It’s a sparkling 60-degree day in the Sonoran Desert west of Tucson, Arizona. From a rock ledge in the Waterman Mountains, visibility is better than 50 miles, and distant peaks frame the flat sweep of the Avra Valley. The azure sky is cloudless; a cool breeze recalls the freezing temperatures at dawn.
But Tom Van Devender didn’t climb up here for the view. At the moment he is visible only from the waist down, his other half having squeezed into a narrow fracture in the limestone wall. A hand appears, fumbling for the flashlight at his belt; a muffled voice speaks from inside the fissure.
Better check for blacktails when you come up.
Rattlesnakes, that is.
And watch your head.
