Hikes
Monday, July 4th, 2022: Black Range, Hikes, Sawyers, Southwest New Mexico.
My recovery plan called for a Sunday hike that would yield an incremental increase in distance and elevation from last Sunday’s hike. And to keep me motivated, it needed to avoid the popular trails near town and aim for the high mountains an hour’s drive away. My first choice was on the southern segment of the crest trail in the mountains east of us, leading to a 9,700′ peak.
But the hip pain that had stopped me from hiking 3 months ago had returned during the past week. I was proceeding on the assumption that it was only a soft tissue problem, and not a failure of my prosthesis, so I was trying to get rid of it by avoiding the activities that seemed to trigger it: hip-specific exercises, and hikes with long, steep climbs.
After a long, conflicted inner debate, I ended up reluctantly driving a short distance to a very popular trail just north of town, that would give me as much distance as I was comfortable with, on a gentle grade that shouldn’t hurt my hip.
Near town, the sky was clear and rain wasn’t forecast until evening, so I’d left my waterproof boots and pants at home. This trail starts on a primitive forest road up a narrow canyon, involving about 8 stream crossings. Some of the crossings are barely doable when the stream is low, but today it turned out to be a raging flood.
“Screw this,” I said to myself. “I’m going to climb the damn mountain. If my hip starts hurting, I’ll just cut the hike short.” So, now more than an hour behind schedule, I drove the long hour east.
The crest hike begins at the 8,200′ pass on the highway. Our recent mega-fire burned southward almost to the north side of the pass, and although our early monsoon quenched the flames, the north two-thirds of the range, including the wilderness area, remains closed.
The pass is a popular place with urbanites from Las Cruces and El Paso, and since the trail north was closed, I was expecting company on the southern segment. But despite my late start, the parking area was empty.
In fact, the trail turned out to be overgrown with thorny locust and Gambel oak, and the only tracks were from cattle. I’d encountered cattle once before along this trail, but they’d always been far outnumbered by deer and elk. This new regime echoed a worrying trend in our local mountains – livestock seem to be on the increase everywhere.
The trail climbs steadily, at a gentle grade, through the burn scar of the 2013 mega-fire. That fire had burned at high intensity over most of this area, and the remaining snags continued to topple and block the trail, which now had an abandoned feel.
But occasional views east from the deforested slopes continued to be rewarding. This is a narrow north-south range, and the eastern slope is so steep that the nearest outlying peaks are over a thousand feet lower, giving you a clear view over 40 miles of rumpled landscape to the low ranges across the Rio Grande.
As I climbed southwards along the crest, I saw a dark storm cloud forming ahead, and thought it would be great to get some weather. Be careful what you wish for!
The farther I went, the more the ground had been fouled by cattle. I had to walk carefully to avoid the deep pits made in the mud of the trail by their hooves. Saddles between peaks had been turned into churned-up mudpits, and even on steep grassy slopes the ground was an obstacle course of rain-softened cowpies. After dealing with that and fighting my way over all that deadfall and blowdown, I finally neared the base of the peak, and the rain began.
It was a hard rain, and because I’d originally targeted the trail near town, I was unprepared. Yes, I had my poncho, but I knew my feet would soon be wet in the breathable boots with their dysfunctional Gore-Tex.
But the peak was only a half mile and a few hundred vertical feet above, so I had to keep going.
Deep soil remains on these mountains from the pre-fire alpine forest, and rainwater was pouring down the slopes in a sheet flow, turning the soil into a continuous bog. And on top of that, the slopes are an obstacle course of fallen logs, many of which are so big you have to zigzag back and forth to avoid them. When I finally slogged my way to the top, where the view is blocked by spectral snags, my feet and lower pant legs were completely soaked. And I could see through the ghost forest on the north side that my return route lay under an even heavier storm.
The hike back alternated between long, apocalyptic downpours of rain and hail, with lightning and thunder all around, and brief respites of light rain. Inside my boots, cold water sloshed all the way up my ankles, and my waterlogged canvas pants chilled me and weighed me down. My hip was hurting but it was the least of my worries – I was rushing to get back to the vehicle, put an end to this misbegotten ordeal, and change into dry socks.
The hood on my cheap poncho is designed so it always blocks at least one of your eyes, so I normally carry a cap to prop the hood up. But having left that at home, I had to make do without depth perception, and stumbled a lot, my soaked boots providing no ankle support.
More torrential rain fell on the highway home. All I could do was eagerly anticipate a hot bath!
Monday, July 11th, 2022: Hikes, Little Dry, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
I wanted a hike through open country with expansive views today. I knew exactly where to go, but then I realized my little 2wd truck wasn’t up to it. I really need to get the Sidekick fixed, because during monsoon season, the approach to many hikes involves muddy roads and deep stream crossings that my truck won’t handle. So I ended up with the polar opposite of what I wanted – a maddeningly difficult struggle through a jungle in a canyon bottom where visibility was often limited to a few yards.
The sky was clear, and I expected temps in the 80s, but I knew storms could form over the mountains by afternoon, so I wore my heavy waterproof hunting pants and waterproof boots.
This is a relatively short canyon with steep sides, creating a small watershed, so while our larger streams and rivers are currently in perpetual flood, this stream wasn’t even running continuously on the surface. But when it was there, it was making plenty of noise, and the trail, already congested with flood debris and deadfall, was more overgrown with vegetation than ever.
The flies found me as soon as I approached the canyon bottom, and never left me alone the whole day. The highlight of the battle through the jungle was when I reached two logs that had fallen down a very steep slope, blocking the trail. I decided to climb up the slope past the first, smaller, log and then scramble over the second, much larger, log. But when I stepped up on the larger log and was balancing there precariously, I suddenly heard the brief rattle of a rattlesnake.
Lush vegetation covered everything so I couldn’t see the snake. I stepped backwards off the log, broke off a small branch, and beat it on the log to trigger another rattle. But then I was immediately swarmed by hundreds of bees! They had a hive in the log! I beat a hasty retreat, sliding down the slope, barely avoiding a fall.
But as soon was I back on the trail again, the rattle resumed, and I finally saw the snake, coiled under the smaller log right next to the trail, a couple yards in front of me.
I was getting really sick of this trail anyway. But I’d only gone about 3 miles, hadn’t gained much elevation, and worst of all, I hated to turn back now and let this combo of logs, bees, and snake get the best of me.
That big log was really long, and it was a hard climb in rain-loosened rocky soil to get above it, but I finally did, and detoured up the slope to give the bees a wide birth. Once back on the trail, I memorized the look of this spot, so on the way back, I’d take special care to avoid the snake.
I’d gotten a late start and the hike up the canyon bottom had been such slow going that I wasn’t sure how far I’d get. But sooner than expected I reached the base of the switchbacks that climb to the saddle – my original destination. I was running out of time but figured I might as well continue until I at least had a view over the head of the canyon..
As I did, storm clouds began to gather, dimming the sky. I felt better climbing out in the open, and I ended up going most of the way to the top before finally deciding I’d had enough for the day. When I’m in good condition I would’ve gone at least 3 miles farther and 2,000′ higher, but I’m still having a lot of trouble with my wind – I have to stop repeatedly for breath any time I’m climbing.
Since I was dressed for rain, I was hoping for rain, but all I got was the sporadic sound of thunder from miles away. And I made it past the big log with no sign of the snake, although I ran into another, bigger one nearly a mile farther down.
About a third of a way home on the highway, I had the stereo turned up when another noise joined it. When I turned off the music, there was a rushing sound that seemed to be on the right side of the truck. I hadn’t felt any change in the ride – was something coming loose?
I slowed and pulled into the empty gravel parking lot of a remote country store. When I got out, I found my rear driver’s side tire was shredded. That was a new tire!
I couldn’t figure out what had happened, but it’s par for the course with this truck. I keep putting cheap tires on it, then abusing them by driving on rocky roads. Maybe a rock on the road to the trail had somehow started a slow leak that eventually blew up on the highway.
I’ve destroyed so many tires on this truck that I knew the drill. I grabbed everything I needed, crawled underneath to lower the spare, and was ready to go in about 20 minutes. Just as I was tightening the lug nuts, an old guy in a UTV pulled up to see if I needed help.
Monday, July 18th, 2022: Chiricahuas, Greenhouse, Hikes, Southeast Arizona.
I was half inclined not to hike this Sunday. I hadn’t felt good on Saturday, and Sunday was forecast to be hot, reaching the low 90s in town.
I’d just finished repairing my deer-damaged 4wd Sidekick the day before. It seemed okay, but most of my favorite hikes involve long drives without a cell phone connection, and after an impact like that I wasn’t sure I wanted to immediately put it to the test.
There are typically two ways to get away from the heat: elevation and shade. But all the high-elevation hikes within an hour of town are either closed due to fire or involve long approaches through hot, overgrown low-elevation canyons.
Finally I realized that my best option actually involved the longest drive. One of the coolest places I know is a hanging canyon ranging from 8,500′-9,000′ down on the Arizona border, with a shady old-growth forest at its head. And most of the drive there retains full cell coverage and AAA road service would be available if the Sidekick broke down.
It was counterintuitive because if it was in the low 90s here, it would be 100 degrees at the entrance to that range, which is 1,000′ lower. But the trailhead is actually even higher than here – 6,500′ – and I would get there early enough so the climb to the canyon should be bearable.
The drive was a real leap of faith in my vehicle and my repair job. Not only did it start with 1-1/2 hours of high-speed, high-temperature driving, but it ended with a thousand-foot climb up the incredibly rough, rocky, high-clearance 4wd-only road to the trailhead, which few people besides me are willing to risk anymore. But the Sidekick performed perfectly.
I was drenched with sweat within the first half mile of the gradual climb up the first canyon. Our early monsoon rains had ensured that the trail was more overgrown by vegetation than ever, and I saw no evidence that anyone else had used it in the past month. Except bears! I found a continuous trail of fresh scat all the way up.
When I reached the switchbacks that take you to the high pass into the hanging canyon, I found a real puzzle. I was already fighting my way through thickets of thorny locust when I came upon big branches of elderberry that had been torn down, so that they blocked the trail and had to be climbed around. Dozens of mature branches, a dozen feet long and over 2″ thick, had been violently broken off, far back from the trail, requiring a long reach and a lot of strength. More strength in many cases than a human would have – and there was no sign humans had used this trail during the growing season, and why would a human pull down vegetation to block a trail anyway? It could only be bears, but bears don’t eat elderberries – all the berry clumps on the branches were intact.
Another surprise occurred when I reached out my thumb to touch a herbaceous leaf that reminded me of mint. I recoiled in pain at the lightest touch – it was stinging nettle! I’d never encountered stinging nettle in this region, but suddenly it seemed to be everywhere on this trail.
Wikipedia says stinging nettle is only native to the Old World, which is patently false. My aboriginal survival course in southeast Utah had included a lesson in how to cook and eat the native species. But in the more than 3 decades since then, I’d forgotten about them. On this trail, it was literally impossible to avoid touching them, so I was plagued by stings throughout the day. Why had they all sprung up suddenly this season, in this place, for the first time?
My lungs have turned out to be the slowest part of me to recover from their near-fatal crisis 2 months ago. Drenched with sweat, with little forest cover, I had to stop over, and over, and over again on the way up to the high pass, to catch my breath. When I finally crossed into the hanging canyon, and made the long traverse to the creek, it was loudly rushing, but it was no shadier and no cooler down there. The many crossings of the rocky, log-choked gully have always been a slow passage. As beautiful as it was, a riot of wildflower color, I found myself trudging and yearning to reach the upper end where the trail enters the shady forest.
I couldn’t believe how hard it was for me to hike uphill. The slightest grade just wore me out. Would I ever recover the capacity I had before the illness?
I stopped at the Forest Service cabin, just below the crest, to rest in the shade of the big pines and firs. The trail to the crest is 4 miles, gaining 2,750 vertical feet. It’s always been a difficult, slow trail, but today it was taking me 3-1/2 hours to hike those 4 miles – painfully slow.
Somehow, leaving the cabin, I got a second wind. I couldn’t climb any faster, but I’d trained myself to walk at half my usual pace, which enabled me to go farther without stopping to rest. And the saddle at the crest trail junction, with its long view toward Mexico, was carpeted with yellow flowers. A young couple was coming back up the crest trail – like most people, they’d done the long, slow drive to the alpine campground several miles north, so they could do the easy crest hike, which involves little elevation change.
I’d started this hike not knowing how far I would get. But from the junction, it was an easy hike north through shady forest to the next saddle, so I continued that way.
I typically pick my turnaround point based on my planned end time minus my actual starting time, divided by two. Closer to home, I usually have 9 hours to hike in summer, but over here, 8 hours is usually the most I have, in order to reach the cafe before closing time.
But when I reached the saddle where I’d planned to end my hike, I realized that whereas the ascent was slow, the descent would be much quicker, because it was only climbing that was hard for me now. That might give me extra time to climb the 9,700′ peak above the saddle.
It’s not much of a peak – the original south side forest burned by the 2011 wildfire has been replaced by aspen thickets, so there’s barely a view. But the remaining forest makes for a nice shady spot to lie in the grass, and the minimal view of distant peaks peeking above the young aspens reminds you that you’re high in the sky.
A variety of birds were passing through, there was a nice breeze, and monsoon clouds were forming all around, occasionally drifting over the sun and providing even more cooling shade. My clothes were so drenched with sweat from the hot climb that they wouldn’t dry out until long after the hike, but I’d learned to ignore that minor discomfort, whenever my body had a chance to temporarily cool off.
In the past, I’d always tried to hike as far as possible, so I was left with no margin on the return and had to descend way too fast, which was hard on my joints. But today I felt I had enough time to return slower than usual. Hah! My joints still didn’t like it at all.
The flies had been with me all the way up, but on the return they became much more aggressive – maybe because of the rising heat – so I finally pulled on my head net. And the stinging nettles seemed to be jumping out at me at every turn.
But I got back to the vehicle with plenty of time to reach the cafe, for that beer, that burrito, and that room for the night. Amazingly, despite how hard and slow it had been, I’d hiked over 10 miles and climbed almost 3,300′, which represented a significant improvement from last weekend. Maybe I really was recovering!
Monday, July 25th, 2022: Hikes, Mogollon Mountains, Rain, Southwest New Mexico.
I always assumed this is my favorite hike because of the views – especially the view of the first canyon, lined with spectacular rock formations. And because it takes me to a place that feels remote, wild, liberated from the cramped, petty world of men.
But today, on my return hike, I realized that one reason why it feels so remote, is that the route passes through a dozen distinct habitats, topographically different and memorable places, each of which is like a chapter in the story.
I didn’t photograph all of these places today, since I’ve photographed them all abundantly many times before on previous hikes. Like it or not, this dispatch is more textual than visual.
I’ve also noted, after previous hikes, that this is one of the most difficult hikes I do. Since I’m currently weakened, recovering from illness, I didn’t know how far I would get. The hardest part is the climb out of the second canyon. Before tackling this trail, I mostly stuck to peak hikes, where you do all the work on the morning ascent and are rewarded by an easier afternoon descent. It still surprises me that I’m willing to descend that brutally steep and rocky trail early in the day, knowing I’ll have to climb back up it later, when the day is potentially hotter.
Our monsoon seemed to be returning after a hiatus, but this morning was still clear, sunny, and hot. I wore my waterproof boots and carried the waterproof hunting pants in my pack, hoping to get some rain later, but I was already drenched with sweat within the first mile.
Like other trails on the west side of our wilderness, this one starts by descending into a canyon, traversing down its west wall for about a mile up canyon. These canyons have steeper walls than most – sheer cliffs in some places – and the mostly exposed traverse through pinyon, juniper, and scrub oak forms the first chapter of the hike. As you traverse up canyon and descend toward the creek, more of the view ahead is revealed.
At the bottom you enter the riparian forest, with ponderosa pine forming the canopy and dense scrub willow lining the creek. In this very narrow canyon there’s no floodplain, and after crossing on stepping stones to the east bank, the trail continues upstream through the lush riparian forest for another third of a mile.
The third chapter consists of the thousand-foot climb up the eastern wall of the canyon, on a series of long switchbacks that progressively reveal more and more of the spectacular rock formations farther up the canyon. The slope above and below the switchbacks is often sheer, so the view is vertiginous.
At the top of the switchbacks, the trail cuts east into a shallow hanging valley lined with evocative rock formations. In pinyon-juniper-oak forest again, you work your way up to the head of this hidden valley, where finally you emerge onto a sort sort of saddle with a small rocky peak looming above.
The climb to that peak, on dozens of short switchbacks in loose rock at an average grade of 30%, is one of the hardest parts of the hike. Fortunately, it’s only 400 vertical feet! But when you get up there you have the most expansive views of the entire route: north to the crest of the range, east to the heart of the wilderness, west to the mountains of Arizona. This little peak forms the western edge of the rolling plateau you cross to reach the second canyon.
But even this central plateau is divided into distinct, memorable chapters. First, the long, mostly level walk on a surface of shattered white rock, winding between low scrub oak and manzanita and open patches of short ponderosa, mostly exposed with 360 degree views, feeling like you’re up in the sky although the elevation is only 7,200′.
Then you descend on ledges into a hidden valley, a couple hundred feet deep, where you cross a long patch of soft red soil, enter a dense ponderosa forest, and eventually begin climbing up a chaotic, deeply eroded slope which forms the next, and ugliest chapter of the hike.
That slope takes you to the rim of the second canyon, where you face the impossibly steep wall of Lookout Mountain, a long, nearly level ridge whose western wall consists mostly of 2,000′ tall talus slopes.
From this trail, Lookout Mountain is your theatrical backdrop as you begin to descend more than a thousand feet, in stages, into the second canyon.
The first stage is down the gully of a dry, vegetation-choked hanging drainage that you can’t see out of. This gets tighter and tighter, finally leading to a patch of shady mixed-conifer forest with such a shallow slope that it feels like a plateau.
The trail skirts this ledge and begins the final descent into the second canyon, which you dread, knowing you’ll have to climb up it on the way back. This part of the trail consists of loose rock with an average grade of 30%, zigzagging back and forth through a mixture of scrub oak and ponderosa along which you judge your progress by peeking through gaps in the forest at the wall of Lookout Mountain across the canyon.
Finally, again peering down through gaps in the forest and scrub, you spot more level ground below – the shady pine and fir forest above the elevated floodplain of the second creek. This is a huge relief!
That forest steps its way down to the grassy meadows of the elevated floodplain, where Lookout Mountain looms above at its full 2,000′ height, and you can barely hear the creek flowing below.
The trail continues steeply down to the willow thicket lining the creek. I was so hot and sweaty at this point I was looking forward to stripping down and taking a dip, but the wide creek is too shallow at this point, and when I took off my boots and socks, I realized that I had to keep the biomechanical tape and felt on my left foot and ankle – I’d need them on the return hike, and I wasn’t carrying spares. So all I could do was soak and rinse out my sweat-drenched hat and shirt and hope those would cool me a little.
Plus, monsoon clouds had been gradually building over the wilderness, stirring up cool breezes over the creek. So I spent the better part of an hour creekside, vowing to add spare tape and felt to my pack so I could immerse myself on future hot-weather hikes.
By the time I faced the brutal climb out of the second canyon, clouds had extended over it, giving me welcome shade. But in my compromised physical condition, it was still brutal and seemed to take forever – up the precipitous, rocky, seemingly endless switchbacks, up the claustrophobic, vegetation-choked drainage, and on the final climb in loose dirt at a 40% grade to the saddle at the top, where you face the steep descent on the chaotic eroded slope into the shallow hidden valley. Reaching that saddle felt like a major step forward in my recovery! I might not be able to hike as fast as I could a few months ago, but I could plod my way up the steepest slopes.
From there on, I had alternating sunlight and cloud shadow. Hoping for rain, all I got was occasional breezes and the sound of distant thunder from the east.
After crossing the plateau of white rock and scrub, I reached the little peak with the expansive view west, where I could see storms forming far away. Down another steep slope in loose rock, and out the hanging valley to the start of the switchbacks that descend back into the first canyon. It was a long descent, getting hotter the closer I got to the creek, simply due to reduction in elevation and the hothouse microclimate of the narrow canyon bottom.
The final traverse out of the first canyon seemed especially hot and endless. It wasn’t until an hour later, as I drove up the hill entering town, that I finally encountered rain, and by the time I got home it was a downpour.
Monday, August 1st, 2022: Hikes, Mogollon, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
We’d been getting regular cloud cover and occasional rain in town, so I expected fairly good summer hiking weather. Like last weekend, I hoped I might even get some cooling rain in the mountains.
On the drive north, the sky was clear to the west, but there were broad, high clouds over the mountains on my right. And I was excited to get a little rain on the windshield as I headed toward them, but it didn’t last.
I knew just what hike I wanted to do, but I was a little worried when I crossed the river on the highway – it was in flood, 4 times its normal flow. To get to the trailhead, I had to drive across one of its perennial tributaries. Would that be in flood too?
But when I got there, emerging from a shady sycamore grove, the creek’s flow was normal.
This is one of the only two major perennial streams in our mountains that isn’t called a river. The trail begins near the creek downstream, and climbs over several ridges to meet the creek again deep in the wilderness. I’d only been there once before, briefly. It was a hike of over 15 miles round trip, the most I’d done since my illness. If I could make it all the way, I would deserve a dip in the creek!
On the long approach up a rolling basin, I was distracted again and again by wildflowers. The morning temperature was in the 60s, but the humidity is so high now, I was soon drenched with sweat again.
Finally I reached the steep climb to the pass, and now I was really sweating! On past visits I’d found these seemingly endless, exposed switchbacks the most daunting part of the hike, but now I didn’t mind them so much. At least I was getting an occasional breeze.
Beyond the pass you enter the backcountry, a land of deep canyons, burn scars, multicolored layers of rock and dramatic formations, with the crest of the range on your horizon. I’d always thought of this next section of trail as a seemingly endless traverse without much elevation gain, but this time I experienced it completely differently – as an endless series of steep erosional gullies lined with loose rocks. Just goes to show how much our experiences depend on psychology.
The reward at the end is the ponderosa pine “park” – a small, shady, grassy plateau before the trail becomes a ridge hike. But today, I’d been plagued by flies all along that traverse, and as expected the flies were even worse in the park. So I just rushed through it to the descent to the ridge.
On the ridge you are high above the canyon of the creek, with spectacular views to left and right. In the first saddle below the park was my first decision point – the junction with a trail that could be my short cut to the creek. I stood there a while trying to make up my mind. Although the temperature was probably only in the 70s, I was dripping with sweat and really wanted that creek, but I also wanted this hike to be an improvement on last week, with more mileage and/or elevation, and if I took this shortcut it would end up almost identical to last week’s hike.
So ultimately I decided to keep going up the ridge to the next creek crossing.
About another mile along the ridge, the trail begins descending steeply into the canyon, through burn scar regrowth, across erosional gullies, over more fractured white rock, much of it exposed with spectacular views of high peaks and multicolored cliffs of volcanic rock on the opposite side. I kept pushing the head net up from my face, thinking the flies were gone, only to have them return in swarms, dive bombing my eyes and nose.
When I reached the creek, deep in the wilderness, it looked completely different – narrower, choked with vegetation, its bed rearranged by floods. And the flies were terrible. There was no swimming hole, only a shallow channel choked with rocks, but all I could think about was shedding my damp, stinky clothes and getting in, somehow.
I found a channel between rocks that was deep enough to lie back in, and rinsed out my shirt, hat, and head net. The water wasn’t actually cold, but it felt marvelous after that sweaty hike! And while I was wet from the creek water, the flies briefly left me alone.
It’d taken me a long time to reach that crossing – a walk of close to 8 miles – and I knew the hike back would seem truly endless. But first I had to climb out of the canyon, about 800 vertical feet, and I had to take it slow – my lungs were still struggling, and I wanted to preserve the memory of that dip in the water and not get overheated.
Clouds had been massing over the crest in the distance – it looked like there might even be a storm elsewhere in the range. But not here. I knew the temperature couldn’t be above the low 80s, but it felt like the high 90s with all that humidity.
Finally I left the ridge and climbed to the pine park, where the flies swarmed me with a vengeance. And from there forwards, the trail really felt unfamiliar. The “traverse” back to the pass and the open country beyond the mountains felt even more endless than usual, and the rock-lined erosional gullies were harder to descend than they’d been to ascend. With my compromised foot and hip, I had to take it slowly and carefully.
And despite the approach of evening, it didn’t get any cooler. Over the pass, down the endless switchbacks to the foot of the mountains, and then the two-mile slog out the rolling basin, the sun burning down on me all the way. Dark clouds were moving out from the crest of the range, but that dip in the creek was only a distant memory by now!
