We hit up the Circle K on the way out of town, so I could purchase a bag of ice. I emptied half of the ice into the rocks next to the free air machine, and put the rest in the small cooler to preserve the cheese, milk, pickles, and eggs that I'd grabbed from the fridge on the way out the door. The Shapiro's were in the back, Mike already telling glorious people-stories, like the one about the Modern Mountain Man and his friend who ate the entire 15 lb salmon and slept til 3 the next day, and nearly got ticketed for fishing without a license. Past Red Mountain to the North, past the Superstition Wilderness, past the state trust land which is empty except for the ghosttown Renaissance Festival, past Superior at the base of the great cliffs, and Miami at the back side of them. We went to Globe, AZ. We'd been there before, sort of admiring the Duluth-like streets and the wedding cake-like strip mines, eating Little Caesar's in a Basha's parking lot. Casson's coworker is from Globe and hates it, but claims that it has the best Mexican food restaurants anywhere. "Where's the best one?" we asked. "Y-Oh's," she said. "Y-Oh's?" we echoed. "Yeah, let me think... wuh wuh why-oh's... yeah it starts with a Y." Anyways, we found it, actually spelled Guayo's, but the pronunciation was accurate. I ate one taco and sufferred from heart burn the rest of the night. After dinner we weaved our way up into the Pinal Mountains, found a classic campsite, started a fire, pitched tents, and read Wind In the Willows, though we were living the Wind in the Pines. Wind In the Willows is so quaint and beautifully written, that you, too, would crave cold tongue and pickled herring after only one chapter. In this chapter, Mole had returned to Mole's End, feeling completely snug, secure, and satisfied to be home, feeling that it really was a safe harbor for him to always return to, but never thinking for a moment that he would give up his dream to see the world. No plans were made for the next day, for not making plans the night before is a way of communicating that we all have no requirement for waking up early, and our plans will have to take shape as a consequence of how late we sleep. We slept until the sun was well above the cliff over our heads. We made ourselves a fire and breakfast; eggs with feta, avocados, and ripened tomatoes, fresh melon, and hot mochas, chocolated by that mistress of the Mexican food aisle, Abuelita! After packing up, we began searching for the trail that would lead us through Six Shooter Canyon. Alas! We had passed it on the road the night before and were not destined to find it that day. We found another, however, that began by heading down a small stream, with a nice set of granite falls to lure us on. When we arrived at a trail division, we took the uphill trail to the right, East Mountain Trail. Up and up, we switched back and forth, slowly and happily the whole way. At the top we found ourselves on a ridge, with views to the East and West, valleys of green and yellow rolled out like carpets. We continued on the trail for another few miles, sometimes on the edge of a steep mountain grade, sometimes in what felt like a kind of desert thicket on flat ground. Eventually we made it back down to meet up with the road we were parked on, only a few miles south. We got back to the car, drove down the mountain, back through Globe (convinced even during daylight that the town must be heavily and illegally drugged), stopped to buy a book at the Book Bank in Miami, and finished our weekend off with a large Irish dinner at Rula Bula's in Tempe.