No need to set an alarm. These days, you wake to the cooing of doves and the melodic whistle of a curved-bill thrasher. You close your eyes and picture them, like ornaments in the trees. It’s morning at Three Canyons in mid August. The light on the walls is the same color as a warbler’s undersides; the sky in the window’s a spacious blue. It rained again yesterday—a long monsoon rain. You throw on a light robe and stand by the window with its wide straw-bale sill, breathing in the fresh green scent of the hills. Fluffy buoys of cumulus clouds are rising along the valley’s curves. You close the window, keeping in the cool of the night, and roust your partner. You throw on shorts and T-shirts (that’s it for the day) and head out together for a before-breakfast walk.

You start off on the roadway then take the same path the animals take as they move from the bottom to the top of the watershed. This morning, you see a white-tailed doe and two fawns on the next rise, a lone black-tailed jackrabbit. Beyond a group of Emory oaks on your left, you make out your closest neighbor’s house. A little ways out, you hear the unmistakable cascading voice of a canyon wren. Hungry, you head home to have breakfast on the patio: you’ve discovered sources for local free-range eggs, shade-grown coffee, to-die-for whole-wheat pastries, and The New York Times.

After breakfast, you spend an hour at Sonoita Creek Farm. The rains are taking care of the watering right now, but later the farm manager has created berms and terraces to hold the runoff. The sunflowers are at their peak. So are the melons and squash—enough for the whole community—and everything’s organic. You remember to bring home some cut flowers, greens, and basil. You’ve got guests coming.

This afternoon, you have run errands—something you actually enjoy doing in traffic-free Patagonia. Well, almost traffic-free. It takes all of seven minutes to drive into town. Some days you bike in, but you’ve got a few groceries to pick up, books and a CD to drop off at the library, and a gift to buy. You pop into your favorite gallery; settle on a bracelet by a local artist, then drive along the green commons on Patagonia’s main street. At the Patagonia Library, you spot a notice for a new book club and bump into a neighbor checking out the CD you’ve just returned. Then, you’re on your way to the natural foods store, passing a full parking lot at the local watering hole: It’s Friday. At the P.O., you chat with several locals then peruse the bulletin board: There’s an open mike at the coffee shop, a play at the Tin Shed Theatre, and live music in Patagonia’s smoke-free bar—all this weekend.

After errands, it’s home for a light dinner before picking up your friends at Tucson International. On the hour’s drive north, the two of you make plans. Maybe tomorrow, you’ll explore Nogales, Sonora—go shopping and have dinner. Then again, if you eat in Sonoita, you can order a local wine. Sunday, you’ve signed up for a trail ride in the San Rafael Valley. The sun is setting behind the Santa Ritas, streaking the sky with color and the coal-gray mountains are casting shadows across seas of grass.