‘Sit up straight, heels down, lean forward, lean back, tighten the reins, loosen the reins.’ Joe’s instructions replay in my head as I scan the canyon floor for rattlesnakes. I gently push my heels into the sides of my horse, Rio, and he sets off across the rocky terrain.
Joe is my guide and a real-life cowboy. Guiding tourists like me through Arizona’s Sonoran Desert is his side hustle. I’ve signed up for a two-hour sunset trail ride, but Joe tells me he often takes groups into the desert for days. They sleep under the stars, catch fish for supper and eat fruit from barrel cacti.
Joe can tell I’m anxious. I’m pretty sure Rio can too. I’ve been unusually stressed for a while, and no amount of London wellness treatments seem to help. I needed something more radical. And that’s why I’m here. Long before cowboys settled in Arizona, indigenous people discovered the healing powers of the desert’s medicinal plants, and with the help of a vitamin D-rich climate of 330 days of sun a year it has maintained a reputation as a place of wellness for centuries.
As we ride on, I realise that for the first time in months, my mind isn’t racing. Perhaps it is the rhythm of Rio’s stride, the soft thud of hooves and the vastness of the landscape. Or perhaps it is just because I am focused on trying to stay in the saddle. Either way, by the time the sun has set my shoulders have dropped a little.
When I wake up the next morning, I instinctively reach for my phone to check my emails, before remembering the promise I have made with myself not to touch it. Clearly there’s still more work to be done. I make a tea and go to the balcony to look out across the red wilderness to Pinnacle Peak Mountain – a ‘manageable’ 5k round trip hike from the hotel, I’m told – but I decide on ‘desert bathing’, a practice of walking, breathwork and yoga. Navigating the towering saguaro cacti, I naturally begin to synchronise my breath with each step.
I’m staying in Scottsdale – nicknamed ‘the Beverly Hills of the desert’ due to its large shopping district, fine restaurants, a booming wine scene (thanks to local vineyards) and because it has more spas per capita than any other US city. My hotel, the Four Seasons, blends seamlessly into the desert landscape and is surrounded by gravity defying boulders. It looks like a beefed-up version of the adobe casitas from a Clint Eastwood Western.
I go the hotel spa for a cryogenic facial, which, I am promised, will tighten and hydrate my skin. I grit my teeth as a blast of -30°C freezing air is blown across my face. I leave alert and with a very shiny nose.
Hydration is serious business for Arizonans. There are plenty of IV clinics that offer quick fixes claiming to clear the body of toxins. At Second Nature Clinic, I tell my host, Doctor Thanki, to give me the works. She smiles and holds up an IV bag filled with neon yellow liquid. After a quick pinprick, I feel an icy sensation as the cocktail of vitamins, minerals and amino acids travels up my arm. I’m told the effects, which include more energy and an immune boost, should last several days (and it certainly seems to help ease my jetlag).
Next: sound meditation, something I’ve always dismissed as new-age nonsense. Who wants to pay to lie on the floor while someone bangs a few bowls? The theory is specific frequencies and vibrations can shift brainwaves from beta (active, or over-thinking) to theta (sleep and meditation). Greek letters make anything sound plausible.
The air conditioning has cooled the room a little too much. I grab a couple of extra blankets and walk toward my makeshift bed positioned in front of a semi-circle of bowls of different shapes and sizes, with a giant gong at the centre. I close my eyes and as the practitioner begins striking the bowls in sequence, waves of sounds wash over me. Before I know it, a loud bong announces the end of the session. I can’t believe an hour has passed. I’ve completely switched off. Have I entered a meditative state? I am a sceptic converted.
The next day, my alarm rings for 4 a.m. so I can go on a sunrise hot air balloon ride. As the wicker basket ascends to more than 4,000 feet over the sprawling mountains and valleys, I imagine this is how time in space would feel. The tranquillity, only occasionally broken by a blast from the balloon’s propane gas cylinder, and the constant mental chatter that has plagued me for months has slipped away.
When we are safely on the ground, we toast the flight with champagne and I’m invited to join my guide in reciting the balloonists’ prayer:
May the winds welcome you with softness.
May the sun bless you with its warm hands.
You have flown so well and so high that God has joined you in laughter
And set you gently back again into the living arms of Mother Earth.
From sky to canyon, I spend a late afternoon rafting on the Lower Salt River with Cliff Creek Outfitters. The guide hands me a life jacket and points to my reassuringly sturdy kayak. ‘Let the river do the work,’ he says. At first, I ignore his advice. I try to fight the current, paddling furiously. Gradually, though, I begin to trust the gentle flow. For a few hours I surrender and let the current pull me along as wild mustangs cool off along the riverbank.
By the time I get back to London, the IV has worn off and the cryogenic facial glow has faded. But as my phone buzzes with notifications, I feel that something fundamental has changed. My time in the desert has taught me that not everything requires an immediate fix. Sometimes the best thing to do is learn to sit still in the saddle.
For more information on where to sleep, eat and things to do, visit Experience Scottsdale.
Comments