ALONG THE WAY

Picacho Peak's Trail Fails to Topple Trusting Marriage Partners

FOR MANY YEARS AFTER I MOVED TO Arizona in 1973, I reasonably assumed that the conical mountain I passed on Interstate 10 between Tucson and Phoenix was an extinct volcano. I liked that thought, because while Picacho Peak had none of the majestic features of the world's signature volcanoesit didn't make its own weather or harborPleistocene glaciers - it seemed to sniff the desert sky with a suitably menacing profile, a slouchy, sawed-off funnel. It didn't apologize for its modest size, compared, with, say, Washington's 14,410-foot Mount Rainier. Like a street punk with pocked skin and a loose swagger, it had attitude: Don't mess with me.

I also figured it would take mountaineering skills to climb it. The funnel appeared to crease near the summit, becoming a near-vertical neck. Since I'm not into pitons and carabiners, I wrote it off-regretfully-and pondered it through the windshield at 70 miles per hour.

After years with it filed in the back of my mind, I learned, with some disappointment, that it was no volcano. It's the remnant of some ancient sequential lava spills that somehow got tilted up and then eroded into this prominence. Then a friend told me there was a fairly easy trail-a little over 2 miles and 1,500 feet of elevation gain -to the summit. Picacho was no longer a compelling force, but it sounded at least like an interesting hike.

Patty, my wife and favorite trail companion, drove out with me on a sunny Saturday morning. The trail was indeed benign and it wove through a spiky saguaro forest and afforded increasingly striking views of a landscape littered with distant mountain ranges. It was a view you'd get from a quarter-milehigh radio tower, only without the acrophobia that would accompany climbing a flimsy contraption. Picacho was strong, reassuring, eternal-not at all the menacing presence I'd once supposed. It felt good to be up there.

And then without warning the trail arrowed straight into the sky. The last hundred-foot stretch to the summit was just as it had appeared from below: practically vertical.

The Arizona State Parks department had thoughtfully installed steel cables beside the route to help hikers haul themselves up, so we mustered on. It was tough work, and my latent acrophobia finally kicked in. My palms oozed sweat and slipped a couple of inches with each new grip. My feet fumbled incompetently. The view quit being enchanting. Sweat poured into my eyes and the sun, suddenly much hotter, reddened my face.

About 25 feet from the summit, I looked down at Patty, who was just beneath me on the cables. I asked her, "Are you having a good time?"

"No!"

"Me neither," I said. "Let's go home."

Very tentatively we backed down until we hit a reasonable gradient and walked off the mountain, failed summiteers.

What surprised me a few hours later was the realization that I didn't feel like a failure. I felt deeply satisfied and profoundly happy, and this is what I told Patty: "You know, the wonderful thing about being married to the same person for 20 years is that you can both turn back 25 feet from the summit."

If this assault on Picacho Peak had occurred during our third date, or even our third year together, I would have done the Guy Thing and continued, even at the price of scaring myself, and her, half senseless. And probably everything would have turned out all right, and I would have been able to bask in the glow of a small accomplishment-scaling a very small nonvolcano with a reputedly easy route to its summit.

But this was a bigger accomplishment. That day I came to terms with a force of nature within myself and the relationship I share with my wife.

When some years later I looked up at Mount Rainier and found myself tempted, I knew I didn't have to make the summit. I also knew I didn't even have to try.