Today the high temperature here is predicted to hit 110. To people in most of the country this would seem almost unimaginably hot, and indeed it is hot, but here it is not unusual for this time of year.
By this time of year I mean June, which is the hottest month by temperature on average here. The first summer we spent here in Arizona, the temperature went above 110 for days on end, and in parts of central Phoenix it even touched 120 (the Twelve Handle, to borrow the terminology of the financial markets).
As it approached 120, it was big news locally. The airport briefly stopped operation because at that temperature, the air is not dense enough for the wings of the aircraft to provide sufficient lift. In Fountain Hills I went down to the bakery where I would buy coffee and pastries to find a sign posted saying that it closed from the heat. The world simply could not function. Air conditioning begins to fail, among other things.
When one moves to a new part of the country, as we did, one typically has little context in which to place weather events. One doesn't not know what is to be expected as normal. That's part of the fun. It turns out hitting 120 is very rare. But reaching 110, and even a few degrees higher, is not rare at all for June. It would seem a cool year if 110 was not breached on the thermometer.
Above that temperature mark, the ambient air temperature outside, even in the shade, feels much like a sauna (not a steam bath, mind you, but the dry penetrating heat that gives no quarter even as it swirls into your lung when you breath it in). I discovered that if one tries to use an electric fan outside at that temperature, it provides no relief but instead feels like standing next to a barbecue grill.
Being in the sun at all is oppressive. The popular idea of "temperature in the shade" is not really true temperature. The air temperature on both sides of a shadow is always the same. But it feels very different to us, and that is what counts. To go out hiking in this temperature, even covered as I always am with long slacks, a long-sleeve white dress shirt, and wide-brimmed hat, is to struggle against the constant discomfort of the sun. One seeks the next resting place of shade immediately upon leaving another shade, as if one is a special forces soldier creeping along while hiding from enemy aircraft. The trees and saguaros are more than your best friends. They are life.
It is in these moments when having a swimming pool in one's backyard can be tremendously attractive. The water typically feels like bath water then, but at least it keeps you somewhat comfortable---the part of you that is submerged at any given moment. The problem you might not foresee, however, is that the sun reflects off the water surface and can cook you from two directions---above and sideways. During that extremity of heat year three years ago, I went swimming in our pool only with the assistance of my ultralight hiker umbrella to shade me from the sun. I had to hold it at a particular angle to avoid the rays reflecting off the water. They were otherwise blinding.
Yet there is something purifying about it all, at least for me, when the temperature goes above 110. It is the same for me for all extreme weather events, whether hot or cold, stormy or calm. The world enters some kind of special state, when everyone's attention is focussed on natural phenomena outside their control. Normal rules are suspended. One knows it will be temporary. I certainly would not want to live in the heat of Sonoran June year-round, or even for a short time beyond the season in which it lasts, but I perversely look forward to it each year (J does not at all share this anticipation).
I haven't been outside walking my normal route for several weeks now, as.I might do every day in the winter and spring. But today, since it is finally supposed to reach 110, I might well put on my loose white dress shirt and my big straw hat to make my normal rounds in my little patch of desert,. It's been a relatively cool year so far, so I want to take advantage of what extremeness nature has provided. I don't want to think I let a year go by without feeling its full impact at least for day. If nothing else, it will have been true summer.
My walk will not be long. I will walk at least as much as I can bear, carrying plenty of water even for a short walk.
Soon it will be monsoon season--the Second Summer. Its arrival varies from year to year, sometimes hardly coming at all, but usually by mid July. Last year it came late. The high temperatures decrease slightly from First Summer but the humidity goes up, as the air is carried off the Pacific. The sauna feeling of the air goes away, but it is actually less comfortable, as even a slight humidity at that temperature is not pleasant. At that point I shall dream of visiting cool pines at high altitude.
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