Surviving Sedona
Sedona is Arizona’s answer to Carmel, minus an ocean.
Lee Geiger
It’s 6:30 on a Friday evening in Sedona, Arizona, with the setting sun beaming a transparent light over the rust-colored spires and buttes that surround the city like the ruins of fortress walls, and everything looks and feels magical. Even our paunchy and ponytailed local hippy, who muscled her florescent pink jeep to this off-off-off-road location, looks glamourous in the otherworldly glow. Standing atop a rocky outcrop a thousand feet above the valley floor, taking in the mind-bending view, I wanted to feel something special, a metaphysical dog whistle calling out to me to experience some sort of transcendental awakening. But my spiritual gene must be misfiring, because all I can sense right now is a throbbing pain emanating from my lower back.
For years, I’ve been told I needed to visit Sedona, that a trip to experience nature’s largest red rock collection would be well worth the time and effort. My first impression was that Sedona can be a tough place to drive, courtesy of jaw-dropping vistas causing rubbernecking tourists to crazily swerve or suddenly brake in front of me. Lining the way into town were strip malls peddling crystals, incense and healing stones, and the roundabouts conducting traffic control provided plenty of space for the New Age crowd to dance in circles.
The El Portal Sedona was home for two nights, a subtle, 12-room rustic-chic masterpiece tucked next to the Tlaquepaque Arts and Craft Village. Centrally located so you could walk to anywhere, the two-foot thick adobe walls, natural river stone fireplaces and massive juniper ceiling beams made you feel you as though you were miles from civilization, which is a pretty neat trick at $400 per night. However, nothing said “I Love This Place” more than the mouthwatering huevos rancheros served up at breakfast. The. Best. Ever.
I was hoping to stumble across one of Sedona’s famous “vortex” energy spots, rumored areas of harmonic convergence spread across town like ATM machines, where the earth’s energy is supposedly increased, leading to self-awareness, spiritual healing and a sudden desire to have a Woody Guthrie look-a-like read your “aura colors.” Sadly, the only high energy I experienced over the weekend was at the swanky Enchantment Resort, where $30 enchiladas and $20 sangrias “vortexed” a hole in my wallet. For that money, I’d at least hope to see a U.F.O.
Meanwhile, back to my aching back. To get my Sedona flora and fauna fix, I took a “Scenic Rim Tour” offered by Pink Jeep Tours. The company’s website said, “the current trail is very bumpy and rough.” Talk about your understatements. One hundred miles of trails in the area and I’ve got to pick the one where oil pans and kidneys go to die. By the time we climbed through Bear Wallow Canyon to absorb the breathtaking views from Merry Go Round rock, my back felt like it had gone fifteen rounds with a clothes dryer. And lost.
So how do you cure an ailing back in Sedona? Two words; “Mothership Margarita.” Three did the trick.
Looking for a souvenir, I walked into a holistic trinket store. Next to the $200 mood rings was something called “Vortex in a Can.” According to the label, the contents had been “humanely gathered during a full lunar eclipse by nonsmoking vegetarians.” I bought one but I’m afraid to open it.
I liked Sedona a lot, but the next time I visit I want to be abducted by an alien. That would be pretty cool.