SEDONA, Az. — So the street intel was that if you were going to do a Day-After-Christmas hike in this visually stunning town of vacuous vortexes and New Age nonsense, the Devil’s Bridge trail was it.

On Christmas night, wine glass in hand, I settled in to do some recon on the next day’s excursion, perusing the reviews of people who had done the hike that day.

“Muddy,” wrote one reviewer.

“Very muddy,” wrote another.

Very very muddy,” said a third.

But the next morning, we intrepid three (me, my wife and her sister) marshaled out into the wild.

The reviewers were wrong.

This wasn’t just mire, this was a bloody ooze bath, mud wrestling without the bikinis, like the entire Army of the Potomac had must marched through here post battle, with its canons, horses and foot soldiers, making the dirt road a slippery, sliding, sloppy mess.

Up ahead on the swampy track I saw a gaggle of college kids, all wearing sneakers.

I turned to my Chinese-American sister-in-law, about to say something smug, like “Gee, good thing we didn’t come totally unprepared, stupid enough to take this slog in sneakers.”

Then I looked down. She was wearing sneakers.

I had warned both women days prior to our trip to dress warmly and wear hiking boots. The night before, I had dutifully issued the mud report.

Apparently, no one was listening. I might as well been talking to a wall, which apparently I was — the Great Wall.

Marching on ahead, I looked back to see both sisters gingerly picking their way along the outskirts of the mud bath, at a rate of, let’s say, a mile a year, holding their arms out tenuously as if they were balancing themselves on a tight rope walk across the Grand Canyon.

I snorted. I snickered. I had my Merrill hiking boots. I was invincible.

And then I fell.

Right onto my large white, now muddy, ass.

To their credit, the women did not laugh. They should have. My wife says that God will punish the arrogant and, if I had doubted her before today, I don’t now.

Once again, I had played the fool so easily, with no intent to do so.

I wiped off my muddy hands, dusted off my pride, and got up. Then I washed my filthy hiking boots in a mud puddle.

Soon, we stopped for pictures. And here’s where my wife and I differ.

I take scenery shots. Why ruin a good natural vista with my ugly mug?

My wife’s philosophy: Don’t let any background scenery, God’s good gift to mankind, ruin any selfie. Smile, snap, snap, smile.

On this day, we didn’t exactly have the hike to ourselves. No, there were hundreds of people doing the same Long March as we were. And you know what? I didn’t mind. Who has anything to themselves these days?

It was one big commune, like Woodstock after the rain, a people watcher’s paradise — couples slipping and sliding, laughing and arguing. I caught the last bit of conversation between two women, with one ending a sentence, “you know, blah, blah, blah.” She actually said those words which, to me, seemed like a perfect metaphor for today’s national political dialogue. 

We slogged on, taking a moment to capture the towering sandstone altars in the distance. At one point, I paused to dictate a few words into my smartphone.

When I turned back, the two sisters were gone.

I called out my wife’s name, bellowed like a moose in heat.

Nothing. They’d vanished, right at a fork in the road.

Had they had the common sense to follow the path, without doddering off into oblivion, forcing a frenzied call to search and rescue? 

I doubted it, but had no choice but to press on and hope that I’d find them.

I did. They hadn’t missed me at all. Talk about third wheels.

Finally we arrived at the fabled Devil’s Bridge, a rounded sandstone arch that afforded stunning views of the valley below.

When we arrived, after scaling several slippery stone staircases, we saw a line of people waiting to walk out onto the narrow, precarious bridge to pose for pictures.

The Ultimate Selfie, I suppose.

About 100 people looked on from a safe distance. My wife and her sister took one look at the bridge and said, “No, way, not on your life.”

My wife is an accountant, her sister plays the stock market.

They weren’t exactly gamblers. But I was. Hell, I live in Vegas.

I eagerly hustled over to get in the long line that reminded me of tourists lining up at the Welcome to Las Vegas sign.

My wife called out to me.

“Come back! Don’t do this! You’re going to kill yourself!”

Her concern was warranted: Five years ago, a 55-year-old California woman plunged to her death from the bridge, as her husband snapped a photo of their daughter.

I shouted back, “You’ve got one job today. Don’t mess up this picture!”

When my turn came, I walked out onto the gangplank, struck a posse — snap, snap — and all was right in the world. Then, on the way back, I somehow crossed up my boots and lost my balance, skittering down some loose stones toward a precipice that gave way to the Gates of Hell far below. 

At the last minute, I righted myself, ending my walk of shame.

Then I made the mistake of telling my wife of my near-miss.

She immediately launched into a tirade about my block head, buttery fingers, linguini legs and two left feet.

I had a Death Wish, she said.

I listened, nodded my head.

“What will you do next time,” she asked.

“The same thing, of course,” I said.

Then she told me that, as I strode out onto the Devil’s Bridge to get my picture taken, that she had almost yelled out, “You fool! If you fall and end up in a wheelchair for the rest of your life, nobody’s going to take care of you!”

Ahhhh, true love. 

There’s nothing like it.