Southwest New Mexico
Monday, December 12th, 2022: Black Range, Hikes, Sawyers, Southwest New Mexico.
As my regional options for long, high-elevation day hikes have shrunk due to post-wildfire deadfall, overgrowth, erosion, and flood damage, my motivation has reached an all-time low. Yes, there are a few favorite trails left – one to the east, two to the west, and three over in Arizona – but I’ve already hiked all of those in the past two months, so to avoid repetition I’m trying hikes that normally wouldn’t challenge or otherwise interest me.
This Sunday’s goal was a trail that branched off of one I’ve hiked before, in the eastern range, following a canyon bottom from 7,000′ to 9,000′. I was planning to explore the crest trail beyond the junction, then return down the other canyon for a loop.
The trail starts by crossing a creek, which has been flooded and uncrossable at times in the past, but I was wearing my waterproof boots and carrying gaiters so I figured I could handle a few inches without getting my feet wet.
The temperate was in the 20s up there – I drove over a pool of frozen-solid rainwater to get to the trailhead. The creek was rushing and frothing, making a lot of noise, but the first crossing looked doable. I had to spend a few minutes scouting upstream for a stick, and stepping stones that weren’t slippery – a slip would plunge my foot into ice-cold water over a foot deep and end my day.
After less than a minute of progress up the trail I hit the next stream crossing and realized I’d picked the wrong trail. But I really didn’t like my alternatives, and I figured I only had a mile of this to cover before branching off into the side canyon. So I spent another five minutes returning for the stick I’d used at the last crossing and scouting up and downstream for more stepping stones.
After the second crossing, I likewise walked another dozen yards or so to the third, and likewise spent another five minutes scouting and crossing. Not the way I preferred to use my time.
Another short walk to the fourth crossing. Here, the creek had spread across a debris flow nearly 30 feet wide, with multiple channels. I picked my way precariously up most of the flooded debris flow without finding a crossing point, then saw that the trail recrossed a little ways ahead, and I could just climb up my side of the bank to rejoin the trail without crossing the flood.
At this point, long stretches of the creek had backed up behind debris to form placid channels two feet deep and eight feet wide. When I came to the next crossing, I discovered that to get past one of these uncrossable channels, I would have to fight my way through thickets of willows that floods had bent down in my direction – like the pickets of a defensive barracade – for dozens of yards, to reach another crossing point. I’d used up a half hour so far, and had only gone a quarter of a mile.
The crest trail, accessed from the pass a few slow miles’ drive away, was now my only option. Since I’d hiked the preferable northern segment as far as possible less than two months ago, I unwillingly embarked on the southbound segment, which I’d had a fairly miserable experience with back in July – I’d been slowed by thorny locust and deadfall and drenched in a cold thunderstorm without proper preparation. Since it’s in a popular location, I optimistically hoped it would’ve seen more traffic since and was maybe a little clearer.
In the event, the thorny locust had been trampled or pushed aside in places, but by horses not hikers. And to negate that minor improvement, they’d come up here in the monsoon when the trail was muddy, and postholed or undercut the trail with their hooves so it was much harder and more dangerous to walk. So ironic that the backcountry horsemen, who are now the only people doing trail work in our region, have embarked on an expensive PR campaign to show how they’re “improving trails for all users“.
To the logs fallen across the trail, more had been added. So it took me 2-1/2 hours to struggle the 3 miles to the 9,700′ peak. And most of the way, I was passing through a landscape of death – charred conifer snags, leafless shrubs, and the dry winter stalks of annuals. Yeah, I know it’s all part of the cycle of life, but even the endless view east across the distant Rio Grande was in the same drab color scheme and failed to cheer me up.
A 6-mile out-and-back hike would be a real anticlimax to my day, so I tried to continue south on the crest, past the peak. I’d made it a couple of miles farther on my first venture up here, back in June 2020, but that had involved some extreme routefinding though mazes of deadfall and overgrowth. This time, I was only able to go a half mile further, without locating any remaining evidence of a trail which had once been the jewel of the range.
Outside magazine was launched in 1977, the year after I moved to California for grad school and became a serious outdoor recreationist. For once – coincidentally – I was in tune with my times.
The love of my life had dumped me the year before, and I needed a radical change. After suffering through childhood as a weak, sickly child, enduring adolescence as a sensitive artist, and beginning adulthood immersed in academia, I abruptly started working out at a gym, training for a marathon, learning to sail, rock-climb, and cross-country ski. In the months before the first issue of Outside came out, I backpacked into Yosemite’s high country on snowshoes and did a solo ascent of 14,179′ Mount Shasta.
I was an early subscriber to the magazine, and kept it coming for the next few years as I rejected the professional career I’d trained for and threw myself into an exploration of music, art, and nature that continues to this day.
People didn’t wait until the late Seventies to go outside, but the launch of Outside marked a cultural shift. Before the Seventies, people who weren’t rich went hiking, camping, or backpacking primarily for traditional subsistence purposes. They may have unconsciously been drawn outside to enjoy nature, but ostensibly they were there to hunt or fish.
Even the rich had to have a better reason than a love of nature. They went outside to sail or to ski.
Outside marked the spread of outdoor recreation to the middle class. It wasn’t clear at the beginning, but it was a revolution in capitalism and technology. During the next few decades, it seemed there was no limit to the ways consumers could apply technology to use nature for thrills and enjoyment, and the magazine, along with the REI website, remains one of the most comprehensive guides to capitalist, technological recreation.
From skiing and surfing to mountain biking and rock climbing – and even to the humble pursuit of hiking – technological recreation has made a lot of capitalists rich, from Yann Wenner, celebrity founder of Outside, to Yvon Chouinard, celebrity founder of Patagonia. And as skiers and surfers expect the powder and the waves to keep coming, year after year, hikers expect the trails to keep unfolding under their REI-supplied footwear for all eternity.
In these Dispatches, I’ve already described how the Anglo-European colonial practices of indigenous removal and fire suppression have resulted in mega-wildfires that are making trail systems on public land unsustainable. But capitalism and technology – Outside, REI, Patagonia, and the like – keep churning out high-tech gear that’s inappropriate for the new outdoor regime. Gear designed for cleared, well-maintained trails that no longer exist. Gear that doesn’t hold up in the trackless, overgrown fire scars of our contemporary public lands. “Eco-friendly” gear made out of recycled plastic that will ultimately degrade into microfibers and microplastics to further pollute natural ecosystems.
The Outside/REI/Patagonia fantasy, of attractive young consumers scampering or cycling along clear trails through towering forests and over endless white glaciers, is in free fall, along with the rest of our culture. It will be interesting to see how technology and capitalism adapt to this brave new world.
Sunday, December 18th, 2022: Burro Mountains, Hikes, Southwest New Mexico.
This will be a short one. I’m planning some hikes over in Arizona in the coming week, so I didn’t want to drive far or use up a lot of energy today. I picked a segment of the Continental Divide Trail just south of town, starting at just under 6,400′ near the highway and climbing a ridge to a series of modest 8,000′ peaks. I’ve done versions of this hike several times in the past, and I expected quite a bit of snow up there from the past week’s little storm. I thought it might be good practice for Arizona, where I expected even more snow.
The day was forecast to be cloudy, starting in the high 20s. I didn’t expect it to snow. Since the drive was short, I got an earlier start than usual. Low clouds made it a dark day, and I was all bundled up, wearing my old insulated ski gloves.
After climbing through a maze of rocky foothills dotted with pinyon, juniper, and oak, the trail reaches the ridgetop and the ponderosa pine forest. Farther up the ridge, approaching the first peak, the trail meets a dirt forest road that services communications towers. In the past, the trail continued up the road to the peak, then dropped to a saddle before climbing to the second peak. But when I reached the road, I discovered that the trail has been re-routed around the west side of the peak to the saddle, so I went that way, and that was where I found the most snow, averaging about 6 inches but with drifts up to a foot deep. Boot tracks showed that another man had climbed up there in the past couple of days, but he’d turned back without reaching the saddle. I continued to the saddle and up to the second peak in virgin powder, and it started snowing pretty good after I reached the second peak.
That’s a windy spot, and the snow was blowing sideways, often in my face. But I generally love being in mountains in snow, and today was no exception. Snow makes everything magical, and I found it really exhilarating, especially after more started falling. I returned to the saddle and found my own route up to the first peak, and from there, continued down the road to the trail junction. It snowed for about an hour, then the sky tried to clear, but it was snowing again by the time I dropped from the ridge back into the foothills. What a wonderful opportunity!
Monday, December 26th, 2022: Hikes, Middle Fork, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
I should’ve been all hiked out. I’d walked 28 miles and climbed almost 9,000 vertical feet in the past week.
But it was Sunday, and if I didn’t hike, I’d probably just lie around reading a book I’d already read multiple times.
And it was Christmas – I should have been with my family. I thought about dropping in on my neighbors, but they had families too, and small houses that were even less set up for entertaining than mine. I didn’t want to put them in an awkward position.
Looking at the map of our local wilderness area, I suddenly had a brainstorm. I’d learned in the past year that there were dramatic canyons tucked away in the north part. You can reach them either from the far north, which is a four hour drive from town, or from the center, which is an hour and a half away. I found a trail from the center that should either take me into one of those canyons, or along the rim, in only about 4 miles one-way.
By the time I figured that out, it was pretty late. But it would likely be a short hike, so I hit the road.
Unfortunately, on the way out of town I immediately found myself behind a couple of bloated minivans from Texas. They turned out to be sightseers traveling together, driving well below the speed limit, and it’s a two-lane mountain road with hairpin turns and no opportunity for passing. Every time we passed a turnout, I prayed for them to pull over and let me pass. But they never did. They held me up for an hour and fifteen minutes until we all reached the big scenic overlook, where they finally pulled off to take pictures and I got back up to normal speed.
I’ve avoided trails in the center of the wilderness because it’s strictly lower elevation pinyon-juniper-oak habitat, and the Forest Service and Park Service have designated that area as the focal point for tourism. People flock there from all over the world, which is exactly what I try to avoid. Plus, it’s where the three forks of our famous river meet, and the main trails involve dozens of river crossings, which is no fun in winter. But the center is where the most trail maintenance has occurred, so the trails there tend to be in the best condition.
As expected there were already several vehicles at the trailhead when I got there, despite it being Christmas Day. But what bothered me the most was the condition of the trail I’d picked. It turned out to be an equestrian highway, and their hooves had churned it into a mud bog. It was still partly frozen at 11am, but it was forecast to be warmer, and I knew it would all melt by the time I headed back in afternoon.
This is the kind of trail I normally find boring – a very gradual ascent north through grassy meadows and open woodland to a low saddle. From the saddle, it descends into the canyon of the middle fork of the river, which is heavily forested, primarily with tall ponderosa pine. But just before the saddle is a junction where the “rim” trail takes off to the west.
My tentative plan was to go west along the rim, hoping for a view of the canyon from above. The problem with canyon trails here is that you’re mostly buried under the riparian canopy and can’t see the spectacular cliffs and rock formations above you.
But just east of the saddle I could see a point where I might get my first view over the canyon, so I clambered over there.
The view wasn’t very enlightening, since the dramatic part of the canyon was hidden behind a butte. But I did have a perspective west on where the rim trail would take me.
So I went back to the junction and headed west. This was immediately a better trail – narrow, traveled only by wildlife. The map showed a shortcut that bypassed some of the first trail along the ascending ridgetop, and I found its outlet and decided to try it on my return.
This rim trail wasn’t intended as a rim trail – these are not sheer-walled canyons cut through flat plateaus like the ones in northern Arizona and Utah. This trail simply traverses upper slopes on its way to junctions with other trails, farther west. Gullies in those slopes take it in and out and up and down along the way, always through forest, so I never got a satisfying view of the canyon – only tantalizing glimpses through the trees, of white pinnacles and strangely fluted cliffs. There were some nice red capstone bluffs above me, and some cool white ones across the canyon in the distance, but no trails go there.
Keeping in mind my late start and the stressful drive back on that mountain road, I was watching the time. I figured I had about 4-1/2 hours to hike if I wanted to get back before dark. But I’d gone slowly and made a lot of stops and sidetracks, so I kept going until I had less than 2 hours left. Thinking of the unexpectedly slow progress I’d made last week in Arizona, I guessed I’d only gone between 3 and 4 miles so far and should get back to the vehicle with plenty of driving time.
With the trail in good shape and no serious climbs, I was back to the “shortcut” in no time. I followed what looked more like a game trail down the narrow ridgetop, but it eventually disappeared. The ridge got steeper and steeper, but never reconnected with the main trail. Eventually I reached the edge of a bluff, and could see no sign of the trail below. Was I even on the right ridge? I felt totally lost, and turned back to return to the rim trail.
Back on the main trail, just past the junction with the rim trail, I met a young couple, tourists doing a late hike. The man asked me how much farther it was to the end, wondering if they would have enough time to get back before dark. It wasn’t clear what he meant by the “end” – as I said, the trail goes over the saddle and descends to the river, and the total distance is over 4 miles, but he believed it was only 3 miles to the end of the trail. I just said they had more than 2 miles to go to reach the river, and after leaving them, wished I’d clarified there was no way they’d get back before dark.
For my part, I got back with plenty of time. And at home, plotting my route on Caltopo, I discovered that with all the stops and sidetracks, I’d gone almost 10 miles in 5 hours – not too shabby for a hastily-conceived reconnaissance with lots of stops. It was now clear that to get a proper view of that rugged canyon, I’d have to approach it from the north, and that would not be a day trip.
Monday, January 9th, 2023: Hikes, Mogollon Mountains, Rain, Southwest New Mexico.
Severe back pain had forced me to skip last Sunday’s hike, so I was eager to make up for it. But we’d also had more snow, and I knew the high elevations would have from one to two feet. In addition, warming temperatures would be adding a lot of snowmelt to the creeks, making crossings difficult or impossible.
I decided to return to my old favorite on the west side, the hike that crosses a canyon and a plateau before dropping into the second, bigger canyon. It tops out at about 7,200′, so any snow that hadn’t already melted should be manageable.
I knew the long ranch road up the mesa would be slow, with deep ruts, mud, and puddles in low spots. When it’s dry and graded you can get up to 50mph, but in winter or the monsoon it can be undriveable without 4WD. As I headed up in early morning the mud was mostly frozen, but it was the roughest and slowest I’d ever seen.
Still, the snow-covered crest of the range, ahead, drew me forward.
Approaching the trailhead, I spotted something red through the branches of a juniper, and a pickup truck appeared, with a tall guy loading some gear in the back. I got out and wished him a good morning while shouldering my pack. It was warm in the sun but I knew the canyon bottom would be shaded and below freezing, so I was wearing thermal bottoms and kept my storm shell on.
According to the trail log no one had been here for more than two weeks. Most visitors only venture a little over a mile to the first creek crossing. A few try the canyon trail beyond that, and even fewer continue up the switchbacks like I do.
On the way down into the first canyon I could hear the creek roaring, far below, but the sound of water is exaggerated in canyons, so I didn’t worry until I got a glimpse down into a bend, and involuntarily exclaimed. It looked flooded.
I always stop a half mile in to stretch, using that first half mile as a warmup. That’s where the other hiker caught up with me. He was in his early 20s and loaded for backpacking. I asked and he said he was planning to be out 3 or 4 nights, and as I guessed, he was headed for the big creek, the third canyon along this trail. We chatted a bit but he was anxious to move on.
Shortly after that, I got overheated and had to pack up my jacket.
When I reached the crossing, it was higher than I’d ever seen it – at least a foot deep, too high for my boots. But a trail crew had built a dam upstream, with flat rocks the ice-cold water was rushing over – a sort of submerged walkway for hikers. Without that, I would’ve had to give up on this hike.
When researching my waterproof boots and gaiters, I’d read a review by a hunting guide who said they’d kept his feet dry after months of running through creeks. I couldn’t run across this creek – it was at least 12 feet wide and the bottom was lined with big loose rocks. But I’d find out how good my gear was at keeping my feet dry across that dam.
The rock dam was loose and precarious, but steadying myself with a couple of sticks from along the bank, I made it across. The current had driven the water inside the gaiters and about 5 inches up my boots – another couple inches and they would’ve been swamped. But my feet remained dry inside.
It was really cold in that dark canyon bottom, but I knew climbing the switchbacks would warm me up and dry out my boots.
Past the crossing there’s a branch trail that goes up the canyon, requiring many more creek crossings. Continuing on the main trail I followed the young backpacker’s tracks onto the switchbacks, noticing another large footprint that was over a week old. The climb to the plateau is in two main parts – the switchbacks out of the first canyon that gain about a thousand feet, then beyond the ridgetop, the very steep, rocky section that climbs the remaining 400′ to the little peak at the western edge of the plateau. That’s where I found the first snow, and the backpacker’s tracks disappeared.
What the hell? I backtracked and tried to find where he’d turned off, but the ground was too rocky to hold sign. So I continued onto untracked snow, and wondered what he was up to. There’s really no place to go from that peak, other than on the trail. It’s atop a band of rimrock, the uppermost of several layers that continue all the way down to the third canyon. If he was trying a shortcut to the third canyon, he’d have to circumvent cliffs a hundred feet tall, ending up stuck in a maze of box canyons and brush all day, and be lucky to even reach the creek by nightfall, with the trail another mile or two upstream past several more flooded crossings.
Crossing the plateau in the sun, I had to stop yet again to take off my thermal bottoms, and eventually my sweater. I saw the two-week-old footprint there in thawing patches of dirt, but by the time I’d crossed the valley at the east end of the plateau and climbed to the saddle above the second canyon, his footprints had disappeared. I was the first hiker in a long time to enter that second canyon, and as expected, the initial descent held the deepest snow I would find all day, so I had to put my gaiters back on. This was turning into a day with a lot of stops!
Despite the initial snow, the steep descent went quickly. I kept my gaiters on because I was hoping to use them to cross the next creek. But I should’ve known better.
The second creek drains a much bigger watershed, and was running at twice the volume of the first creek. I scouted upstream, where it gets rockier, but couldn’t find anyplace to cross without swamping at least one boot in ice-cold water.
Still, it was great to see and hear so much snowmelt barreling down! I climbed back up the bank and continued on the canyon trail, hoping to find a way across at the next crossing, a half mile upstream. But of course that was just as flooded.
Despite being stopped by the second creek, I was feeling pretty good. It was a beautiful day. I’d had to stop so many times, I wasn’t even trying to push myself – I was just enjoying my remote, wild surroundings. I wasn’t even daunted by the long, difficult climb back out of the canyon – I would just take it slow.
And a few hundred feet above the floodplain, I was relieved to meet the backpacker on his way down. “Where the hell did you go?” I exclaimed.
He laughed, looking a little embarrassed. “I just stopped on that little peak, to hang out for a while.” I cautioned him about the flooded creek, but he said he had sandals and didn’t mind getting wet. Again, he seemed anxious to keep going.
I continued to wonder why he would start a backpack by stopping for three hours, only two miles in. But when I reached that peak myself, and my phone suddenly registered a voicemail, I realized that he’d probably stopped because that was the only place in the area where he had a signal. He was probably doing business on his phone, or catching up with his girlfriend.
His nonchalance about crossing ice-cold creeks up to his knees was what really made me think. I realized that with my Reynaud’s syndrome I’ve become paranoid about getting my fingers and toes wet in cold weather. But my problem with creek crossings goes back farther, because with my chronic foot inflammation, I can no longer go barefoot, and need to use custom orthotics at all times. And sandals and water shoes are not made to accomodate orthotics.
I thought back to the primitive skills course I’d taken in my late 30s. We students all wore serious hiking boots on that 2-week backpack covering about 120 miles, but the three young instructors all wore sandals the whole time, while walking farther and carrying much more weight than we did. Ben, the youngest, wore flat leather “Jesus sandals” with no arch support, and I tried to emulate him afterward. That may have been what injured my foot to begin with and set off this condition.
Cody, another intern on that course, went on to become a prominent aboriginal skills instructor, and became famous for trekking all over northern Arizona, all year ’round, in a t-shirt, shorts, and bare feet. You people whose feet remain strong, and who can endure river crossings in snowmelt, don’t know how lucky you are!
That young backpacker became the hero of my day, setting out in January, embracing multiple crossings of the third snowmelt creek, which would be four times as big as the first. I wished I could do that, and gave serious thought to the waterproof, insulated socks that are now available. Surely my foot could tolerate short episodes in sandals with good arch support. Sure, it would mean a lot slower hikes, with all the changes of footwear and drying out of gear, but I might get over my fear of cold water.
My back pain had been on the edge of triggering all day – I’d had to maintain perfect posture, squatting instead of bending at the waist, being scrupulously mindful of the angle of my lower spine. And when I reached that little peak and began descending from the plateau, I developed a sharp pain in my right knee. It was the same knee I’d had trouble with a couple months ago, but this was different pain, probably sciatica from my back episode. I strapped on my knee brace, but that barely helped so I took a pain pill.
I could handle gentle slopes, but at every steep section I cried out involuntarily. I had to go really slow and keep my leg as stiff as possible. I was not looking forward to the creek crossing, but needed to get there before dark, and the sun was definitely setting.
Finally I reached the frigid canyon bottom and the creek crossing, which was even more flooded from the day’s snowmelt. To prepare for the possibility of slipping and falling in the water, I packed my warmest clothes and camera in a plastic bag inside my pack. I pulled on my lined Goretex ski gloves and gripped two stout sticks, and crossed the flooded rock dam with no problems.
But my problems weren’t over. Starting up the rocky trail, I simultaneously developed cramps in my left foot, right quad, and left hamstring, and it was all I could do to keep from falling over. After the cramps subsided a little, I dug a packet of electrolyte supplement out of my pack and mixed it with the last of my drinking water.
My knees were really tired at this point and I couldn’t keep the sharp pain from being triggered, even on this ascent, so from time to time I cried out involuntarily – it was like someone was pounding a nail into my knee. What a mess!
But the pain meds were doing their job – the pain had moved into my backbrain, and my forebrain believed it had been a wonderful hike. It was dark by the time I reached the vehicle, and I had to drive slow all the way down the chewed up mud of the ranch road.
I stopped at one point to retrieve a spare water bottle, and when I got out of the vehicle both legs cramped up again. What a day! After waiting another five or ten minutes for the cramps to subside, I finished off my water, resumed driving, got up to 40 mph, and then suddenly there were two huge cows right in front of me in the road. I slammed on the brakes, went into a skid, and they finally reacted, heaving awkwardly out of the way at the last minute in typical cow fashion.
Sound of first creek from about 700′ above:
Monday, January 16th, 2023: Hikes, Pinos Altos Range, Southwest New Mexico.
2023 was not starting well for me, with severe back pain leading to continuous headache, so that I’d had to skip some of my regular hikes. But meds had made this Saturday fairly pleasant, and by Sunday morning both back pain and headache were manageable. I hadn’t expected to be ready for a hike, but my body was desperate for exercise.
The weather forecast was confusing. A National Weather Service warning for the entire region predicted dangerous winds up to 70 mph, with fallen trees and property damage. And here I was with my neighbor’s 80 foot tall elm overhanging my house. But that forecast was for the whole of our topographically complex region, and local forecasts only predicted gusts up to 40 mph, peaking in late afternoon. Plus rain beginning before noon and turning to snow in the evening.
Somewhat befuddled by the lingering effects of pain and meds, I procrastinated for a while, eventually settling on a short hike near town. It was one of the steepest, and would take me onto the crest at 9,000 feet, where I should have expected at least foot-deep snow. But most other hikes would involve mud, which I figured would be even worse.
How long would I be gone? Would I return to find my house destroyed by a fallen tree? I moved the vulnerable stuff to the opposite end, just in case, and hit the road.
It was already snowing lightly. In my reduced mental state, I’d forgotten that temperatures in the narrow, dark canyon around the trailhead were always much lower than in town, despite being only a few hundred feet higher. There was snow and ice on the mountain road and deep snow even on the south slopes above. I made a snap decision to take the ridge trail instead of the peak trail, since the peak trail is one of my regular midweek hikes. In my confused state, I was forgetting that the ridge trail traverses a steep north slope that holds some of the deepest snow in our region until spring.
So it was another gaiter day. I encountered up to 6 inches on the lower part of the climb, but that was doable. A big man had been up the trail before me, and subsequent melting and freezing had left a crust and solidified his tracks, followed by a couple more inches of powder, so it was the worst possible surface to walk on. He’d also had an older crust to walk on, so some of his tracks were near the surface, while others were deep holes where he’d sunk in. And the new powder made it impossible for me to anticipate whether my next step would land on hard crust or sink into a deep hole. I literally lurched and stumbled up the mountain and across the north slope, where the snow was now up to 14 inches deep.
I tried to go slow to minimize the impact on my headache, but I could feel it coming gradually back. It was still pretty minimal compared to other sensations, like cold face, fingers, and toes, so I kept going, determined to go at least as far as the previous hiker.
The day’s storm hadn’t actually made it here yet, but the wind was rising and the dark storm clouds were racing out of the west and over my head. What the hell was I doing up here?
This is a trail that used to be one of my favorites, but became totally overgrown and virtually impassable after a 2021 wildfire that burned around the entire ridge. I used to take it to the stock pond at the end of the ridge, a little over 6 miles one-way, with about 2,500′ of accumulated elevation gain. I didn’t expect to get nearly that far today, and the way things were going, I would be lucky to get to the first milestone, a rocky shoulder about 2-1/2 miles in.
But I did reach the shoulder, after 2-1/2 hours of slogging and stumbling through deep snow. The previous hiker’s tracks continued past that point, but I’d lost my competitive drive. And as I turned back, the storm hit the north side of the ridge, and on my return, I faced gale force wind driving snow in my face. The snow turned into a blizzard by the time I began my final descent. And something weird started happening to my boots.
There were patches with little or no snow on the descent, and whenever I walked over one of them, a ball of snow and pine needles developed under the arch of each boot. I stopped to knock them off on rocks, but as soon as I resumed walking, the snowball returned. I eventually found it was easier to keep walking (awkwardly) on the snowballs, because they would fall off by themselves when I hit the next patch of deep snow.
These snowballs got worse the farther down I got, because the snow gradually became thinner and I had to cross longer stretches of bare ground. I had to grab a stick before getting in the vehicle, so I could poke off the final snowballs before swinging my feet inside. That’s when I discovered a kernel of solid ice balled up on the synthetic cords that secure the gaiters to my boots.
I hit heavy rain as I approached town, but the tree and my house were still standing. And we never actually got high winds in town – the most we got was a gentle breeze. Fortunately my headache was manageable, and I took another muscle relaxer along with the maximum dose of acetaminophen to help me sleep.
Online forums showed that the gaiter snowball is a familiar phenomenon. I’d worn these gaiters in snow over a dozen times so far and had never encountered it – apparently conditions have to be just right, with light snow over wet, unfrozen ground. Others have succeeded in preventing the snowball by coating their straps with oil or wax.
