We were planning a wildflower trek in Joshua Tree National Park but revised our plans when we discovered the springtime flora wasn’t quite ready for her close-up. So, my companions: husband Kirk and Palm Springs friends, Lou and Michael, decided to try our luck out in the Mecca Hills north of the Salton Sea, a destination high on my hiking to-do list.
Our back-roads journey there took us through the flip side of the desert’s upscale country-club ambiance deep into the agricultural heart of the Coachella Valley. Lou and Michael were fascinated by the endless acres of produce, date farms, and grapes (table grapes are the number one agricultural product). I jumped out of the car at one point to ascertain a crop of leafy-crowned carrots.
After bumping along a 4-mile dirt road, we arrived at the trailhead for four hikes at Painted Canyon. Because we didn’t arrive until 10 a.m. the parking lot already boasted a good number of cars. 
The canyon walls thrust dramatically from the flat sandy terrain, reminding me of John Ford’s films shot in iconic Monument Valley.
We chose the Ladder Canyon Loop of Painted Canyon, the favorite hike of Phillip Ferranti, author of my hiking bible, 140 Great Hikes in and near Palm Springs.
Entering the cool recesses of the dark-hued canyon, we knew we were in for something special. Voices instinctively hushed as we churned through the beach-like sand floor. 
About a quarter mile in, Kirk spied the trail marker, veered left off the canyon floor, scaled an ostensibly impassable rock slide and melted into the mountainside.
The boulder scramble concealed a secret entrance to a truly magical place. I felt a frisson of excitement upon finding myself alone in a cave-like space between the collapsed canyon walls.
I noticed a vivid green beetle scuttling purposefully along the boulders and did my best to capture his image. (I later consulted my Audubon insect guide but was unable to ascertain his name so if anyone knows this species let me know!.)
After several minutes enjoying the solitude and bug life, I realized that Lou and Michael had not yet joined us. Scrambling back through the entrance, I hailed Michael down below—shirt already off and assiduously studying the canyon walls—to signal the hidden trail entrance.
Thinking that they would soon join us, I headed back into the bowels of the mountain. We didn’t meet up again for three more hours.
After scaling several steep ladders, Kirk and I found ourselves in a magnificent slot canyon—named for its narrowness—topped wih a sliver of sky. Not for the claustrophobic, this meter-wide passageway winds circuitously for a good half mile before ultimately emerging into the warm sunshine. I experienced the same sense of excitement that the very first explorers must have felt when discovering this natural wonder. Amazing that there was always enough space for a person to fully navigate the entire mountain.
I noticed a huge chuckwalla lizard sunning himself high on the rocks. He watched me imperturbably as I snapped some close-ups. I remember feeding carrot slices to one such mountain dwelling creature when I volunteered at The Living Desert and was sorry I was bereft of such a treat. He had to make do with my gift of dried flies, a treat I give to the small lizards inhabiting the Valley's hiking trails. 
When we finally emerged from the labyrinth, we ascend the steepest part of the trail to find ourselves seemingly at the top of the world. Snow-capped Mt San Jacinto and San Gorgonio were visible to the west, the Salton Sea Basin to the south, and the Mecca Hills to the east.
A magnificent array of orange-tipped ocotillos covered the high slopes and yellow and blue wildflowers spread their petals to the warm sun. Glorious.
I must admit that by this time I'm quite stressed by the loss of my erstwhile hiking companions, see that the trail extends onwards and upwards for quite a while, and know that we’re not going to rendezvous for quite a while. I imagine them back at the trailhead, water bottles empty, locked out of the car, and sorry they came along on this misadventure.
Nothing to be done but finish the hike. The trail eventually drops down the mountainside and into Painted Canyon. Now, we’re slogging again through the sandy loam between the towering canyon walls, created through the convergence of the infamous San Andreas Fault and several other fault lines.
The canyon walls span the color spectrum—lilac, russet, red, jet black, jade green, white, as if a painter tried every color on his palette—and you realize that’s precisely why it bears such a descriptive name. I’m reminded of a miniature version of Utah's Bryce Canyon and Zion National Parks.
The colorful canyon twists and turns for about a mile, then hikers are once again presented with a pair of metal ladders balanced precariously against the rock walls, the only way down into the lower canyon.
By this time, we’re hot and tired and the only ones on the trail. It’s always easier to ascend something rather than the converse and it’s a tad unnerving to swing one’s bum around to mount a shaky, wet ladder. I’m sure that the sight of such obstacles on this trail cows many a hiker. Fortunately for them, there are alternate routes available that don’t involve an ounce of courage or dexterity!
Seems like the canyon will wind on forever and the sole-sucking sand is unrelenting. By now, I’m envisioning Lou and Michael’s glowering countenances and wondering why I ever suggested this hike.
The canyon exit in sight, I spy a strange sight: two men lying supine in the sand under a canyon shelf, heads hidden beneath their hats. They remind me of workers taking an afternoon siesta. Kirk strides by obliviously. It takes much too long for my foggy brain to register that these are indeed our traveling companions resting comfortably on the sand.
The guys hear our footsteps in the hushed landscape and Lou slowly turns his head beneath his cap to assess our approach. Michael, usually tightly wound, gives me a beatific smile from his horizontal position and says he’s been meditating, then declares it the nicest day he’s had in years.
Go figure. All that worry for nothing. Seems they were confused by our abrupt trail departure and plodded on steadily and appeciatively through the amazing canyon basin. So, although our respective hikes differed greatly, each pair of hikers was content.To paraphrase Anne Lamott from a piece she wrote about the perennial quest for fulfillment and wonder: creative expression—be it hiking, writing, bird-watching—realizes these goals. As she puts it so deftly: "...the incalculable wealth of time spent quietly in beauty."
Back in our La Quinta abode, Lou and Michael receive another treat—the season’s first glimpse of our 29-year-old tortoise, Boaz, only hours emerged from a long winter hibernation in his underground burrow. They watch entranced as the huge reptile gets his once-a-year warm bath and drink in the bathtub, then eats his first meal in five months.
Before departing, they feed one of my roadrunners, marveling at the bird’s cocky fearlessness.
A memorable day.
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