A May hike with Jan, a few false peaks, and the rhythm that carried us home.
Jan (pronounced “Yawn”) came to visit two weekends before we were set to leave. It felt right that he’d see the desert with us before we packed up, before the heat came fully. He’d been asking since winter—“Mind if I come out and see your place?”—and we’d promised him hikes, sunsets, maybe a porch beverage. By the time he arrived that May morning, the saguaros were blooming, the lizards fast, and the air already warm by nine.
We set out for Wasson Peak, the tallest rise in the Tucson Mountain Range, carrying more water than pride. The trailhead at Esperanza cuts across a sandy wash before tilting abruptly upward—rocks loose, switchbacks mean, sun, direct. It’s not a hike for small talk, though Jan tried, between breaths, to marvel at the view. He’s a pastor by temperament, a question-asker by habit, so he noticed what most miss—the hum of wind through ocotillo, the flicker of a cactus wren crossing the path. He captured much of it with his camera phone.
Seven minutes in, he met his first cholla.
That’s the desert’s version of baptism.
A soft “oh,” a quick lift of his arm, and there it was—spines embedded, stubborn as memory. Out came the yellow comb we carry just for such moments. One pop, one laugh, one story already earned.
The climb that followed was slower. Every ridge promised the top, and every ridge lied. We’d crest what looked like the summit only to see another rise ahead, higher, hungrier. Jan would glance at me—“This it?”—and I’d grin. “Just another twenty minutes.” It became our refrain, the shared joke that masked fatigue and named hope.
Somewhere along those false peaks, we stopped guessing.
We just walked.
That’s the quiet gift of persistence. You trade prediction for presence.
When we finally reached the real top, the desert spread out below like a folded map: the red streak of the Hughes Trail, the gray wash curling through Picture Rocks, Tucson a faint shimmer to the east. We signed the small summit register, ate granola bars, shared trail mix, and let the silence do the talking. Wind tugged at our shirts. The sun pressed steady on our backs. For a few minutes, everything felt in proportion—our effort, our insignificance, our joy.
The descent was where the learning came. Going down requires a different kind of strength—knees soft, mind alert. The same rocks that looked harmless now seemed treacherous. We saw more color, more texture, more of what we’d missed when we were so intent on climbing. I realized then that the desert rewards those who look twice.
Maybe life does too.
By the time we reached the truck, our water was gone and our shirts spotted with salt. The air smelled of dust and mesquite. Jan leaned against the door and said, “That last peak—what a trick.” We laughed, because it wasn’t really a trick. It was a teaching: that what feels like the end rarely is, and that persistence isn’t about reaching the top—it’s about learning to rest, then rise again.
That evening, we drove over to the MSA Annex—clean, tired, grateful. Over dinner we replayed the day in gestures and half-sentences. The false peaks. The view. The quiet descent.
The next day, Sunday, we took another hike—shorter, gentler, easier to talk through life and scenery and such. Later, before his flight out of Mesa, Jan and I grabbed coffee and talked about the weekend—and what we hoped to do next with the land. (We’d spent that late morning walking the property, marking spots where another structure could go.) And then, he was off on I-10 to make the direct flight to South Bend, IN.
That afternoon, Lori and I started back on the to-do list on the trip back to Indiana.
Later, sitting on the deck and admiring our view of Wasson Peak, I kept thinking about that hike—how every ending looks like arrival until you turn around and see how far there still is to go.
The mountains always wait. The trail remains.
Step. Breath. Step.
