We were supposed to start at 5:45 AM. That was the plan. We started at 6:15. That’s just how it goes when a group of adults assembles in a parking lot before sunrise.
The trail fee was $5. Cash only, drop it in an envelope. Nobody had a pen. Some of us had $10 and no change. We sorted it out the way groups always do: improvisation, mild chaos, and someone eventually finding a solution. Then we started walking.
Elephant Mountain Loop. 7.4 miles, 1,444 feet of elevation gain. I had looked at exactly one thing before signing up: the elevation. That’s my usual filter. Most trails I do are under 4 miles, so I look at how hard the climb is and leave it there. I did not look at the distance. 7.4 miles is nearly double what I normally do. I found this out the hard way.
The first stretch was manageable. Ascents, yes, but mild ones. The creek crossing came along the way: dry, just rocks and sand, not a drop of water. Somewhere in that stretch the thought crossed my mind: what does this look like in monsoon season? Does it actually flow? How would anyone hike through here with water rushing across the path? The questions came and went as I kept walking.
Then the real climb started. What came before the creek was warmup. What came after was the actual work, the kind of ascent where you stop making conversation and start making deals with yourself about the next hundred feet.
The saguaros on the slope were doing interesting things in the morning light. One of them had arms going in three different directions, like it had spent a century arguing with itself about which way to grow. I stopped for that one.
When we reached the highest point on the trail, someone said we could go a little further. Off trail. Up to the actual peak. There was a sign. The sign said closed.
We looked at the sign. We looked at the peak. Then we spotted another group already up there, having made the same calculation ahead of us.
We went.
The view from up there was the kind that makes the entire morning make sense. The whole valley laid out below, hills receding into haze in every direction, the city a faint suggestion at the edge of the horizon. One of those views where you stop taking pictures for a moment because you realize the camera isn’t going to get it anyway. Then you take the pictures.
Then someone said we had 4 miles left.
The way back was different. The group split into three somewhere on the descent. The fast ones ahead, the steady ones behind, me somewhere in the middle with my camera. That’s the thing about long trails. They sort people out eventually. Everyone finds their own pace when the summit is behind them and it’s just distance left to cover.
I made it back. I drove home. I sat down and discovered that 7.4 miles of desert climbing had done something that months of gym sessions had not managed. It had actually activated my glutes. I have been working on lower body strength all year. Apparently what was needed all along was a closed trail and poor planning.
The lesson I am taking from this: read the full trail description, not just the elevation. And when someone suggests a detour, go. The detour is usually the point.
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