Randy

Saguaro National Park sits just west of Tucson, and is a must see. The landscape is like a forest without foliage:

As if there’d been a fire.

And even though saguaros aren’t the friendliest of plant life, with their spikes and intimidating height (they grow to 50’ tall), they seemed sort of friendly to me. This one waving from across the road drew me in:

Cute, isn’t it?

And the endless configurations of arms fascinated me:

But after hiking around awhile, the landscape took on a different form. Sure, it’s like a forest, but a very… sexy forest:

Seriously. Phallus forest.

Anybody? Or is this simply proof I’ve been single too long? It felt like I’d walked into a living ad for Good Vibrations and Internet, it was making me frisky.

I know. I need help.

To shake off my inappropriate mood, I hiked the Signal Hill Trail to see some petroglyphs, though I fully expected someone, ancient or otherwise, to have carved pornographic images into the rocks just to taunt me. Luckily, I only saw elegant images like this:

Some say the spiral means water is or was nearby.

But the minute I emerged from the trailhead back to the phallic landscape, the feeling returned, with no relief in sight. Then fate intervened. Walking back to my car I heard a loud buzzing, then something small and malicious dive-bombed me.

I couldn’t see it so I swatted wildly. The buzzing continued. It dive-bombed me again. I swatted some more.

Then, whatever it was got caught in my hair. To say my reaction was agitated would be an understatement. I bent over, clawing at my hair and shaking it from side to side like a coked-up stripper.

I clawed and shook, clawed and shook. I couldn’t find the dive-bomber, but the buzzing stopped. Relief.

Then it stung me on the arm.

I got back to the car and managed to get the stinger out. The pain wasn’t too bad, though it had spread to my shoulder. As I waited to see if it was getting worse I picked up the Saguaro Sentinel the ranger had given me before my hike, where I saw this tidbit: Africanized honey bees (“killer bees”) live in the park.

Jesus.

They attack when their hive is threatened, so apparently to a killer bee, a randy girl is as good as a loaded gun. The paper helpfully advised running when bees attack, which I, of course, hadn’t done.

It was better than a cold shower.