Summit Mountains
Monday, February 12th, 2024: Hikes, Southwest New Mexico, Summit Mountains.
Even before Saturday, all the high elevation trails had been blocked by deep snow. But on Saturday it snowed lightly on and off for about 16 hours, leaving up to four inches here in town, at 6,000 feet. Yet daily highs were ranging from the 40s to the 50s throughout the region, meaning creeks would be flooded with runoff and most low-elevation trails would be muddy.
Before going to bed Saturday night, I finally decided to explore a mountainous area over on the Arizona border that I’d been eyeing from a distance for years. It ranges from 4,000 to a little below 7,000 feet, but it features dramatic rocky peaks, with no hiking trails but a network of old mining and ranching roads. It’s more than an hour and a half drive to get there, and it would be a shot in the dark – I didn’t know what kind of surface to expect, and the roads and the ground might be too muddy now.
The only info I could find online was a trip report on Peakbagger from a guy who tried to climb two of the most dramatic peaks. He failed, but dropped his phone near the top of one peak and had to return the next day to retrieve it. His report mainly consists of complaining about the lost phone, but it includes a GPS route from the nearest road that might be useful.
But getting out of town turned out to be the biggest challenge of the day. Both driver- and passenger-side door locks were frozen, and the de-icer I’d bought earlier didn’t work. I had to climb through from the rear hatch to start the engine and the heater, and it took 35 minutes to warm up the interior enough to free the locks and melt the frost off the windows.
I anticipated ice on the highway, and sure enough, immediately outside of town the surface turned to pure ice. I switched into high-range 4wd, but was still limited to 35 mph – at that speed I could feel my all-terrain tires begin to slip. Big pickups and tractor-trailer rigs passed me going 45 – I guess the extra weight and tire surface helps. The ice lasted half the distance south through the low mountains, and it was a tense drive.
By the time I left the mountains for the vast alluvial plain, dropping below 6,000 feet, I was running so late I knew this would be more of a road trip than a hike. But as I drove north toward the new country, the rocky peaks emerged from the horizon, tantalizing me.
The dirt road that led to them was the first surprise. The first part of it leads north up a rough wash and clearly floods and washes out after a heavy monsoon rain. It’s only after the first couple of miles that the road climbs out of the wash and spends the rest of its time up on ridges, on surfaces that range from gravel to packed dirt. This is lonely country; I was the only driver on this road, all day.
My second surprise came when I checked the map again and discovered this area lies within my county. The longest route across the county I grew up in in Indiana takes less than a half hour; that this remote area is an hour and a half from my hometown, which is in the middle of the county, is pretty crazy.
Approaching the first peak, the road reached the edge of a bluff with a dramatic view. To take the peakbagger’s route I would continue on the road until it reaches the foot of the peak. But below me was some country that looked interesting in itself, and would yield more mileage and elevation in my hike. There was a high-clearance 4wd road leading down into this country – it turned out to be very sketchy, but by stopping regularly and scouting lines I managed to make it all the way down to a corral, windmill, and stock tank on the bank of the big wash. Cattle were milling about there, so I drove back up and parked on a ledge.
I had an amazing vista: it appeared that I could follow the wash upstream, through a dramatic gap in low bluffs, and from there, up alluvial slopes to the foot of the cliffs. My map showed that the hidden north side is gentler; I hoped to circle around and climb it from the back.
It had been a long time since I’d bushwhacked off-trail, but I was motivated by having new country to explore. The main obstacle seemed to be waist-high thorny mesquite, which blankets heavily grazed land throughout the Southwest. I would just have to wind my way through it.
This is very dry country. I could see snow on northwest slopes down to about 5,400 feet, but I was surprised to meet running water in the wash – bedrock was close to the surface, and when it emerged, there were interesting water-sculpted features and cascades.
The gap in the rock bluffs turned out to be a slot canyon that involved some creative scrambling. I’d forgotten how much fun hiking without a trail can be!
Past the bluffs I emerged in a sort of overgrazed bajada, a rocky expanse of cactus, grass and mesquite that was at first like a superhighway leading toward the base of the peaks. Farther up, it was divided into ridges and gullies so I had to pick a route, but I came upon a well-marked cattle trail that led me up to an old fence and gate that divided this from the grazing on the north side of the peaks. The gate clearly hadn’t been opened for years and took all my strength to re-close.
Now I was nearing the saddle between the two peaks, and needed to start traversing up the slope of the right-hand peak. I didn’t know what I would find on the north side and I wanted to start gaining some elevation while I could. It was a 20-degree slope, and I began encountering snow, but had thankfully left the mesquite behind.
I was intrigued by a narrow gap in the cliffs above, a slot that appeared to contain a steep chute that might be a shortcut to the crest. But I could see snow in there, and I had no idea how technical it would get up close, so I filed it away and kept traversing.
As I rounded the corner toward the north side, I could see a towering fin of reddish rock blocking my way ahead. Between me and the fin lay a steep snow-covered slope heavily forested with pinyon pine – this would be my only route to the crest. The grade was more than 30 percent, and the trees appeared to get thicker toward the top.
That forest lay mostly in the shade, so I didn’t mind the effort of climbing – it kept me warm! But the ground beneath the 4-inch-deep snow consisted of loose gravel or scree so there was a lot of slipping. The steep grade required me to sidestep most of the way, zigzagging between trees.
The slope narrowed as I climbed, with a cliff closing in on my right and outcrops emerging on my left. The cliff on the right eventually forced me to cross the outcrops on the left, where I found myself on an even steeper east slope strewn with deadfall, scrub, and bare scree.
After finding my way across that final slope, I emerged on the north end of the crest. I’d never actually believed I would make it up there, especially while climbing that forest slope, so I was inclined to just savor the moment and call it a day.
But after checking my watch and calculating how much time I had left – assuming the ice would’ve either melted or been cleared off the highway home – I realized there was no reason why I couldn’t continue and try to reach the peak, which loomed another 200 feet above the ridge south of me.
First I had to climb another steep, forested, snow-blanketed slope. But when I did, I found myself standing on the rim of a great stone funnel, facing the slot in the cliff I’d wondered about from below. Vertical cliff walls towered on both sides of the slot, and when I shouted, it came echoing back. A chute of scree fell vertiginously away below me. It appeared that you might be able to climb it from below, but going down would be terrifying and probably suicidal.
I’d been excited to reach the lower edge of the crest, but now I was ecstatic. This was the most spectacular rock formation I’d ever reached in all my years in this region.
And the peak appeared to be only a short climb above.
I kept climbing up a slope of bare rock with a thin coating of snow, and reached a wall of stone, with the summit looming behind it. The only gap lay at my right, a window at head height, its sill a 45-degree ramp cascading to a drop of hundreds of feet, with no hand or footholds I could see.
I took off my pack and tried edging toward the window. But I soon ran out of holds. If I was roped and anchored, with a partner, I probably would’ve tried it. But gripping the last available hold, I reached my camera up over the sill, and it didn’t look like there was a non-technical route to the summit on the other side.
I estimated I’d gone between three and four miles in 3-1/2 hours – about what you’d expect while routefinding and bushwhacking new terrain. The alluvial slopes had gone quickly, but the slot canyon and snow-covered upper slopes had gone very slow. I expected the descent to be treacherous.
But the descent of that snow-covered scree actually turned out to be both easy and fun – probably because there were plenty of trees and branches so I wasn’t worried about falling. And my landscape memory served me well on the alluvial slopes – I only strayed once, finding myself across a deep gully from the cattle trail, but that was easily remedied. On the way up, I’d regularly looked over my shoulder at memorable features on the skyline behind me, because the bajada is a maze of shallow washes, and those distant features would keep me oriented on my return. And sure enough, I was able to find the stone gap and slot canyon even though they were hidden from the bajada.
I reached the stream and the slot canyon sooner than expected, and not long after, the windmill appeared above the trees of the big wash. After climbing the road to my vehicle on its ledge, I suddenly realized the shrubs surrounding it were creosote bush! My favorite desert plant, after a day of the kind of hiking I treasure in the desert. And I was left with plenty of time to get home before dark.
I’d only gone 6-1/2 miles and climbed a little over 1,600 feet – I would normally consider that a failed day trip. But how can I forget standing on the crest of that great stone rampart, overlooking more than fifty miles of wild country? And a little farther down the crest, standing in that echoing amphitheater of stone with its narrow gateway over the same country, its perilous cascade of scree falling away at my feet. Fortunately, there’s more to explore in that area.
I encountered a final mystery on the way out – where the road runs down the wash, the bank was lined with half-buried old cars. I couldn’t tell whether it was by design or by accident – some trailer-trash rancher upstream might’ve had a junkyard that was washed down in a flood?
Monday, March 16th, 2026: Hikes, Southwest New Mexico, Summit Mountains.
My last hike was three weeks ago, and the corresponding Dispatch was titled “Last Hike”. Although my right knee finally seemed to be okay, the chronic inflammation in my left foot wasn’t responding to treatment, and I believed I might have to return to the Bay Area for a new exam and more ultrasound.
Plus, my right shoulder seemed to be getting worse. Using trekking poles and reaching for rocks while hiking was hard on it, and I’d also developed pain in my left forearm and injured my left elbow, so both arms were much less functional. And finally, the new surgeon in Tucson agreed that the best solution for the right shoulder is surgery – with a six-month recovery and the first 4-6 weeks of that immobilized.
I’d avoided all exercise for weeks, and now I fell into depression. I’d had two years of largely putting my life on hold while taking care of my family, and before that I’d spent almost a decade doing intensive rehab for surgery, injuries, and degenerative conditions. Plus – surviving a few near-death traumas.
My grandpa died at this age. You’re saying, instead of enjoying my new freedom and having fun for a change, I immediately need to be disabled for another six months?
With nothing to look forward to, feeling weak and fragile, losing the last shreds of my self-confidence, I was about ready to give up on life itself.
But meanwhile, I’d continued treating the foot, and it felt like it could maybe handle a few easy miles. So on Sunday morning, I drove south toward a stretch of the national trail that meanders across open, level country dotted with junipers. And along the way, I started daydreaming about a rocky peak I’d been wanting to climb over on the Arizona border.
I’d never tried it in the past because on paper it wasn’t enough of a challenge – only a mile and a quarter and 1,400 feet of elevation gain. But it’s in a really beautiful area. I figured if it turned out to be easy, I’d climb it. Otherwise I’d end up in a spectacular spot instead of stuck between junipers with no view.
Blue skies with high, wispy clouds, and a fire weather forecast for the entire Southwest – warm, dry, and windy. The climb would start at 5,300 feet and top out at almost 6,800 feet, and I set out in my shirtsleeves.
No trails in these mountains – seldom visited, the only roads built for mines and ranches – but since the peaks look striking from the distant highway, a handful of peakbaggers have ventured over here. I’d studied their routes for years, the shortest beginning on an old dead-end mine road in a pass. But of course, changing my mind at the last minute, I hadn’t brought a map. The mine road turned out to be obvious but clearly undriveable, so I parked and started up it.
The road overlooks a pretty canyon coming down from the north, dividing a ridge leading to today’s peak on my left, and a lower ridge opposite that. Below a saddle in the ridge on my side, the road turns right, and although deeply washed out, past there it was carpeted with poppies – so pretty I hated to walk on them.
I could see mine works high on the slope above, and midway up the traverse I passed the remains of a side road that leads to that earlier saddle. Ahead, a steep side canyon comes down from what appeared to be the peak, and I figured that would be my route.
The opposite slope of the canyon appeared to be mostly loose rock, so I started up the more vegetated, and slightly less steep, left slope. Near the road it was fairly gentle, although rocky and choked with yuccas, cholla, and thorns. But once I got into the canyon proper I was on nothing but loose rock at the angle of repose – talus colonized by various small perennials.
I soon came upon animal tracks, and although in the loose dirt I couldn’t tell what they were, I tried to follow them. Until they got too steep or disappeared.
I crossed deep gullies, kept slipping on loose rock, grabbed a fallen yucca stalk for balance, and eventually I reached a slope of bare talus. This is ridiculous, I thought. You’re going to destroy your foot, and maybe your knee too. Remember why you came here – to take it easy and enjoy the scenery.
But after a few minutes’ rest, staring up ahead where the canyon made a right turn, I felt obligated to continue at least that far. Maybe it would get easier.
Of course, where the canyon turned right, another deep gully came down from the left, and the main canyon was choked with boulders, with a high bank of loose rock to climb out of. And on top of that, just more talus colonized by spikes and thorns.
But of course, now I’d passed that milestone, the peak appeared to be a straight shot above me. Straight shot! Hah!
Now, instead of traversing a steep talus slope colonized by spikes and thorns, I was climbing one. I grabbed a second yucca stalk and now had two walking sticks, but they kept getting stuck between loose rocks or caught in shrubs. At first I regretted not bringing my trekking poles, then soon realized they’d get stuck even worse in this habitat.
Hoping the footing would be better higher to my left, below the rimrock, I kept clambering in that direction, only to be turned away by denser vegetation. And eventually, I found myself only a hundred feet or so below the apparent saddle that divided the apparent peak from the rimrock on my left.
The only juniper in this vicinity loomed to the right of the saddle, and I climbed toward it.
But once past the juniper, I found myself facing jagged ramparts of stone. And when I climbed up into them, I spotted a higher rise, quite a bit farther north of me. Shit. As usual, I was on a false peak.
I picked my way through this long ridge of rock outcrops, then down onto another scrubby talus slope toward the rise I’d spotted earlier.
But it turned out to be yet another false peak. As I traversed around it, I saw what I hoped was the real peak, rising quite a bit higher in the distance.
Finally reaching a saddle below the final peak, in a greener area featuring grasses and annuals, I suddenly stepped out into a small, level clearing, just big enough for a campsite. It was the only level place I found in the entire hike! But of course, a gale force wind was blowing across from the west.
Windy or not, I was elated to reach the peak, while trying to ignore the perilous descent I faced on my return. Fortunately, I had plenty of time, and walking sticks to lean on.
As expected, the view was amazing. I could see mountains I’d hiked and peaks I’d climbed to east, south, and west, up to fifty miles away, and a big dust storm was stirring up across the playa forty miles to the south.
Unusually, I got lost among those jagged rocks on the way down the summit ridge, but managed to get turned back at the end, to the head of the right canyon. And it wasn’t a sight I looked forward to.
Again, I tried to stay close to the rimrock on the west side, but had to zigzag constantly to avoid boulders and thorns. My yucca stalks kept breaking on the way down, leaving me with only one until I could find another the right size. This time, I wanted to stay high. The slope above the lower canyon also featured rimrock, and I figured I might be able to cross above the talus up there.
Higher up the slope, I found longer stretches of game trails that helped a little. This appeared ideal bighorn habitat, but the only clear-cut tracks I saw all day looked to be from deer, and the only scat from rabbits.
When I reached the lower canyon, I was able to traverse above some of the larger bare talus slopes. But the trade-off was denser vegetation in my way, and in some cases, deeper gullies to cross. I stayed high as long as possible, finally cutting under the last rimrock outcrop, where I spotted the old mine road a couple hundred feet below.
The descent never got any easier. As I mentioned earlier, this entire landscape consisted of loose rock sparsely colonized by perennials that mostly didn’t even offer good hand-or-footholds. In that final descent from the rimrock both my ankles were worn out and aching from trying to keep my balance. I’d fallen once, a while back, and now I was leaning on the yucca stalks whenever possible to stay upright.
Back at the vehicle, I immediately downed a couple pain pills. My foot was aching and my knee pain had returned after a couple months’ reprieve. It had taken me five hours to go less than 2-1/2 miles. What I’d done was both idiotic and exhilarating.
I remembered that some time in the past decade, when disabled and unable to hike, I’d assured friends that if necessary, I would “crawl on my bloody stumps” to reach my beloved desert. Meaning I would never give up. That’s what today had been about.
On the way out, I stopped to look back. And realized that if I’d simply remembered the western profile of the mountain, I would’ve known that the actual peak was far to the north of where I topped out of that canyon. And at home, checking the peakbagger route, I discovered they climbed away from the mine road below that first, low saddle, and followed the ridgetop high above the canyon I hiked.
Their footing would’ve been no different, but they would’ve climbed continuously at a lesser grade. My grade during the climb up that canyon averaged 40 percent – one of the hardest climbs I’ve ever done, if not the hardest.
