Free High Desert Barbecue by J. D. Tuccille

rolled underfoot, dirt-hard-packed from the tramping of boots and the glare of the sun caused lugged soles to skid and bushes—sharp Arizona bushes with pointy Arizona thorns—reached out to snare fabric and scrape skin.
    T he circle filled with the sound of wind rustling through branches, heavy breathing from hikers intent on keeping their footing, slurps as Scott and Lani sipped from their drinking tubes and Rollo gulped water from an ancient but still-serviceable soda bottle.
    A nd there was also the happy snuffling and snorting of a dog overjoyed to explore the multitude of smells to be found along the trail—and to make friends with the wildlife.
    “ Goddamnit, Champ!” Lani yelled. “Leave that rabbit alone!”
    K elsey Spring itself appeared after half-a-mile. On a welcome shelf of flat land, and just a short jog to the right of the trail, water flowed from a pipe into a battered metal trough.
    “ Anybody need water?” Scott asked.
    N obody answered, so on Scott, Rollo and Champ went — until they realized they were missing a trail companion. They retraced their steps a hundred feet or so to the spring, where Lani squatted, sifting through the contents of her backpack. Her hand reappeared from the pack’s depths, clutching a bright-red parcel emblazoned with a white cross.
    “ What’re you doing, hon?”
    L ani produced a rolled-up sandwich baggy filled with white, powdery crystals.
    “ Oh, no,” Rollo said. “This ain’t no ‘Bright Lights, Big City’ re-enactment.”
    L ani ignored him.
    “ Baby, aren’t epsom salts a laxative?”
    “ Yeah.”
    L ani gestured at the water tank.
    S cott smiled.
    “ Oh. Hell, why not? Is there anything else we can use?”
    Rollo’s mouth opened in a wide O. He dropped his pack to the ground and fished inside a side pocket. He produced a small cardboard box.
    S cott looked at the box quizzically.
    R ollo shrugged.
    “ All that jerky I eat can be a little binding, if you know what I mean.”
    S cott ripped into the box and handed the contents to Lani, who added it to the soup she’d already made of the Epsom salts in the steel trough. She gave the mess a stir with a stick.
    “ Looks good to me.”
    A nd off they went again.
    T hey hiked to the Babe’s Hole spring where hills clustered to shelter a plank-covered well from which water flowed into a bubbling pool of water. Sadly out of adulterants to add to the water supply, they passed on by.
    P onderosa pine soon gave way to oak and sycamore trees, and the temperature inched upwards.
    A t a trail junction, they spurned the left-hand fork that would take them back up to the rim where lurked fire and firebugs, and chose instead the trail to Geronimo Spring at the bottom of Sycamore Canyon.
    T ime passed. The trail grew harsher and treacherous rocks threatened to send the hikers tumbling downward to their destination faster than planned.
    S oon, though, the trail ended at a shady, tree-lined trail intersection where Little LO Canyon opened into Sycamore Canyon. High rock walls towered above. A left-hand turn led to the spring and the big canyon beyond.
    L ani was the first of the trio to take advantage of Geronimo Spring, though Champ jumped the line to lap water from the wooden trough. The thin blonde filled her water bladder and extra bottles while Rollo waited his turn and Scott mixed up batches of an oily yellow solution from two small squeeze bottles of chemicals. He dumped the stuff into each water container Lani handed him.
    R ollo snorted.
    “ Ya gotta toughen up your guts so the water cooties leave you alone.”
    S cott didn’t look up.
    “ I have no doubt the parasites have more to fear from you than you have to fear from parasites.”
    L ight dimmed in the canyon and a spattering of rain polka-dotted the rocks.
    S cott lifted his hand, palm upward.
    “ We’re gonna get wet.”
    H e turned and looked back the way they’d come.
    “ D’ya think they’re still behind us?”
    R ollo shrugged.
    “