The Arizona Trail: Mount Lemmon and Summerhaven

The Arizona Trail:

Mount Lemmon and Summerhaven

The Summerhaven post office

“He looks like anyone you’d see on the street. But when he grins, birds fall dead off telephone lines.” -Stephen King, The Stand

Much of a thru-hike is watching one’s feet, one’s thoughts, and the little things that pass. A strange bird, a new flower, the dusty prints of those a day or two ahead. The space between Mica Mountain and Mount Lemmon was exactly this, and memory is not kind to such experiences, however lovely they might be. And so, while many miles separate these two mountains, I have few words for them. But as for Mount Lemmon itself, that’s another story.

Ice Cream and I had camped on a saddle at the boundary of the Pusch Ridge Wilderness and from there wound through contours until we saw the tell-tale emerald green of river trees below. Great cottonwoods and wily mesquite. We heard Sabino Creek before we saw it. By now we had become worshipers of water, and hearing it rush was like hearing a choir of angels singing from the little canyon below. The AZT skirts Sabino Creek for a mile or so, tantalizing hikers with promises of cool, clean water, before suddenly turning and crossing it.

Sabino creek hides under emerald trees

We rested, cooking breakfast and filtering water while planning our Lemmon ascent. From the stream, the ascent up Lemmon is eight steep miles before cresting at Lemmon Creek and becoming a series of forested ups and downs for another four miles until it joins the paved road to Summerhaven. Before we left, the Czechs made another appearance. They didn’t stay long at the stream, but we exchanged plans and banter before they headed up the mountain.

As usual, Ice Cream and I took different approaches to the ascent. She slow and steady, me going light on water and unleashing every ounce of extra energy to power through. It’s a fun hike if you’re in the mood for elevated blood pressure and heavy panting. Lemmon’s switchbacks rise from grassy hills to steep, pine-lined crests. Some sections require light hand-over-hand scrambling, but nothing sketchy. Lemmon’s terrain is smooth but as steep as anything on the Appalachian Trail, except perhaps the most brutal mountains in the Whites.

The AZT isn’t marked particularly well in general. There are no blazes painted on trees or cacti, and the little plastic or fiberglass posts can be few and far between. On Lemmon, it was worse. For the most part, only little cairns marked the way. More than once, I had to stop, check FarOut, and scan the forest for these cairns. I’d add a few stones to those that were harder to see, hoping Ice Cream would have an easier time finding them than I had.

One of the wonders of trail life is that at some point, every hiker stops caring what they look like and begins to think only of how they feel. And so, my pale white dad-bod was on full display as I slugged ever higher. I made the eight miles to Lemmon Creek in four hours, passing the Czechs along the way. We nodded to each other as they let me pass, none of us having the breath to chat.

An hour passed at Lemmon Creek. I lazed in the sun, watching lizards and birds until the Czechs passed and eventually Ice Cream showed up.

“This mountain can suck it,” she said when she plopped down next to me. I was feeling rested by now and tried to empathize, though I had enjoyed the ascent.

“It was tough.”

“It was fine,” she changed course, ever tilted toward the bright side. “It was just hard. Pretty though.”

We split up again after she rested. It was about three o’clock, and I wanted to make the restaurant in Summerhaven before it closed; there was no way we were missing town food after a day like this.

From Lemmon Creek, the AZT is much easier but just as badly marked. Another cairn-to-cairn adventure. I think I was off trail for a bit but found my way back by luck, unaware I’d strayed. The paved road appears suddenly, and for me, it was a surprise; I hadn’t checked FarOut closely enough to see the red line turn into a road, and I’d expected dirt. It’s still a trudge to town, but it’s smooth and well-graded, a welcome relief after the miles before.

The road to Summerhaven bustles with life. Campsites sprawl along the way. Kids play everywhere. Cars pass often. Couples stroll, smelling powerfully like industrial chemical perfumes and hair products. Then, in a final shift from forest to campsites to town, buildings appear. Houses and businesses now line both sides of the road.

Summerhaven, a quirky mountain town, boasts a general store and the southernmost U.S. ski resort, drawing visitors to its cool alpine air.

A man with a wide-brimmed hat called to me from across the road. “You hiking the Arizona Trail?”

“Yessir.”

He crossed the street. “Lodging is expensive here, but hikers can sleep overnight in the post office. It’s just up the road.” He pointed.

“Any idea where the Sawmill Run Restaurant is?”

“Right next door!” he said.

I thanked him and said I needed to get there before they closed. He waved me on with a happy trails.

The Sawmill is pretty good. Summerhaven is a tourist and mountain town, and things are expensive in both. Dinner and drinks for two ran about sixty dollars, but the quality was decent—not worth the price if I’d driven there, but well worth it after hiking. With the post office as a free place to sleep, the cost was more than mitigated.

Using the power of town food to dual carry packs.

The Czechs must have gotten into town just before me, because they were ordering when I entered the restaurant. I ordered for myself and Ice Cream, who arrived soon after. The four of us ate together and decided to stay at the post office. It seemed like a nice spot.

It was a low-key nightmare.

The post office’s unyielding fluorescent lights felt like a mild form of white torture, a relentless assault of brightness that made sleep deeply unrestful at best. Wake up for even a second, and you’re assaulted with eye-burning, mind-blasting fluorescence. We tried putting buffs over our eyes, which helped a little, but not enough. By two a.m., I was ready to leave. I tried to wake Ice Cream, who asked what time it was. When I told her, she groaned, “Oh my God,” rolled over, and buried her face in her makeshift pillow. I couldn’t fall back asleep. I tried meditation but was too stiff and sore to sit long. I wandered outside in the mountain chill, visiting the nearby public restrooms. Two hikers were sprawled on the floor between the entries to the men’s and women’s rooms. I stepped over one, who looked at me groggily before rolling over. Hikers recognize one another, and he knew I was no threat.

My cursed companions sleep fitfully under the florescent lights of the post office

I envied those hikers. The restroom entry was warm and, though well-lit, lacked the torture lights. To add insult to injury, an electrical outlet near the floor was fully used by the two hikers as they slept. The post office had no outlets, and Summerhaven offered few free places to plug in a power bank long enough to get a good charge.

That wasn’t my worry now, though. Earlier, just after making our beds on the post office floor, my power bank, wall plug, and cord were stolen. I knew better, but my phone, earbuds, and power bank were nearly drained. It would have been wiser to sit with them while they charged. Live and learn. I’d have to be thrifty with my phone for the next hundred miles until Phoenix, where we’d crash at a friend’s place and have a chance to buy replacements.

We left town at four in the morning. Like biblical travelers leaving an unwelcoming town, Ice Cream and I shook Summerhaven’s dust from our feet. My stolen gear and sleepless night soured the stay, and while the town’s gesture of offering the post office was kind, it now felt more like a way to keep hikers out of sight. To me, Summerhaven seemed to nudge hikers out the door, saving its charm for higher paying tourists. A gateway town, sure, but not for us.