Bear
Monday, August 22nd, 2022: Bear, Hikes, Pinalenos, Southeast Arizona.
This was the weekend when my region was forecast to get extreme rain and widespread flooding. Most of it was supposed to arrive on Saturday, but that turned out to be something of a letdown.
Still, I was sure there’d been enough rainfall in the mountains to raise the level of creeks in canyon bottoms, and most of my hikes involve creek crossings. So I figured it was time to drive over to Arizona and do the big climb from the desert to the fir forest. It’s a really hard climb, but – I believed – with no creek crossings required.
It was a perfect day for this hike, because it’s generally too hot in summer, but today’s cloud cover would fix that. Sure enough, it was in the 60s when I set out from the trailhead, through an overgrazed maze of boulders, mesquite, and big Emory oaks. But the humidity was almost 100% and the head-high vegetation was dripping from overnight rains. So I in addition to waterproof boots, I put on my waterproof, thornproof hunting pants and left my regular hiking pants in the car.
My destination, the mountain crest, was completely obscured by low clouds. And as I approached back and forth through the lowland maze, I was accompanied by the freight train sound of a raging flood not too far off on my right. I was surprised because it wasn’t raining, and I didn’t think any of the drainages near this trail had big enough watersheds to flood. But the trail led me away from the sound and I thought no more of it.
Then, less than a mile into the hike, the trail began climbing and led around a hill toward a narrow gully – the only gully crossing on this hike – and the freight train sound came back. It was coming from the gully! What the hell was I going to find?
I was shocked to find this littly gully, which had never had water in it before, turned into a churning torrent of muddy water, 8-10 feet wide at its narrowest. Then I began to visualize the landscape above, and I realized that the watershed for this tiny gully led 3 miles down from the crest, which was over 3,000′ above. So it was actually able to collect a decent amount of runoff and ultimately funnel it through here.
The logical thing would’ve been to start worrying about what would happen to this flood if the crest got rain later in my hike, but as usual all I could think about was getting past the obstacle. Fortunately there was a log across the surface of the torrent, which could be reached by stepping out on a slippery rock, with another shorter log as an intermediate foothold. And I found a soggy stick I could use to improve my balance while crossing.
But the intermediate log turned out to be rotten and immediately broke in half under me, briefly submerging one of my boots as I scrambled to leap to the opposite bank. Without that intermediate log, would I be able to get back across on my return at end of day?
It always amazes me how a loud a creek can be. Even the smallest creek can sound like a raging torrent from hundreds of yards away, and that sound can really set your nerves on edge if you know you have to cross it at some point.
This trail is very seldom used by anyone other than me, and the last time I’d been here, in March – long before the growing season – I’d gotten lost because the tread vanishes at many points. I knew it would be overgrown after this year’s long, wet monsoon, and it exceeded my expectations. Beyond the flood crossing, I was wading almost continuously through sopping wet chest-high grasses. The crest was still hidden behind clouds, but at least it wasn’t raining – yet!
Most of the cairns that mark some of the turns in the trail were hidden under the tall grass, so I kept having to stop to search for sticks and rocks that would work as route markers on my descent. And as I’ve noted many times before, these trails are always lined with rocks – loose or embedded – and the overgrowth also hides the rocks in the trail, so you have to either go very slow, feeling your way with each step, or be condemned to stumble or lose your balance often.
At times I was helped by a corridor where the surface of the grass had been trampled, and at first I thought another hiker might’ve come this way recently. But gradually I realized the trampling had been done by game, because it often led away from the actual hiking trail.
With all this stopping and trail marking, it took me forever to reach the saddle which marks the halfway point. Meanwhile the sky had darkened and I could see isolated rainfall behind me in the lower range to the south. I was so discouraged by my slow pace that I considered giving up and turning back, especially with the flood danger. But as usual, I threw caution to the wind and kept going, thinking the descent would go a lot faster.
In the next stretch – the final climb to the crest – the dense grass is replaced by scrub oak, and eventually by scattered pines and firs. Here, the trail often turned into a creek. The higher I got, the more it seemed that water was just flowing down the entire slope.
By the time I reached the saddle on the crest, it had taken me 4-3/4 hours to go 4-3/4 miles. My legs were sore and I was tired and out of breath, so I figured I’d just take it easy from here on, enough to enjoy the alpine forest, and turn back well before reaching the end.
But again, my compulsive nature won out. At the high point, there wasn’t even a view to reward me, since the peaks of the range were still hidden under clouds, so I continued down to the highway saddle – the terminus of the trail, which most hikers use as a starting point. It was empty – not surprising in this weather.
I wanted to sit on a rock, but I suddenly developed a painful cramp in my thigh, and realized I’d forgotten to drink any water during the past hour of hiking over the crest. The cramp had me paralyzed for about 5 minutes, but I’ve learned how to deal with these. I stood with my leg straight, gradually stretching the muscles in the back of my thigh and calf until the cramp began to relax. Then I mixed an electrolyte supplement – something I’ve learned to carry for situations like this – into my water bottle and finished it off.
I’d used up so much time already that I realized I’d get back to the vehicle near sunset, facing a 2-hour drive back home in the dark. So I decided to drive to Safford and stay there in a motel – I thought I might have enough points for a free night. The idea picked up my spirits – Safford is a strange place and could add to the day’s adventure.
Clouds were entering and darkening the forest as I proceeded back down the crest toward the saddle, and before long I ran into rain. The descent did go quickly, but the rain also increased. Realizing I could begin worrying about crossing the flood – at that gully which was still almost 5 miles away, and which was being steadily renewed by this rainfall – I forced myself to smile, on the principle that mind follows body.
If I couldn’t cross that flood, there’s no telling how long I’d have to wait for it to subside. There was no other way off the mountain, and it was too wet to start a fire to keep warm throughout the night. I might be forced to call for a catastrophically expensive rescue – using my GPS device since there was no cell signal. These were the things I was trying to keep from thinking.
As usual, the rain only lasted a half hour, but now, runoff was pouring down the entire slope, and the entire trail was functioning as a creek. As mentioned earlier, the sound of a flood is exaggerated and carries a long distance, so I was accompanied by that freight train roar most of the way down.
I’d never encountered runoff like this back home – I wondered if the geology of these mountains was the cause? Our local mountains, being all volcanic, might be porous enough to absorb most runoff.
In the end, I successfully failed to think about the flood until I literally reached the bank of the gully. It had gotten higher, wider, and angrier, but I could still see the diagonal log, and the sloping rock on the opposite side.
I’d left the stick I’d used earlier up the bank, but I wanted a second one for the other hand. Just as I stepped over some deadfall to look for another stick, my thigh cramped up again and I was paralyzed with pain. What if this happened while I was crossing the flood?
As the cramp subsided, I drank some more water and scouted for a stick, but finally gave up and just rushed across the flood waters as best I could. It turned out to be both precarious and easy.
Evenings are usually spectacular in this valley, and this was no exception. But as beautiful as it was, I was getting really tired of humidity, lush vegetation, and spending nine hours in clothes drenched with sweat. This is really not my favorite kind of habitat to hike in. I was really missing the desert.
The sun was setting and I was anxious to finish the 25 minute drive to Safford. But as I was changing into dry pants and socks at the vehicle, I heard a woman’s voice over toward the highway. The deeply eroded, primitive 4wd track to the hiking trail winds a short distance through dense oak and mesquite scrub, and as I rounded a bend close to the highway I saw a small woolly dog, and then a middle-aged woman appeared with her arms spread wide. As I slowed to stop, I saw a city-style SUV blocking the track, and an older man came over and leaned on the hood of my vehicle.
“Do you live back there?” the woman asked, crowding in my window.
“No, I was just hiking.”
“Why?”
“Because I like to.”
She shook her head in frustration. “Where do you hike to?”
“The top.”
“The top of what?”
I was getting tired of this. “The top of the mountains.”
“Why?” she asked again.
“Because I like to climb mountains.”
She frowned a while, then suddenly smiled. “So do I!” Right.
The man came over and leaned in my window. “Do you live here?”
“No, like I told her, I was just hiking.”
The woman elbowed him out of the way. “Have you seen those hieroglyphics?” she asked me.
“What?”
“Over on the other side of the mountains!”
“They have lots of those over around Phoenix,” said the man.
“No!” replied the woman, “Not Hohokam! These are 4,000 years old!”
The man turned back to me. “Where you from?”
I told him, and he said he was from Safford, and he grew up on farms and ranches and never wanted to do anything physical on his time off. I told him I’m retired, and he questioned me thoroughly about what kind of work I’d done, and then they offered their names, so I had to tell them mine. It was like meeting me was the big event of their day. They were clearly hoping to get to know me a whole lot better, there with my engine running and me on the way out.
Christ, what a day! I’d gotten up early and driven 2 hours to pursue a brutal 9-hour hike through rain and flood. I was exhausted, I still had chores left in Safford, and trying to explain to these weird strangers would only trigger more questions. I said it was nice meeting them but I really had to hit the road.
Ironically, the motel I got a free night in calls itself the Desert Inn. I knew from experience there were no decent restaurants open on Sunday night, but on the way I remembered I could pick something up at the Safeway and warm it up in the room’s microwave. So I enjoyed a celebratory dinner and a good night’s sleep, looking forward to an easy drive home the next day.
While sampling the motel’s breakfast the next morning, I idly studied the local newspaper, discovering that the Forest Service had scheduled a volunteer work session on that very trail for both Saturday and Sunday. Since I’d seen no sign of work or workers, they’d apparently had to cancel due to weather.
Unfortunately the direct route home turned out to be closed – the mining corporation was moving some oversized equipment, with a state police escort. So after pointlessly driving east about 15 miles, I had to return to Safford yet again to take the longer route back.
I took this opportunity to sample Safford’s only coffee house, and had a decent espresso. I was the only customer.
Monday, April 1st, 2024: Bear, Hikes, Pinalenos, Southeast Arizona.
I was still trying to rebuild capacity, but most of the high-elevation hikes remained blocked by snow or flooded creeks. I settled on a handful I thought would work, then checked my Dispatches to see when I’d last done those hikes. It’d been a year and a half since I’d done one of my favorites over in Arizona, so I picked that one.
Once again, I underestimated the weather. The forecast for nearby towns predicted cool but not cold, rain in the evening, and windy. I ignored the windy part and the elevation differences.
As I left home, the wind, out of the southwest, turned out to be so bad the interior of the car sounded like a jet engine. My noise-cancelling headphones really paid off.
It’s a two-hour drive, the sky looked stormy, and when I first glimpsed the mountains they were enveloped in a dark cloud.
Even after last week’s experience, I was forgetting about the first mile of the trail, which sees heavy cattle use. The beginning, which winds through a maze of shallow gullies, boulders, and big oaks, was completely trashed by cattle, and there were cattle grazing all over the next segment, which climbs through some granite hills to a narrow gully that carries runoff from the crest.
The temperature at base was probably in the high 40s, and I started out wearing only my sweater. The climbing made me sweaty, but the wind made me chilled, and even after I pulled on my shell jacket my still-sweaty arms were freezing.
The trail past the creek was pocked with the hoofprints of one or more horses, but devoid of human tracks. I’ve always been one of the few people that use this trail, especially from the bottom, and it’s often overgrown and hard to follow in places.
Not long after passing the cattle, I discovered my right thumb was in severe pain that seemed to come from the bone itself. I had no memory of injuring it – it was like a sudden-onset arthritis. I use that hand a lot on a hike, no way around it.
The trail climbs through the foothills until it hits the upper slopes, which require switchbacks and long traverses. Here the wind, and the wind chill, became brutal. My arms were still freezing and I wondered if I should turn back. But as usual I just tried to speed up to generate more body heat.
The horses had destroyed the tread on this part of the trail, dislodging the retaining rocks that the trail builders had laid on the downhill side, resulting in loose, pitted dirt and rocks that were hard to walk on and will erode rapidly. And on the final switchback to a saddle on an outlying ridge, I came upon the severed leg of a recently killed deer. I’d seen a dog track and wondered if the equestrians were hunters?
On the next stretch, the long traverse through dense oak scrub transitioning to mixed conifer forrest, the clouds began to break for a few minutes at a time, and that brief sunlight finally warmed my chilled arms. The wind was as ferocious as ever, but the dense scrub oaks, followed by the big firs, gave me some protection.
Here, the equestrians had ripped branches off trailside bushes and trees – the higher branches they could reach from horseback – which they then dropped on the trail behind them. What were they thinking?
I finally reached the saddle on the crest, finishing a climb of more than 3,000 feet. The wind was bending the trees and roaring like a freight train up here.
The crest part of the trail started out snow-free, but the higher I climbed the deeper it got. Fortunately the beautiful fir forest blocked most of the wind. I managed to climb another three-quarters of a mile and 600 feet higher, reaching a trail junction just below the peak. The snow was up to 8 inches deep there and I could see it would be deeper ahead, requiring gaiters. Knowing there are no good views ahead, I didn’t feel it was worth strapping them on, so I turned back.
This is one of those hikes whose reported distance varies widely depending on your source of info. CalTopo, the mapping platform I use, shows today’s hike at 4.7 miles one-way and 9.4 miles out-and-back, but every other source calls it 5.4 and 10.8 – quite the discrepancy. Based on the time it takes me when I’m in top condition, I’m confident it’s close to 11 miles.
The walk back down the crestline took me in and out of that howling wind. It had to be between 60 and 70 mph up there, yielding a wind chill in the mid-20s, which I was not dressed for. I dug my lined gloves and thermal bottoms out of the pack and stuffed them in the inside pockets of my storm shell, so they’d be warm if I needed them.
As I headed down the switchbacks below the crest sleet began to blow in my face, so I cinched my hood as tight as it would go. I could see rain falling twenty miles across the desert, and a half hour later it was moving down the valley below me, where my vehicle was parked.
I was past the saddle on the outlying ridge, down the long traverses into the foothills, when it began to rain, lightly at first then harder. I had to dig out my rain poncho. Fortunately the lower elevations were much warmer.
At the base of the foothills I rounded a small oak tree and came face to face with a bull. I couldn’t believe it – the third Sunday in a row. I wasn’t even sure I was on the trail anymore, so I backtracked until I realized this had to be it. I simply walked around the bull, and he resumed grazing behind me.
When I reached the vehicle, not only was my thumb on fire, but the palm of that hand was hurting as well, so I took a pain pill. It wasn’t enough – it was aching so bad when I got in bed that night, I had to take a second pill to get to sleep.
