To Sedona, With Love
I don’t remember whose idea it was to get married in May. I’d like to take credit for it, but I’m sure it was the result of a long, drawn-out discussion (as usual). I do remember that I didn’t want to be a stereotypical June bride. I also remember a pact to forgo anniversary gifts in order to take anniversary vacations. May is a great time of the year to travel. Too late for spring rains, too early for vacationing schoolchildren and summer heat. As a wedding gift to each other, we invested in $1,000 worth of red Travelpro luggage. That was a lot of money for 21 year olds in 1999. It lasted almost 20 years and through numerous overseas flights.
On our one-year anniversary, we took a road trip through the Southwest. San Diego to Las Vegas to Bryce Canyon National Park to Arches National Park to Natural Bridges National Monument to Monument Valley Tribal Park to Grand Canyon National Park to Sedona. Just us and tour buses filled with people older than our grandparents. We developed our photos at one-hour Fotomats as we traveled, too excited to wait until we got back home. It was our second visit to the Grand Canyon, but this time it was disappointing. California wildfires filled the canyon with haze. The shuttle buses were crowded and our feet were covered in angry red blisters after hiking for a week in ill-fitting outlet-mall boots. We sat side by side on the edge of a bathtub at Bright Angel Lodge and soaked our battered feet, finding humor in the situation as we always do.
We drove through Flagstaff on our way to Sedona. I remember trees and a Home Depot and being shocked that a town that had received a shout out in Route 66 was so…vanilla. We made the twisty drive down Oak Creek Canyon, anticipating red rocks and one final night of anniversary bliss at a Super 8 motel before returning to suburban SoCal and I-15 traffic jams. We drove by Hoel’s Indian Shop without a clue that less than 10 years later, the owners would become some of the most important, loved people of our lives. We drove the Chevy S-10 across Midgely Bridge, unaware that two months later that truck would be totaled in a car accident. And then we were in Uptown Sedona, surrounded by tourists shops, red rocks, ice cream parlors and 100-degree heat. Not exactly Nirvana, and yet my heart skipped a beat. Just shy of my 23rd birthday and a year away from college graduation, and I felt like I had found home.
We dined on fried cactus and prickly pear margaritas at The Cowboy Club without a clue that the Cowboy Artists of America had been founded there in 1964. Co-founder Joe Beeler’s son and daughter-in-law would become dear friends, and their delightful son would one day ride next to me in Daniel’s tricked out Jeep (the replacement for that aforementioned totaled S-10) on our way to a photo shoot only months before his high school graduation. We drove by the spot where I’d meet the makeup artist who would become my first Sedona girlfriend. The same one who always knows exactly what I need to hear — even as recently as last week. We made our way to iconic Bell Rock where one day the woman who knows me best would bring her two huskies named Duke and Jack. We would take pictures of the two of us wearing matching Twilight t-shirts. We drove past Capitol Butte without a thought that one day we’d climb to the top of the monolith, a hike that would ignite a friendship. On our way to our hotel, we drove by St. John Vianney Catholic church where mass had just been delivered by a man who would completely change my perception of the Christian faith and make me laugh harder than I ever thought possible.
The front desk agent at the Super 8 told us we couldn’t miss Red Rock Crossing so, Pentax SLRs and extra rolls of Agfa ultra-saturated film in hand, off we went in search of the most photographed spot in Arizona. On our way, we passed by Sedona Red Rock High School, never guessing that one of its students would eventually marry my future Pickles. The four of us would share nights fueled by food and Champagne and scarves and carved pumpkins and hip-hop. But I didn’t know that when I glanced out my window at the new-ish high school.
At Red Rock Crossing, we parked that turquoise blue pickup truck and made our way along the creekside path until we came to a clearing that would inform the next 18 years of our lives. There at the base of Oak Creek, Cathedral Rock rose up in all its majesty against a sky so blue it made my eyes ache. The cool waters of the creek rushed over smooth rocks, and green sycamores and cottonwoods and red slick rock surrounded us. My camera hung by my side, momentarily forgotten, and that feeling of home came rushing back, slamming into my soul like a freight train. They say Cathedral Rock is a vortex. I say it was an awakening. From that moment forward, there was only one thing I wanted in the entire world: to live in Sedona. As I gazed in wonder at Cathedral Rock that day, I didn’t have a clue that two people who we’d grow to love more than words can convey would one day own a horse rescue just on the other side of the formation. Together, the four of us would laugh and cry and share California coincidences that had me convinced this couldn’t be our first lifetime together. We would eventually climb Cathedral Rock with friends from France. With my younger sister. With my boss who came to feel like the older sister I never knew I wanted. But I didn’t know any of that in May 2000. I did know that this was where I belonged.
We extended our vacation an extra night because neither of us could bring ourselves to leave Sedona. When we returned home, we framed our photos and spent hours talking about the glory of all we had seen. Remember Red Canyon? Remember Valley of the Gods? Remember Mexican Hat? I framed a photo of Red Rock Crossing, put it on my desk at work and promised myself that one day it would be in my backyard. We spent the next five years escaping to Sedona whenever we had a three-day weekend. The locals told us we had Red Rock Fever. This sounded exotic and apropos. We visited Sedona in gale-force winds and skin-blistering heat and pouring rain and dazzling fall colors. We visited during Valentine’s Day and Thanksgiving and Fourth of July. We visited when we had money and when we were broke. Every time we left, my heart grew heavier, until one August when we pulled up in the middle of the night towing two cats and a U-Haul filled with all of our worldly possessions (and Daniel’s exhausted parents right behind us). Our heads were filled with visions of magazine jobs, home ownership, Indian art, endless hiking and a life fulfilled.
We thought we’d arrived for good. Home sweet home.
It pains me to admit that hearts and ambitions and careers and interests (and tastes in home decor) change. But friends who turn into family? That doesn’t change.
I fulfilled my initial career goals in Sedona. We bought our first home. We laid our first two kitties to rest and adopted two more furbabies who became the center of our lives. We traveled to Europe and South America while living in Sedona. I published a book. Daniel climbed the corporate ladder and secured the corner office. We grew closer to family who were hundreds of miles away thanks to the wonders of technology. We met neighbors who redefined the word (and gave us new reasons to look forward to Christmas). There have been cars and homebrew and home improvements and brushes with Bono and Twin Peaks encounters and knotty parties. Grandparents lost and cousins rediscovered. Parents misunderstood. Darling little girls who will always have a place in my heart, even if I won’t get to watch them grow up. Imagined children released. Dance parties and drugs and deadlines…always deadlines.
And now painful goodbyes. For sale signs and yard sales and a future that is frighteningly and excitingly uncertain. But no regrets.
