(This is part one of a five part series of our attempted backpacking trip. )

“Are you excited?” Dr. G. asked, as we tromped in unison up a gentle incline. We crested the hill, and a red-gold wall of stone rose into view across the valley, its colors amplified by the slanting sun of late afternoon, its curves and hollows accentuated by shadows. My favorite time of day. To our right, the vista opened to rumpled blue hills as far as the eye could see.

“Yes, I’m excited,” I said. I felt I was expanding to fill every space my eye could see, a kind of joy that doesn’t come easily for me except outside, far from concrete and powerlines. It was an accomplishment just to be walking side by side on the wide gravel path late on Friday, after a late start, a long drive, and repacking our too-heavy backpacks at the trailhead, leaving behind one third of the food and a blanket. A quarter mile down the trail I had to run back to the car for a forgotten knee brace and some prescription medication. Before that,we had had to open and close a barbed wire gate just to get on the access road to the Oak Creek trailhead. There were good reasons for it to be gated; the narrow dirt road cut into the side of a ridge, and for much of the time I looked out the passenger side window of the car past the crumbling shoulder to a long drop into creosote and prickly pear. At a few points we drove down inclines so steep that we couldn’t see the bottom until the nose of the car crested the hill.

Yes, I thought, certainly the worst was behind us now. We would sweat and grow tired carrying our shelter, food, and water on our backs, but that was expected and even part of the satisfaction. Here at the start of the three-day, two-night journey, the terrain was dotted with twisted juniper trees just beginning to produce their hard, blue berries; sprawling prickly pears that grew their oval segments any which way; and cholla, blooming magenta at the ends of all its arms. Ahead, though, the valley was shadowed with dark green: pine, fir, and oak. We were headed for real, old-fashioned forest in the Sierra Ancha Wilderness, along the Coon Creek Trail. Just the sight of dark green tree tops massed on the flanks of the hills made me pick up my pace until I was breathing hard. Descriptions of the area included secluded, multi-story indian ruins hidden in box canyons like the one we were headed for. It was almost five and only a few hours of daylight remained to climb four miles through the forest to the ridgetop before making camp. It was going to be perfect.

The first inkling I had that our trip would not be perfect was a warm spray of liquid wetting my calves as I walked along. I yelped and scurried forward, filled with the wild conviction that some animal was peeing on me. This was a remote area and perhaps the animals didn’t know to be afraid of the likes of us. “Help!” I cried. Dr. G came over to inspect. The hose had detached from our giant 3-liter water bladder, a piece of equipment which we had not yet fully tested and were now relying on to keep the majority of our water safe throughout the trip. We would hike from spring to spring, but there was always the danger that creeks and water sources would be dry. I wiped some of our precious drinking water off of the backs of my legs—it gave me the heebie jeebies even though I knew it wasn’t pee– while Dr. G reaffixed the hose. A few minutes later, the whole bag broke loose and tumbled onto the ground, spilling another cup or two. Rats! Well, we still had enough to get us through the day and most of tomorrow. We positioned the water bag even more carefully and securely, quixotically sure that the problem was solved.