Southeast Arizona
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, August 22nd, 2022: Bear, Hikes, Pinalenos, Southeast Arizona.
This was the weekend when my region was forecast to get extreme rain and widespread flooding. Most of it was supposed to arrive on Saturday, but that turned out to be something of a letdown.
Still, I was sure there’d been enough rainfall in the mountains to raise the level of creeks in canyon bottoms, and most of my hikes involve creek crossings. So I figured it was time to drive over to Arizona and do the big climb from the desert to the fir forest. It’s a really hard climb, but – I believed – with no creek crossings required.
It was a perfect day for this hike, because it’s generally too hot in summer, but today’s cloud cover would fix that. Sure enough, it was in the 60s when I set out from the trailhead, through an overgrazed maze of boulders, mesquite, and big Emory oaks. But the humidity was almost 100% and the head-high vegetation was dripping from overnight rains. So I in addition to waterproof boots, I put on my waterproof, thornproof hunting pants and left my regular hiking pants in the car.
My destination, the mountain crest, was completely obscured by low clouds. And as I approached back and forth through the lowland maze, I was accompanied by the freight train sound of a raging flood not too far off on my right. I was surprised because it wasn’t raining, and I didn’t think any of the drainages near this trail had big enough watersheds to flood. But the trail led me away from the sound and I thought no more of it.
Then, less than a mile into the hike, the trail began climbing and led around a hill toward a narrow gully – the only gully crossing on this hike – and the freight train sound came back. It was coming from the gully! What the hell was I going to find?
I was shocked to find this littly gully, which had never had water in it before, turned into a churning torrent of muddy water, 8-10 feet wide at its narrowest. Then I began to visualize the landscape above, and I realized that the watershed for this tiny gully led 3 miles down from the crest, which was over 3,000′ above. So it was actually able to collect a decent amount of runoff and ultimately funnel it through here.
The logical thing would’ve been to start worrying about what would happen to this flood if the crest got rain later in my hike, but as usual all I could think about was getting past the obstacle. Fortunately there was a log across the surface of the torrent, which could be reached by stepping out on a slippery rock, with another shorter log as an intermediate foothold. And I found a soggy stick I could use to improve my balance while crossing.
But the intermediate log turned out to be rotten and immediately broke in half under me, briefly submerging one of my boots as I scrambled to leap to the opposite bank. Without that intermediate log, would I be able to get back across on my return at end of day?
It always amazes me how a loud a creek can be. Even the smallest creek can sound like a raging torrent from hundreds of yards away, and that sound can really set your nerves on edge if you know you have to cross it at some point.
This trail is very seldom used by anyone other than me, and the last time I’d been here, in March – long before the growing season – I’d gotten lost because the tread vanishes at many points. I knew it would be overgrown after this year’s long, wet monsoon, and it exceeded my expectations. Beyond the flood crossing, I was wading almost continuously through sopping wet chest-high grasses. The crest was still hidden behind clouds, but at least it wasn’t raining – yet!
Most of the cairns that mark some of the turns in the trail were hidden under the tall grass, so I kept having to stop to search for sticks and rocks that would work as route markers on my descent. And as I’ve noted many times before, these trails are always lined with rocks – loose or embedded – and the overgrowth also hides the rocks in the trail, so you have to either go very slow, feeling your way with each step, or be condemned to stumble or lose your balance often.
At times I was helped by a corridor where the surface of the grass had been trampled, and at first I thought another hiker might’ve come this way recently. But gradually I realized the trampling had been done by game, because it often led away from the actual hiking trail.
With all this stopping and trail marking, it took me forever to reach the saddle which marks the halfway point. Meanwhile the sky had darkened and I could see isolated rainfall behind me in the lower range to the south. I was so discouraged by my slow pace that I considered giving up and turning back, especially with the flood danger. But as usual, I threw caution to the wind and kept going, thinking the descent would go a lot faster.
In the next stretch – the final climb to the crest – the dense grass is replaced by scrub oak, and eventually by scattered pines and firs. Here, the trail often turned into a creek. The higher I got, the more it seemed that water was just flowing down the entire slope.
By the time I reached the saddle on the crest, it had taken me 4-3/4 hours to go 4-3/4 miles. My legs were sore and I was tired and out of breath, so I figured I’d just take it easy from here on, enough to enjoy the alpine forest, and turn back well before reaching the end.
But again, my compulsive nature won out. At the high point, there wasn’t even a view to reward me, since the peaks of the range were still hidden under clouds, so I continued down to the highway saddle – the terminus of the trail, which most hikers use as a starting point. It was empty – not surprising in this weather.
I wanted to sit on a rock, but I suddenly developed a painful cramp in my thigh, and realized I’d forgotten to drink any water during the past hour of hiking over the crest. The cramp had me paralyzed for about 5 minutes, but I’ve learned how to deal with these. I stood with my leg straight, gradually stretching the muscles in the back of my thigh and calf until the cramp began to relax. Then I mixed an electrolyte supplement – something I’ve learned to carry for situations like this – into my water bottle and finished it off.
I’d used up so much time already that I realized I’d get back to the vehicle near sunset, facing a 2-hour drive back home in the dark. So I decided to drive to Safford and stay there in a motel – I thought I might have enough points for a free night. The idea picked up my spirits – Safford is a strange place and could add to the day’s adventure.
Clouds were entering and darkening the forest as I proceeded back down the crest toward the saddle, and before long I ran into rain. The descent did go quickly, but the rain also increased. Realizing I could begin worrying about crossing the flood – at that gully which was still almost 5 miles away, and which was being steadily renewed by this rainfall – I forced myself to smile, on the principle that mind follows body.
If I couldn’t cross that flood, there’s no telling how long I’d have to wait for it to subside. There was no other way off the mountain, and it was too wet to start a fire to keep warm throughout the night. I might be forced to call for a catastrophically expensive rescue – using my GPS device since there was no cell signal. These were the things I was trying to keep from thinking.
As usual, the rain only lasted a half hour, but now, runoff was pouring down the entire slope, and the entire trail was functioning as a creek. As mentioned earlier, the sound of a flood is exaggerated and carries a long distance, so I was accompanied by that freight train roar most of the way down.
I’d never encountered runoff like this back home – I wondered if the geology of these mountains was the cause? Our local mountains, being all volcanic, might be porous enough to absorb most runoff.
In the end, I successfully failed to think about the flood until I literally reached the bank of the gully. It had gotten higher, wider, and angrier, but I could still see the diagonal log, and the sloping rock on the opposite side.
I’d left the stick I’d used earlier up the bank, but I wanted a second one for the other hand. Just as I stepped over some deadfall to look for another stick, my thigh cramped up again and I was paralyzed with pain. What if this happened while I was crossing the flood?
As the cramp subsided, I drank some more water and scouted for a stick, but finally gave up and just rushed across the flood waters as best I could. It turned out to be both precarious and easy.
Evenings are usually spectacular in this valley, and this was no exception. But as beautiful as it was, I was getting really tired of humidity, lush vegetation, and spending nine hours in clothes drenched with sweat. This is really not my favorite kind of habitat to hike in. I was really missing the desert.
The sun was setting and I was anxious to finish the 25 minute drive to Safford. But as I was changing into dry pants and socks at the vehicle, I heard a woman’s voice over toward the highway. The deeply eroded, primitive 4wd track to the hiking trail winds a short distance through dense oak and mesquite scrub, and as I rounded a bend close to the highway I saw a small woolly dog, and then a middle-aged woman appeared with her arms spread wide. As I slowed to stop, I saw a city-style SUV blocking the track, and an older man came over and leaned on the hood of my vehicle.
“Do you live back there?” the woman asked, crowding in my window.
“No, I was just hiking.”
“Why?”
“Because I like to.”
She shook her head in frustration. “Where do you hike to?”
“The top.”
“The top of what?”
I was getting tired of this. “The top of the mountains.”
“Why?” she asked again.
“Because I like to climb mountains.”
She frowned a while, then suddenly smiled. “So do I!” Right.
The man came over and leaned in my window. “Do you live here?”
“No, like I told her, I was just hiking.”
The woman elbowed him out of the way. “Have you seen those hieroglyphics?” she asked me.
“What?”
“Over on the other side of the mountains!”
“They have lots of those over around Phoenix,” said the man.
“No!” replied the woman, “Not Hohokam! These are 4,000 years old!”
The man turned back to me. “Where you from?”
I told him, and he said he was from Safford, and he grew up on farms and ranches and never wanted to do anything physical on his time off. I told him I’m retired, and he questioned me thoroughly about what kind of work I’d done, and then they offered their names, so I had to tell them mine. It was like meeting me was the big event of their day. They were clearly hoping to get to know me a whole lot better, there with my engine running and me on the way out.
Christ, what a day! I’d gotten up early and driven 2 hours to pursue a brutal 9-hour hike through rain and flood. I was exhausted, I still had chores left in Safford, and trying to explain to these weird strangers would only trigger more questions. I said it was nice meeting them but I really had to hit the road.
Ironically, the motel I got a free night in calls itself the Desert Inn. I knew from experience there were no decent restaurants open on Sunday night, but on the way I remembered I could pick something up at the Safeway and warm it up in the room’s microwave. So I enjoyed a celebratory dinner and a good night’s sleep, looking forward to an easy drive home the next day.
While sampling the motel’s breakfast the next morning, I idly studied the local newspaper, discovering that the Forest Service had scheduled a volunteer work session on that very trail for both Saturday and Sunday. Since I’d seen no sign of work or workers, they’d apparently had to cancel due to weather.
Unfortunately the direct route home turned out to be closed – the mining corporation was moving some oversized equipment, with a state police escort. So after pointlessly driving east about 15 miles, I had to return to Safford yet again to take the longer route back.
I took this opportunity to sample Safford’s only coffee house, and had a decent espresso. I was the only customer.
Monday, September 5th, 2022: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Snowshed, Southeast Arizona.
It was September already, and there was only one of my regular crest hikes that I hadn’t tried since my May-June illness and loss of capacity. It was in the range of canyons over in Arizona, southwest of here, and was far enough that it involved an overnight stay.
The last time I’d been up there was the end of January. We hadn’t had much snow, but there were some drifts that had enabled a test of my new waterproof boots.
Now I was wearing those same boots during the summer monsoon, to help with creek crossings and fend off rain. It appeared that our thunderstorms were on the wane, but I brought the boots anyway, and was glad as I saw a layer of clouds over the mountains ahead. Then I remembered the creek crossings at the beginning of the trail, sometimes a challenge even at low flow, and was doubly glad.
The first half of the hike involves a steep climb from a lush riparian corridor at 5,800′, deep in the central basin, to a “pine park” at 8,000′, up on the shoulder of one of the range’s tallest peaks. It starts with three crossings of the range’s most famous creek, which turned out to be running high as expected, and up to 15′ wide. Trusting in my boots, I basically just ran across on submerged rocks, but at the second crossing I encountered a father and son who were wearing sneakers, and I helped them find a stick to make their crossing safer.
Despite it being a holiday weekend and this being a popular getaway from Tucson and Phoenix, I didn’t see anyone else after that. The 2,000′ climb from oak scrub to mixed conifer forest is very steep – when I started hiking here 3 years ago I considered it one of my most daunting climbs – so with my current reduced lung capacity I approached it with a stiff upper lip. But it actually wasn’t too bad. I realized I was in exactly the same position I’d been in 3 years ago – having to stop often to catch my breath, I’d trained myself to climb more slowly so I didn’t have to stop as often. I covered the 3 miles to the park in 2 hours, which didn’t seem bad. And as usual, I was grateful for how much better maintained the trails are here than back at home. Fighting through monsoon overgrowth of shrubs and annuals has become a real chore this year, but there wasn’t nearly as much of it in these mountains.
Clouds were drifting back and forth over the crest, and the temperature was mild when I started out, but I was soon sweating through my clothes, and before I was even halfway up to the park, I was sweating so hard it was dripping constantly from my hatbrim, nose, and chin – another thing I’m getting really tired of.
Then, as I continued past the park and rounded the corner into the big upper canyon, I was hit by a blast of cold wind, and quickly became chilled. This cold wind chased me for the rest of the climb, and my sweat-soaked hat and shirt didn’t dry out until I reached the end – so it was only the effort of climbing that kept me from being miserably cold.
This second stretch of the hike is not quite as steep as the first half, and I was able to maintain a good pace until the last mile, when I really ran out of steam and had to stop often. It’s always been a hard slog – it originally took me 3 tries to reach the top. But today I was determined to go farther than ever before – to explore a little of the crest trail beyond the junction, into the other big canyon in the south of the range.
In the bleak, burned saddle at 9,300′, the trail disappears in overgrowth of annuals, and makes a sharp turn to traverse the next peak toward the actual crest trail. It’s only because I’ve hiked it before that I know where to go at this point – there’s an almost invisible path through the shoulder-high ferns that you can only detect when you’re right on top of it, and even then you have to use landmarks ahead and behind to keep on track.
But this traverse lies at the southwest head of the long, deep canyon, and today’s wind was out of the northeast, so the entire canyon was acting as a funnel, and all along this traverse I was subjected to gale-force wind, intensifying as I reached the junction saddle. I was only able to keep my hat on by cinching it down tightly over my ears.
It’s always great to reach a new watershed, with new vistas – this hike progresses across 3 major ones – but it was so damn windy I couldn’t linger. I only explored about 300 yards up the crest trail before it was time to turn back.
My shirt and hat were finally dry, but now the wind was in my face as I started back down the big canyon. It’d been a grueling hike and I was feeling a little sick at first, running out of breath and having to stop occasionally, but after the first mile of descent I was okay. The lower I climbed, the wind gradually slowed and temperature gradually increased, until when I reached the pine park I was actually warm again.
From the pine park, you’re descending a north slope in late afternoon, so you’re mostly in shade, with long shadows from the crest cutting across the slopes ahead, making wonderful patterns of light and dark. As usual, I was looking forward to burrito and beer in the cafe, but still lingered as much as time allowed, to admire flowers and butterflies.
Monday, October 10th, 2022: Chiricahuas, Greenhouse, Hikes, Southeast Arizona.
This year’s exceptional Southwest monsoon, which started early, in June, slacked off a little in mid-September. But then it resumed with a vengeance – the heaviest deluge in our local mountains occurred in late September, and in early October, with the onset of cool weather, we’ve turned into the Pacific Northwest.
Not that the Pacific Northwest doesn’t have its beauties, but that’s not what I moved to southwest New Mexico for! What a gloomy week. It started as I was in the midst of repairs on the outside of my house. Most of the work I’d planned for October would’ve occurred outdoors, and now all I wanted to do was lower the window blinds, collapse on the sofa, and read a book.
Sunday, my big hiking day, was forecast to be mostly cloudy but hopefully rain-free across the region. And I’d already decided to drive over to the range of canyons in Arizona, where I guessed it wouldn’t be quite so chilly, with even less chance of rain.
Hah!
Approaching the range from the northeast, I could see only light clouds. But once I entered the valley of the main creek, and started crossing bridges, I discovered it was in full flood, higher than I’d ever seen it. This range had been getting at least as much rain as we had, and it was plenty chilly here.
The part of the range accessible to me, this northeast basin, really only offers four choices of big hikes, and only two of those are interesting to me. I was tentatively planning to redo a version of my favorite, which involves driving a mile and a half up a really gnarly high-clearance 4wd track consisting almost entirely of big loose rocks. Fine, except there’s a creek crossing, and I wouldn’t know if it was too deep for my vehicle until I got there. And I didn’t think there was room to turn around at that crossing, which was at the end of the worst part of the road.
So I checked my maps and pinpointed the spot downstream where that creek met the graded spur road and emptied into the main creek, and slowed at that point to take a look. It was coming down pretty heavy, but I didn’t think it would stop me, so I continued.
Heavy rain had washed more dirt out from under and around the rocks in the road, so it was even rougher than usual. At the start of the really bad part, I parked and scouted on foot. It turned out the creek crossing had been widened, smoothed, and dammed at its downstream end with flat rocks by the original road builders, so even now, the flow was just shallow enough for my vehicle – no more than 8 inches deep. So I made it all the way to the trailhead.
Because the approach is so daunting, and impassable for most vehicles, this trail sees little use. I’d last hiked it in mid-July, and concluded nobody had been up it since at least May. But it does offer a popular short version, to the waterfall overlook, that is well-known enough to attract even novice hikers.
I made my way up the forested side valley, accompanied by the clamor of its little creek, collecting heavy dew from the chest-high overgrowth on my waterproof boots and canvas pants. But after crossing the creek, changing into my waterproof hunting pants, and starting up the switchbacks on the opposite slope, I got lost.
It wasn’t that I’d lost the trail – somebody had lost it before me, and spent a lot of effort thrashing about, trampling vegetation and creating spurious trails that got me so confused I couldn’t relocate myself in the heavy overgrowth of annuals on that steep, shrubby hillside.
Unlike my predecessor, I knew where the trail was supposed to be, so eventually, I just cut straight up the slope, and reached one of the switchbacks before going too far.
Like most of the trails in this range, it’s well graded for hiking, which means it has a narrow tread but generally neutral camber cut through the slopes it crosses. But with this kind of overgrowth, you often can’t see it and have to just keep pushing through the vegetation to reveal the tread ahead. My precessor apparently lacked the experience to do that, and immediately ventured off-trail when he or she couldn’t see the trail ahead.
It got worse, higher up the switchbacks. On the steepest traverses, instead of pushing through the overgrowth which leans across the trail from above, this earlier hiker crossed below, punching postholes in the wet slope, increasing erosion that undercut the original trail. At one point, they even created a new bypass above the original trail that was actually more difficult and further increased erosion.
Clouds had been closing in as I climbed above the waterfall toward the entrance to the hanging valley, the next phase of the hike. In the valley, there were still glimpses of blue sky and rays of sunlight that lit the aspen seedlings, now turning gold. I could hear the creek raging below me – the next question would be how passable it would be. The trail traverses down to the creek, where it follows the narrow bottom, crossing back and forth, for roughly a mile.
The canyon bottom was beautiful with this much water, and there are enough rocks that I was able to cross – 8 or 10 times – fairly easily. But it’s slow going. I keep wondering why this trail is so damn slow. It always takes more than 3 hours to complete the slightly less than 4 miles to the crest – a distance I can normally cover in less than 2 hours on other trails. On today’s hike I paid more attention, and settled on two factors: the mile following the creek, which is like an obstacle course, and the fact that much of this trail involves crossing small talus slopes which have been heavily colonized by shrubs, often thorny locust. There’s no way you can go fast across talus.
I finally made it past the creek section and began the traverse to the head of the canyon and the crest of the range. That’s when I was hit with my first hailstorm of the day – a fairly light and short one, but it brought with it colder temperatures.
I stopped at the cabin to take off my rain poncho and pull on a sweater, then I proceeded up to the crest, which is normally a wind tunnel. It was calm today, and the cloud ceiling was a few hundred feet above, leaving me a view across the plains to the southwest – one of the main payoffs of this hike.
In the saddle, at the junction with the crest trail, you can go left or right. I’d gone right in July, so it made sense to go left today, especially since the left choice offered more options. I’d arrived at the trailhead late today, so my time was shorter than usual.
The first, one-mile stretch of the crest trail is a continuous traverse, blessed by that amazing view. The aspen seedlings had turned gold all across the slopes, but the heavy cloud cover muted their beauty. And all along that traverse I could hear thunder from a storm far to my right, over the range’s western foothills. I could also see a storm forming directly ahead of me, and wondered what it had in mind.
At the next milestone, a junction saddle, I had a really hard time deciding where to go next. The most reasonable choice would be to climb the peak of the range, directly ahead – less than a half mile and a few hundred vertical feet. It was a dead end, so my return hike would be shorter and I’d have plenty of time to negotiate the obstacle course on the return to my vehicle.
But that peak is completely forested and offers no views – a total anti-climax – so I ended up taking the other option, and risked returning to the vehicle too late for dinner at the cafe and a room at the lodge.
Option two is a mile-long descending traverse around the western flank of the peak, leading to a small saddle with the potential to continue less than a mile for a view into the big southern canyon. Three different spectacular views in one hike – how could I pass that up?
It’s not the easiest traverse, crossing a broad, forested talus slope with big sharp rocks. But I made the saddle in good time, checked my watch again, and decided to continue to the viewpoint into the big canyon.
I was only a short distance below the saddle when lightning struck in the cloud directly above me, I was near-deafened by thunder and lashed by gale-force wind, and more hail started crashing down. After quickly pulling my poncho back on, I was barely able to snap some pictures across the head of the canyon, before rushing back up into the partial shelter of the conifer forest.
The storm followed me up to the junction saddle, and most of the way across the traverse to the head of the first canyon, lasting longer than most of our monsoon storms. But what a view!
I made good time on the crest traverse and the upper part of the canyon trail, running down smooth stretches, so that by the time I reached the creek, I began to think I might actually get dinner and a room tonight. And the clouds began parting, lighting up the aspens in the hanging canyon.
I’d been up this trail several times in the snow, and at this point, I could envision this once-in-a-lifetime monsoon simply transitioning seamlessly into a winter of heavy snow, with no break in between. We’ll see, but that would be something to remember, here in the arid Southwest.
I did reach the vehicle with plenty of time, although I used up the surplus time at the trailhead changing into dry clothes and footwear, so I had to literally bounce my little Sidekick down that rocky track.
Since so few people use this trail, later, when I had wifi, I checked trail reports on the popular Arizona hiking website, and found a report from early September. His story clearly suggested that he was the one who’d messed up the trail, and if so, likely left the trash I found in the hanging canyon. Not everyone who hikes is either skilled or conscientious.
Wednesday, December 21st, 2022: 2022 Trips, Arcadia, Hikes, Pinalenos, Regions, Road Trips, Sky Islands, Southeast Arizona.
I’m on a little road trip to this Arizona mountain range, for better access to trails that are just too far for a day’s drive. But it’s winter, we’ve had our first couple of regional snowstorms, and as usual I was targeting high-elevation trails. The crest of this range lies above 9,000′, topping out over 10,700′. I expected at least a foot of snow on the crest, but with little previous opportunity to test my winter boots and gaiters, I wasn’t sure how the snow would affect my hikes.
On the evening before my first hike, driving into the town that lies at the foot of the north wall of the mountains, I could see that the snowline was well below 7,000′ – on the shaded north side of the range. One of the hikes I was most interested in approached 10,000′ on that north slope.
The hike I really wanted to start with is on the south side, an hour’s drive from town. But in the morning, unforseen difficulties delayed me more than an hour, so I ended up stuck with a closer north slope hike, where I could expect the most snow.
That morning, I reconsidered my options on the north side. I couldn’t find any online trip reports for my first choice – the only info I could find was a reliable source saying the trail was long abandoned and likely impassable. Without snow, I’d be interested in trying it anyway – it climbed a canyon which was reported to be spectacular, very rocky with many waterfalls. But I couldn’t see myself routefinding, bushwhacking, and fighting my way past hundreds of obstacles in deep snow.
Of the remaining options, I ended up aiming for the “National Recreation Trail”, the most famous trail in the range, which starts in the northside canyon, just outside of town, where a terrifying, vertiginous paved road climbs all the way to the crest. The trail starts at a campground just below 6,700′ and switchbacks to a 9,400′ saddle, where it drops steeply towards one of the mountaintop campgrounds which are inaccessible in winter. Depending on my progress in the snow, I planned to turn off at the saddle and take a spur trail nearly a mile farther, to a 10,000′ peak bristling with communications towers and a fire lookout. I normally despise man-made structures on peaks, but at this point it seemed my best opportunity to reach that elevation, for one of the most spectacular views in the range.
On the way up the road, a couple of little Japanese sedans raced past me – the road is closed for winter at the crest, but is plowed to the 7,500′ level where there’s a cluster of vacation cabins. At 6,000′ I encountered solid patches of ice in shady stretches of road, and despite switching into 4WD, found my extreme all-terrain tires had almost no traction on this road with hairpin curves and 700′ dropoffs with no shoulders and no guard rails.
Before the recent era of mega-wildfires, this trail was likely popular and regularly used, despite its over 3,000′ of accumulated elevation gain. But a short distance from the lower trailhead, it dips into a narrow canyon which was washed out and filled with debris after a fire 18 years ago. Very few people made it past that obstacle until a few months ago when the trail was rebuilt by convict labor, and with the absence of a local hiking culture, I figured I would be one of the first up it in almost 20 years.
A few inches of snow covered the campground, which remained in shade, well below freezing. There was a Subaru already parked in what I assumed was the trailhead parking area, and walking back through the campground, I had to avoid vehicle tracks which were solid ice. There was no trailhead marker for this famous trail – I had to search and guess where it casually began, at the back of a group campsite – and as I stopped there to put on my gaiters, a young woman appeared with an off-leash dog, returning down the trail.
Their tracks ended after only a quarter mile, at the previously blocked creek crossing. I wondered if she’d driven all the way up that perilous road just to walk her dog for a few minutes in the snow?
Even before the crossing, I’d encountered snow up to 8 inches deep, and I was still below 7,000′. My chances of reaching 10,000′ didn’t look good. Past the creek I began climbing the switchbacks, where the only tracks were from deer.
I kept hoping for stretches of trail that got enough sunlight to melt the snow, and I did find occasional bare patches that enticed me to keep going. But they were few and far between, and I climbed about a mile and a half through snow that averaged six inches deep before I reached sunny slopes.
This area had been badly burned, and the ground consisted mostly of small boulders. The trail was a shallow trough that collected deeper snow than the surrounding ground, but the surrounding ground was too dense with obstacles to make it worthwhile to go off trail to avoid the snow. So I kept trudging, the snow getting gradually deeper the higher I climbed.
More than halfway up to the crest, the trail crosses out of the first canyon, makes another half dozen switchbacks, and finally begins a long traverse to the saddle at the crest. Up there the geology changes and you encounter spectacular rock formations, and get your first view of the peak with the towers. But virtually all that traverse is shaded north slope where the snow was now at least a foot deep. I’d always wondered what it would be like to walk a long distance in snow that deep. If I’d known what it was like, I wouldn’t have tried it!
I did reach the saddle – it took me more than four hours to go four miles. Now I know – it takes me more than twice as long to climb in snow.
At the saddle, I found the trail to the peak. It was really steep, and the snow was drifted up to 16″ deep. I followed it about 200 yards, to where it crossed a knife-edge ridge and began a short descent before the final climb. I could see that the rest of it was in shade and the snow would just get deeper, but at least I got a view across the crest to the highest peaks.
One consolation I had on the way up was the assumption that the descent would be easier and go much faster. This turned out to be true – I could go much farther without stopping to catch my breath – but I had to be careful too. Like most trails in the Southwest, this was lined with rocks, and every dozen yards or so I stepped on a rock hidden beneath the snow. The sharp ones threw me off balance, and when I stepped on a tilted one, one foot immediately slid out from under me.
The sun was going down when I crossed back into the first canyon, and could see how much farther I had to descend to the creek crossing and the campground. At this point it was obvious that this trail had been built primarily on slopes where the deepest snow would collect. I had really put my snow hiking ability to the test today, and would be likely to reserve hikes like this for snow-free conditions.
But with the end in sight, I started paying more attention to the habitat. These Arizona ranges host very different plant life from our New Mexico mountains, and I always look forward to it.
Back at the vehicle after more than 7 hours of snow hiking, my hips and ankles were worn out from all that instability. This would be a great trail to hike without the snow – the convicts did a great job, and only about 3 logs had fallen across since their work.
It was the eve of the shortest day and the sun was well set as I descended that icy road, lucky to have no one behind pressuring me – although I did pass a Jeep and an SUV on late runs up to their cabins.
