2026 Trips
Monday, August 24th, 2026: 2026 Trips, Animals, Mogollon Rim, Nature, Plants, Regions, Road Trips.
Stress and trauma may have made me more heat-sensitive, but this feels like the hottest summer yet. I can only work mornings – by afternoon my workspace is too hot, it’s too humid for the swamp cooler, and I can’t work on music with a fan blowing. The only practical solution requires a major investment, and for various reasons, the timing is bad and I can’t commit. So throughout each week, I get more and more uncomfortable and frustrated, until by Sunday I’m desperate for another getaway to higher elevations.
After last Sunday’s takeover by birders, I was hoping my next attempt at solitude would succeed. Today’s destination is called a mesa because much of it is fairly level, but it’s really more like a gently sloping plateau sprawling down from the crest of a small mountain range.
The range, topping out at 9,000 feet, is densely forested, and has mostly escaped recent wildfires. It’s become one of my favorites because it’s so remote, little-known, and seldom-visited. You can’t see the central part of the range from any highway, the forest blocks views outward, and there are no campgrounds or any other features that would attract recreationists.
The highway crosses the range in an 8,000-foot pass, but the turnoff onto the crest road is easy to miss and appears just to lead to a fire lookout. I could hardly have designed it better myself, to keep out the crowds.
The crest road is steep, rocky, and often deeply eroded, but another barrier is weather. I’ve learned never to go there in the windy season or when storms are forecast, because there will always be blowdown blocking the road in multiple places.
The road skirts the mesa at 8,600 feet, and from there, the mesa spreads out and gently steps down to its farthest edge at 7,800 feet. Turning off onto the mesa road, a rough dirt track which was flooded near the junction, I immediately spotted a pickup truck with popup campershell and a freestanding tent, back in the big clearing where I’ve seen lone campers once or twice before. Thankfully, you need a pickup or off-road vehicle to get up the crest road – RVs and camping trailers can’t handle it. Their camp seemed vacant, and they clearly hadn’t brought a UTV, so I assumed they were off walking somewhere, either down the network of meandering 2-tracks or bushwhacking through the parklike forest.
I drove a few hundred yards farther, to a side trail that bumps down over embedded boulders into the basin below the big dammed meadow. There are a couple of fire rings here, but I found no sign of recent visitors as I backed into shade between a couple of spreading oaks. With a high of 91 degrees at home, I expected temps here in the 70s. It was blissfully mild, but what struck me most powerfully was a smell in the air – sweet and slightly tangy, like vanilla. Here in the forest there were only a few tiny, widely scattered annuals blooming, so I sniffed the bark of a nearby ponderosa, and found that they were giving off the perfume which pervaded the entire area. I’d never noticed that before – it was barely believable!
I’d been wondering if the big meadow would hold any water, and I could already hear croaking from far away. A chorus somewhere out in the middle of the meadow, then an answering chorus closer, behind the low earthen dam. Walking over through the big trees, I spotted a shallow pool no more than 20 feet wide, and next to the dam, a deeper one. I ate a snack for lunch, then carried my chair and a book to a spot in the shade where I could watch the entire meadow, while breathing in the seductive fragrance of ponderosa bark. I couldn’t see or hear anything from the distant party of campers, and the only sounds were from birds, and occasional waves of wind through the canopy, 80 t0 100 feet above.
The frogs in the ponds were quiet for long intervals, then suddenly started up again. I learned later that they’re Arizona treefrogs, the state’s official amphibian. Scientists only recently changed their genus, and many online publications haven’t caught up yet, resulting in a bit of confusion.
I wondered where they came from, to end up in these ephemeral pools high on the mountain, miles from any perennial stream. And where they go when the pools dry up. All I could find online is that they’re “dormant” during dry seasons.
I had planned to drive farther up the highway for a midafternoon burger before heading home, but I was really reluctant to leave this spot. Going easy on my foot, I followed a barely visible 2-track trail south into the forest. I didn’t have a detailed map and wondered where it went. All throughout the forest were pines and firs wearing rings of orange paint about six feet off the ground.
After a little over a quarter of a mile, I reached the end of the trail in a small clearing anchored by three big, old stumps. I finally realized that the 2-tracks forming a maze across this mesa are logging roads. A website associated with a nearby national forest says the orange paint designates trees that are not to be logged, which was a relief, because they must’ve painted tens of thousands of trees along this crest alone.
Of course, that makes me wonder what blue paint means – I see that much more often in our regional forests.
Two hours of peace beside that meadow had made me sluggish, and I had to force myself to drive farther up the highway, only to be served a mediocre burger – one more reason to avoid that alpine village of Mormon Trump-supporters. From there, it was a long drive home, especially on the twisty stretches where I ended up trapped between pickups towing UTV trailers and city drivers pretending to be racers. I may have to rethink this weekend getaway thing.
Monday, September 21st, 2026: 2026 Trips, Gila, Regions, Road Trips.
It worked last Sunday – why not try again?
This time, I would return to the hidden, spectacular area straddling the border. Far from cities, known to few, overlooked by most. Where rogue roads have been cut by miners and ranchers – some of them show up on old topo maps, but many are omitted on modern GPS.
The gateway is a rimrock mesa and a series of rock spires, all called Twin Peaks. On my first visit, I’d followed the road that runs east of the spires, and found it marginally passable, running partway up a narrow, boulder-strewn wash. This time, I wanted to try the road that passes the west side of the little peaks. I actually hoped to reach one of those roads missing from GPS, to cross the hidden basin all the way to road’s end on the slope of the mountains that hem the basin’s eastern edge.
It’s the edges of the basin that really attract me: the gateway of rock spires on the west, the maze of deep canyons and forested peaks on the north, and the lower, rockier peaks and narrow canyons on the east. The north is the least accessible, requiring a challenging bushwhack from the nearest road.
The forecast for our region was warm and dry, and the sky was mostly clear when I left home. Elevations in the hidden basin range from 4,600 to 5,600 feet, with the eastern mountains rising to 7,500 feet. I expected temps in the mid-80s there, but on the way, I’d be descending to the river valley at 3,500 feet, where it would likely hit 90.
From the highway in the river valley, the long, graded gravel road climbs to the mesa at 4,600 feet, where I got my first view of the rock spires. And on their left, I noticed another, more dramatic spire I didn’t remember, deeper in the roadless maze of hidden canyons.
The backcountry ranch road descends into and out of a big canyon before climbing toward the rock spires. Anticipating the left turn to the west side of the spires, I turned by mistake onto an earlier ranch road, which leads to a big ranch in the next canyon north. I quickly realized my mistake, but continued because the road led toward the distinctive rimrock mesa that forms the western boundary of the hidden basin, and I wanted a closer look.
First, I found a spur road to an abandoned stock tank – a road missing from all the maps. The rimrock towered above me, and now, I could see a narrow gap where it would be possible to scramble to the top.
I drove over the saddle between canyons, and descended to the next spur road, which appears to have been a mine road originally, and now leads to a water tank on a hill. This road was well-graded, and I found a new-looking county road grader parked at the turnoff. Ahead, I could see the road descending into the big canyon to the north. And continuing up the opposite slope of the canyon – another detail omitted from all the maps.
I had no interest in visiting the ranch, so I returned to the main road.
This road – the road I’d taken before on my hike to the mouth of a spectacular box canyon – was originally built to serve mines, and now solely exists to serve remote, backcountry stock tanks and corrals maintained by the rancher who holds the lease on the hidden basin. Hence it gets only sporadic maintenance and sees regular erosion and washouts. I had no idea what to expect from the turnoff that passes west of the rock spires, but I soon found out!
This is a true, abandoned mine road – like our abandoned mine roads in the Mojave Desert. Running over bedrock ledges and up steep slopes of loose rock, it hadn’t been graded in decades, and showed no vehicle tracks at all.
As usual, I hadn’t paid much attention to the topo maps, and discovered that this road climbs over the high western shoulder of the rock spires – hundreds of feet higher than the road I’d taken past the east side. And without maintenance, higher means steeper and more eroded. I switched into low-range 4wd, and had to stop and get out repeatedly to scout lines over ledges and past deep ruts, but I was excited to be breaking new ground.
Before crossing past the rock spires into the hidden basin, I was looking for a turnoff north into an even more hidden canyon. An old topo map showed this turnoff descending past mines to a dead end with a windmill, past which the canyon narrows and drains into the main canyon north – at the roadless entrance to the maze of deep canyons and high mountains that I really wanted to explore on foot.
This dead-end spur road looked like it hadn’t been used in many years, so I was even more cautious, peering ahead for washouts, deep ledges or ruts, never driving beyond where I could easily back up to a wide spot and turn around, stopping more frequently to scout ahead. The often-vague two-track climbed over a low ridge, where bushes taller than the hood of my Sidekick were growing from the crown of the road, then began descending steeply on loose rock down the left slope of the narrow canyon.
Nearing the canyon bottom, I could see deep erosion and a potential washout, so I stopped and walked all the way down to where the road crossed the damp creekbed. The bottom was mostly exposed bedrock and was passable, and from down there, I could see a way of getting past the erosion by straddling one of the foot-deep ruts. So I climbed back up and carefully drove down.
Past the crossing, the track got narrower and crossed the dry creekbed repeatedly. There were scattered pools from recent rains, and some interesting-looking rock. I could see the canyon widening ahead and got even more excited. This is truly a hidden paradise, and I was clearly the first person to venture into it, possibly for many years.
Finally I rounded a bend and spotted the windmill ahead, its blades bent out of whack by powerful gusts down the canyon. Big spreading oaks dotted the broad, gentle slope, and I emerged into a clearing with abandoned metal and plastic watering troughs. I parked and followed overgrown tracks down into the shady canopy of a wide wash, where they ended in flood debris. What an amazing place this would be to have a cabin!
Returning to the vehicle, I realized I didn’t have my sunglasses, and remembered hooking them in my shirt when I got out to take photos, a hundred yards above the clearing. Would I be able to find them? Had I driven over them? They were cheap, but still.
I drove back through the mesquite scrub to a small grove of oaks, where I sat in my folding chair and ate a snack. Paradise.
But I hadn’t reached the day’s ultimate destination – past the rock spires and across the hidden basin. On the way up the canyon I drove slowly and scanned the roadway for my shades. When I reached the place where I’d stopped for the photos, I got out, and sure enough, I’d just driven over them. An earpiece had broken off, but I used some of my drinking water to rinse them off, and amazingly they were relatively unscratched and still usable.
Approaching the next creek crossing, I spotted something on the opposite slope – a solar panel, and the top of a ladder. What the hell?
It turned out to be a vertical mineshaft, with a fully-extended 20-foot extension ladder just reaching the top. In the bright sunlight I couldn’t see down past the midpoint of the ladder, but I had a powerful urge to climb down it.
The ladder was tied to the wooden rim with thin, rusted wire. Safety depended on whatever it was footed in at bottom, out of sight. Holding the thick wooden crossbeam, I put a foot on the third rung, and it felt plenty solid. I couldn’t even shake it. Still holding the crossbeam, I brought my other foot onto the rung and took another step down. But I still couldn’t see farther than halfway down the ladder – and no, I don’t have a smart phone that doubles as a flashlight.
I was alone here, and I hadn’t even brought my GPS message device from the vehicle. Reason took over and I climbed out. Damn! I really wanted to explore that mine.
Good thing I didn’t – when I enhanced the photo, I could see a second 20-foot extension ladder directly below the first. Long way to fall…
Approaching the next creek crossing, I spotted something else through the dense riparian canopy – the ruins of a cabin! None of this had been visible earlier, coming down the road.
I parked above the next crossing and crossed the creek – the cabin, high on the bank, was completely hidden.
Constructed of dry stone, it was both cruder and more complex than the drystone miner’s cabins in the Mojave, with a built-in fireplace on the east side. Intriguingly, its two rooms, roughly equal in size, had no connecting doors. Two miners living next to each other?
Returning to the Sidekick, I noticed the collapsed remains of their outhouse on the bank above the creek. And now that I knew the road, the drive out was both faster and easier.
Now for the drive past the rock spires into the hidden basin. I could see the road climbing ahead, even rockier than before. But I’d used up a lot of time exploring that canyon, my enthusiasm was waning, and I seemed to have less patience for stopping every dozen yards to scout lines past obstacles.
I made it up another step in elevation, past a little outcrop and across a tiny saddle, and found myself driving up yet another series of rock ledges, where I had to get out yet again to scout a line. But after that, I reached a spot where the road got steeper just as the surface turned to loose rock, which had been eroded on the right into a deep rut, at the edge of a perilous drop-off. I seemed to be approaching the high saddle below the rock spires, where I would get my first view over the hidden basin.
So I stopped and got out to walk ahead. It was just as bad as it looked from below. I walked most of the way to where the road turned left out of sight, and presumably got better. But this was just too much. Not only was I loosing patience, I was losing confidence. Rationally, I was sure I could’ve driven it, but emotionally, I felt too alone and too stressed out. Adding insult to injury, driving this abandoned road was now actually slower than walking it.
Worried about my foot on the incredibly rough and unstable surface, I didn’t even try hiking farther up to get a view – a missed opportunity I regretted on the way out.
Unfortunately, my vehicle was now parked facing upslope, with nowhere to turn around. Behind me were those rock ledges, and a narrow spot where the road was being eroded away into that perilous dropoff. I would have to back down for about 150 feet to that little saddle. Even worse, I found I was unable to shift into gear – a condition that plagued me in hot weather for years until I finally replaced the clutch cable. I could only get in gear by turning off the engine.
Backing down was really scary – I ended up tilted way over at the pinch point above the dropoff – but I made it to the saddle, turned around, and by shutting off and and restarting the engine repeatedly to shift gears, I finally made it down to the main road, and switched back into 2wd.
Changing gears was almost impossible, even at higher speeds, on the way out, and the force required triggered my shoulder pain. But my god, what beautiful country!
I stopped for a big afternoon feed in the Mormon farming village, and returned home well before sunset, the whole road trip taking me only seven hours.
Part of me never wanted to drive those roads again, but I couldn’t stop dreaming of that lush, abandoned, dead-end canyon. Next time I would take the lower road east past the rock spires, and hopefully explore the hidden basin.
