Gila
Sunday, July 13th, 2025: 2025 Trips, Gila, Nature, Regions, Road Trips, Wildfire.
So far, our monsoon has brought more lightning than rain – starting new fires, including a big one at the north edge of the wilderness.
I wanted to explore the little-known mountain range, a couple hours north, that I’ve become obsessed with. But the smoke from the fire, blowing west, monopolized my attention on the way up.
By the time I’d finished lunch in the village, the northern sky was darkened by a storm cloud.
At the turnoff in the high pass, I checked my tire pressure and found that warm weather had added ten pounds, so I deflated them to 18 psi for the drive up the rocky road to the forested crest. That made the ride much more pleasant.
At the crest, there’s a fork leading west across the mesa. Since it’s forested, I’d never been able to visualize the landscape, which ranges between 8,200 and 8,700 feet elevation. The topo map showed something called “Dave Lee Lake” just off the road, less than a half mile from the junction. But I’d checked the satellite view at home, and the “lake” appeared to be a typically-dry stock pond.
The storm clouds alternating with patches of blue sky turned this forested mesa into a dreamlike landscape. The high was forecast to reach 90 at 6,000 feet, but here, almost 3,000 feet higher, it was in the 70s. And as on previous visits, I had this small mountain range all to myself.
The road began to climb, as I kept watching for the lake to my left. There appeared to be an opening in the trees down there, so I turned back and followed a meandering track through the forest, past several empty campsites, until a broad meadow appeared ahead, blocked by a fallen tree trunk. The lake turned out to be a natural alpine meadow – one of many on the crest of this range – which would’ve originally featured a vernal pool, but had been dammed at some point to create a stock pond.
Despite the low dam and dry pond lined with cracked mud, it was a magical place, especially under those brooding clouds. I couldn’t believe I had it to myself on a weekend afternoon, only a couple miles off the highway.
I could’ve hung out there, but I’d only scratched the surface of this mesa and wanted to follow the road farther west. Many of the trees bore red blazes or ribbons, apparently part of a Forest Service survey, but other than that, I saw no traces of other visitors. The farther I went, the more tracks I found branching off into the forest. The north slope was dark and dense with Douglas fir. I followed what seemed to be the main track for a couple miles, driving down, up, and around, glimpsing what appeared to be a vast canyon off to the west. I still couldn’t get a sense of the landscape, but these branching, meandering forest tracks could become really confusing. The tracks became rougher and rougher, with deep pools of muddy water I preferred to bypass, and eventually I turned back.
On the north slope among the firs, I’d passed a turnoff to what I assumed was more empty campsites. But when I returned and tried it, I found another track, overgrown and seemingly abandoned, leading steeply down through the forest. I drove down it, and eventually came out in a saddle. From there, the road climbed steeply up onto a ridge, but there were big boulders embedded in the slope, so I stopped and got out to lurch up there in my knee brace and scout the way forward. The track clearly continued out the ridge, but my time was running out. I decided to return to the turnoff and hang out there in the shade.
I strung my hammock between a couple of firs and laid there listening to the wind in the trees – the only sound up here on this mesa, 45 minutes from the nearest human settlement, an hour from the nearest town, four hours from the nearest city. The wind pushes into the forest, the trees dance with the wind.
It took me more than fifteen years to discover this place, two hours from my home. Despite the old dam, I’d seen no sign of cattle anywhere on the mesa. Old topo maps show that despite the maze of forest tracks, most of the mesa is roadless, including the entire western half leading down to the river. There are no hiking trails, but in the parklike forest, devoid of undergrowth, you could hike all over without running into any sign of human life.
Along the forest road and backcountry tracks, there are dozens of beautiful, secluded campsites with fire rings, informal and unmarked. But in a half dozen trips over the past few years, I’ve never seen anyone camping here. It’s like a dream come true, but there are dangers – trees often fall across these forest roads and tracks, so it’s possible to get blocked or even trapped.
From the drive back, I could see it was raining over our high mountains, and presumably over the big wildfire. But I only got a few drops along the way.
Monday, July 21st, 2025: 2025 Trips, Gila, Regions, Road Trips.
For months, I’d been studying topo maps of mid-elevation mountains straddling our border with Arizona. One of my most memorable hikes had ascended a dramatic rock spire at the edge of that range. I approach it from the south, where it begins in low hills beside our famous river. Trending north, these hills get higher and rockier, peaking at 6,555 feet. Then, with no topographical interruption, the mountains get a new name, continuing north, gaining another 500 feet in peak elevation, until the mountainous area spreads and eventually acquires two or three other names.
The southern part is all cattle range and can only be accessed by long gravel roads up a vast alluvial bench lined with creosote bush. The maps show that the mountains themselves were mined extensively in the past, resulting in a bewildering maze of mine roads and 4wd tracks. Where the southern mountains transition into the higher northern mountains, there’s a small wilderness area containing a box canyon with cliffs nearly a thousand feet tall. This area is so far off the radar of hikers and outdoor enthusiasts that the only info I could find online was from the 2009 trip report of a prolific hiker from Phoenix, more than 200 miles away. His photos were spectacular.
But he didn’t provide clear directions on how to get there. My mapping platform suggests that you can drive over the range from south to north, but doesn’t show any side roads leading to the box canyon. Older topo maps show 4wd tracks approaching the mouth of the canyon from two directions, but I suspected all those old roads and tracks, built decades ago for now-abandoned mines, would be sketchy at best. There was only one way to find out.
The high temp at home was forecast to be in the mid-80s, but in monsoon season clouds or even rain can cool things off quickly. Not knowing the quality of those roads, I had some concern about clay turning to deep, sticky mud. The ranch road up the alluvial bench leaves the paved highway at an elevation of 3,700 feet, where the high would approach 100 degrees, but the road across the mountains tops out closer to 6,000 feet, where afternoon temps should be comfortable, and hopefully I would find a shady spot to hang out.
The road up the bench was well-graded and the gravel fine enough that I didn’t even have to deflate my tires, until it entered the foothills and became rockier.
The line of outlying peaks, all of which I dream of climbing, features spires of solid rock at their crests, and with the growing monsoon clouds behind them they looked even taller and more dramatic. The slopes here are dotted with small junipers and honey mesquite. The road got rockier, and I deflated my tires for a softer ride, but I was surprised to find that the surface remained well-maintained and wide enough for two vehicles in most places, looking more like one of those touristy “backcountry scenic drives”.
As I approached a blind rise, a 2-person UTV suddenly shot over the rise toward me, going so fast it almost left the ground, then corrected at the last minute to miss me by inches. I waved to the driver and passenger, but they had their hands full avoiding a wreck. That turned out to be the only other vehicle I passed in two hours of traversing the range.
The views got better the farther I went. After winding past the first line of rocky peaks, I entered an area of interior basins lined with colorful rock and lusher vegetation. The washes hosted coyote willows and even small stands of narrowleaf cottonwoods. I could see a lone ranch back up the nicest-looking side canyon. You could see the potential for washouts whenever the road crossed a wash, but, again to my surprise, the county was clearly maintaining this as an essential right of way.
Based on the topo map, I’d expected to have difficulty sorting out a maze of roads, but on the ground, there was only one through road showing the lion’s share of vehicle tracks, with only an occasional little-used side road. And the main road eventually began climbing toward the peak, where I encountered a shocking spread of mining facilities, installations, equipment, ruins, and debris from several generations going back to the nineteenth century, and apparently still in use.
Minimal online research led me to a 2021 article reporting that the mine, previously worked for gold and silver, had been sold to a gold-mining company active in South Africa and Botswana, but that company’s website no longer exists, and the sign on the gate still says “Pyramid Peak Mining”, which also appears to be defunct. All good news, except as usual, there’s no evidence that anyone plans to clean up the site.
Past here is where the next named mountain range began. The north slope of the peak was lined with pinyon pine, the mountains ahead were both higher and more forested, and the views even more spectacular. I had stumbled upon hidden treasure, a beautiful, unexpected, remote landscape almost in my backyard.
Beside precipitous drop-offs, the road descended steeply from the peak into a hidden valley lined with rocky ridges, with monsoon clouds still building to the east and south.
At the bottom of that hidden valley, a lush basin appeared on my right, stretching back to the base of the taller mountains. I passed a ranch road blocked by a tall, fancy gate, then the road plunged across a wide, deep wash, with the ruins of another ranch on the opposite bank.
The road continued west on the bank of that big wash, which hosted a canopy of tall sycamores and narrowleaf cottonwoods. Rounding the foot of an outlying ridge, I came to another ranch road blocked by a gate with an even fancier and more unlikely arch. I began to suspect the hidden area had actually been discovered and colonized by rich folks, but when I looked it up later, I learned this is a Buddhist retreat center. And according to the old topo maps, it’s also the route to the box canyon – now blocked by monks?
Throughout this stretch of road, I had been expecting to find a turnoff for the box canyon, and I had stopped repeatedly to study my topo maps, but they only left me more confused. On the entire drive, I hadn’t found anyplace shady to pull over and hang out, so all I could do was keep going. It was such beautiful country, I could hardly complain.
Eventually the road left the mountains and, flanked by ocotillo and prickly pear, began crossing the alluvial bench back toward the river valley, upstream of where it had started. I returned to the Mormon farming village and had a late enchilada lunch, then decided to continue east to spend the night in the railroad town on the interstate.
The next phase of the drive took me past more favorite high-desert hiking areas, down into the low-desert river basin at under 3,000 feet, and finally back up through foothills of the tallest sky island, to arrive at 4,200 feet in the railroad town. A big loop, a lot of driving on a hot day, but rewarding. I feel like I’ve still only scratched the surface of those hidden mountains, and will be back for more.
Monday, July 28th, 2025: 2025 Trips, Gila, Regions, Road Trips.
Rain and mild temperatures were forecast for next week, but this weekend was due to be hot. There was one last high-elevation refuge from the heat that I hadn’t tried this summer – partly because the drive is so hard I’d sworn never to do it again.
It starts by fording the river – usually flooded after a season of good precipitation – at an elevation of 6,300 feet, and ends at an old cabin used by the Forest Service on the crest of the range at just over 9,500 feet. The cabin sits among pines, Douglas-firs, and aspens above a grassy meadow, so I imagined stringing my hammock and enjoying a cool breeze as monsoon clouds sailed above.
Previously, I’d parked further down and walked the last 3 miles of the road. The trail to the 10,165 foot peak begins near the cabin, and I’d wanted a longer hike to the peak. Not happening with this knee immobilizer.
I’ve been so preoccupied, I forgot that this year’s wildfire had reached and crossed the highway near the turnoff. As I approached, I began seeing isolated pines with brown needles and wondered if it was fire or drought. At the turnoff, the forest on one side of the highway had been killed by hot surface fire but not burned.
Part of me regretted not being able to explore this changed habitat I knew so well before. But I was on a different mission.
The river was dry, but there was flash flood debris on the highway and all around. It will take a lot more than sporadic cloudbursts to keep the river flowing. On the dirt road, past the cabins in the foothills, I pulled over to deflate my tires. The first time I drove this road I hadn’t thought of that and nearly had a nervous breakdown from the hammering suspension.
And now I had my fancy new lifted suspension, so I came with no fear of banging and scraping the undercarriage, and wouldn’t have to slow and stress over finding the best line over the bedrock.
But that part starts eight miles in and 1,300 feet higher. For now, I could enjoy the gravel surface winding up to the mesa, and the long straights on top, and the lower tire pressure made even the rocky grades relatively comfortable.
I always tell people our habitat turns to Ireland in a good monsoon, and I was surprised to find it had already done that in these foothills. I was also surprised to see a smoke column indicating active burning in a wildfire that started almost three weeks ago in roadless and virtually inaccessible mountains northwest of town – despite sporadic rains ever since.
Eight miles back, the road crosses a saddle, changes from gravel to bedrock, and begins traversing down into a canyon. The bedrock is rough and sharp and the edge of the road drops off hundreds of feet into the canyon bottom. Partway down is a little sign memorializing two guys who drove off.
That stretch, which you only survive by driving at walking speed, descends less than a mile and a couple hundred vertical feet. And beyond is where the main trial begins: the eight-mile ascent of 2,100 vertical feet, much of it on bedrock.
Apparently my memory is incapable of storing and accurately reproducing just how difficult this road is. Because despite driving most of it twice before, I couldn’t believe how bad it was – walking pace only, less than 5 mph, climbing over ledges and rocking back and forth over long series of boulders. I spent much of the drive stopping, getting out, and trying to capture how bad it was in photos. The air outside was definitely cooling with elevation, but the high roofline and big windows make my vehicle like a greenhouse. I had to run the A/C, and every time I got out, I felt like I was being grilled alive by the heat coming off the engine compartment.
The Sidekick did great – as far as I can tell. It’s finally fulfilling its potential as an off-road vehicle. Unlike before, I wasn’t worried or stressed at all. But with all those stops, the clock was ticking and I realized that if I made it to the end, I would just have to turn around and drive back down. No hammock, no gentle breeze, no admiring the cloud formations. And that little engine, laboring to keep the A/C going, would ironically have me drenched with sweat by the time I got there.
You climb through and above a spectacular landscape, with seemingly impossible slopes and rock outcrops jutting among the tall pines, like something out of a classical Chinese painting. Pinyon pine coexist with Gambel oak and ponderosa pine almost up to the 9,000 foot level, where the spruce-fir-aspen forest begins.
Above 9,000 feet, you skirt the edge of the burn scar from the massive 2013 Silver Fire – resulting in spectacular views of a different kind. And here, the bloom began, with some flowers I can’t remember seeing anywhere else.
The road mostly levels out and leaves the solid bedrock surface behind, becoming a seldom-used, overgrown two-track on a rock-and-gravel mix which allowed me to speed up to 15 mph, in short stretches, for the first time in over an hour – although still with a lot of bouncing. And then I would reach a fallen tree, or boulder, and have to skirt around it.
I drove past the farthest point I’d reached before, and traversed the divide of the range from west to east, getting spectacular views over the eastern watershed, with its rock fins, vast bowls lined with virulent, impassable post-fire locust regrowth, and undulating cloud shadows. And more roadside flowers, so more stops and more engine roasting.
The last stretch is a rollercoaster along the fire-stripped and regrown crest to the small old-growth forest around the cabin, saved from the wildfire.
Having recently begun learning our mountain trees, I was pleased to recognize an old high-elevation pine twinned with an apparently same-age doug fir next to the cabin, offering a shady spot for my vehicle. This Southwestern white pine is individually cited in the field guide to trees of our region, by a former friend, sadly deceased.
Over 90 in town at 6,000 feet, it was in the high 70s here. Perfect campsite if I’d been prepared for bears and didn’t have work tomorrow.
It was already an hour later than I’d hoped to turn back. Yes, I could drive faster downhill, but although I made fewer stops, with a different view now I couldn’t resist taking more pics.
The steep descent on bedrock was easier, and again, devoid of the scraping, banging, and stress me and the vehicle had suffered previously. I’d hoped for rain, and had snagged a few drops on the windshield, but I had to settle for cloud formations.
When I reached the mesa, the emerald green of the grassy slopes again waylaid me, and turning back toward the crest, I saw hallucinatory rain clouds. How lucky we are to live here!
By the time I got home, I’d spent five and a half hours, mostly driving – 104 miles out-and-back. I was glad I did it while hoping never to do it again. But how could you go wrong in a place and at a time like this?
