Having arrived in Arizona barely a week ago, I had been looking forward to my first mountain bike ride in the Sonoran Desert. Riding from our house at sunrise, there is just enough light to see rabbits scampering among the Hackberry bushes, nighthawks swooping across the painted sky and a coyote stealthily skulking whatever coyotes skulk.
A mile and a half from our front door is a network of a hundred miles of trails, ranging from old jeep roads, chewed up dirt bike courses, and single track groomed especially for mountain bikes. My Sunday morning rides are almost always at a casual pace that allows me to notice the fresh fragrance the damp Turpentine bush brings to the air, and the sound of the first Curve Billed Thrasher who heralds the sunrise.
Ten miles from home, I arrive at the main entrance to McDowell Sonoran Preserve, a parking lot with perhaps a hundred cars and a ramada with perhaps twenty five people milling about waiting for the start of a guided hike. The trails near the entrance tend to be more crowded with small groups of mountain bikers, hikers and occasional horses. My visit to this part of the preserve is brief because I prefer the solitude of my own thoughts and prayers.
