Ramble On.

(RAM b'l): to roam about, to stroll idly.

I pull the Jeep into the little trailhead parking space and turn off the engine. There's no one around It's one of those out of the way forgotten trailheads far away from the tourists destinations of Sedona. Though an official forest service trail, this is a place that has never seen a travel writer or been blurb-ed in a hiker magazine. I get out of the Jeep and look around. It's typical high desert grassland—mixed juniper and mesquite, prickly pear and catclaw. A place only a rancher or a outlaw could love. My kind of place. I grab my trusty daybag and glance at my phone/watch: 1147 am. The rest of the day is mine.

And that’s the first rule of rambling. You need to clear your slate. It is impossible to amble, ramble, roam or wander if you have looming appointments. If you have to be back by a certain time, it kills the whole feeling of freedom and curiosity and irresponsibility that you need to ramble.

I start down the trail. As I am passingly familiar with the area, I do not carry a map, a compass, a gps or trail “guide.” This is the second rule of rambling. Don't overplan it. Pick a vague destination and stick to it until you change your mind. And by vague destination, hiking alone ,it's important to let someone know where you'll be—unless you want to end up like that guy from 127 Hours. But, once at the trail, I really don't think it's strictly necessary to stay on it.

I start up the trail. I know from past knowledge the trail makes it way up to the top of the Mogollon Rim. Like a lot of forest service trails in this area, it's a old cattle trail. The topography of the region was attractive to early cattle ranchers because of its varied climates. The winters make for a fine winter grazing inn the high desert and the high altitude pine forests just a few short miles away makes for ideal summer grazing. Of course there is the problem of a thousand foot escarpment called the “rim” in between them but the early ranchers were ingenious at pioneering routes and building trails through this rugged country. My favorite most strenuous, most scenic trails in this area are all high country cattle trails.

It is a beautiful winter day. The sky is a high altitude cobalt, the sun a warm, pleasant, and benign presence this early in the year. I guess the temp to be in the upper 50s--a perfect temperature for a strenuous hike. This trail goes up gently at first. But up it goes. I quickly fall into a fast easy pace and feel the delightful heat of clean exercise. There is a delicious zen to hiking alone through empty spaces. With no one to talk to, lead or follow, you simply walk. Your body shifts into a kind of overdrive while your mind shifts into neutral. Sometimes you mull creative problems, sometimes run scraps of silly songs through your head, but just as often you think about nothing except your footfalls on the path, your breathing, your immediate surroundings, the distant scenery. The Taoists call this wu-wi or “no doing.” You have no agenda, no purpose, no goals. You are living for the sake of living.

It is a kind of happiness that is pure and awesome. I find it hiking through the desert, floating down a river, fishing a mountain stream. Often I even find it at work. You are doing but not thinking. Living but not striving. And that is what rambling is all a bout. No have no expectations. No immediate wants or needs. People talk about out-of-body experiences, but this is the polar opposite. This is being fully a live in your body—but you've gotten yourself out of your own head. It's advice I often give to people who are overwhelmed by petty problems. “You need to get out of your own head.”

They usually don't understand. But they would, if they learned to ramble.

A little ways up the path my zen is momentarily shattered when the brush next to me explodes. A ripping, tearing, crashing snorting burst of startling noise. My heart skips before I realize it is a pack of javelina—wild peccaries--and they are running the opposite direction. Once I realize they are not attacking,they are an awesome sight. Their thick gray bodies streak through the thorns and cactus scattering in every direction. Danger passed as quickly as it appeared, I smile at the sight of such fierce and wild creatures. A privilege.

The little shot of the all-natural drug, adrenalin, helps me down the trail a little faster and a little happier. Soon the trail swings wide around a ranch property then rejoins a steep little canyon briefly before it starts the arduous switch-backing climb up the mountain. It's the canyon, though, that intrigues me. Slowly I fade off the main trail and find myself following a barbed wire fence that runs along the rim of the canyon. It's a pretty little canyon not very wide, but it's surprisingly deep. Sycamores line the bottom—a good sign of water--and looking up canyon, I can see it narrows and deepens appreciatively. My kind of place. Though I hate to leave the sunshine on the rim, the canyon calls to me and when the fence corners out into a makeshift gate—I automatically heave it aside and walk through it.

A trail descends into the canyon. Almost immediately I hear the magical sound of running water. Creeks are a miracle here in the desert and when you trip across one by accident, it's even more magical. Though it could be a seasonal flow fed by snow melt on top of the rim, this creek looks perennial to me. There are numerous sycamore trees lining the creek and the bottom of the canyon is thick and brush clogged. Luckily the trail stays a nice middle course between the creek and the canyon walls.

This is the kind of hiking I like. The route is seldom used—but it is a route-- perhaps pioneered by rancher, but now mostly kept alive by game. There are many deer prints on this trail and I duck and weave under limbs the deer can easily avoid. I lose the trail a few times but stop, backtrack, and find the path of least resistance every time. I feel like I'm being drawn into something. It's not an usual feeling in a canyon. One of the reasons I love them. There's always a sense of discovery as the canyon slowly reveals itself bend by bend. As the walls climb higher and the light grows softer, you often feel like you're returning to something ancient and holy.

I slowly weave my way in and out of the sunlight, through sandstone clefts and cottonwood limbs. The trails meanders in and out of the flood plain and in one particular flat area I start to find all kinds of broken pottery. Red, brown, orange and black on white. Someone had used this area as a camp—or a farm—1200 years ago. And left their beer bottles behind. I scout around for a while looking for interesting artifacts. It is always a singular feeling, picking up a stone tool or a piece of pottery made by stone age man. It is a direct connection to our primordial selves. On this day, however, I find nothing but pottery, which I examine and leave behind.

After a bit, the canyon temporarily widens out and there ahead me—just above the treetops is a prominent triangular point in the middle of the canyon. It catches my breath—because it is covered in man-made rubble. It looks, at a glance, like an Aztec temple—a huge pyramid towering above the trees. Of course it's a mostly natural butte that at one time housed a large pueblo on top. But still I can't help humming the theme from Indiana Jones as I bushwhack the final few yards to the hidden temple—er Sinagua ruin.

I scamper up the slope dodging slabs of building rock and chucks of pre-Columbian pottery. I get to the top and take a deep breath and admire the view. And what a view. Below me the creek completely wraps around the point in a narrow horseshoe curve. The sound of running water. The canyon transitions from red rock on the other side of the canyon to gray limestone on this side. A halk flies overhead. I sit on a perfect flat bench of a low surviving wall and enjoy a snack. Later I find some interesting and unique horizontal petroglyphs including some footprint petroglyphs that I find fascinating. I take off my shoes and compare the prints. I'm literally walking in history... Sometimes the metaphors are so obvious, they make even a former advertising copywriter cringe.

I am, for a moment, happy and at peace with the world. The world seems filled with beauty and wonders still to discover. I hadn't meant to find this place when I started my walk, but that is the art of the ramble. I could have just have easily found a rattlesnake bite. Or a sprained ankle. Or a swarm of Killer Bees. It still would've been okay because, to use a pop catch phrase popular today, “it is what it is.”

It's profound statement of wu-wei and personal enlightenment and a perfect description of a perfect ramble.