Sunday at Christopher Creek

The smell of coffee is on my breath as my eyes adjust to the early morning light in Christopher Creek. My fishing pole in one hand, my tackle box in the other.

I start down the trail, heading to the sound of rushing water. My tattered and torn flannel shirt feels so good. I settle in upon a smooth rock in the middle of the river and start preparations.

Damn, I miss fishing. In my youth it seemed it was all I ever did. Getting back into it just feels right, and with all of the varied locations and scenery here in Arizona, not to mention the variety and size of fish that you can catch, it is a passion that is easy to slip back into.

No bites for me this morning however, but it of course does not deject me. The joy of fishing, for me at least, isnt about what you catch, that is just icing on the proverbial cake.

I head back up on the Mogollon Rim, break out the old Bertha fat tire mountain bike, and just start to ride into the wild. I find a path that connects me to the Rim trail, and am treated with stunning vista views.

The trail gets technical after a bit though, and it takes every once of remaining energy I have to get it completed. I navigate boulders and tree trunks, cacti and squirrels until I eventually complete the trek and circle back to my original starting point.

The sweat on my neck tickles me as it runs down my backside.

I go back to the local inn at Christopher Creek to grab some lunch and a brew before wrapping up my weekend here and drive back down to the valley.

I love the feel of steel guitars playing the old country blues in my head as I fall in love, again, with another part of Arizona.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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