On a dirt road in the Chiricahuas, a rugged and remote sky island mountain range in Southeast, Arizona, a guy in a car yells out “Do you know where you are?” without stopping.
I laugh because it offends me. But then again, I don’t look really outdoorsy–my pack is not too big and I am wearing a cotton t-shirt with a chicken hen on it.
Also, the Chiricahuas got torched by a wildfire ten years prior so bad it changed the landscape. Now Brett’s “red route” doesn’t apply, so I just find a landmark and shoot for it, and find myself swimming in a mess of catclaw (again); an occasion full of expletives and what I call trekking pole tantrums, Type 2 Fun as they say.
Anyway, the guy in the car’s voice trails away as I’m waving my maps in the air laughing too much it’s creepy. Maybe that’s why he didn’t stop to talk? Would he have asked that question if I was a man?