The brakes had been failing for several weeks, and the metallic song of their pressure against the rotors counter-pointed the radio as I sped east, out of the bustle and insanity of Phoenix, and the pretensions and expensive illusions of Scottsdale.

The car was still filled with bits and tag-ends of my recently-ended contract; the subject of many long days of labor and planning, long nights of number-crunching and personnel management, meals missed and days flown away seemingly in the blink of one bloodshot, watery eye. For too long, I'd wrestled the demons of bureaucracy, and pretentious procrastination, the casual indignities visited by the rich upon the surrounding world. Finally, and for good, I was free.

An hour away, on the cactus-covered, boulder-strewn plateau surrounding Devil's Canyon, a pack of climbing gear lay, waiting, for my impatient attention. The cache was in a small cave, positioned in one of the most quietly-spectacular canyons in the country. Alone, in this season of uncertain weather, my course was questionable. But every fiber of my being screamed that it was right.

Saguaro and cholla vied with the insane expansion of housing, developers' mania, and the influx of snowbird money, as I negotiated the long straight line of Route 60, towards Florence Junction and across Gonzales Pass, Weaver's Needle rising above The Superstitions to my north. Barren hillsides marked the line of a fire three seasons passed and reminded me of just how fragile this seemingly harsh and unforgiving environment really is.

I'd spent a lot of my time in the desert building trails, or, rather, choosing from the assortment and linking the sections, for there were many. Miles of them, first dictated by the geography and habits of local wildlife, then by the following feet and, later, ponies of the tribal inhabitants. They, in turn, were followed by the efforts of ranchers, miners and power companies.

And finally, this sprawling, spider web network was reclaimed, to a tiny degree, by nuts like me. With bow saw and snippers clutched in cut and bleeding hands, hair limp with sweat, lower back and shoulders screaming for respite, feet sore as a pack mule's hoofs, I'd passed the winter of '97 and early spring of '98. Only some rare genetic deviant can stop, look back at several hundred yards of good trail through the mist or rain or snow of an otherwise rotten day, and, soaked to the bone, grin a small grin of some demented satisfaction. If a day ended like this, I'd call it a good one as I headed for camp: a smoky fire, a warm beer, watery stew, stale bread, and a damp sleeping bag. Oh, God, the ROMANCE of it all!

Driving through the town limits of Superior broke my reverie, and I ducked into a Circle K for water and MORE CAFFEINE!!! The ladies there were ever polite and helpful, whether to a single questioning climber or the mad, bovine throngs of the Phoenix Bouldering Comps. As usual, my coffee was free, waved off by Wilma, the transplanted Tennessee manager.

Heading back onto 60 East, I passed under the 177 bridge and wound up through the beauty and splendor of Queen Creek Canyon. The morning light colored the volcanic stone a thousand shades of crimson and purple, stained to hues of gray and blue in the shadowed depths of the creek bed. Carved by time and storms into walls and pillars and outcroppings of varied difficulty, this area never failed to delight me, washing away, in an instant, all the mundane trivia left behind in Metropolis.

Up, up through the Pass, the Pond rose on the left — no sport babies there on this wintery day — as the fierce winds blasted down the throat of the canyon. The first snow appeared, like a tracery, along the verge. My four-cylinder engine whined in protest as the 6% grade gave way to a 30 mph headwind. A disbelieving trucker, bulging in a yellow rain slicker, clutched a crumpled Arizona map and vainly scanned it for clues as I chugged onto the canyon plateau and Oak Flat Campground, site of the Phoenix Bouldering Contest, down the Mine Road to my right.

The snow increased in volume from a scant presence, like torn lace, to several inches, then turned to ice, glistening with wind-polished treachery. The car's handling was almost reptilian as I wound up through the last curve and into my parking spot.

Glancing right, I could see almost 70 miles to the south and east; down the throat of Devil's Canyon and out into the plain beyond, where the volcanic domination of the geologic profile ends. To Hayden, and Ray, where miles of dolomite limestone faces line the valleys, offering enough cutting-edge climbs to challenge a generation of sport-shredders, and enough lesser lines to keep me intrigued. And, in the far, blue distance, the mountainous skyline, headed out into the unknown, to the Santa Theresas, and Chiricahuas. Hawks circled in the wind-torn sky, their cries lost in the protest of the clouds.

And then out into the cold, my ears numb in seconds, my hands beginning to chill as I dug out Capilene and shells and pulled on a woolen cap and gloves. Bless again the stubbornness that made me haul all this shit for weeks on end, un-needed, but so very necessary in certain conditions. I grinned fiercely alive into the wind, and laughed, from my heart, as another blast rocked me, its bite shed by the technology armoring me from this moonscape. As the maelstrom howled its symphony, I stepped into the first movements of another Dance with Devil's.

—Ronin-san, Living the Life with MountainZone.com