Just about every July, my brother-in-law takes his family up
north to go camping. They always go to
the same place, the Cave Springs campground in Oak Creek Canyon . Over the last six years or so (with the
notable exception of last year), we have tagged along, at least for a few days
each time. Camping at Cave Springs brings
a welcome break from cicada season here in Phoenix , and relief from all the symptoms of summer
madness their ceaseless droning represents.


It’s no wonder the vortex-worshippers and crystal gazers go
ga-ga for it. I know I feel different
when I get there, although I’m not there to align my chakras or get my aura
read. But there is a mental shift that takes place upon arriving in red rock country, and for me it's the moment of release from all
the work and stress that comes from getting the hell out of town. Sedona is my visual
confirmation that the escape is real, and now. In turn, my body instinctively begins to relax, and my high-revving mind downshifts to a slower gear, automatically
lowering the frantic spinning of my brain to a smoother, calmer rpm.

Aside from Slide Rock, the canyon remains a largely intact joy. Once you leave Sedona, which still happens
with startling suddenness, it’s shaded and much more tranquil, a sharp contrast
to the gaudy, dizzying cacophony of that town’s short, but hyperbolically touristy,
drag. There are a good number of small
resorts, motels, inns, cottages, cabin rentals, homes and businesses tucked
into the sides of the canyon where it’s wide enough, but the tall canyon trees
and naturally thick vegetation have grown up around these places, obscuring
many of them from plain sight, and minimizing the sense of obtrusiveness of most
others. Buildings tend to be laced
thinly and fit to the scale of the canyon, allowing Mother Nature to retain at
least a semblance of her dignity.
Considering the shameless, though spectacular, exhibition of just a few
miles back, I’m sure she appreciates the opportunity to recoup some degree of modesty.
The road winds north, mostly along and above the creek. In many places, it is entirely canopied by
great oak, pine and sycamore trees. The
steep canyon walls may have lost the red intensity of Sedona, but they exude a warm,
caramel-creamy buff tone, with rosier tints still blushing through in places. In town, the temperature can surpass a
hundred degrees on a summer day, but inside the canyon it drops with the gain
in elevation and the density of the forest surrounding it. Five miles past the town, it feels about ten
degrees cooler. It’s still hot enough to
push most summer afternoons to the brink of comfort, and even a little beyond
it, but that only makes a swim in the Oak
Creek ’s cold waters a refreshing and immensely effective
way to blunt the afternoon edge.
Several miles beyond Slide Rock is the Cave Springs
campground, which is itself a pretty little jewel within the priceless necklace
of Oak Creek . Slipped into the gently sloping floor between
the stream and the towering west wall of the canyon, Cave Springs harbors maybe
eighty campsites, some of which are right along the water, while others snuggle
right up against the cliffs. I’m sure
the creek-side sites are great; they’re the only ones in the campground that
can be reserved, and so those spots are always booked many months before our
plans are finalized. For our part, we’re
perfectly content with the cliff side of camp, which is further from the noise
of the main road, and because it’s on the outer fringe we’re also less
susceptible to the various nuisances public campsites may randomly bring, such
as the family who, for some unknown reason, seems to prefer fighting with each
other out in the open, or the guy who insists on running his generator all day
long, or the group of teenagers whose raucous partying extends well beyond the
10 p.m. commencement of camp-mandated ‘quiet time.’

On the far side of the field, at the bottom of the canyon
wall, is a small, fenced off opening in the rock. This is the cave which gives the camp its
name. Inside the cave sits some
machinery, including a pump that is used to collect and distribute the spring
water that used to emerge here to the spigoted outlets throughout the camp. It’s a dark, hollow and slightly spooky place. It has an abandoned feel to it, and stories
abound of snake sightings and critters and such. Most kids, naturally curious initially, seem a
little reluctant about approaching it again later.

The part of Oak
Creek which runs adjacent to the campground is blessed
with a variety of swimming holes. The water
runs shallow near the entrance to the campground, making it easily accessible from
the road. It forms a nice wading/play
area, and it also has a small pool deep enough for young kids to swim some. But because the creek is stocked with trout,
it also attracts people who want to try their luck with a fishing rod. This sets up an undercurrent of antagonism
between the swimmers and the fishers, because there’s just not enough room to do
both in the same spot. In this case, I am
firmly on the side of the swimmers, since it’s the only place in the camp that’s
easily accessible for families with toddlers and young children who can’t hike
through the underbrush or the rocky banks to reach the other parts of the creek. Not to mention the older folks, or those who
can’t get around well, who just want a place to dip their toes, or do a little
wading. Honestly, a fisher who isn’t willing
to walk further than a paved road, or put even a little bit of effort into procuring
a more isolated fishing spot, deserves to have their trout stamp revoked (assuming they bought one in the first place). The baser members amongst this breed of fisher
express their opinion on the subject by gutting their catch right in the creek,
and allowing the heads and entrails to float around and pollute the area where
the kids might otherwise be swimming.
Swimming-fishing conflicts aside, those people who are
willing and able to follow the creek a little bit further downstream are
rewarded by a number of swimming holes that are bigger, deeper, and less populated
than the one near the entrance to the campground. Our favorite of these is about a ten minute
hike from camp, and involves crossing the creek by stepping on a considerable series
of unsteady stones. Following the
creek’s far bank leads to a good-sized pool, maybe eight to ten feet deep at
its deepest, which has a Goldilocks-like set of rocks from which swimmers can
leap into the frigid water. There is a baby
rock (maybe five feet high), a mama rock (ten or so) and a papa rock (twenty or more).
We can spend hours at this
particular hole, and while it’s unusual to have the place entirely to yourself,
there never seems to be more than ten or fifteen people around at any given moment. The best time to go is mid-afternoon, when
the heat of the day is greatest and being in the numbingly cold water doesn’t
give you an uncontrollable case of the shivers.
If you plan it just right, by the time you get back to camp and
thoroughly dry out, the sun will just be about to drop behind the western
canyon wall, and from there you’ve literally got it made in the shade.
The biggest drawback at Cave Springs, in terms of certain
modern expectations at least, is, of course, the bathrooms. The bathrooms here are the old, vault-type
toilets. They constantly stink, and no
matter how often they are cleaned, there are always bugs in the corners in a
mixed state of existence. Toilets like
this probably serve as the single biggest deterrent to camping in the first
place. You wouldn’t think such a thing
exists that can make a porta-potty look like the height of luxury, but that’s
exactly what the good, old-fashioned vault toilet does. Yet as counter-intuitive as it may sound, I
hope they never replace them. Vault
toilets are one of the few things keeping the spiffy,
slaves-to-creature-comfort masses from overrunning the place and turning the
whole campground into some kind of Best Western.

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