I slam on the brakes to keep from getting side swiped by a customized monster pickup truck with tires the size of a small house that was moving into my lane despite the fact that it was already occupied -- by me. But then I look up and notice an exit sign saying 'Idaho Road 2 miles', and my nerves ratchet down several notches because I am about to leave the zip-zip nerve rattling driving on US 60.
Exiting onto Idaho Road, a major street in Apache Junction, we head north past the infamous snowbird rookeries - motor home (RV) parks mixed in with shopping plazas that service the needs of snowbirds wintering in their RVs . Almost as if on automatic pilot, our car turns onto the Apache Trail, AZ state highway 88, leading into the Superstition Mountains.
Beyond the restaurants, bars and tourist traps -- attempts to lure tourists into the desert wilderness by unwildering its wilderness -- the Apache Trail enters the Superstition Mountains section of the Tonto National Forest and we are instantly engulfed by the open desert with its breathtaking vistas and quiet that you can sense even though the sounds of our automobile humming along the highway mask the desert's sounds of silence.
Within a few miles a dirt road off to the right beckons us into the desert. We bump along this road for two or three miles swerving this way and that to avoid the worst of the ruts, finally reaching the parking lot at First Water trail head. No one knows exactly where the water of first water is, or was. There is a creek, dry most of the year, about a half mile away, and a small trickling brook more than a mile away. One of these might be it, or it could be (have been) some ancient watering hole long since vanished. Or it could be that First Water just sounded like a good name for a trailhead.
Our escape from modern civilization via progressively less traveled byways, the last of which is a dirt road, mentally transports us to a much quieter time in which the sounds of travel consisted of the squeaking of wagon wheels, the rattle of trace chains and the tranquil snorting of horses mixed with their hoofbeats on solid ground.
In spite of the variety of cars in the parking lot, no one is around; the occupants all being out on one of the many trails that start at First Water. Stepping out of the car, the quiet of the desert embraces us with spiritual comfort unlike any to be found within even the most magnificent of cathedrals.
Joyce and I talk a bit as we start down Second Water Trail (There really is water at Second Water.), but we soon keep silent so that we may immerse ourselves in one of the best parts about these hikes -- the silence of the desert.
The silence of the desert is not the complete absence of sound, but rather a unique quiet consisting of such things as the gentle rustling of bushes and cacti from a mild wind, the fluttering and chirping of birds, the caw of ravens flying about, the buzzing of bees and the occasional swishing of a lizard scurrying across a rock. These are the sounds of silence.
We continue on down the trail listening to the sounds of silence when off in the distance we hear the faint but distinct sound of a covey (group) of hikers coming toward us. We call them coveys because their constant jabbering among themselves sounds like a flock of noisy birds. Their twittering gets progressively louder as they approach, and when they come into view we see that, like most coveys, they are composed almost exclusively of snow birds consisting of both the male and female of the specie.
In our many encounters with coveys of snow birds, the one thing they have in common, besides being snowbirds, is that they seem to have no idea what the quiet of the desert sounds like. How could they? Their jabbering and squawking could drown out a freight train, let alone the subtle sounds of the desert.
As we and the covey pass each other, they each give us a perfunctory 'hello', 'good morning', or 'nice day' ('It was till you came along', I say to myself.). Joyce being the gentler and more social of the two of us, returns their kind greetings with greetings of kind. I, on the other hand, having never been encumbered by such social niceties, choose to capitalize on their self-absorbency and age related presbycusis with a few creative salutations that, if they hear them at all, won't register, such as 'ya ya whatever', and other more caustic ones that I'd rather not mention.
As the jibber-jabber of the covey fades into the distance, we are once again encased in the sounds of silence unique to the desert. A short distance on down the trail brings us to an 'unofficial' trail that we follow back toward Hackberry Springs. Actual springs really do materialize there during the rainy season, but most of the time just a small brook trickles through.
The trail to Hackberry starts out easy enough but, being much less traveled than the main trail, becomes a bit challenging with slippery gravel and boulders to negotiate. The increased effort of making careful footfalls, along with the rising temperatures of the day, prompt us to shed sweaters and stuff them in day packs. Eventually we come upon a dry wash and follow it back a short distance to our favorite lunch/rest spot where we drop our packs and spread out an old beat up plastic tarp that we bring along for these occasions. Sitting down on the tarp, we down our PB&J sandwiches and rehydrate ourselves with lukewarm water which started out as ice water this morning. Simple meals fit the simplicity of the desert.
The quite of our secluded lunch spot (coveys don't venture off-trail), reminds me of Edward Abbey, the desert anarchist, who wrote that the wild places in nature are the wellsprings of our spirituality. Being in the middle of Abbey's beloved desert listening to its sounds of silence, and feeling the gentle breezes and warm sunshine wash over us as we lay back looking up at the clouds drifting by with their imaginary images is as close to a pure spiritual experience as is humanly possible in the 21^st^ century. Indeed, this place must be the wellhead of a spiritual spring.
By and by, as afternoon shadows creep in, we repack our packs and check to be sure that we have left nothing but footprints before heading back. Our return to the modern world mirrors the path we followed retreating from it: an encounter with a covey on the main trail; the sound of automobile tires crunching on gravel in the parking lot at First Water; rattling back along the washboard ruts in the dirt road; passing tourist traps, snowbird rookeries, and self-serve gas stations as we traverse Apache Junction; and, finally, the heads-up zip-zip monster truck encounter driving on US 60.
But the desert's sounds of silence remain within us rendering a calming effect and spiritual lift that hopefully will last at least until we once again venture into the desert.