Hiking up Doe Mountain trail, I had my most powerful epiphany, brought on by the play of sunlight on the red rocks, my blessed solitude and the silence, one of Sedona’s most welcome natural resources. On this, my second day in Northern Arizona, I finally understood that touring Sedona was to experience a state of becoming, to feel my own transformation as I followed the twists of the trail or turns of the road. I also felt that I experienced Sedona changing in front of me, that the topography was in a state of becoming, confounding my expectation with every turn as I looked on another arresting vista. Perhaps I need to consult the Transcendentalists again — Emerson and Thoreau might have something to say on the matter. Or perhaps I should go back to the beginning of my trip.  

            Approaching Sedona via 98A, I had only a general idea of what to expect — I had seen the photographs, volumes of them, capturing the variety of colors and shapes that abound hereabouts. Capturing, yet not capturing at all. I caught my first real glimpse, somewhere around Red Rock Park, and realized that if a photo is worth a thousand words, this visit was worth many, many more. I took a turn, some more rock formations came into view and instantly everything changed — the light, the lay of the land, indeed, the gestalt. A few more minutes, a few more perspectives, and I began to suspect what I would come to understand with every mile I traversed — that Sedona cannot be properly photographed, nor described, although I will continue to make my fated attempt. Sedona is not width and heighth, two dimensions are fine for a cityscape or your average countryside, but far from adequate here. Sedona is also about depth, yes, but still, even when you throw this in, something is still missing.

           It is the fourth dimension that is the essence of Sedona, a land of time-release, requiring one to take these turns in person, to bear witness to this seemingly evershifting landscape, a geography that will not stand still. As I pressed on through the byways and the hiking trails marking this beautiful landscape, I could see every geological age in the eye-catching strata high above my head. It’s revelatory, akin even to a conversation, an unspoken question and answer through which I essayed to comprehend the topography.

            It is no wonder there are so many ways to view this land of infinite views. Each way has its own seductions, each method unfolds the red rock country and yields a slightly different experience. By jeep or by Hummer, by hot-air balloon or by biplane? By bicycle, ATV or motorcycle? On foot, or even on film? Did I mention horseback?

          For my money, though, nothing matches the feeling of a hike, perchance to see it all the way the Sinagua did. I saw my first cairn a few minutes up the trail to Doe Mountain, by a dry creek bed. Official cairns in wire containers provided by the state mark the trail; unofficial cairns, piles of rocks made by hikers such as myself, dot the way, a sort of primeval “Kilroy was here.” I could not resist the impulse to kneel down, gather together a handful of the ubiquitous flat rocks and see how high I could go. I wondered how long my impromptu sign would stay there. A month? A year? Try it for yourself.

         Doe Mountain Trail will make you feel a little like John Muir — although it looks like only billy goats and career naturalists could climb to the mesa for an inspiring 360-degree view, it’s really not a difficult hike. This is another beautiful aspect of Sedona; it’s as easy on the knees as it is on the eyes. Don’t get me wrong, there are some near-vertical trails that you wouldn’t catch me dead on (maybe you would find me dead, actually) — that’s what the jeep tours are for. But there is also a fine selection of trails where the elevation change is gradual enough for the most casual hiker.

         Next to cairn building, I think my favorite Sedona preoccupation is naming the formations. Never mind that most of them have names already — there’s Coffee Pot, so apt that I left it alone. The Nuns I did not touch for religious  reasons. Snoopy, too, I could not have improved upon. But there’s that one I call “Nixon” over by Schnebly Hill, for its clear likeness to Tricky Dick. You know the one I mean. There’s “The Contortionist,” “Hendrix Burning Guitar:” and “Bowl of Chili” (I was hungry when I named that one). It seems to me formation-naming would be a good substitute for the Rorschach test, surely more fun than looking for shapes in the clouds, and much more useful.

       I found a favorite spot to eat, a few, actually, in Uptown Sedona, where the spiritual and physical realms seemed to merge in a cosmic way. I gorged on salmon and steak, shopped for jewelry and souvenirs, all without losing sight of the otherworldly panorama. Finally, I parked myself on a patio at the end of the strip with a double espresso, and all the while I could meditate on “Castro,” “Cat O’ Nine Tails” and “Tricycle” in the distance. That’s full service. Tlaquepaque caters to the shopaholics among you, but this spot is much more than just a shopping center with a funny name. Like a miniature Spanish village, Tlaquepaque (pronounced tuh-lock-uh POCK-ee) has little avenues; there is also a sculpture garden and several plazas, even a chapel. This is the other side of Sedona, a perfect place to listen to mariachis, sip a margarita, enjoy a meal and browse the galleries and boutiques full of Southwestern art, clothing and gifts. A few turns in there and I actually lost my bearings, but one glance up at “Meat Cleaver Rock” and I knew just where I was.

      The way out of Sedona is no less picturesque than the way in. Highway 89A north travels up Oak Creek Road toward Flagstaff, past Slide Rock Park, switching back and forth crazily on a road that elevates 4,000 feet in a matter of minutes. The scenery is breathtaking in all directions, but resist the temptation to gaze too long in the rear-view mirror at the red rocks you leave behind.

     Schnebly Hill Road is a primitive road that ascends a few thousand feet on its way to I-17. It’s nearly impossible to navigate in a passenger car, unless it’s a rental of course, in which case, live it up! Schnebly Hill Vista, elevation 6,000 feet, overlooks the Verde Valley, Steamboat Rock and seemingly the world.

      I, however, took Highway 179 south to I-17, heading back to Phoenix. And I was glad I did, because after a few minutes the road signs directed me to Montezuma Castle National Monument and one last mindblowing experience before I went back to the big city. This Sinagua dwelling was built in the side of a cliff 800 years ago and housed about 20 generations of Native Americans. Many of them never descended to the ground; they lived their entire lives up there in the air.

      I left there in a daze thinking about it. Maybe it was the castle, or maybe it was the cumulative effect of having experienced Sedona and the Red Rock Country, of having just looked at 1.7 billion years of stone. I had watched the eras unfold before me and believe me, all those millennia — well, it was a lot of time to live through in three days.