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Every reasonable part of my body wanted to stay home. Arizona had decided to get weird with the weather, and I wanted no part of it.
The mountains around Tucson, normally sun-soaked, had vanished behind a wall of storm clouds. Rain turned into spitball-sized snowflakes. It was an aggressive reminder that the desert does whatever the heck it wants.
Thinking back to everyone who said I’d miss seasons when I moved to Arizona, I laughed. I left the Midwest to escape this nonsense.
But snow in the desert doesn’t feel like a punishment like it does in the Midwest. It doesn’t turn the world into a gray, cold, slushy wasteland. Instead, it complements the landscape. Dusting the cacti like an overzealous powdered sugar accident and making the mountains look like something out of a Bob Ross fever dream.
So, against all logic (and my strong aversion to being cold and wet,) I layered up, shoved on my boots, struggled to remember how an umbrella works, and ran to my adventuremobile.
A Snowstorm, a Highway, and a Fleet of Sonoran Slicks
After loading up on gas and a questionable amount of gas station snacks, my spouse and I headed south on Highway 83. This road can be a scenic joyride or a vehicular Hunger Games, depending on the weather.
Most days, the road is a mix of cars, motorcycles, trailers, and big trucks hauling gawd-knows-what. This stretch between Tucson and Sonoita attracts everyone from wine country tourists to campers and bikers taking the back route to Tombstone.
On a good day, the sharp curves and blind corners keep you alert. Add a snowstorm, and suddenly it’s less of a road trip and more of a test of your might.
And Arizonans? They don’t do snow. What’s worse, they rarely change their tires, meaning a significant portion of the population attempts to negotiate winter weather with what my spouse and I call “Sonoran Slicks.” Bald-ass tires with about as much grip as an overcooked noodle.
(I lovingly poke fun at them, but I’m secretly jealous. Driving in the snow is a skill I’d love to have never honed.)
As we headed south, fat snowflakes clogged up the Jeep’s wimpy windshield wipers, and visibility shrank with every mile under our knobby and very-much-changed-regularly tires.
Box Canyon Road Was a Bad Idea. But We Took It Anyway.
Just before the shuttered border patrol checkpoint, we veered onto Box Canyon Road. This gravel pass winds through the Santa Rita Mountains, connecting Las Cienegas National Conservation Area to Madera Canyon.
Normally, it’s full of life. Coues deer dart across the road. Mexican Jays scream from the trees. Hawks circle overhead. But today, the animals were smarter than we were. They were hunkered down, and there was nothing but rock, snow, and the crunch of our tires.
The Jeep’s tires clawed through the snow, but I knew better than to get cocky. Sliding into a ditch is one thing. Sliding off a mountain pass is another.
Following a set of fresh tire tracks through the canyon in the fast-accumulating powder made me feel better. If we got stuck, there were humans around who could help.
Having used our winch to pull someone out of a sticky situation in this canyon on a previous trip, I hoped my banked good karma could be called upon if needed.
Eventually, we reached our favorite feature: a towering rock wall where, after a storm, a waterfall spills into the canyon. The waterfall was flowing, but the snow came down so thick we could barely see it.
After pausing several times to ooh and aah at the sight of snow on juniper trees and cacti, we made it to the other side of the canyon safely. Knowing the road into Madera Canyon was likely closed, we turned around and headed back to Highway 83.
Our second trip through the canyon was a little more eventful when we encountered a group of free-range cattle walking down the road. Rather than hunker down, they seemed to enjoy the snow.
Their deep black fur contrasted against the stark white snow, and they bucked excitedly, looking as content as a snowman-building family.
We approached them slowly, and they moved aside to let us pass. They sized up our Jeep like it was just another oddly shaped member of the herd and didn’t seem bothered by the cliff inches from their hooves.
Ending the Adventure in the Most Arizona Way Possible. With Beer and Tacos.
After a slow and slippery jaunt back to the highway, we rolled into Sonoita, where the storm had started to clear. The Whetstone Mountains reappeared, their rocky ridges now frosted with snow.
Sonoita’s main drag, usually buzzing with motorcycles and campers on a Saturday, was eerily quiet. No groups of riders gathered at The Steakout; no boats headed to Patagonia Lake.
The whole town felt like it had hit the pause button.
We found warmth in a brewpub, shedding layers and ordering tacos and a Mexican cream ale. The storm had already started to feel like a story rather than something we had just lived through.
Arizona is one of the only places I’ve been where you can be so deep in the wilderness that you forget what year it is, what season you’re in, and even who you are. And 20 minutes later, you can find yourself as I did, noshing eats in The Copper Brothel.
This was not the Saturday I had planned.
For miles, I sat watching the snow pile up, feeling the Jeep push through it like a tank on a mission.
Then, suddenly, we were in Sonoita. The storm had passed. The roads were clear. The only thing left to do was shake the snow off our boots, order tacos, and pretend this was exactly how we intended to spend the day.
That’s Arizona for you.
Would I do it again? In a second.
Because the best adventures aren’t the ones you plan. They’re the ones that laugh in your face and dare you to keep going.
Still Here? You Must Be the Human Equivalent of Well-Seasoned Cast Iron Pan.
Most people tap out early like tourists who underestimate Arizona heat. But not you. You’re built different. So why not pull up a camping chair with us on Substack?
