2025 Trips
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?
Sunday, August 10th, 2025: 2025 Trips, Nature, Plants, Regions, Road Trips, Sky Islands.
Our heat wave was forecast to taper off in a few days, with the monsoon clouds returning. And doc says I can start doing short hikes, also in a few days.
But meanwhile, I needed a Sunday road trip, and the area that intrigued me the most is low elevation and was likely to be pushing 100 degrees.
I studied the maps over and over, and finally realized that at the west end of that area, there’s a 6,500 foot peak with a road traversing it. I’d never considered exploring it because the top is covered with communications towers, and I hate towers on mountaintops. But it’s also surrounded by spectacular desert terrain and other mountains and buttes with colorful rocks, and the vegetation around there is a delightful mix of Sonoran and Mojave genera, so why not give it a shot?
After crossing the mountains south of town, I discovered the vast southern plains were blanketed with a mysterious, low-lying haze. It wasn’t windy, so I wondered if it might be humidity.
Then when I turned north, I was surprised to see some monsoon activity far ahead. I drove through the Mormon farming village, crossed our iconic river (muddy and barely visible amid its broad, dense canopy), and enjoyed an interval of rain before reaching the alluvial mesas and the turnoff for the “backcountry byway”.
Backcountry byways are dirt and gravel roads graded and maintained for recreation on BLM land. The map shows that this one crosses the iconic river, way the hell in the middle of nowhere as it makes its big bend west, so that was something else to look forward to.
The monsoon clouds spreading from the north were intermittently cooling off the air, enhancing the landscape, and making photography a challenge in their shadows. I had a great view of the mountain with the towers, which I’d never identified before.
After less than a mile on the byway, I pulled over to deflate my tires. Regular cars use this road, but regular cars have soft suspensions.
At the river, I could hear folks making noise down in the picnic area, but couldn’t see them for the trees. Despite the humongous copper mine to the north, this landscape is pretty miraculous, with a legendary river hidden in a narrow canyon in the midst of harsh and colorful desert.
Past the river, the road gets rougher and cuts back into a long valley toward the foot of the mountain. I came upon a big late-model pickup driving less than 10 mph on a straight, wide, recently-graded stretch. I followed them for almost a mile as they continued to drive in the middle of the road, blocking me. Finally we came to a wide enough spot I could squeeze past them.
And at the head of the valley, the road gets narrower and begins climbing the shoulder of a long outlying ridge.
When the road crested the shoulder, I stopped to check my map, and discovered that the road to the summit starts here. Communications tower access roads are notoriously poorly maintained, and I had to shift into low range 4wd just to get up the turnoff.
This road, accessing the summit from the northwest, climbs over a thousand feet in two miles, so the views northeast are pretty spectacular. But it’s also very narrow, rocky, and steep, so I had to pay close attention. There are no wide spots, so I kept wondering what I would do if I encountered another vehicle.
I considered that unlikely, but just as I came to the only wide spot before the crest, I saw a side-by-side heading down toward me. What are the chances? And what would we have done if we’d encountered each other a few minutes earlier or later?
Fortunately, they said there was no one behind them.
When I reached the crest, I got a view to the southwest. But the road became even rougher. I began to realize this was probably the gnarliest road I’d ever driven – but after driving that road to the crest of our eastern range a couple weeks ago, I was fairly calm. Guess I’m getting used to this.
I stopped in the saddle below the summit, at nearly 6,400 feet. The temperature was perfect, with a little breeze, and I had a snack – with many stops for photos, it’d taken me almost an hour to drive the two miles, and I was very late for lunch.
Here, as on the lower slopes, I found widespread tree mortality, presumably from our long, severe drought. But I also saw some happy seedlings of both pinyon pine and juniper, so all is not lost. And cliff swallows constantly swooped past me.
I had no interest in driving to the top, with its forest of towers, and this narrow, rocky ridge was no place to linger.
The road south brought me into the head of a canyon which was very dark under the spreading thunderhead. I’d wondered if the southeast road might be better than the northwest one, but now I discovered it’s much worse – lined with sharp rocks, ledges, and deep ruts. But after a few rains, it’s also lined with very pretty flowers.
It traverses down another long ridge, and from what I could see of the next stretch of road far below, it seemed like an easier surface.
My view from above turned out to be an illusion. This descent was lined with volcanic cobbles literally from top to bottom. In the past I would’ve been a nervous wreck, but the flowers were so good I took it all in stride.
It had taken me two hours to drive five miles. This end of the road connects with an unlikely highway, a high-speed thoroughfare in the middle of nowhere that connects the giant mine with the city that supplies it, far away in the big river valley. That was my route back to the farming village, where I slowly carved my way through a very late lunch of lemonade, chips and salsa, and red enchiladas.
And after that, an hour-long drive home – discovering on the approach to our southern mountains that the haze was indeed due to wind. A wind so strong it slowed me down on the plain and tried to push me off the highway in the mountains. But those clouds had really cooled off our heat wave!
Wednesday, August 20th, 2025: 2025 Trips, Characters, Mogollon Rim, Regions, Road Trips, Stories.
here I am again
trying to escape my unbearable life
even here, high in the mountains, far from towns, far from home, hard to shrug off the pressure, the need to be obeying my schedule, my obligations, getting things done, solving problems every damn minute
at sunset last night the elk came out into the roadside meadow, between fifty and a hundred, cows nursing calves
my mind absent with stress, i left my car lights on during dinner, came out in the dark to a dead battery, a little over a mile from my room and a couple hours from the nearest AAA service
i called them and sat in the car waiting for an hour, went back in the restaurant to pee, had to explain to the servers, the cook came out and jumped my battery, got me started
it’s morning, i’m on the veranda in the sun
sky clear, air warming to mid-70s by afternoon
watching the road, people visiting their vacation homes, contractors resupplying or renovating
want to drive across the alpine plateau, never get tired of that endless dreamlike landscape, meadows and lakes and volcanic ridges, but if i wait till afternoon monsoon clouds will come to complete it
brought my guitar, working on a song about a visit with a sometime girlfriend 34 years ago
beautiful, talented young woman struggling with mental illness, to whom i brought an abundance of patience and gentleness but no relevant experience or skills
how as an adult from a severely dysfunctional family she was alone in the world, society demanding she follow the rules, stand on her own two feet
and she tried, again and again, to fulfill society’s expectations, to conform to the patterns of career, home, relationships, consumerism and the market economy, while randomly but continuously derailed by terrifying hallucinations and the impaired judgement and faulty decisions that resulted and regularly misled her
under that relentless pressure from this fundamentally suicidal and homicidal society, afraid of being locked up in an institution, she believed she had been given all the resources she needed to succeed, and when she sought treatment, it was for the symptoms, not the illness
and we think if we could just elect the right president, solve climate change, and allow trans people to serve in the military, we could get back to normal
as i listen to the radio at home every day i note music that surprises me, and after the list nears a couple dozen I review them and download the ones that still surprise me
did that before leaving on this trip, and the result is probably the best playlist I’ve ever put together, ranging from John Mayall (1960s) to Arthur Russell (1980s) to obscure, short-lived British and American indie projects from the past 20 years, women with angelic voices, men who sound like pipe organs, Ethiopian jazz, and “world music” collaborations
so it’s on continuous shuffle on the boombox beside me on the veranda here
and because i can’t just sit and do nothing, i’m writing this Dispatch
and yes, wishing you were here
Friday, August 22nd, 2025: 2025 Trips, Mogollon Rim, Regions, Road Trips.
When my dad died 16 years ago, I actually kept his backpacking rod and small tackle box with a decent spinning reel, but I haven’t fished since I was in high school. And most of that was with Grandpa, in Midwestern rivers and ponds, for small fish like perch and bluegill that Grandma fried at home. I still prefer inland freshwater fish like that over any kind of seafood or anadromous fish.
But this week I was heading to a fishing-centric retreat in search of something more elusive – recovery from stress I simply couldn’t handle at home.
The drive north was an adventure in itself, through a couple of cloudbursts in some of my favorite country.
I’ve been visiting this remote mountain resort for fifteen years, first discovering it on a ski trip to the nearby slopes run by Apaches. It’s a narrow valley carved by a tiny Western river out of a volcanic plateau. The plateau was discovered early by cattle ranchers, and the surrounding forests by loggers. The valley, which extends only about three miles before dead-ending, lies at 8,300 feet, stays cool all summer, and has become a popular hot-weather retreat for folks from Phoenix and Tucson.
There are bed-and-breakfasts and scores of cabins for rent, but I stay in the only motel, with eight small rooms with varying numbers of beds and an attached convenience store – the only one in the valley.
Gas, groceries, and other necessities can be found in predominantly Mormon towns up to a half hour away, but the valley has a legendary historic restaurant, an excellent cafe for breakfast and lunch, and other options which come and go. I especially like the quaint museum honoring an early Native American painter and his family.
It’s a resort, and lots of palatial vacation homes are hidden in the forest above the valley, but it retains a modest family orientation, rooms and cabins are affordable, and I’ve always felt welcome there. One of the main draws, apart from trout fishing, is the nightly ritual of elk – a large herd – coming out to feed in the roadside meadows. And there are often Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep grazing along the highway into the valley.
The plateau, averaging 9,000 feet in elevation, extends about 20 miles east to west and about 30 miles north to south, and the northern two-thirds of it consists of gently rolling grassy meadows punctuated by low forested ridges and clear lakes.
At its western edge, the plateau rises to its highest point, a sprawling 11,400 foot mountain lined with spruce-fir-aspen forest that spawns three major rivers. On the morning of my first day, I headed there from the valley on a dirt forest road.
From the foot of the mountain, the southbound road curves east into the meadows. The grassy meadows covering the rest of the plateau extend farther than the eye can see, and hence seem to be endless. Others have suggested that country like this is common farther north, in Colorado or even Utah, but I’ve never seen or heard of a plateau that sits like a table in the sky like this, without a wall of mountains to contain it. And here, it rises directly from the southern desert.
At the center of the plateau, I turned off on another road that heads to the northern rim.
And once back on the east-west highway that skirts the northern edge of the plateau, I decided to check out a trailhead I’d used once, on a fork of the river. It turned out that a wildfire in May had damaged the trailhead and campground and the road was closed.
On my second day, I did an experimental hike – the first with my recently-unlocked knee brace. And on the third morning, I headed home – back into the nightmare.
