“Carolina” may be often on my own (and singer James Taylor’s) mind. However, this week, this small-town Virginia resident has a real case of “Arizona on the brain.” It all started when last year’s trip to visit my sister was canceled. That’s a real prescription for disappointment and a sense of deprivation. (I know, such “deprivation.”)

Usually, I am too dubious about Spring Break weather to put my faith in late winter air travel. But last year’s fiasco was reset for this year. And we (the hubby and I) actually made it, due in part to not traveling through O’Hare, where again this year, many of those flights were indeed canceled. Oh, the weather demons…. As it was, we arrived, without problem or delay, at Sky Harbor Airport and 70 degree weather. (It had been around 20 degrees when we left Roanoke.) My sense of prior “deprivation” slipped quickly away.

Our very first night we gathered around a backyard fire pit at a home in Tempe, where we were serenaded by my brother-in-law and his friend. The food was out of this world. And the stars were so bright we could have thought we were in Bburg.

The next day, we climbed into a Four Runner and, with my sister and brother-in-law, wheeled our way to Tubac, a barrio about 90 minutes south of Tuscon. Tubac features over a hundred artist shops and galleries; an art museum; clothing shops, restaurants, the charming Tubac Country Inn, where we stayed; and the bario residence of former neighbors and friends from Bburg. What a treat to visit and dine with them. Somehow, for a day, the usual distance in miles slipped away and it felt like they never moved.

A day later, we explored the ruins of an old mission and drove south of Tubac on back roads, in search of the legendary “Humming Bird Man. ” My sister had kept meticulous notes and a hand drawn map from their last visit there. He was still there and welcomed us. At one time he had more humming birds feeding at his home site than anywhere else in the world. Last year, he was unable to tend the many feeders during his illness. The hardscrabble high desert (4,000 feet above sea level) can be unforgiving. And most of the hummingbirds went elsewhere. But at a neighboring ranch, fellow bird lovers are working to bring the hummingbirds back. We drove back toward Tucson on back roads, with the sounds of Steve Earle, Shurman, Shelby James, and more playing on the ipod and in our heads.

From the back of the Four-runner, I watched overpasses, each one slightly different, artistically frescoed, or inlaid with heritage designs. And I wondered at the citizen appreciation of art and culture, both of which are on display everywhere. Would any Virginian pay extra for road projects as lovely? The way to Tempe was green with desert grasses, cacti, and yellow with flowers newly blooming against the mountains.

We returned to celebrate my brother-in-law’s birthday at at the legendary Don and Charlie’s Steakhouse in Scottsdale, with its sports memorabilia everywhere. The next day, it was off to the Phoenix botanical gardens, a rare treat for a Virginian. It had been 15 years since we were last there. And they are unbelievably gorgeous. Cacti varieties from all over the world. You get the sense close up to the almost miraculous Saguaros that the centuries are speaking to us. To even grow arms, the mighty Saguaros must be at least fifty years old.

Spring Break Tuesday, we were off to Sedona. Encircled by nature’s breathtaking vistas, was our destination, the Hilton Sedona Resort and Spa, where we set forth to explore the red rocks and art galleries. It has been fifteen years since we last visited Sedona and time has brought an influx of development, including every conceivable intrusion into the once pristine red rock area. Still, this city takes your breath away. So too does the drive back to the metropolitan area surrounded by desert green, a hue lasting only a few weeks each year. Soon enough, earth tones will take over again.

Back at my sister’s home, we were greeted to the great and entertaining sounds of my brother in-law, who serenaded us often with guitar, harmonica and vocals. And, finally, we got to hear my sister at the drums. That night, we headed to the Wildflower and the Changing Hands bookstore to hear Art Edwards (of the former group “The Refreshments”) read from his new novel and play some tunes, including one of my favorites, “Birds Sing.”

The next day we sat, sipping lemonade and eating hotdogs. We were in the sixth row at Municipal Field behind home plate at the Major League spring training game between the Chicago Cubs and Oakland A’s. The Phoenix and Tucson areas are a veritable haven for baseball fans. [My hubby has the “distinction,” during his college days, of having been struck out by Tom Seaver, a factoid that couldn’t possibly eclipse his love of baseball.] That night, we headed to “The Detour” to hear Shelby James (of Shelby James and the Crying Shames) perform solo. And it seemed like a small-town watering hole. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. Lots of fun… If we had stayed one more night, we might have also heard Shurman, who ventures to Raleigh, but as far as I know, has not yet played our area.

We shared so many good meals, some Southwest, Mexican, American, and Thai. We (only) dreamed of owning the beautiful paintings in Scottsdale galleries. We visited with nieces and worried about our niece’s boyfriend, who, at a tender, twenty-something age, just begun dialysis. And we felt lucky to be able to see them all. We felt blessed by wonderful memories, thoughts of wheeling past cactus forests, and so much good music. It was a great nine days. But we get there far too seldom. And with airline prices in the stratosphere, our travel wings are bound to be clipped even further. We slipped back into Blacksburg last Sunday morning, jet-lagged and red-eyed from a red eye flight .

It’s good to be home. But there’s no “family jam,” or man serenading us in our living room. No sister either, painting or drawing, or playing the drums in her spare time. And no sweet nieces. As my brother-in-law would say,” bummer.”

Kathryn Welch is a retired industrial-organizational psychologist and freelance writer from Blacksburg