I always find the descent to be far more frightening than the ascent, and in the fading twilight I begin to grow slightly concerned. The footholds that looked so obvious on the way up now look minuscule and negligible. The lights of Tombstone twinkle in the distance, about 13 miles away but become obscured when the weather takes a turn for the worse. Late light on the Council Rocks area of the Dragoons. A cold wind blows across the plain.
Rain begins to plop to the ground in large drops almost immediately.
The oak shelters me admirably, giving me time to make the customary pre-storm scramble to stow things away and batten all hatches before retreating into the tent. In fact, there is not even the quiet pattering of a light drizzle. Lacing up my boots, I put on my jacket and crawl through the door of the tent. The reason I don't hear the rain is because it has turned to snow. Small flakes dance around me in the swirling breeze, and a decent layer of the white dust covers the tent.