In a mood for big city recently, I scooted down to Phoenix in my little truck and noted with pleasure the sparkle of the Agua Fria downhill from Sunset Point. I took the exit to Rock Springs not to have pie but to have a closer look and sure enough, curley cues of snow melt laced together rocks under the bridge. I paused an hour for a walk on the Black Canyon National Recreation Trail and after enjoying the smell of wet creosote and the curves of big saguaros I motored on into the billboards, shopping centers, and lively intersections of the sixth largest city in the U.S. There I did urban things like showing a gal Jim Turrell’s Knight Rise at the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art and having lunch at the Rain Forest Café in Tempe. An animatronic silver-backed gorilla beat its chest and nodded its head over the table where we ate skewered coconut-encrusted shrimp. Imitation lightning flashed through outbursts of a faux monsoon storm.
Returning to the northland later, I thought about children taking selfies with fake elephants and it occurred to me maybe that is why Phoenix people flock to Flagstaff in droves. Maybe they’re seeking a cold dose of something real after too much grazing in theme restaurants. And then there it was, the Peaks beaming a beauty that is not a product of drawing board or corporate design. And doesn’t she look elegant dressed in January white.
Curious how Flagstaff’s recent snowfall ranked, I went to that Facebook Public Group page with almost 2,000 followers: Locals who still believe in Flagstaff’s weatherman, Lee Born. Lee recommended the details at weather.gov/flagstaff where you can click the tab, “El Nino Monitor.” The Flagstaff accumulated precipitation from October 1, 2015 to January 10, 2016 was 10.27 inches, third place behind 12.08 inches in 1965-66 and 17.48 inches in 1972-1973.
This data nudged me into a pleasant reverie about how both weather and memory fluctuates. I was in college at ASU in that wet winter of ’73. I remember how we Phoenix hiking types feasted on the cleaned-out swimming holes we found on weekend pilgrimages to favorite canyons. And for several snow-rich years we always went cross country skiing on Super Bowl Sunday because it was such a treat to find the highway less traveled and the woods near empty while other Americans clustered in living rooms to watch violence on tv.
But when did we build igloos? The ’83-84 winter was another year of above average snowfall and maybe that is when my gang of outdoor-loving pals drove north eager to experiment. I remember we parked along 180 where we could get well off the road. We brought waxless skis to trek through deep shadow and bright sun and to help us manage being wobbly with backpacks of gear, and we settled in the woods far enough to be out of sight of the highway but not so far we would be worn out by the trekking.
A climber, a couple of pilots, and rangers went into the woods and someone knew to tamp down the snow with our ski boots. Someone had brought a snow shovel and an ice saw to cut the blocks. We wannabe Eskimos low on the totem pole hauled the blocks to whoever had the right eye to grow the walls. Turned out we didn’t angle the blocks inward enough to avoid making quite a tall igloo, which meant maybe we cut more blocks than necessary, but at least we could stand up to peel off sweaty layers before putting on long underwear for bed. How snug it felt to be inside with candle lanterns and propane stoves as night surrounded and temperatures dropped. It was charmingly different than snow camping in a tent with a mere layer of fabric between sleeping bag and freezing. And going outside to take care of business brought the fun view of a glowing snow cone under a host of stars. Magical!
The collective breaths from our laughing and storytelling caused the igloo to melt a bit and refreeze solid overnight. The next morning we took turns climbing on top for pictures. We cut out a slice to proudly show off our architecture. We considered coming back another weekend to spend more time in our igloo where hillsides curved white against green woods and trees stroked each other with blue shadows and animals wrote poems with their tracks.
That’s Owen Baynham, who some of you knew as a river guide at Arizona River Runners for years, standing on top looking at the Snow Bowl side of the Peaks. I imagine he is scratching his head, marveling that people would drive all the way from Phoenix to pay money and stand in line at a crowded ski lift instead of embracing quiet woods in good and inventive company. It would never occur to us to pay to play in the woods, much less spend a day inside watching football when we could be outdoors. Or maybe he’s thinking, where’s my coffee? What’s for breakfast? And where is my camera to capture this rag tag collection of eccentrics out doing their own thing again. So far from the maddening crowd. So close to taking the next hero shot but with no place to post it in those days except in the fond warm hearts of our long memories.
