Spring or summer?

It's an eclectic mix of whizzing car engines and bird song here in the front yard of the Camelbackpackers Hostel on McDowell Street in Phoenix where I'm sipping the last of my morning coffee. The group at the breakfast table – young backpackers from different parts of the world mostly – is growing slowly, and I've moved out here where there is less distraction.

Our plane touched down around 5:30 in Phoenix last night, and we boarded the Sky Train to connect us to the light rail system just when the sun was setting, the silhouettes of downtown buildings etched into the golden-red sky. Following the instructions from the hostel's website we took the light rail to McDowell and Central Ave from where we could either walk or take another bus to the hostel. They didn't say how far we had to walk on McDowell, but it couldn't be more than thirteen blocks from Central, and it was hard to resist a walk in what felt like a summer night to us. We peeled off the canvas bags that had protected our backpacks during the flight, shouldered the packs and headed west.

People greeted us from front gardens and outdoor restaurant terraces. 'Universe or bust!' a guy called out, passing us on a bike: a middle-aged couple loaded with backpacks hiking along a busy thoroughfare in a big city obviously deserved a friendly greeting – or maybe Phoenicians (is that what they are called?) are simply very friendly by nature.

Blooming trees spread their deep scent in the still evening air, oranges dotted front lawns ... this felt unreal: hadn't we just come from a barren landscape where the thermometer had finally managed to climb above the freezing line just a few days ago, where snow was getting softer and had just started to recede?

We hadn't gone very far yet when the strains of Johnny Cash's 'Folsom Prison Blues' drifted across the street from an outdoor cafe where a guy with a guitar was entertaining a handful of people. 'If it wasn't so far we could come back here for something to eat', we remarked. The city blocks seemed shorter than usual, likely because the streets were offset going north and south, and the numbers just changed every time, and it didn't take us very long until we spotted the low wall with its design of camels, saguaros and mountains we remembered from last year's visit. We had arrived, a bit hot and glad we could set our backpacks down.

The girl at the front desk glanced up expectantly. 'We have a reservation for tonight', we told her. But when she heard our name she looked at us strangely and said, 'you had a reservation last night.' What?? How could that have happened? Johann was certain that he had booked for the twelfth, and it was hardly possible that someone could mistake that for the eleventh. 'Unfortunately we are completely booked out, too', she said. 'But wait, let me talk to the manager.' Minutes later she came back with the news that she did have two beds for us after all: her brother and his girlfriend were among the guests, and they would simply sleep in the garage. We protested: they didn't have to leave because of us; we could just as well sleep there. She insisted, however: we were to move into the eight-bed dorm we had originally booked. They obviously didn't think it was the right thing to do to expose us to the rigors of garage sleeping at our advanced age.

Well, then, no use objecting. We dragged our packs into the dorm and registered properly. By now it was about 7:30, and we were hungry. Remembering the guitar player at the front of what had looked like a nice place to eat we soon were on our way again, this time unimpeded by backpacks filled with camping gear and clothes for a couple of weeks. Even under the dim light of the street lamps the fuchsia and magenta clusters of the bougainvilleas were spectacular, and again that same heady scent accompanied us for parts of the way. Could it be the orange trees?

'Johnny Cash' had changed to 'Jimmy Buffet' when we arrived at the 'Hob Nob', and we were treated to an array of music from the Eagles to Fats Domino by the lone guitar player who played his instrument unlike any guitar player I had ever watched: he had laid it flat on his knees and played it almost like a keyboard. Later, he told us that he had seen someone do it when he was seven or eight, and, fascinated, he had tried to emulate it until he mastered the technique. It was easier for his small hands to press down on the strings instead of reaching around. Now, recovering from a stroke, he was grateful he had learned to play like this at a young age, because again it was easier for his weakened hand to do it this way.

Sated in body and soul we left shortly after he packed up at nine. When we returned to the hostel our beds were ready for us, and some time later we were ready for them as well.

This is how far I got this morning before my battery ran empty and we had to leave to pick up our rental car. 

By now we have changed location: for a couple of days we will be residents of a 'snowbird' trailer park at Apache Junction. We are visiting friends who spend their winters here, and they want to show us what the area has to offer. 

Driving out from Phoenix, which is about thirty miles to the west of here, we watched the silhouette of 'Flat Iron' emerge from the haze and fondly remembered last year's hikes in the Superstition Mountains. I would really like to hike there again, especially since it rained not long ago and the desert is starting to bloom.