Keyhole Sink
Traveling this stretch of old Route 66 is familiar to me: this is where I learned to drive. About five miles after I left Parks, I pull off into the dirt parking lot of the Oak Hill Snow Play Area. My family would take me here to sled when I was younger. Our cabin is just a few miles away. I park under a large Ponderosa, and check to make sure I have my camera. Cautiously, I hurry across 66 and unhinge the green cattle gate to let myself into the forest. Within the first five minutes walking the trail, I have already spotted all four kinds of Juniper that are native to Arizona. There are no indications that I am actually quite close to the road. The dense forest makes even the sunniest day seem slightly overcast. I can't quite tell what direction I am from where I started. The trail is especially good at allowing its visitors to forget where they truly are. I know I'm not in Arizona anymore. This is an adventure in a far away place. I am on a secret mission, so secret that I am not quite sure what it is myself.
It feels like I am getting deeper into the forest, and a few aspen pop up around me. A few more feet, and I am in an aspen grove. It is the middle of summer, and yet these aspen don't have a single leaf on them. They look dead, and I get an eerie feeling. I sense that there is something sacred about this area. I step off the trail briefly, expecting my feet to sink into thick mud. But they land on solid, dry ground. Lumpy and rocky, but dry. I turn around to face the trail, surrounded by tall white sticks that used to be trees. There is something here that transcends my being. It is slightly frightening. Suddenly, I am Atrayu, lost in the Swamps of Sadness! I jump back onto the trail and hurriedly continue down the path, wondering when I will finally exit this decaying thicket.
Before I can finish my thought, I emerge into the light and behold a riparian area. My fear melts with the sunshine, and I slowly pull open the wooden cattle gate to let myself in. The rock walls of the sinkhole are shaped like an old fashioned keyhole. I hear the sound of running water and see a pair of twitterpaited dragonflies. The area is cool and green, shady yet sunny. Little crevices along the bottom of the walls lead me to believe that earlier people, or at least some animals, called this place home. I slowly tiptoe until the clover threatens to bury my ankles. Squinting at a ledge to my left, some primitive artist has told me his feelings about this immaculate site.
All is quiet. I am alone. This is the place of my heart.