First off, this isn't about pork.  A HOG is a sporting activity named by combining it's two priniciple components: The H-ike and the j-OG.  This is the perfect exercise for those of us who still like to run a little and pretend we're kids again, but aren't kids anymore and frankly can't run very damn far without walking some.

Back in the olden times, I used to trail run a lot.  Did that all over the U.S., Canada and Europe starting back in the 1980s.  But somewhere in my early fifties, I becames a "gravity" runner: If the trail is downhill (and gravity is my friend), I'm running; if I detect a hint of incline, I'm walking.  Thus was born the prestigious sport of HOGGING.

I'm not real religious about how much jog versus hike I do.  I run when I feel like running and I walk when I want to walk.  That makes the whole process more like fun and not some A-type psycho workout behavior.  I can even stop and smell the creosote anytime I want.  And the older I'm gettin', the more creosote I'm smellin'.

Great HOG trail.  Note bench for collapsing purposes.

Bad HOG trail.  Note sharp tripya rocks.

Oh.  This is where my oldest living friend and attorney, Bob, says I need a disclaimer.

WARNING:  The activities described here are performed by highly conditioned and experienced crazy people and should not be attempted with or without a physician's approval.  The author is not responsible for any death, dismemberment, heat stroke, broken ankles, insect bites or anything at all resulting from you reading this.

So, back in mid-June (this is year-round entertainment), I hit the trail around 6 PM with the thermometer nudging 108 degrees.  No problem.  North Mountain and the little canyons in the Phoenix Mountain Preserve keep me mostly in the shade this time of day.  It's a touch warm, but I used to do this in the middle of the day all summer long, including the day it hit 122.  But after a few unpleasant heat stress incidents, my body and my wife convinced me to wait during summer jaunts until Mr. Bad Sun drops behind the hills.

Anyway, I'm hoggin' along down the trail and here comes Ol' Son running up the trail, sprinting hard.  Now Ol' Son is a pure trail runner; does l-o-n-g distances uphill and cross-country and thinks hoggin' is for wimps and "old" people like me.

So he staggers to a stop, gasps for a while and says, "I wouldn't go down there," indicating the trail behind him with his thump.

"Trouble?" I ask.

"Bees," he says.  "Angry bees."

"You okay?"

"Yep.  Outran 'em again."

"Again?"  I'm starting to detect an especially strong Ol' Son Stupid Behavior Warning.

"Yes sir," he laughs, "I got me a new runnin' game.  I call it Bee Racer."

"Bee Racer?"

"You should try it," he suggests seriously, "Just find a bee hive in an ironwood or up in the rocks somewhere, get real close, heave a stick at 'em, count to three and run like hell.  Most of the hives out here are africanized, so they'll chase ya real good."

"How did you come to devise such a stunningly idiotic idea?"

"Well, my late mile times were starting to lag and I read somewhere that bees can fly about six or seven miles an hour.  I need to hit about eight miles an hour for this next race..."  He trailed off like the rest was obvious.

"Maybe you should call it "Bye Bee Or Die By Bee."

"Yeah, that's cool," he says.  "Can I use it?"

But I had already turned and headed back up the canyon, running.  Behind Ol' Son was a whole bunch of bees who still wanted to play.  And they had a tailwind.

Early April, 2008 - For the last several years, Dad Hall has been reminding me that since 1960, we've been driving back and forth between Phoenix and San Diego without ONCE stopping to see Painted Rock Dam and Painted Rock State Park. I can almost hear your collective screams of disbelief at this egregious travel omission.

Well, Dad's powering through his 85th year and was not to denied, so south we headed. Passing through Gila Bend, I was conforted to see that things haven't changed much. Sure, there's a cool new prison; but the old Dairy Queen and most critically, the iconic Space Age Lodge still anchor a perfect "middle of nowhere" experience.

That's the pile of rocks, right there yonder.

Several miles west on I-8 you take the Painted Rock exit, and head north deeper into "nowhere." Of course, no desert road ever truly heads nowhere and pretty soon you dead end at the Dam (closed to the public, and so exciting visually that my camera simply would not take it's photo.) Backtracking to Painted Rock State Park, you find youself in the middle of a caldera like basin looking at a pile of black rocks.

Marked by ancient punks, space bugs or mystical native Americans?

This is Painted Rock and it appears that for the past 20,000 years, every passing sentient creature with a scatchy stone stopped here to etch some sign or other. Now, my buddy "Texas" (we call him that because he's not from Texas and it annoys the hell out of him), he believes this collection of petroglyphs is further evidence that ancient teenage street (trail?) gangs, probably from the L.A. area, have been defacing the environment and generally degrading society for millenia. It's a theory.

Historic, and still driveable, Gillespie Dam Bridge

Anyway, we were running out of daylight so we passed on a trip to the nearby Oatman Massacre Site, which was okay with me (if you've seen one massacre site, etc). North out of Gila Bend we took Old US 80, the same road that originally carried the Halls to Phoenix from San Diego (or the Paradise Lost Incident, as I occasionally refer to it without much trace of bitterness.) Naturally, along this stretch you pass by a Shrimp Farm. What other business makes more sense in the middle of a blasted-to-hell desert? But, do yourself a favor and walk into the doublewide office and buy some. They're incredible.

    By the way, we saw no current evidence of teen gangs (except the big shiny new prison) during this entire trip.