Silver
Monday, February 3rd, 2020: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Silver, Southeast Arizona.
I never hike the same area two weeks in a row, but this turned out to be the exception. I got up on Sunday expecting to return to the “Spire”, but after reading more trail descriptions for the southern range, I decided to try another hike there, a long canyon walk that climbed to the crest. It looked like I might be able to get enough distance and elevation there before hitting deep snow.
But on entering the mountains again, I stopped to review the trail description, and realized that most of the elevation gain occurred at the very end of the trail, where it was in bad condition. So I made a snap decision to take the very first and most popular trail in the canyon, a peak trail I’d avoided in the past because of its popularity, because it lay completely outside the wilderness area, and because it led to the ruins of an old fire lookout. Despite everything, it promised me over 3,000′ of elevation gain.
On this first Sunday in February, I passed three people. An out of shape couple about my age, who didn’t make it very far and were frightened when I came up behind them, dragging my feet in the rocks to make noise. And an athletic-looking solo guy probably in his late 40s or early 50s returning from the peak, about midway up the trail. In contrast to last week’s ridge hike, I encountered few birds – most of them concentrated in the little groves of pine and fir in high north-facing drainages.
Despite having climbed farther and higher many times, I found the top third of the trail exhausting. But it was well-maintained, and it was one of the most beautiful trails I’ve ever hiked. The cliffs above the upper part of the trail seemed impassable from below, but the trail designers cleverly found ways to wind around and between the many looming pinnacles. It was easy to get disoriented – it felt like something out of Lord of the Rings.
While working my way up short switchbacks and snacking on trail mix, I chipped a cusp off a molar, leaving sharp edges so I had to stop chewing on that side of my jaw. This happened last year – can’t tell if it was the same tooth – and my dentist patched it up, saying it might happen again. The old body’s just falling apart, piece by piece…
Finally, unexpectedly, after trudging in the shadow of the north slope for more than an hour, I emerged onto the crest, where a tiny wooden cabin stood, apparently a shed for tools and supplies for the old fire lookout. A little higher, an outhouse perched on the edge of a cliff. And higher still, a winding concrete-and-stone stairway led to the foundation of the lookout, which burned in a thunderstorm almost 30 years ago.
This peak stands isolated within the northeast basin of the range, so it provides a 360 degree view encompassing the desert basin to the north and the long snow-draped crest to the south. To the northeast, I could just barely see the mountains I hike near home, and peeking over a ridge to the northwest was the top of the other sky island I’ve explored, 80 miles away. I’d kept warm by walking fast on the way up, but there was a cool breeze here, and after signing the log, I put my sweater back on for the descent.
What a magical peak! The round-trip distance was just below 9 miles, so I knew I’d get back to the vehicle in time for another burrito at the cafe. But I wasn’t sure whether I’d feel like driving home in the dark. And I kept stopping on the way down for photos.
In the event, I did get a burrito, and I did drive home in the dark. There were no state troopers on the highway this time – in fact, hardly any traffic at all. Driving there and back in a day turned out to be perfectly viable. Stay tuned for more, coming soon!
Monday, July 27th, 2020: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Silver, Southeast Arizona.
As Sunday approached, I’d been having trouble with chronic conditions in both my foot and my knee. I’d been using treatments that had always been effective on both conditions. The foot seemed to deteriorate with distance, whereas the knee was sensitive to elevation, so I figured I should do a little shorter hike with a little less elevation gain.
Our monsoon had started, so canyon hikes where flooding was a possibility were out of the question. I was all set to hike a peak in the Black Range, 7 miles round trip and less than 2,000′ of elevation gain, but something snapped when I got in the Sidekick.
I had to get away. I’d refrained from leaving my local area since lockdown began, last March. The Chiricahuas were an hour and a half and two counties away, across the Arizona border. But despite being across the border, the Portal area, in the northeast Chiricahuas, was more New Mexico than Arizona. The only paved road into that canyon was from the tiny unincorporated settlement of Rodeo, NM. And if I tanked up with gas, I could drive from my house to the trailhead and back without getting out of the vehicle, without interacting with strangers. Surely I could do that safely, just this once?
The Silver Peak hike entailed over 3,000′ of elevation gain, but was less than 9 miles round trip, and as I recalled the trail was in good condition and would be easier on my foot. Miraculously, on this beautiful monsoon Sunday, there was hardly any traffic into Portal, and the trailhead for this, the most popular trail in the entire range, was deserted. I wouldn’t see another soul the entire day.
Wildlife was reveling in the wet conditions. A hepatic tanager barely missed darting against my vehicle as I crossed the bridge over the mouth of Cave Creek. A big rattlesnake greeted me a hundred yards past the trailhead. Hawks and falcons swooped from ridge to ridge. Whitetail deer bounded through the trees from bottom to top of the peak. In the rockier drainages, water from recent rains was trickling down to the trail.
Despite this area being 1,000′ lower than my home, temperatures were mild, but humidity was high and my shirt was soon drenched with sweat. I figured I’d wait until I neared the peak, and rinse it out in runoff, but the higher I went, the less surface water I found.
Since this hike gains more elevation in less distance than any of the trails back home, it’s a relentless slog, and gets harder near the top. There must be a hundred switchbacks, many of them only a few yards long. Often stopping to catch my breath, sometimes after only a short rise gained. Always a relief to see the sky through the trees when you’re approaching the ridgeline.
Thunder clouds were growing, and I felt a few sprinkles near the top. Ladybugs covered most of the peak. From up there, I could see exactly where it was raining hard: over the encircling crest, to the west and south – although it also seeming to be pouring back toward home, way across the plains in the far northeast.
I took off my sweat-soaked shirt and bandanna, hung them over bushes, and sat down against the little shed below the ruined fire lookout. It had recently been vandalized. After a half hour my things were no drier, so I decided to hike down shirtless.
I hiked in and out of light rain and brief openings of sunlight. Finally, as I rounded the shoulder of the mountain and entered the Portal basin, the clouds pulled back and I was in full sun. A mile from the trailhead, I found a little waterfall and a pool of clear water to rinse out my shirt. That kept me cool all the way back to the vehicle.
Unfortunately for my foot, I realized that the last half-mile of the trail is the worst of our surfaces, a combination of loose and embedded rock, averaging fist-sized. This is probably one thing that will always trigger inflammation and limit my hikes – despite my stiff-soled hunting boots, prescription orthotics, and the biomechanical tape and felt I carefully apply before each trip. I recently read an online rant by an older hiker, complaining that big wildfires had removed soil and conifer duff from our trails, making them rockier, but I suspect these Southwest trails have always been tougher than trails farther north and east, or on the coasts.
Nearing the trailhead I encountered a group of three horses wandering through the dense oak forest near the paved road. One of them approached me, hoping for a handout, but I spread my empty hands and apologized. Sidekick was still alone at the trailhead. While hanging my shirt up to dry and loosening my bootlaces, I watched one of the horses rolling happily in the dust nearby.
Driving home, I could see a very dark sky ahead, and approaching town, I entered the rain. I’d been lucky, nothing had gone wrong, and maybe now I’d be content to stay near home for a while!
Monday, February 1st, 2021: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Silver, Snowshed, Southeast Arizona.
Cold Toes
During the past week, since my aborted hike into a blizzard, we’d had up to a foot of snow in town, at 6,000′, and much more in the mountains. Warming temperatures had melted off about 4 inches, and I’d done a midweek hike up a north slope, a slog in foot-deep snow, to about 7,200′. On the weekend, I needed a long hike with a lot of elevation gain to maintain my fitness, so without too much optimism I headed back to the Chiricahuas, simply because the base elevation is lower there and I might get farther before encountering deep snow.
I picked a trail that I normally avoid because it’s relatively boring. It starts at about 5,300′ and traverses an exposed southeast slope for much of its length, so I was hoping that would be mostly snow-free. I knew it crossed to the northwest side for the middle two miles, and that slope was steep and shaded by mature forest, so I expected the deepest snow there. I would just give it a try and see what I found.
On the way up, I occupied myself with tracking. It’s not a popular trail, but it’s an easily accessible trail in a popular mountain range, so I wasn’t surprised to find tracks preceding me: a large pair of serious hiking boots, a medium pair of cheap Merrells, and a smaller pair of city boots. A quarter mile in, the trail passes a private home, and there, a big dog joined me for a few hundred yards, then turned back. People from the private home had picked up and followed the trail on horseback, earlier this morning.
About a mile in, crossing a meadow, the trail hits a junction. The horse tracks continued straight on the level Basin Trail, while my branch turned left toward the foot of a ridge.
Leaving the meadow, the trail starts switchbacking up the ridge to eventually reach the long southeast-facing traverse. Here, it alternated between bare stretches and patches with a couple inches of snow, where I could more easily read the tracks. The cheap boots and the city boots had disappeared, but now there were big animal tracks accompanying the big boots. At first I assumed they were dog tracks, but they’d clearly been missing at the trailhead. Had the dog from the private home joined this hiker?
Then I found tracks that were distinctly different and really looked like a mountain lion. These tracks were heading down the trail in the opposite direction. In a few places, I even found the two different tracks close together. One set was narrow and had clear claw marks, whereas the other set was wide and lacked claw marks. Still, all the tracks were somewhat confusing.
Eventually, the animal tracks disappeared from the trail, and the boot tracks continued alone, deepening the mystery. About 3 miles in, I reached the high saddle where the trail crosses to the northwest side of the ridge. Here, the big boot tracks turned back, and I had fresh snow ahead of me, about 6 inches deep. But as the trail moved in and out of patches of shady forest and became steeper, I had to break trail through deeper and deeper drifts.
Finally, almost a mile further, as I was hopefully approaching the next saddle, my boots plunged 14″ into a drift, and I suddenly realized that my Smartwool socks were wicking snowmelt inside my boots, all the way down to my toes, which were starting to get really cold. I always carry an extra pair of wool socks, but I knew they would soon get wet, too. I’d really need gaiters if I was serious about hiking deep snow.
It seemed that this would be the end of today’s hike. Bummer, but at least I’d gotten a little farther than I had last week, in the blizzard.
Germ Warfare
On the way down, after I crossed the saddle and finally reached a stretch of bare trail, I stopped to change socks. This made me feel much better, and I suddenly thought, why not do another hike? Since this hike had been aborted, I had at least a couple more hours before I had to drive home.
There weren’t too many options nearby – really only the peak hike that started near the visitor center, just down the road. It climbed and traversed a north slope, but at fairly low elevation, before turning into a shaded canyon that would surely have deep snow. I figured I could get at least four more miles and nearly 1,500′ elevation gain, in addition to the 8 miles and 2,100′ I’d already hiked today.
So I returned to the Sidekick and drove down the road. There were already three vehicles parked at the other trailhead, and a half mile up the trail I saw people up ahead – a tall, obese young couple dressed identically in form-fitting sweat suits. They preceded me for a few hundred yards, then stopped, turned around, and spotted me below them.
There were juniper trees between us, and when I emerged from behind one and found them stopped just above me, I saw they’d both “masked up.” I found this strange – it was the first time I’d ever encountered anyone wearing a mask on a hiking trail. Our local trails are seldom used, it’s rare to ever meet someone, and when we do, we just maintain social distancing, figuring that any virus that might get out is quickly dispersed in the open air and can’t be concentrated enough to be contagious. But these were likely city folks, used to much more crowded trails.
We greeted each other and I passed them at a safe distance. As I did, I walked into a dense cloud of artificial fragrance. My god, it was rank. How could two people cope with so much fragrance? I was at least ten feet from the woman – were they both wearing it?
I puzzled over this most of the way up the trail, and then suddenly realized that they’d probably been carrying some kind of disinfectant spray, like Lysol, that they’d sprayed all around when they saw me approaching. This was another first! I mean, better safe than sorry – but it seemed pretty extreme. I guess we country folks are way out of touch with trends in the city these days.
I found tracks preceding me on this trail, too, but they also stopped after a mile and a half, and I was again breaking trail in snow. I made it around the corner of the ridge into the canyon below the peak, where I ran out of time and turned back just as the snow was getting deep enough to wet my socks.
I was really proud of myself for solving my problem, hitting two trails in the same day, and going farther than anyone else on both trails. Maybe this will be the solution as long as our local peak trails are blocked by snow.
Monday, March 6th, 2023: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Silver, Southeast Arizona.
I was beyond stir-crazy. Hiking was the main thing that kept me healthy in body and mind – it relieves stress, lowers blood pressure, manages pain and enhances mobility – but deteriorating trail conditions had forced me to give it up two weeks ago. Since then, we’d had several more snowfalls, and I’d become virtually sedentary.
Local trails were still out of the question, with either deep snow, deep mud, or creek crossings flooded by snowmelt. Besides, I needed to get away from the obligations, the worries and unfinished projects weighing me down at home, even if only for a night.
But I expected to find the same conditions everywhere in our region. Sunday morning arrived and I still hadn’t made a decision before my usual 8 am departure time. I followed the opening race of the Formula 1 season, which would end about 9:30 am, and finally decided to drive over to Arizona to the range of canyons. Conditions would be the same there, but with less than a full day left, I could busy myself with short, boring low-elevation hikes, enjoy dinner at the cafe, and get a room for the night. If nothing else, it would get me out of the house.
I arrived at noon, leaving me five-plus hours to hike and reach the cafe before closing. In normal conditions, that would give me plenty of time to take the nine-mile out-and-back peak trail at the mouth of the basin. But it ends in traverses and switchbacks across a steep north slope above 7,000′, topping out at 8,000′, and I expected north slopes at those elevations to carry well over a foot of snow now.
I’ve done that hike twice before, but I normally avoid it – it’s the most popular hike in the range, too short for a full-day hike, and it falls completely outside the wilderness area, so there’s less chance of encountering wildlife. But it is spectacular, and it would offer my best option for gaining some decent elevation in the time I had.
It was a sunny, calm day with high, wispy clouds, and the temperature surprised me by being in the mid-70s when I got out of my vehicle at the trailhead. It’d been an unusually long, cold winter, and I couldn’t remember feeling so comfortable outdoors since last September! Expectedly, there were three other vehicles there already.
I unbuttoned my shirt, and as soon as I climbed out of the lush riparian zone onto the open, grassy slope, the temperature seemed to rise into the mid-80s. Surrounded by one of the most spectacular landscapes in the Southwest, with layered red and white cliffs and ramparts of towering spires, I stopped to stretch and tighten my boots. And a tiny older man in a drab “socialist worker” outfit – even shorter than me! – passed, running down the trail, carrying no gear, not even a water bottle.
A little farther up, I met an older couple resting in the shade of a juniper. They were on their way down, and said they’d only made it to the prominent “Trail” sign up on the shoulder of the ridge. The woman said “That’s halfway, right?” but I pointed out it was considerably less than that, and the man looked away disgustedly.
Despite its popularity, this is one of the two steepest trails in the entire range, with an average grade of 13% – so although many struggle up the first mile or so, only the truly athletic achieve the 3,200′ ascent to the peak.
It proceeds in two major segments: the climb across the northeast slope, out of the “gateway” basin and around the shoulder of the ridge, followed by the traverse and climb of the north slope. The first segment gets enough sun to be both snow-free and dry, so I made good time there. My body felt healthier – back in the conditions where it thrives – and my spirit rose with the elevation and the unfolding views across the landscape.
1,200′ up, I rounded the shoulder into the broad hollow of the north slope, a complex circling wall of layered red rimrock cliffs and towering spires, bisected by a precipitous ravine. Whereas my view on the first segment had been eastward past the range’s gateway, I now had a view across the northwest ridges of the range, all the way to the snow-draped crest of another range I’d last climbed in December, 70 miles away in the clear air.
I soon met the next party of hikers, a couple a little younger than me. I was curious about how much snow they’d found ahead – I couldn’t see much from this vantage point, but it might be hidden under forest, and snow settles deeper on trails than on the surrounding slopes.
The man said they’d turned back because the trail surface was too slippery with ice and wet snow. I asked if they’d reached the switchbacks – meaning the final switchbacks to the peak – and the man said they’d only made it halfway up. They were both using trekking poles, so I figured the trail must be pretty bad. But I had to find out for myself.
Shortly after I passed them I reached the first set of switchbacks, and sure enough, they were slippery with wet, shallow snow – but nothing I couldn’t handle. I just had to adjust my gait, using the edges of my boots to chop holds in the slush. The couple’s tracks turned back halfway up, so I realized we’d misunderstood each other. There are three sets of switchbacks – they’d stopped at the lowest of the three. Past that point, there was only one set of tracks going forward – also from today – two people, both bigger than me, with a dog.
This first set of switchbacks leads to the first big red outcrop – the face rock. Passing below that, you enter the confines of the ravine. Dwarfed by towering outcrops on all sides, you reach the second set of switchbacks, where the trail condition was about the same. These take you high enough to cross the ravine, through a narrow riparian forest, past which you begin the long traverse of the main north slope.
That’s where conditions got trickier. There were still occasional dry patches, but I was now above 7,000′, and the snow was up to six inches deep, fresh and soft. And before long, I reached a narrow spot where one of the hikers preceding me had slipped off the trail and slid straight down the steep slope below. They’d fallen at least fifteen feet, and maybe much more – I couldn’t tell with bushes blocking the view. The slope itself drops continuously two or three hundred feet into a ravine, with only spindly shrubs to break your slide – pretty scary!
It was a good warning for me to proceed with utmost caution. But their tracks resumed past the narrow spot – I figured they must be young people who wouldn’t let a fall scare them. And whereas their tracks showed that they were hiking in sneakers or cheap lightweight boots, I was wearing my serious winter boots, with good traction and sharp edges to chop holds in the snow.
The traverse winds westward in and out of drainages, eventually entering mixed conifer forest. I always look forward to the tall, shaggy firs – an island of alpine habitat confined to the top of the steep north slope of this relatively low peak. But the shade of the forest meant that the west end of the traverse lay under a continuous blanket of still-fresh snow, six inches or more deep. Here, the temperature had dropped from the 80s to the high 50’s, so I pulled my sweater back on.
At its far west end, the trail swings back to climb through more spectacular rock outcrops, beginning the final set of a dozen switchbacks that end on the summit ridge. These switchbacks held the deepest snow, and this was where I expected the most difficulty. But I was already exercising plenty of caution, and reached the crest with what I thought was enough time remaining for the descent.
On this last climb to the crest, you’re getting glimpses through the forest and between the rock outcrops to the landscape 3,000′-4,000′ below, and it’s a truly impressive and sobering preview of how high you’ve actually climbed in the past three hours. But it gets both better and worse.
This is a freestanding mountain, surrounded by low basins which are themselves ringed by more distant ridges. So on the crest, you’re on a precipitous island with a drop of 2,000′ to 3,000′ vertical feet on all sides. The final switchback leads to a tiny exposed saddle on a knife-edge ridge, which was sun-drenched now, hence blissfully snow-free.
It’s only a short distance up the ridge through low forest to the time-worn, lichen-encrusted cast-concrete stairs that take you to the peak and the foundation of the old fire lookout. These crude stairs violate every safety code you can imagine, with tall risers and shallow treads. They’re like a miniature version of the terrifying stairs up the cliff in Lord of the Rings. Even in dry conditions the climb to the top is more like the crux move of a technical climb up a crack in a rock wall. There’s no railing on the lower, steeper flight, and a fall would dash you onto the rock ledge below, and possibly over it down the north slope.
But today the lower steps were packed with slippery snow, so I made use of every available handhold – the brush and boulders at my left, the wet but snow-free edges of the steps above – and basically crawled up on all fours, trying not to think about the coming descent.
The upper flight of stairs, fully exposed to the sun, was completely snow-free and dry, but since it overhangs a cliff, it has a galvanized pipe handrail – something the lower flight could really use.
Summiting the stairs and stepping into the concrete enclosure, with its 360 degree view across the entire northern range, is one of the most dramatic moments imaginable. And as I was taking it in, and starting to take pictures, I heard a whoop from a neighboring peak, about 300 yards behind me to the east. It was the other hikers. I could make out a tall young man, but his partner was sitting behind a shrub. I waved back, and savored the views for about ten minutes, before firmly grabbing the handrail and stepping slowly down the vertiginous stairs, one at a time, nothing but a pipe railing between me and a 2,500′ vertical drop on my right. My time was getting short and I’d have to hurry down the dry stretches of trail.
I somehow made it safely down the tight, steep snow-packed lower steps, once again using my boot edges and every handhold possible. Then from there onto the forested upper switchbacks, where I had my one and only fall of the day at the best possible spot, in deep, fresh powder.
Just as I approached the lowest of the upper switchbacks, I heard another whoop from above. The young hikers were beginning their descent, and I figured if they were whooping spontaneously it was probably two guys, not a couple.
I was in shadow for almost the entire descent, and running down the dry stretches took its toll on my knees, so I was in quite a bit of pain even before I rounded the shoulder onto the lower segment of the trail. But what a beautiful hike for a short day!
Body and mind had been starved for this – it felt like the hiatus had been much longer than two weeks. I actually hadn’t been able to get this much elevation – over 3,000′ – in any hike during the past two months. Let alone all that beautiful exposed rock – the hikes near town run through monotonous forest. And the fact that I was able to reach 8,000′ after all the snow we’d had was encouraging. Maybe there are more trails accessible now than I thought?
Arriving at the cafe, I saw the full moon rising in the west, and realized I’d returned exactly a lunar month after my last visit. And thankfully, my vision remained clear.
Monday, October 23rd, 2023: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Silver, Southeast Arizona.
I started this Sunday with a conflict between need and desire. I needed to go easier on my problem foot, but I desired to see some fall color, which would most likely occur at higher elevation – entailing lot of climbing. None of my options were good, so my departure was delayed 90 minutes while I tried to make up my mind. Fortunately, the hike I settled on was in Arizona, where I would get an hour back crossing the state line. And although it involves a strenuous climb, it’s shorter than my usual Sunday hikes. I told myself I could take it slow to protect my foot.
The sky was clear, and the high was forecast to be in the mid-80s at the bottom. It was in the 70s when I set out, but it already felt like the 80s in the sun, and the first mile is exposed, as you climb above the northeast valley. The only tracks I saw were from the small herd of equines that grazes the lower slope, which surprised me, since this is the most popular trail in the area and fall is peak hiking season.
This trail, which I’ve hiked four times before, ascends the northeast and north slopes of a massif that stands alone surrounded by valleys, which are themselves surrounded by higher ridges. The top is essentially a lookout post for the entire northeast part of the mountain range, and in the past, a fire lookout was built and used up there. It’s a pretty hike with a lot of exposed rock and dramatic transitions between habitats.
Finally, as I left the foothills to traverse the northeast slope of the mountain, I got a little intermittent breeze and my mood improved.
After climbing over 1,200 vertical feet, you turn a corner away from the northeast valley and into a big ravine that runs down between the twin peaks of the mountain. From here you view the northwest skyline of the range. And here I found my fall color, tucked into a corner of the steep ravine. You can also see your destination from here, high above to the southwest.
Long traverses and many switchbacks take you up into the cleft of the ravine, where you pass through a small stand of firs. The outer slopes are lined with oaks and pinyon pine, but these firs survive in the narrow ravine that channels cool air to lower elevations.
Past the ravine you traverse higher up the north slope until you enter the small fir forest that clings to the steep north slope of the peak, which tops out just over 8,000 feet. There, the trail passes behind towers of stone and begins a series of ten switchbacks that take you to the crest. I always find this stretch challenging, regardless of my conditioning.
The summit ridge is like a knife edge, making for a dramatic climax to all those switchbacks. The big basin south of this mountain is suddenly laid out for you. And at the west end of the ridge are the vertiginous stairs that lead to the abandoned foundation of the lookout.
The weather was perfect up there. I really hated to leave, and procrastinated as much as I could. Interestingly, the summit register showed a lot of visitors, even during the hottest days of our summer heat wave, up until ten days ago. Despite being perfect weather, this was the first time I’d made this climb without running into other people.
On the descent, just as I left the fir forest something small and dark flitted out of the low grass and annuals on the slope next to the trail – I first thought it was a butterfly. But it dove into a clump of bunchgrass, and kept hopping about, clinging for less than a second to the dead stalk of an annual then hopping to the ground. And so forth. I was some kind of tiny bird, barely bigger than a hummingbird, keeping within less than a foot of the ground, moving so often I couldn’t focus the camera on it. I stood there trying to snap pictures as it hopped to and fro only four or five feet away, completely ignoring me.
After descending the other three series of switchbacks and traversing out of the steep ravine, I found myself back in the northeast valley, with the sun casting long shadows. Here, I’m always dazzled by the colors of dying agaves.
At the base of the foothills, nearing the trailhead, I came upon the horses and mules. My foot was sore, but not as bad as on other hikes since I started changing my gait. I sure wish my podiatrist hadn’t retired!
