merry mollusk.

From sna-foo to yabba dabba doooo.

But before you eat your lunch, it's a good idea to find the trail head first.

The best laid plans…found our adventurers auto bound for a trail in the Four Peaks Wilderness. Armed with scribbled internet provided directions, a belly full of caffeine and biscuits & gravy—it was a grand drive on a blue Highway 87 leaving civilization in the rear view mirror.

At the appointed turnout, the rental car and it's inhabitants were shocked to see a washboard dirt road in much worse condition than what they encountered yesterday. Calculating 8 miles from the trail head; their Chevy already whimpering like a freshly sheared poodle, they decided to turn back and head for Plan B: Saguaro Lakes.

Back up the road they drove re-vectoring to the east. Sadly the lake, while rare indeed in these climes, was a pretty disappointing reservoir. So going on dead reckoning, our trusty pilot (who is known for his most excellent sense of direction) took a leap of faith and assumed the road they were on would lead them back to the Superstitions.

Forty miles later...

They passed the Goldfield ghost town again, headed confidently for Plan C: First Waters Trail Head. Only to find themselves on another rutted dirt road…

Papa Foo gunned what was left of the Chevy's engine and off they bounced into the desert. Until they came upon a parking lot filled with buses...and screaming scouts having a veritable jamboree in the outback. 

This did not look good at all. 

Yet they were still a mile from the official trail head so on they bounced to the end of the line. 

Nice enough spot except for the troop of Boy Scouts unloading, running every which way yelling, "Dibs on being the leader!" Quickly grabbing their rucksack, our party decided to see how much distance they could get on these bunglers while the Scoutmaster tried to corral the young scouts (who were clearly jacked up on Mountain Dew) for the trail safety briefing.

All worry was for not—for in 10 minutes, Foo and Papa found themselves on just the best trail into the desert: an easy-on-the-quads, well marked, cacti-studded climb; completely void of people. In they hiked for 3+ miles enjoying the ever-changing scenery and getting ever closer to Weaver's Needle, the same rocky spire seen from above on yesterday's jaunt. Coming at it from below was a whole new enchilada as they say here in local parlance.

Reflection finds agreement. That while not super taxing to lower limbs, today's hike might just win 'Best of Set' yet.

Hoodoo you love? Peralta Canyon—that's who.

Day 2 in the Foo-perstitions
Our Bob needed a triple low fat latte to get reved up in the morning but Ms Foo was bouncing off the walls by 6am—itching for more adventure in the high mountains.

Today's hiking escapade (recommended by many a web site) was Peralta Canyon; a local favorite. One can only wonder why as the trailhead is harder to find then a Republican in Berkeley. But drive east did our brave duo, til the freeway turned into an old two lane road. A left on Peralta Road quickly turned into 7 miles of unpaved, potholed hell to the trailhead. Alarms must have been ringing at the Budget Rent-A-Car HQ as this rough and tumble go was most certainly a serious violation of the rental agreement.

It was worth the effort and punishment to the car as the trail looked promising; snaking into a deep canyon with a steady but doable grade. Deeper in, the trail got harder as the hoodoo rock formations towered overhead. After 3 miles came the payoff: an enormous needle peak in the distance.

A perfect lunch spot! 

Settling in against a rock to break the wind, our duo noshed on a smashed up Subway sandwiches and sodium-infused chippers. Adequately refreshed, they packed up their belongings and noticed—much to their dismay, a nice little tarantula eyeing a dropped piece of lettuce. This would have been the fright of the day if not for a misplaced footfall later that afternoon (subsequently much deeper into the AZ wilderness) which promptly found our hero flat on his bum with scraped up palms as war wounds.

Even with these two mishaps, our cheery friends dusted themselves off and continued—albeit with a wary eye out for poisonous bugs, snakes, and loose rock.

 

On the hike out a party approached speaking in that lovely, fluid tongue that Our Bob knows so well—French! With a loud, "Bonjour tout le monde!" Foo soon made some friends with four Quebecoise. One, impressed with Bob's, "Bonjour" immediately fired off a question in Gallic which left him with that oh-so-well-known stupefied look on his face. Luckily the fellow trekkers spoke English, so with mixed French and English Bob and Foo were able to advise them of what lay ahead, and with a hearty, "A bientot!" was off and headed back to the car to see if the shocks had given out and/or the tires were flat.

If the Dutchman is lost, then let's find him.

Apache Junction, AZ.  After their early morning walk to the Human Bean for coffee and hiking advice from the resident 

human being barista, Foo and her Papa went for a 6-plus mile run up a canal north of town.

After returning to the motel, they scarfed down some waffle, then headed east for the mountains. Stopping at the old ghost mining town of Gold Hill for a sandwich they made the final destination: Lost Dutchman State Park.

Foo pored over the map before pointing paw then firmly announcing, "Siphon Draw!": a 4-mile climb up and into the canyon.

 

Low desert scrub land gave way to steeper paths and close canyon walls as they rose into the mountain, finding themselves in a deep steep wash. After 2 miles, all semblance of trail was gone and our heroes were rock scrambling toward Flatiron peak—desperately following spray 

painted dots which marked the trail on occassion; a poor substitute for cairns. 

The way was eerily reminiscent of a hike Papa Foo had taken in Red Rocks Canyon where he and two buddies went off piste and into one big mess trying to extricate themselves from a similar steep canyon. But up and up they climbed till it was obvious that the peak was farther than daylight was likely to afford visibility; so they turned back. A scrambling scale down the mountain ended one stellar hike.

And with lots of advice from the ranger they are well set up for more and steeper climbs tomorrow.

Foo for the Coldstone.

As if gorging on flatbread pizza wasn't enough, Foo justified a 'Love It' sized Coldstone thinking, "Hey—the suite has a full-size fridge and I'll burn off the calories hiking." So here she sits nestled in the room watching Jethro, et al dig into their own cold case. 

Mama Foo notes the peanut M&Ms add a lovely finishing touch to the generous dollop of ice cream.

Superstitious? You bet.

Given the number of blog entries, one might infer a dearth of adventure. Sure, Bunny's had bronchitis...but that doesn't mean adventure hasn't been a-plenty. No, Bunny's just been a lazy lump of fur.

But fret not, for this week promises new Bunny Blog entries because Ms Foo boards a 747 in less than 2 hours. Destination: Superstition Mountains, AZ.

Editors note: Bunny flew on an Airbus 319 not a Boeing 747. Sadly, Bunny wouldn't know the difference between a CFM56-5 engine and JT9D-7R4G2 if it bit her on her furry butt.