in drowning sheets.

We were driving along part of the canyon wall, a sheer drop to my right, when the truck hydroplaned and Joe furiously worked to correct our slide towards the drop-off. Everyone tensed in those silent few seconds before the truck suddenly regained traction and Joe steered us away from the edge. Following the curve of the road, we slowed to pass the “End of Flash Flood Zone” sign.

Sighs of relief were issued from all around as Joe pulled his head back into the truck and dropped his sunglasses, revealing a comically stunned looking face. Crisis averted, we made another stop to take in the rain.

Of course, adrenalin running high, we weren’t ready for Williams just yet and instead wound our way up into Jerome. The “Largest Ghost Town in America” and “America’s Most Vertical City,” Jerome was once a mining town with a pretty wicked reputation. I had earlier been told that Jerome once boasted more prostitutes than residents (probably not a true fact); when Yelena pondered the economic viability of such a circumstance, I had only one word to offer: tourists.

Now tourists ourselves, we capped off a pretty perfect Fourth of July from 5,200 feet. Atop Jerome, we watched the thunderheads churn across the Arizona sky.

Photos: 1. Parson's Trail 2. Sunscreen mambo line (Noah, Quentin, Joe) 3. Parson's Creek (with Joe) 4., 5. & 6. First Arizona monsoon