Independence.

PRESCOTT, AZ

Go ahead and tell me we haven't stumbled into the Emyn Muil.

I arrived at my brother's house here late on the 3rd via Phoenix and I-17; the more direct highway through the mountains was closed by the blaze that killed 19 firefighters on Sunday. Flags remain at half mast, local business' marquees pledge eternal remembrance, signs in the supermarkets solicit donations for the families. You can help out here.

We spent most of the day exploring Jerome and Sedona. Jerome is a touristy quasi-ghost town clinging precariously to the face of a cliff. (If an earthquake ever hits the area, it'll be a full-blown ghost town.) Sedona is beautiful, a pueblo enclave fenced in by rose-red canyons and ridges. We checked out the Chapel of the Holy Cross, a functioning Catholic church with a gift shop in the basement. Ben bought what I can only describe as an outsize novelty rosary, with lacquered wooden "beads" the approaching the diameter of the solar system's lesser moons. He brandished it the rest of the day, successfully keeping evil (and subtlety) at bay.

The view from inside the Chapel.

Prescott is not what I expected of Arizona. It's a rodeo town situated in the northwestern mountains, amid pines and rocky dells. The high desert atmosphere reminds me of Central Oregon. Ben's yard is routinely invaded by foraging peccaries, wild pig-like creatures that city ordinance forbids you to feed unless they make a really cute face. This pack even had a couple of babies with them scarcely bigger than cats so we pretty much had to toss them a few apples.

On Friday, the weather was cool enough to surmount a few of the striking granite formations north of town along Highway 89. None of them rise particularly high, but their labyrinthine folds pose a formidable bouldering challenge. I imagine the more exposed cliffs are popular with climbers as well.

Ben overlooking Prescott Valley. There's actually some water down there!

Taking the scenery for granite.

Top of the rock.

The same move that makes me so popular on the dance floor.

The airport where Ben is enrolled in helicopter flight school (courtesy of the G.I. Bill) is called Ernest Love Field and sits a mile above sea level. That plus the summer temperatures in Arizona means consistently high density altitudes, which make lift-producing surfaces such as wings, rotors and propellers less efficient. Airplanes therefore require a longer takeoff run to get airborne at a hot, high elevation; I guess helicopters need more ... cyclic? collective? I got to try my hand at one of the simulators and was in a world of completely foreign terminology, but I got the ship (they actually call them ships, it's cute) off the ground and, after spinning around like Tony Hawk a few times, managed to settle it back down without crashing.

The school's insurance policy unfortunately prohibited me from riding along in the back during Ben's flight lesson, much less acting out this scene from True Lies. So I settled for posing for this photo in the cockpit of a machine I'll never fully understand and flipping random switches (just to keep him on his toes, you know).

Better duck, kids...

Let's go! I'm sure that family of kittens in the engine won't hurt anything.

The man, the myth, the legend..

The last day of my stay, Sunday, we broke into the tennis courts at Prescott High (who locks a tennis court?) and played a match. Ben has a powerful serve, good directional control, and knows how to use my age and the Arizona sun against me, but I held my own and managed to claw my way to victory in two sets. No small feat against an ex-Marine and natural athlete like my brother. I've been training with my dad, a tennis instructor in Orange County, for the past two months, and the work has begun to show. I like to think Andy Murray and I both kind of achieved something this weekend.

BEER ME

I bought a growler of Thumb Butte Brown Ale from Granite Mountain Brewing after sampling it alongside an IPA and what I want to say was a blonde ale? It might not be the most suitable draught for summer but it was the tastiest and most complex of the three. Roasty, yet drinkable. I picked up a growler.

A few more shots from around Prescott....

Downtown.

19 flags.

Fire station.