GREAT SCOTTSDALE

Seeking a fix of foodie indulgence balanced by energetic activities, Benjamin Parker flew to Arizona’s desert gem, once a favourite with Humphrey Bogart and Marilyn Monroe

- Benjamin Parker

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 against this trek through the Sonoran Desert, starting from a trailhead 25 miles outside 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 about the saguaro cactus, native to and a symbol of the desert (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.