By: Mackenzie Patel

How many hours of feeling restless does it take for one to pack up their car, cook a pound of pesto pasta, and embark on a solo trip in the desert? Approximately three and a half and a night of in-and-out dreaming. After a Friday evening spent wallowing to Nikhil, drinking a few gins, and binging the latest series of Riverdale (please, impale me now), I woke up determined on Saturday morning. Here I was, at 6:51 a.m. in my king-size bed, ready for anything besides more self-deprecation. It’s also impossible to feel lethargic when the Arizona sunlight makes dreams white-hot before you’re even awake. The heat is deadening and turns my lips drier than tumbleweeds, but there’s something uplifting about sunrays being the first thing my mind is conscious of. My mind is a recipe gone bad these days, all mush and random ingredients that don’t go together – thoughts on parents, naan tacos, the blisters running down my ankle. But on that Saturday morning, my mind was blank and I remember thinking, “I’m gonna take myself to Sedona, Arizona today.” And reader, that’s exactly what your author did.

I was craving a solo day, one where my mind sat in the passenger seat and I could ruminate without worrying about others. Moving to a city without friends, family, or roots is bringing out an introspective side of me, probably because I have nobody else to bitch to. Do you ever tire of the thoughts ringing around your head, like a loose metal button in the dryer? That was the point of this desert adventure: take all the buttons out, clear away the lint, and finally hang up the dresses that make me sad.

From seven o’clock to nine, I was a Trip Advisor wizard and created an itinerary* on Notion. My background music was a playlist by my British friend, How Do You Sleep?, that opened with John Lennon’s iconic whine and simplicity. The bedsheets were a mountain, and I was typing furiously to The Doors and The Clash – I was skeptical that I would actually go on this trip, but it was the prospect of thrill that got me going. Somehow, after slathering myself in SPF 100 and throwing together pasta, I left my apartment at 9:34 a.m.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/58QUgtnX58dGdV6HShbREC?si=9ZdH0hjRS3qDAo5IO5fq8Q

*Before I continue, appreciate that the GPS on my iPhone is broken, so I was scrolling through a PDF of haphazard directions on my phone. Flashbacks of MapQuest and trying to navigate through Switzerland with paper maps and hermaphroditic cops kept appearing.

The drive throughout the desert was a taste of Westworld, John Wayne, and A Horse With No Name in one. The 101 Loop exits had names like Talking Stick Way and Frank Lloyd Wright Boulevard and the pressure in my chest slowly dissipated by the ramp for Sonoran Desert. It was exhilarating heading into the unknown (literally, Apple Maps showed I was in Los Angeles) and having that feeling of freedom and glint creep in. Again, the How Do You Sleep playlist was essential, and although I didn’t personally know Henry or recognize 85% of the songs, they mirrored my state of being. The music guided the road trip – not the other way around – and when traffic slowed around Black Canyon City, I was content to roll my windows down and smell the charred brush. Seriously, traffic was stalled for miles since there was an interstate fire and cars turned off air conditioning so engines didn’t overheat.

By the time I reached Alcantara Winery, I was a sticky, 70s hippie and I walked into that winery with frizzy hair. The drive down to the vineyards and the Italian villa was a paradoxical one; I never expected Arizona, the flagship of desert states, to produce anything rustic or fertile. The dirt road leading to the Italian-style villa was steep, and I was advised to drive slowly since “dust harms the vines.” How could such succulence and flavor grow out of dust storms and rattlesnakes? Alcantara also had a “kayaking while you drink” special since there was a river – a flowing river! – under their vineyard. What is this place called Arizona and how I did end up here?

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After the awkward shuffling of checking IDs (I keep wondering when a bartender will say it’s a fake), I settled in with a sharp Riesling in the backyard. Nothing could’ve epitomized my personality more: drinking wine, in a vineyard, reading Greek to Me by Mary Norris, listening to a fedora-ed man play sax and keyboard. You know when something is so you that you’re almost disgusted? But after lingering with Merlot and reading about Mary have sex with Greek sailors, my mind was on a different planet. I also tried Sangiovese, Mourvedre, and Grand Rouge X, but I’m the first to admit I’m not a sommelier – I only have a distinct affinity for my grandmother’s Kalstadt Dornfelder and Portugeiser wine. After the wine tasting (and getting frisky in my novel), I had half a mind to return to Phoenix; wine and culture was all I needed to have a successful day. But I trudged on to Sedona since it was a half hour away, scarfing down my pesto pasta in the passenger seat. Here’s the deal: I knew Sedona would be outrageously expensive since their economy is tourism, and I wasn’t going to pay $11.95 for a sad sandwich and a hard cookie. But I must’ve looked so strange to other drivers, a boatload of pasta (still in the saucepan) cradled in my lap.

“Stingy college student takes on the wild west.” And she has purple lips too, what a headline.

The definition of mercurial is “(of a person) subject to sudden or unpredictable changes of mood or mind,” and while my friend referred to it as “bipolar,” I’m starting to understand another layer of this word. It’s restlessness, it’s a desire for one minute to slide into the next with a costume change. And this word popped into my head at the most peculiar times that Saturday – on the road, talking with Nikhil, or scooting down a mountain in the rain. I’m getting ahead of myself, but I just wanted to hint at the ironic clarity I experienced this weekend; my hands were dirty, I was being spontaneous, and yet I was lucid for all twelve hours. Maybe it was the altitude, maybe it was finally accepting this is The Waiting Room Summer. And there’s no use worrying when you’re sitting down, leafing through an old issue of National Geographic.

After the winery, I managed to drive myself to Cathedral Rock. The red rocks of Sedona are touristy and famous – and for good reason. Driving into the sleepy town, I was surrounded by high vaults of clay and auburn fingers that reached to the sky. Clouds were swirling into the city and it was raining, flashes of lightning appearing farther away. Of course it was drizzling the one afternoon I happened to be hiking in Sedona, a literal desert. But I wasn’t deterred or wine-sleepy, so I parked my car and started hiking up the muddy path. If an outsider was watching me hike, this is what they would see:

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Not pesto pasta but you get the idea

Not pesto pasta but you get the idea

She was a petite, dark-haired girl, wearing a red shirt that made her look like a Fourth of July ambassador. Her Honeywell backpack was already covered in a fine layer of dust, and her floppy hat – more fashionable than practicable – hugged her ears. She was lugging herself up the steep rocks, looking around every ten seconds like she expected a rattlesnake to bite at any moment {it didn’t}. You could see the cogs in her mind whirring– to climb the slippery mountain, to not climb the slippery mountain. Cathedral Rock vaulted like a church ceiling and she was just starting to be sure of her steps when wetness struck again.

But she pushed her hat harder onto her head and carried on, picking her way from post to post despite the mist. When it came to the first real obstacle – a smooth rock twice her height and rigged with little holes for literal rock climbing – she paused for a second before nodding her head. And off she went, spider-monkeying up the gleaming rocks and extending her thighs to their absolute limits. Breathing was a marathon and hands were running with brown goo, but she made it. Looking around, she smiled and paused for a few pictures. The selfies were ridiculous – painful smiles with a towering, cloudy finger behind her. Her arms were arched to her side and she attempted a grin, but to no avail. Her face was still helpless. She started up again, getting slower as the path up became more slippery, ambiguous, the dangerous. The drop-off was real and one misstep would send her red,white,&blue body tumbling into a saguaro cactus. A group of teens was passing her, laughing while slipping in clear ponchos. She stopped again, asked a fit couple “Is this worth it?” and crouched down on her legs.

You could see her indecision grinding. To be fair, her boyfriend had just injured his knee and hand while motorbiking in Vietnam, so riskiness was clear in her head. But also the view – the revered view of a formation likened to God – was worth it. So how would she presume?

Sitting herself on her bottom, she scooched down the canyon side like a wading penguin. Her hands supported her back – her mud-covered sneakers inched along – and she crawled down without shame. Her backpack was soiled in red and her shorts were soaked, but her descent turned into a creature of the Cathedral, not a person. Finally, after the treacherous part was over and she rock-climbed to even ground, she wiped her muddy hands off and picked her way around the mountain. Her calves flung mud to the ground, and she didn’t even worry about rattlesnakes.

So basically, Cathedral Rock was a fail of messy and slick proportions. But what else was I to do? I ended up walking an easier trail – Templeton Trail – and following this young girl whose camelback bottle and hiking shorts seemed legitimate. The hike on the mountain outskirts was peanuts compared to Cathedral; no snakes, no slime, and no tricks. At one point, the path behind and in front of me was deserted, and I could gaze upon the distant ranges alone. And it was just me, hanging out with myself, and there was nothing I could do to escape my mind. It was a forced acquaintance. But the more time you spend alone, you realize how fulfilling solitary days are. The usual chatter is missing and you’re given time to figure out exactly what your chemicals mean.

The kind of stillness that is heavy with unfallen rain made the surroundings hazy. So I snapped some more unfortunate selfies, squatted down for a quick bathroom break, and walked back to my car. I video chatted with my dad on the range and the cell phone service was sharper than in the city. It was no Thoreau moment, but I admired technology for how hard it works and how underappreciated things like FaceTime are. My shorts were still waterlogged.