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You can’t always wait out the weather—but we sure tried.
Three whole days in Pine had left me anxious, antsy, and full of empanadas. (We ate at PieBar, a restaurant in Strawberry, four times.) A cold snap had rolled in, and on our first morning in town, we woke up to six inches of snow instead of the predicted one.
“If we got that much down here, can you imagine what it’s like up on the Mogollon Rim?” Lambchop wondered out loud.
Amazing empanadas at PieBar in Strawberry, AZ
We immediately started checking weather reports. Forecasts called for lows in the 20s and below-freezing nights for at least the next five days.
“And what about the MUD?” Lambchop added.
So, we started brainstorming. We landed on three options:
1.Keep vortexing in Pine and get fat on empanadas.
2.Suck it up and load up on hand warmers.
3.Take an alternate route through Sedona, then up onto the Mogollon Rim to Flagstaff.
As tempting as devouring ten lemon bar empanadas sounded, option one was out. My budget isn’t endless, and waiting it out would eat up a big chunk of it. Plus, the Duck Dynasty-themed motel room lost its charm after the second or third time being stared down by a life-size poster of Si Robertson.
Option two was doable—but it would be miserable. I’d committed to going ultralight this year, and my gear just isn’t built for temps near 20. Lambchop’s no fan of the cold either.
“Have you ever been to Sedona?” Lambchop asked.
“No, but I hear it’s amazing,” I replied.
“What do you think would make us happier?”
We looked at each other. Instantly, we both knew the answer. Planning mode activated. We dove into the maps we’d downloaded outside of FarOut (the ones we almost never use). There was a lot to figure out—but we were headed to Sedona.
To Sedona
The Good
I opened my eyes one last time to that poster of Si Robertson staring me down with the words “And that’s a fact, Jack” beside his bearded face. One more trip to PieBar, a few empanadas chased by coffee, and we were off.
“Ready?” Lambchop asked, already slinging on her pack.
“Let’s get out of here!” I said, excitedly.
We had a paved road walk ahead, but spirits were high. The five-mile walk out of Strawberry to the Bob Bear trailhead flew by. We took a snack break under a shady tree at a picnic table. The parking lot was packed with cars, and the trail was swarmed with day hikers.
“I love hiking on trails used by normies!” Lambchop said, bounding down the well-maintained path.
Lambchop heading down the Flume Trail into Fossil Creek
It was smooth, mostly downhill, with stunning views of canyon walls in shades of red and gold. We stood beside a massive waterfall that gushed through a hole in the rock, feeding a series of cascading turquoise pools. People lounged and swam in the water, enjoying the warm spring day.
An amazing waterfall at the start of the Flume Trail down into Fossil Creek.
We made it all the way to the bottom of the canyon that first day—not easy, since the beauty around every bend kept distracting us and slowing our pace. We found a pull-off campground off a forest service road and called it a night, Fossil Creek rushing nearby.
The Bad
Neither of us is a fan of road walks. They’re usually exposed, hard on the feet, sometimes dangerous, and they have a special way of sucking the soul straight out through your nostrils. We woke up that second morning knowing we had nearly two full days of forest road walks ahead, linking small towns on our way to Sedona.
“Well, at least it’s beautiful,” I said, trying to sound optimistic as the crunch of gravel echoed underfoot.
And it was beautiful—at first. But as the sun climbed higher and the day got hotter, the trees thinned and the shade vanished. By the time we passed through Camp Verde and into Cottonwood, we were questioning our decision. The road had kicked our ass. Our short, snippy replies to each other said it all. That night we checked into a hotel and barely moved.
Solving the Equation
The next morning was filled with some urban hiking through Cottonwood until we reached the Lime Kiln Trail. The miles of road were replaced with beautiful singletrack.
“I swear someone comes out here at night and sweeps the rocks off this trail,” I joked as we set up camp.
Good morning from the Lime Kiln Trail
The morning walk into Red Rock State Park and into Sedona is one I’ll never forget. Sedona is surrounded by a seemingly endless number of towering rock formations, each one vying for your attention. And no matter where you are in town, you’re never far from a trail that can whisk you away to a jaw-dropping view.
On our third day exploring Sedona, we hit the highly recommended Hangover Trail. As we began the ascent, I could feel where the trail was taking us. I remember looking up at a high ridge and silently urging the path to keep climbing. It didn’t disappoint. Hand over foot, we scrambled up to some of the finest views I’ve ever seen.
The sign welcoming us to the Hangover trail. Epic trail alert!
“I think this made up for the road walks,” Lambchop said, glowing.
We made our way down and prepped for the long climb back up to the Rim, ready to reconnect with the main line of the Arizona Trail—Flagstaff in our sights.
Looking down toward Sedona from the top of the Mogollon Rim
⸻
Happiness on trail is measured by a lot of different factors. Some choices leave you feeling like you’ve conquered the world. Others have you dragging your feet up a scorched blacktop road in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes both.
Over our years hiking together, Lambchop and I have come to believe that joy—above all else—is what matters most. We picked up a term somewhere along the way: the happiness quotient. It’s like a math problem that helps guide our decisions. Trying to aim our compass at what will lead us to the most joy. It’s not foolproof, but it’s gotten us this far.
And I’m pretty happy with that.
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