Hiking in Saguaro National Park
by Gil Hoy
I’m about half-way through an arduous six-mile mountain hike in Saguaro National Park when I unexpectedly come upon the tree under which Michelle and I first made love. I remember that twenty-foot, veteran mesquite tree as being on a different Rincon Mountain trail when you and I first pitched our tent beneath it, and am surprised when it suddenly appears before me about ten feet off the hiking trail.
The all-male group of hikers I’m with have stopped and are looking at me. I don’t know any of them well, because it’s my first time with this particular group. They must find it odd that I’m now stopped and staring at what they likely think is a beautiful but otherwise unremarkable desert tree.
You introduced me to hiking in the Arizona mountains about five years ago, when we first met. I’ve been hiking at least once a week ever since. Your extensive knowledge of the local trails surrounding mountains still amazes me.
We used to take long hikes together. It was sometimes so quiet that I felt like we were the only two people on this earth. We never tired of the towering saguaros; the jagged, rocky mountains; the vibrant red, orange and yellow sunsets; and the soft pink, purple and orange sunrises. We’d stop for a drink of water after a couple of hours under the desert sun, and we’d read our favorite poems to each other. I read Keats and Bishop most of the time. You usually Dickinson and Plath.
We’d camp out under the moon and the stars when the desert sun went down. There are few things on this earth as spectacular as the Arizona desert come nightfall. On a clear night, you can see Mercury, Mars the Andromeda galaxy. And the ink-black sky is awash in stars, double stars and star clusters.
But we fought on too many occasions towards the end. We sat and we stood in your apartment and fought about everything and about nothing. You had been in a fifteen-year abusive marriage where your ex was always putting you down. You’d come to distrust all men and said so. I had a tendency to drink one too many, which would often put me in an argumentative mood.
We fought more than once about whether we’d been in love with each other and never another. And when we both finally agreed that we had, we fought about who’d loved the other one more and why. I should have known that each of us loved the other in his or her own way. But I wanted to win that argument too, as I usually did. And I did. Or maybe you just let me think I’d won because you’d decided to be kind.
You often had a certain kindness about you. Pain sometimes leads to greater empathy and kindness towards others who are suffering. You told me then that you were the youngest of three girls growing up and that you’d spent many years being bossed around by your older siblings. You said your parents loved your two sisters more than they loved you. You teared up as you told me that. You believed it was because your parents had always wanted a boy, that you were their last chance and that they’d never forgiven you for it.
And now I’m standing at the back door of your apartment a few months ago. I’m peeking through your glass window. Your furniture is gone and all that remains is a broken broom that I had leant you. It is leaning against the living room wall. You moved into that apartment in the building next door to mine to be closer to me.
You asked me to move in with you, but I declined because you had a fourteen-year old daughter from a prior marriage who lived with you. I had three grown children of my own, and the idea of living with your daughter made me uncomfortable. You moved out when your lease ended, and our romance sundered. You didn’t ask me to help you move, and I don’t think I would have had the stomach for it.
I remember standing outside and watching you in your living room not so long ago busily watering your many plants. Your beaming face would be looking out at me through that glass door window on cheerier days. Greeting me on those days when you were so happy to see me you’d let your picture be taken of your smile, with your teeth showing. Some of your teeth had a bit of a yellow tint, and you usually smiled with your mouth closed.
I’m still staring at the mesquite tree. Your memory is again so strong. I told the other hikers that I needed a few minutes to catch my breath, and they’ve moved on ahead. I’m wishing that when I get home, I’ll hear your welcome, familiar knock on my back door, which I often did after we’d had an argument. Or maybe I’ll see you coming towards me with your beaming smile when I round the next corner on this rocky mountain trail.
Or maybe you’ll come back to me if you come upon our deciduous mesquite tree someday. It’s late January now, and our tree has no leaves. The leaves will start growing again in another six weeks or so when it gets a little warmer and the snow on the mountaintops begins to melt.
Copyright © 2025 by Gil Hoy
