"So what's the story of this trail?" he asked. "Seems like it is just a powerline and pipeline road to me." "This trail moves things. It has always moved things. It moves gas and electricity now. And us. But back in the day, it connected the fertile ranching and farming area in the Harquahala Plain to the rail station in Hyder." The answer seemed to partially satisfy his curiosity. I looked northwest to the silhouette of the jagged and multi-hued Eagletail Mountains, now tucked into their own wilderness area. Southeast lay the low, grumbling Gila Bend Mountains, sparse and dry. Around us was a sandy flat desert with a lot of green. Saguaros stood proud in abundance. Ocotillo sent spindly arms skyward, some tipped with their bright crimson flowers. Creosote bushes and brittle brush found purchase in the sandy desert. Small purple wildflowers added a touch of color. Broad washes cut the desert, white ribbons with lush green borders. We'd run other trails to the northeast earlier in the day. Now we were heading south and west to seek out other trails in the lower Sonoran Desert. The Harquahala Hyder was doing what it had always done, humbly and reliably moving us, and anyone else or anything else, to where we needed to be.
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