If you asked me what my favorite trail is, I would tell you that it’s the little piece of Huachuca Canyon single track near our last home on Fort Huachuca in southern Arizona. After running it for the first time, I would’ve never thought that one day I’d say it was my favorite. I thought it was nice—but it’s short—about 1.4 miles. It felt more like a connector trail than a destination in itself. Nothing to write home about, I thought.
But boy, how I miss that trail today. I could cry thinking about the fond memories I have of that trail, that canyon, and those mountains.
I was in the very early stages of pregnancy with my son during my first acquaintance with the trail. The ever so gradual climb into the canyon felt like a challenge. As the months went on and my son grew bigger it became more and more challenging. The lizards made their appearance scurrying across the trail during those summer months. The coues deer popped their heads up at me as they nosed around the dry grass. And the black bear and I shared the trail for a time. We never met in person, but she left her scat for a while. On those hot days it was impossible for me to make it up the trail without walking. I can remember the feeling of my hips aching and my lungs burning—compressed by a big healthy baby. But walking only meant more time to admire the wildflowers. I’d always report back to my daughter on what beautiful flowers were blooming that day. The trail filled me with such strength on those cloudy and cool days when my body had the power to make it up without walking. My feet got to know nearly every rock and root. I was in the mountains, but I was so close to home—I felt comfortable and safe. I began to look for the place on the trail where the logs were marked with traces from bark beetle—like a piece of intricately fatal woodwork atop the dry ground. I welcomed the sight of that sad, dried out prickly pear—it came just before the ravine near the short, rocky downhill. The one area that I really had to focus on my footing. During the monsoon months the creek alongside the trail was rushing and gloriously refreshing. I’d get to cross the creek at the end of the trail when I made it out onto the canyon road. Many times I ran the trail as an out and back. Cruising back down the trail I’d get to enjoy the momentum that the canyon gave me. I’d brush my fingertips along the grass toward the end of the trail before my feet made it back onto the pavement.
There was a time when I would’ve told you that I was sick of this trail. I was bored. I wished the Huachuca Mountains weren’t so steep so it would take less time to get up to the crest to explore. But that little piece of canyon single track was convenient so that’s where I’d go. And I’m eternally grateful for it. There is something so powerful and comforting about becoming familiar with a place through the changing of seasons—both weather and life. Be it a trail, a mountain range, or a stretch of sidewalk. It’s something I haven’t experienced often in long durations—with all the moves I’ve made with my family for my husband’s military career. While it pains me to feel like I haven’t had roots planted anywhere in a long while, it brings me waves of immense gratitude to have experienced a handful of homes—and home trails. And to have that astute sense of awe because each one has been so different than the last. I’m still trying to find my footing here in the city, but it’s more clear now than ever that the mountains feel like home.