Liquid gold sunlight splashed over the desert not long after dawn. Above me, the baby-blue canopy of sky was brushed with the faintest wisps of cloud, dissolving into the warming air. In the distance, craggy silhouettes of mountains looked like the edges of a torn map, their outline blurred by the morning haze – a silent promise of the adventure that can be found in Arizona.
I was jet-lagged, that peculiar blend of exhaustion and exhilaration, where time feels unmoored. My body protested this trek through the Sonoran Desert, starting from a trailhead 25 miles outside of the city of Scottsdale, a winding walk along sunbaked paths, past creosote bushes and the occasional darting lizard. But at the same time, a quiet energy captivated me.
I was absorbed into stories around the saguaro cactus, native to and a symbol of the Sonoran (its blossom is the state flower of Arizona). They live long – some can reach 150 to 200 years – and are woven into local Native American myths: that they embody the spirit of ancestors, that a lost boy became the first saguaro. In a surprise to myself, I was actually thankful to have woken at 5.30am.

This was the juxtaposition I’d been promised in Scottsdale. I was seeking a rejuvenating escape – but one that didn’t spare holiday indulgences. A friend familiar with my pseudo-healthy life – occasional gym visits between late-night bars and long hours working – suggested this invigorating Arizonan city. I was told of delicious dining and potent cocktails balanced by getting active outdoors, all at the end of a direct flight from London.
During the ‘Golden Age of Hollywood’, A-listers were lured to Scottsdale. Actors Clark Gable and John Wayne were visitors. Natalie Wood married Robert Wagner there. James Cagney, Bette Davis, Humphrey Bogart and Marilyn Monroe were fans. Many of the stars checked into Hotel Valley Ho, which captured the essence of mid-century glamour, embracing a sleek, minimal aesthetic at a time when grand and ornate was order of the day.
Scottsdale could easily be swallowed by the nearby metropolis, Phoenix; it’s that bigger city you will fly into. But head around 10 miles north and you find a place where modernism sits beside Spanish…
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