Pines and Possibilities

A travel essay.

Saturday begins the way every relaxing February weekend morning should—gazing at the sunrise from a porch, a warm cup of coffee in hand, and good friends by my side. I can feel Mt. Elden’s towering presence before I even see it. Our vacation rental, far from the hustle and bustle of Northern Arizona University, feels like a hidden paradise. Erin, Kyle, and I, three snow-deprived Phoenicians, stumbled upon something akin to fantasyland in Flagstaff, Arizona.

Kyle reaches for Erin’s hand. A gust of pine-scented wind flips the page of my diary. I’m writing about my fears for the future, but the breeze is carrying with it memories of this place. Flagstaff and I are not strangers, though we’ve long since parted ways. We share a history, one that used to be intimate but now feels like the echo of something I’ve almost forgotten.

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No matter what part of the city I stand in, every breath smells like pine. The first few days in Flagstaff had been a blur of exploration, with friends old and new. …