South Mountain Park and Preserve

Author's Comments

Sixteen thousand acres on the southern edge of a city of five million. That is what South Mountain is, and the math of it never quite resolves for me. You can stand on Dobbins Lookout in late January with the Valley spread out below in a grid of pale streets and glass, and ten minutes down a trail you are alone in a saguaro forest that feels older than any of it. I come here in winter, when the desert is at its most generous and the air finally clears enough to see the far edge of the basin. Golden hour from the lookout is the obvious photograph and I have made it more times than I should admit. The downtown towers catch the last light and the mountains across the Valley go violet behind them. It works. It always works. But the photograph I keep chasing is on the trails below the summit, where the saguaros throw long shadows across the wash beds and the city disappears entirely. The petroglyphs are worth the search if you are willing to walk. I will not say where. Part of what makes them feel honest is that you have to want them. Summit Road closes to cars on certain days and those are the days I prefer to be there. The mountain goes quieter, the air smells like creosote, and the light moves across the ridges without the sound of engines underneath it. Come early or come late. The middle of the day flattens this place into something it is not.

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