Incriminate or Exonerate

I took a hike a few weeks ago in a state park on the outskirts of Scottsdale Arizona.  It cost me forty-six dollars.  And I am not including the gas money to get there, nor the approximately dollar fifty-nine for a PB&J on flatbread and some carrot bites I ate at the summit.  Maybe not a summit.  It was more like the top of one of the giant termite hills you see on Animal Planet shows about insects.  Except instead of termites, I was simultaneously attacked by fire ants, jumping cacti needles and the occasional dung beetle mistaking my beer hangover farts for an olfactory dinner invitation.  I am, however, including the forty dollars that was stolen right out of my wallet by an evil (or not) mountain biker, who, for some unknown reason, left me with a single dollar.

The part that really stings is the fact that I had wanted to hike a different trail, clear on the other side of Scottsdale.  If you are from New Jersey you might not get the implication of my words.  Clear on the other side of Scottsdale is not like clear on the other side of Cherry Hill.  It's more like Exits 1 through 4 on the NJ Turnpike. Cherry Hill might be sprawling, and Route 70 might be one giant parking lot, but there is plenty more desert in the Greater Phoenix metropolitan area than there is abandoned farmland in NJ.  When you look at an AAA map of Arizona, one inch does not equal ten miles.  One inch equals thirty miles.  With the same traffic as Cherry Hill.  But without the Wawas.

Now, on this particular Friday everyone else in Scottsdale, AZ had decided to take the same hike as well.  I don't know how to explain this so you can visualize it, but the trail head parking situation was about as accommodating and welcoming as the beach access in Loveladies, NJ.  Unless you get there by 6 AM or own a mansion on the beach, you ain't gettin' in.  So after cruising the parking area for fifteen minutes, hoping the thirty-three other cars doing the same thing would miss someone pulling out, I decided to abort and do what I should have done in the first place, which was to drive out of town, fifty minutes, to the nearest state park.  And, as it turns out, my instincts had been correct because the only people in this park were me and that mountain biker.

Why do I say this?  Because during the seven mile drive from the unmanned entrance station to the trail head, I saw no other cars, and only one bicyclist.  And there were no cars at the trail head parking area either.  I say unmanned  entrance station because that is where my troubles began.  I am ashamed to admit this, but after driving almost an hour to this park I initially balked at the $6.00 entry fee posted on the aforementioned unmanned  entry station kiosk.  If you have ever pulled into a national park campground after hours you know what I am talking about.  The honor system.  You are expected to have exact change, to place that exact change into an envelope with your car make and model and license plate number clearly written, with the imaginary pen you hope someone left in the rental car glove box, on the outside.  And if you do find that pen, it is most likely bone dry of ink and half melted anyway from the desert heat.  And then you are to place that envelope in the little slot at the top of the cast iron pipe with the little door and Master Lock at the bottom.  So the ranger can collect your money later during his rounds.  But before you drop the envelope in the slot, you must not forget to tear the little ticket off the envelope with the corresponding ID number and place it prominently on your dashboard.  The driver's side only.  Lest the over worked ranger miss seeing it while you drive past going 15 mph over the park road speed limit.

But the first instinct, of course, is to stand there for ten minutes looking up and down the empty access highway looking for any sign of a ranger who could possibly catch you sneaking in with out paying the six dollar entry fee anyway.  And simultaneously engage in an internal debate about whether or not sneaking into a deserted state park is a victimless crime.  I, however, am not the criminal in this story.  Popular opinion aside, atheists do have a strong moral compass, so I paid the fee.  But in order to comply with all the rules I had to first find a pen and walk around to the front of my rental vehicle to copy down the license plate number.  And in so doing, I absentmindedly placed my wallet on the hood of the car while writing down the required info.  Need I spell it out any further?  It was not until I got out of the car six miles later and scratched my ass over my wallet pocket that I realized my stupid mistake.  I remembered I had seen only one other human being in the park and I hoped I could find my wallet lying in the middle of the road before either he, or a hungry rattlesnake, got to it first.

So while ironically speeding 50 mph on a 25 mph park road, I carefully scanned the highway for any unnatural looking debris as I headed back toward the entrance station.  And there, at mile marker 3, I saw my precious, lying directly on the double yellow line.  I picked it up, saw my license and credit card safely tucked inside, kissed it to God (even atheists obey tradition), and stuffed it back into my pocket without further ado.  I turned the car around and proceeded back to the trail head to at least get my hike in.  It was now three hours since I first headed out for a quick, free hike, fifteen minutes from my hotel.  Beating the afternoon heat was no longer an option.  Contrary to what you might read in a book on stress reduction, a bit of mindless physical exertion, especially in the blazing sun in the Sonoran Desert, does not necessarily make you feel better.  Especially if the only view from the high point is suburban sprawl, western style, interspersed with rocks, Sagebrush, a Starbucks, more rocks, a Red Robin, and the intermittent Saguaro cactus.  And it is 98 degrees in the shade.  But it is a dry heat.

Fast forward two hours to the Starbucks for a cup of iced coffee.  When I go to pay there is exactly one, one dollar bill in my wallet.  Now, as you may know, I suffer from a mild form of OCD and I am always fully aware of the number, order, denomination, and condition of the bills in my wallet.  Especially while traveling in foreign domestic states like Arizona.  If I have four singles in my wallet and one of them is torn, I make note of this because I will pay with that one first.  Sadly, this is not a joke.  So I was quite certain I had two Andrew Jacksons left after paying the six dollar entry fee for the above mentioned shitty hike.  My conclusion?  That lone mountain biker found my wallet, grabbed the forty bucks, leaving the dollar to allay his guilt a little, and tossed it back into the middle of the road.  So here is the question; Is he a greedy opportunist or a thoughtful samaritan?  He could have left the whole wallet and never taken anything, reasoning the owner would come back looking for it.  He could have taken the whole thing home and tried to contact the owner, hoping for a $5.00 reward.  He could have brought it to the ranger station, but he was on a bicycle and that would entail riding back 4 miles in the desert sun.  Or, worst case, he could have stolen my credit card as well.  It's lucky for me he ended up grabbing the cash and leaving the rest since I was flying home the next day, and being without any ID would have been a hassle.  But he did take my $40.00.   What would you have done?