Mogollon Mountains
Monday, December 4th, 2023: Hikes, Mogollon Mountains, Nabours, Southwest New Mexico.
For the past three months, foot trouble had prevented me from doing the high-elevation-gain hikes I crave. But after last Sunday’s successful test, I felt I was ready to up my game. I scanned my eight-page list of hikes but couldn’t find anything exciting within an hour of town – until it struck me that the brutal trail that’d defeated me during our summer heat wave might’ve been cleared during this fall’s season of trail work.
Back then, I’d only been able to hike about three miles of the five-and-a-half miles to a high saddle and major junction. This is a fairly obscure hike I’ve been craving since I recently discovered it on the map, but it’d been a low priority for trail crews, and twelve years of post-fire erosion and regrowth had mostly blocked it and obliterated the old tread, especially in the upper part that traverses steep slopes.
It took me a while to track down reports of recent trail work, but I finally learned that an additional two miles of the trail had been cleared in October. Now the only potential obstacle was runoff – we’d had two storms in the past two weeks, and the high-clearance forest road to the trailhead crosses a creek draining the biggest and highest watershed on the west side of the range. Even if I could cross it early in the morning, by late afternoon it might be a raging flood.
I decided not to take the chance, but rather to turn off the highway earlier for a closer, much less interesting hike I’d done many times before and wasn’t excited about today. But on the drive up, I saw that all the smaller creeks crossed by the highway were dry. So I just kept driving, and when I got to the big creek crossing, it was bone dry – it normally flows underground at this point, and not even the highest afternoon temperatures on previous days had melted enough snow to flood it. Yay!
The first snowfall in these mountains had been two weeks ago, during my road trip to Arizona. And the second had been during the past few days. The temperature in town was just below freezing when I left home, the sky was blue to the horizon in all directions, and as I drove north I could see the snow line on the mountains lay at about 8,000 feet.
But the climb to the top of the long ridge is steep enough that I shed my storm shell, knit cap, and lined gloves on the way. And as I remembered, the climb up the ridge toward the foot of the mountains, mostly exposed through sparse scrub and open pinyon-juniper-oak woodland, is one of the steepest sustained climbs in our region. But I was motivated to see the newly cleared trail ahead. What attracted me to this trail on the map is that it doesn’t mess around – it climbs directly from the lowest to the highest elevations of this most dramatic western side of the range, crossing watersheds at the end, promising spectacular views both west and east.
In the dirt of the ridgetop trail, I found the hoofprints of the equestrian trail crew, two or three bootprints, and tracks I at first thought were from cattle, but soon realized were a bull elk and one or more cows. Like I’ve found elsewhere, they’d used this man-made trail as a quick and easy path to the crest.
The moment of truth came when the previously cleared ridgetop trail entered a maze of deadfall and regrowth near the foot of a steep, rocky upper slope. This is where I’d wasted the better part of an hour unsuccessfully trying to find a route last summer. And sure enough, deadfall logs had been cut, a wide swath of brush had been cleared, and a path lined with loose rock led up the mountain.
Trail workers had cleared a winding path across a couple of steep drainages that had been filled with post-fire debris flows and dense brush, and I knew that path would be washed out again in the next heavy rain. But for now, it led me almost a half mile north across the western slope of the rocky peak above, which temporarily hid the higher peaks from sight. It wasn’t until later, looking up from below, that I discovered the canyon below the long ridge is blocked on the other side of this peak by a sheer rock wall that extends from side to side like a high dam, with only a narrow slot for the creek to drain through. This, and the rock bluffs surrounding the lower peak, is why the trail had to be routed far to the north.
But eventually, the trail took me around a corner into a drainage that would lead, via many switchbacks, back toward the crest. This drainage is in shadow all winter, so the snow from both storms still covered the trail. I’d already climbed 2,500 vertical feet and had amazing views west, across the valley of the San Francisco River, to the rim of the alpine plateau I’d visited on my Arizona trip, and even to the now-snow-covered range ninety miles to the southwest that I’d last climbed in mid-September. This is what excites me about these crest hikes, climbing through a view that encompasses a vast landscape I’ve explored on foot and gotten to know up close as well as from far away.
The trail climbed steeply up this first drainage and reached a broad saddle where there had been a big blowdown – dozens of mature ponderosa pines snapped off at the base or uprooted, all toppling eastward. But the trail snaked its way through them, logs cut by the trail crew where necessary.
Past the blowdown saddle at 8,000 feet, the snow cover became continuous – at first an inch deep, then two. The trail switchbacked up into another steep, north-trending drainage, even darker than before, where snow had accumulated from four to five inches deep, and I was daunted to see the continuation of my trail towering above, cutting clearly through burn scar and talus slope. I’d forgotten to bring my storm pants and gaiters, and snow was soaking into the cuffs of my canvas pants.
It was here, in the deeper snow, that I discovered one previous hiker, a bigger man, had hiked this far in the past two weeks, between snowfalls, because his tracks had been filled in by last week’s storm but were still faintly visible. But his tracks ended at the last talus slope, which I had to cross very carefully because the snow hid the deep cracks between rocks. And past that, in an eroded gully, the rebuilt tread ended.
This is a situation I’ve learned from several different mountain ranges and national forests – initially, trail crews scout far ahead, flagging a route, and even doing cursory clearing of brush and cutting of smaller logs. Then during a formal work party, they return with more people and gear to clear everything and rebuild tread, but only up to a shorter distance. A hiker can continue beyond the rebuilt trail, as long as you can find the pink ribbons, which can be far apart and hard to see.
Beyond that gully, the route switchbacked and traversed a sunny, snow-free slope up a shallower drainage, then, on a short stretch of surviving, snow-covered tread partly blocked by deadfall logs, ascended what appeared to be the last slope to the crest. At this point I was beside myself with anticipation of a never-before-seen view.
Pink ribbons led me into a thicket on the crest, where I found myself with a view across the head of the canyon I’d started out in today, nearly five miles and 4,000 vertical feet below. I could see the peak whose shoulder I’ve climbed many times on one of my other favorite hikes, but I couldn’t seen the interior summit crest of the range, which is what I’d been hoping for.
East of the thicket I stood in lay a steep, rocky, trackless slope covered with stubby scrub oak and deadfall. I could see another pink ribbon in the distance, and it appeared that by traversing that slope for a few hundred yards, I might round another corner and get a view toward the heart of the range.
There was no trail left, but I found the fresh prints of the elk, so I just followed them from ribbon to ribbon. They led to a rock outcrop which was almost too good to be true: it was like a viewing platform for the highest peaks of the range, laid out before me in their fire-scoured, snow-blanketed majesty.
About three hundred feet below I glimpsed another red ribbon, in the saddle which led to the trail junction. And at my feet were piles of elk scat, which was so fresh – still moist – they had to have been there earlier today. Due to the steep grade and the snow, it had taken me more than four hours to go five miles. But this was already one of my favorite hikes.
In fact, with a nearly fifteen percent average grade, this is the steepest major trail in any of the mountain ranges in my region. That became painfully clear on the descent, when I struggled to walk slow enough to protect my foot and knees.
But in stretches where the grade decreased, I was able to study the view to the west, trying to identify peaks I’d climbed or driven past. The landscape was all laid out for me, but much of it remained a puzzle until later, when I could study a large-scale topo map.
The final traverse of the newly cleared trail took place in the full light of the setting sun, and I had to stop to take off my sweater and thermal bottoms. In the process of taking off my snow-soaked pants, I got my socks wet and had to change into the spare pair I always carry. I’d developed a sharp pain in my right knee and wondered how bad it would get – I still had over 2,000 vertical feet to descend.
The answer is, pretty bad. Halfway down the long ridge I strapped on the knee brace – my heavy pack is permanently loaded with first aid and other emergency gear for situations like this. That ridge always seems to go on forever, but with the brace, I was able to reach the vehicle about fifteen minutes after the sun sank behind the western horizon of the river valley. Ending hikes in pain is a fact of life now, but in this case, I guess it was worth it.
Monday, December 18th, 2023: Hikes, Mogollon Mountains, Rain, Southwest New Mexico.
Trying to regain the capacity to do long, deep wilderness hikes with massive elevation gain, I thought I was ready for one of my favorites, on the west side of our local mountains. It involves steep grades that are brutal on the feet, so I’d avoided it for the past seven months, but I hoped I was ready now.
The sky was clear and the temperature in town was expected to reach the mid-60s. The hike involves crossings of two major creeks, but the drainages are on the south side of the mountains, we hadn’t had any precip in weeks, and I figured flows would be low.
I was surprised to find a new restroom installed at the remote trailhead. As I’d learned on my last visit, there’s a dirt airstrip a short walk away. It serves no purpose other than as a destination for aviation hobbyists, who like to fly into remote strips like this simply so, like birders, they can check them off their life lists. Fly in, fly out.
Anyway, they’d built a pristine new restroom at this trailhead that doesn’t need one, for their private convenience.
The traverse down into the first canyon gets full sun, so I was shedding layers all the way, until I reached the shade of the bottom, where the temperature immediately dropped 30 degrees. It was so cold down there my nose and face were in pain – probably another symptom of Raynaud’s syndrome – so I stepped up my pace.
The climb up the switchbacks on the opposite side soon warmed me up. I’d seen one footprint on the descent, but like most visitors here, other recent hikers had stuck to the canyon bottom, and the trail out of the first canyon had only been used by animals since the last work party, probably last spring.
My energy and wind seemed pretty good, but it still took me two hours to climb the two miles and 1,400 vertical feet to the west end of the rolling plateau, at a 13 percent average grade. It struck me that my old familiar trails are harder now, after months of foot trouble, than they were last spring. And last spring, they were harder than they were a year earlier, before my near-fatal illness. It seems that my loss of capacity is permanent.
After that sobering realization, the “walk in the park” north-eastward across the rolling plateau, toward the dramatic talus-draped wall of Lookout Mountain, cheered me up, and I covered that mile-and-a-half, including another steep climb in loose rock, in only 45 minutes.
The 1,200 foot descent from the saddle at the east end of the plateau, to the creek at the bottom, takes place mostly in shade and involves a steady 19 percent grade, in loose rock, for a little over a mile. Whereas most people find going downhill on loose rock more daunting than ascending, I’ve been downclimbing on this kind of surface for years and it doesn’t trigger my foot condition like going uphill.
Lunchtime had arrived, and I was holding an open bag of homemade trail mix at one point while hiking downhill and trying to do something with my other hand. A dozen or so nuts and sesame sticks tumbled out on the ground, but I still had plenty left, so I kept walking for half a dozen steps before catching myself. You’re deep in the wilderness, dude – waste not, want not. So I turned back and carefully picked every single nut and stick out from among the rocks.
It’s always a relief to reach the parklike ponderosa forest on the lower slope, where the surface immediately changes from loose rock to packed dirt and pine needles.
Sometimes I cross the big creek and traverse the opposite slope toward a third canyon. But my research had suggested that two miles of the upstream trail had been cleared since my last visits, so I wanted to try that today. But it’d taken me 3-1/2 hours to reach the creek, and I only had a total of 8 hours to finish the hike by sunset. Two miles upstream would take me at least another hour, getting me back to the vehicle in the dark. But carrying a headlamp, I wasn’t worried, and I really needed to check out the newly cleared trail, which could take me that much deeper into wilderness.
The upstream trail is another slow stretch, traversing a steep slope between ten and fifty feet above the creek, up and down and in and out of side drainages, around tree trunks and boulders, the forest blocking most of your view. I crossed the creek a few times, scrambled over some blowdown, passed the beautiful bedrock soaking pools I’d discovered a couple of years ago, and finally reached the debris flow where the trail had ended before.
Sure enough, there was now tread leading down the vertical bank and up the debris flow. I knew this was unsustainable – it’d be completely obliterated in the next big flood – but this is the future of trails in the new fire regime.
I had entered a stretch of canyon that had been devastated by the 2012 wildfire and subsequent flooding and erosion. The trail crew had done a huge amount of work here, but unlike trail work I’d seen in other more popular national forests, this was quick and dirty. Tread had been hacked up banks of loose dirt that would wash out in a heavy storm, and brush had been cleared across floodplains that would fill with debris in a wet monsoon. Still, it was new trail so I kept going.
After passing a huge pool, I finally reached a place where the creek ran wide over flat bedrock for 150 feet. I’d used up another hour and a half and really needed to turn back. But I saw a pink ribbon upstream, so I picked my way across, and saw that the trail continued on the other side.
It’d taken me five hours to get this far, and it would take me almost that much time to return. I’d never stayed out this long since I started doing these wilderness explorations, and I knew I’d end up hiking over an hour in the dark – but it’d be on familiar trail, with a headlamp.
On the way back down the canyon, while scrambling over all that flood debris, I managed to fall and slam the ball of my left foot against the point of a sharp rock – which is something I can never allow myself to do, because that’s where the inflammation is always latent. There I was, seven miles back in the wilderness, facing a 1,200 foot climb on loose rock at a 19 percent grade, and I might’ve set my recovery back six years, to when the condition first became acute.
But all I could do was keep going. I could still take short steps, thanks to my stiff winter boots. And when I reached the bottom of that killer grade, I forced myself to climb super-slow, with little mincing steps to minimize the flexing of my foot and the pressure on the ball. I’d never tried that before, and it worked – despite the grade, I could climb continuously, indefinitely, without stopping for breath – something I’d never been able to do before.
It took me an hour and a half to climb a little over a mile up that brutal grade.
The sun was still peeking over the plateau in the west, but I had a mile and a half of plateau to cross, followed by two miles of steep descent on loose rock, and the final climb of more than a mile out of the first canyon. I was trying to avoid rushing, trying to take short steps to protect my foot, but the sun was setting, I was running out of water, and I still had many difficult miles to cover.
The sun set as I descended from the plateau. My night vision is pretty good and I was able to see well enough to reach the steep switchbacks into the first canyon, but less than halfway down I was stumbling too much and strapped on my headlamp.
It’d been full dark for a half hour by the time I reached the first creek. I was still stumbling a lot, because with a headlamp there’s no shadows or contrast and you still have a hard time seeing the rocks in the trail. But I was still forcing myself to go slow, and that helped keep my spirits from sinking. That and the moon and the stars.
I’d seen the crescent moon overhead while back in the second canyon, and now it was setting toward the western wall of this first canyon. A bright red star hung high over the opposite wall, and as I climbed out of the canyon, I could see Orion rising in the east.
When I reach the trailhead, the Milky Way arched over the northern sky, Cassiopeia glittering at the crest. I’d gone fifteen miles and climbed a total of 4,100 feet, it’d taken me almost ten hours, and I didn’t think my body was up for this any more.
I’d brought my new noise-cancelling headphones to try them out – they’d worked amazingly well on the drive up. And now, wearing them again on the long, bumpy dirt road down the mesa, I had a revelation.
I heard every detail of music I’d been missing over professional studio speakers at home. But more than that, I was happy! A drive on a bad road after dark that has always been nerve-wracking was now peaceful. I was suddenly aware of the aural abuse I’d been subjecting myself to for years. I’d always believed that the rough ride was one of the major drawbacks of this vehicle – I needed to either find a solution for it, or find a different vehicle. But now I knew – it isn’t the rough ride, it’s the noise! From highway to 4wd road, the interior of this vehicle fills with an increasing cacophony of engine noise, road noise, wind noise, squeaks, rattles, and bangs.
And I now knew that I’m hypersensitive to noise. Noise makes me tense, anxious, and ultimately angry. It’s a disorder recognized medically as misophonia, and I’ve been suffering from it for years. It began with my neighbor’s barking dog. After two years of that, I went on a road trip in my new vehicle, accompanying a friend, and ended up having unexplained fits of anger so bad that we had to split up, and I sought therapy afterward. There, it was the dog followed by the vehicle noise that did me in. And since that was followed by two years of landscaping ordered by my new absentee neighbor – operating heavy machinery and gas-powered equipment a few feet from my office – I guess it’s no wonder I ended up a nervous wreck.
Now that I’m facing regular air travel, the noise of airports and airplanes is yet another trigger. But finally, I have a solution. And that night, driving home in the dark, I felt like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
Monday, January 29th, 2024: Hikes, Little Dry, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
I assume everyone has experienced setbacks, and starting over. Losing the ability to do something essential, and facing a slow, arduous recovery of that ability. That seems to be the theme of my life now – every few months, I lose the ability to hike, and I have to fight my way back to a slightly lower capacity than I had before – so that in the long run, I’m gradually losing capacity. One step forward, two steps back.
When I say essential, I mean hiking is the way I keep my blood pressure low. When I can’t hike at capacity, my blood pressure quickly goes up 30 points, and if it stays there indefinitely I’ll have to start taking daily meds like most people my age.
Today was supposed to be my latest recovery hike, after more than a month off. I knew I shouldn’t tackle a hard one, and my favorite crest hikes were inaccessible anyway because we had more snow last week. I finally decided on a canyon hike I hadn’t done since last May. It’s a slow climb through a flood-damaged canyon to a mid-elevation saddle, and from there I could descend into a second canyon if I had time and the inclination.
It was a little below freezing when I left town, but it was forecast to reach the mid-50s later. Approaching the mountains on the highway, I saw a lot of snow above 8,000 feet – my saddle would be at 8,200, which shouldn’t be too bad.
This is a trail I’ve hiked many times, but it was washed out a few years ago. Last May I discovered that the first two miles had recently been cleared, and beyond that, it was slow going but I could find my way.
This time around, I expected to be out of shape from the hiatus, and at 6,800 feet, beyond the cleared section, I was surprised to run into some snow, which made it even harder to get through the obstacles. Boulder-choked narrows that had to be climbed around, debris flows of loose rock, big snow-covered logs that had to be crawled under or cleared of snow and climbed over. And that was only in the canyon-bottom section.
A mile beyond the cleared section, I came upon three heavy-duty cardboard boxes with plastic handles, containing square seven-gallon water jugs, sitting right on the trail. These could only have been carried in by pack horses or mules, and had to have been left by the equestrian group that has the permit to do trail work. They had to have been left here since my May visit, but there was no corresponding evidence of additional trail work. This was the second time I’ve come upon gear left by these people – using public trails as long-term storage for their gear. The cardboard will rot – what were they thinking?
Three miles in, the trail leaves the creek and begins traversing in and out of side drainages, climbing, at a steep grade, almost a thousand feet to the saddle through dense oak scrub. Since this trail is seldom used by anyone other than me, the stiff scrub has closed over it, and fire-killed trees continue to fall onto it. Since last May, despite a poor summer growing season, I found it had become almost impassable. As a recovery hike, it was brutal, and I had to put on my gaiters halfway up to keep snow out of my boots.
In May it had taken three hours to go the four miles – today, with the snow and worse trail conditions, it took three-and-a-half. I’d really wanted to continue into the second canyon, but only about 50 yards down the side trail I sank into 16 inches of snow and gave up.
In the little saddle, my boots in the snow, I sat in the sun on the end of the only snow-free log, eating my lunch of nuts and jerky, and noticed the last storm had dropped about four fresh inches here, on top of the earlier snowpack. Despite the effort of getting here and my disappointment at having to turn back, the landscape was beautiful and I’d have a fantastic view going down.
The steep grade and tricky footing quickly took their toll on my knees, making the descent almost as slow as the climb, and painful. Remind me to avoid this one in the future, unless I can somehow rebuild my capacity without another setback!
Monday, February 19th, 2024: Hikes, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico, Whitewater.
The trail up the main canyon on the west side of our high mountains, the canyon that drains the highest peaks of the range, has been catastrophically washed out and inaccessible since the mega-wildfire turned the upper slopes into a moonscape twelve years ago.
While looking for another snow-free low-elevation hike for this Sunday, I thought of one that leads to that abandoned trail. So I checked the trail maintenance log, and to my surprise, discovered that the canyon trail was cleared last fall, to 3-1/2 miles beyond the junction. Even better, a trail up a major side canyon was cleared to about the same distance. Long-abandoned trails in the heart of the wilderness are opening up – at least until the next wildfire or erosion event.
The frost on the windshield was fairly light when I started on Sunday morning. The sky was mostly clear and the high in town was forecast to reach 60. It takes an hour and fifteen minutes to reach the trailhead, perched on a spectacular mesa high above the mouth of the canyon.
I’ve only hiked the trail into the canyon twice in seventeen years – it’s too short and involves too little elevation gain to make the drive worthwhile for a day hike. But it’s a popular trail so I was surprised to find the trailhead parking empty.
When I surmounted the first outlying ridge and could see up-canyon, I realized this two-mile trail into the canyon is actually a spectacular hike in itself – because this is one of the most dramatic canyons in the range, lined with cliffs and studded with monumental, colorful rock outcrops.
Halfway between the trailhead and the canyon bottom, the trail swerves back into a deep side canyon. I was to learn that with all the snow we’ve received, every side canyon now hosts a running stream.
Climbing back out of the side canyon, you find yourself traversing the north slope of the main canyon below isolated outcrops, with the creek roaring far below. Across the canyon on your right loom nearly sheer cliffs. Eventually you encounter switchbacks that take you down toward the creek.
I’d expected the creek to be in flood, and I wasn’t wrong. The newly cleared trail up the side canyon is a little over a mile beyond the junction, past a big washout that had stopped me in the past. Sure enough, last fall’s trail crew had cleared a path across the washout, but when I reached the mouth of the side canyon, about thirty feet of icy, foot-deep water separated me from the opposite trail. I would have to continue up the main canyon.
Now I was in view of the rock towers on the high ridge between the two canyons. And in a third of a mile I expected to reach another trail that comes down the north slope at my left. The upper part of that trail is an abandoned mine road that had long been washed out and buried in debris – I’d descended it two or three times shortly after moving here, to reach a swimming hole in the creek. But now, when I reached the biggest washout, I discovered someone had recently brought a Caterpillar down the road, clearing it and filling the washout in the trail.
Past that road, the trail climbs higher and higher above the creek, meeting the wilderness boundary after another third of a mile. Now the canyon was beyond spectacular – but clouds were darkening the sky overhead. I began noticing how much work had once been put into building this trail, across talus slopes, rock faces, and slopes of loose dirt. I’d never seen a trail anywhere in this region that had been built like this – with dry-stone retaining walls up to fifteen feet tall supporting terraces up to 80 feet long, and walkways across gullies reinforced with one-inch rebar and heavy wire mesh. By contrast, our recent trail crew had only been able to clear a temporary path that would wash out at dozens of gullies in the next heavy rain.
Eventually, the trail began dropping toward the canyon bottom.
In the canyon bottom, I found some recent deadfall blocking the trail – the first I’d encountered today. Here, at about 6,200 feet elevation, shade had kept snow from melting, and I found the very recent tracks of two hikers and a dog. They ended at the first creek crossing in the entire distance of this trail so far – where I would have to stop as well. The trail crew had stopped here, but the old, abandoned trail continues for another ten miles, climbing to the 10,000 foot crest just below the highest peak in the range. From the highest parts of the trail, I could just glimpse that crest, its deforested, snow-blanketed slopes glittering in occasional sunlight.
The clouds gradually broke up as I headed back, and sunlight brightened the colors of lichen on the outcrops above me.
Past the flooded junction with the side canyon trail, the trail enters the shade of the canyon’s nearly sheer south wall. And I began noticing how big the sycamores grow here along one of the range’s few perennial streams.
Reaching the junction with the trail out of the canyon, even after climbing the switchbacks I was still mostly in shade from the south wall. But when I reached the deep side canyon with its spectacular rock bluffs, I finally found myself on a west-facing slope, catching some warming rays from the setting sun.
Past the side canyon, I was in the home stretch, and once I’d climbed the opposite side I was back in the last of the sunlight. It’d taken me almost 8 hours to go less than twelve miles, but I’d gone slowly, stopping often to admire the view and take pictures, and that newly cleared trail had involved a lot of careful scrambling. I’m looking forward to returning when the creek’s low to explore that side canyon trail!
An East German in the Wilderness
Monday, April 8th, 2024: Hikes, Holt, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
I woke on Sunday not knowing where I would go for today’s hike. I was tired of driving, but snow and runoff were still a problem in the mountains near home. I literally didn’t have any appealing choices, so I started to drive southwest toward Arizona, halfheartedly intending to try another bushwhack in cattle country.
I only made it about twenty miles, then turned back in dismay. I would just bite the bullet and do a less desirable hike nearer home, and since at this point I was getting a late start, it would be shorter than usual.
After a stop at home to review my options on the map, I set out on the highway north, toward the western crest of our high mountains. There I would find a series of options, and since driving helps me think, I would pick one enroute.
I arrived at the trailhead almost two hours later than usual, but with daylight savings time that still left me up to seven hours for hiking. I’d picked the old favorite trail that had first introduced me to our local wilderness. It involves a lot of elevation gain, but I expected deep snow at the top that would make me turn back early without getting much mileage. So be it – at this point I just needed a damn hike.
The sky was clear all around, the air was chilly, but the high was forecast to reach 60 at the mid-elevations.
You’ll notice I didn’t take many photos this time. One reason is that I know this trail so well I could almost hike it blindfolded. The other reason will become evident.
The trail starts at 6,400 feet, climbs over a ridge at 6,800 feet, then traverses down to the canyon bottom, dropping back to 6,400 feet. Then it follows the canyon upstream for a couple of miles, to the base of switchbacks which take another mile to reach the crest at 9,500 feet. The hike I’d done last Sunday, in a storm, had involved worse trail conditions and more mileage and elevation gain, but for some reason this hike felt much harder, especially the steady climb up the canyon bottom. Shortly before I reached the base of the switchbacks, I stopped to dig a lunchtime snack out of my pack, and saw a guy coming up the trail behind me.
I run into other hikers on maybe one out of every five hikes in this region, which is fine with me. One of the great advantages of this region is the high ratio of mountains to people. We simply have a lot more wilderness than we have people who use it, and that enables solitude for those of us who treasure it, and a sense that we’re discovering wild habitat for ourselves.
Sometimes the hikers I meet are even more intent on solitude, and ignore me or toss off a gruff greeting as they pass. Other times they’re friendly and stop for a brief exchange of small talk.
But as soon as this hiker stopped, I could tell he welcomed my company – for whatever reason. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties and spoke with a soft German accent. I asked him how long he’d been in the area, and he said only a couple of days – he was on his way west to Arizona. He immediately announced he was vegan, and complained about the cafe in the town at the base of the mountains, where the smell of frying bacon had nauseated him as soon as he opened the door. He said he was on a goodbye tour of the U.S., returning to Germany after living here for twelve years – most recently on a horse farm in Connecticut. Then he said, “You must know about the BLM and horses?” I nodded yes, and he went on a long lament about his concern for animal welfare and the treatment of wild horses in this country.
He just kept talking, and he seemed like a really nice guy, but I wanted to finish my hike in the time I had left, and said so. I was obviously moving more slowly so he set off ahead of me.
Much later, I reached the patch of deep snow below the crest, and strapped on my gaiters. It was at least 18 inches deep, but fortunately the melting sequence had packed it hard enough that I could mostly walk across the surface. The German’s tracks had veered off-trail at some point so I figured he was bushwhacking to the peak. I avoid the peak because it’s forested and has no view – the trail takes me to a rocky outcrop with a glorious view of all the high peaks of the range.
On the way down, I had just crossed the snowy patch and unstrapped my gaiters when I noticed the German a hundred yards ahead, dropping down through the forest from the peak. I yelled at him and he came up the trail to meet me.
I asked why he was returning to Germany after so long in the U.S., and he struggled to answer. He said he was uncomfortable with the way things are going here, but admitted that politics are bad everywhere. When he’d left Germany there hadn’t even been a Neo-Nazi party, but now they represent twenty percent of the government.
He complained about how bad racism is in the U.S.. He’s been working as a carpenter, and white people in the building trades blame Mexicans for taking their jobs. He also complained about their sexism and antagonism toward sustainable construction. That led to a complaint about materials that are non-recyclable or even toxic, from which he launched on a long, excited discourse about a landfill in Brooklyn that began as a dump for fat rendered from horses before the advent of cars, and is now a park, where relics from past generations keep eroding onto the surface. The German’s complaint there was the “Do Not Remove” signs all over the park – apparently he felt these artifacts should be free for everyone.
He’d been walking ahead of me, which made it harder for me to understand his accent, and he kept wanting to stop and just talk, so finally I passed him and took the lead. I was beginning to resent the nonstop conversation, which completely prevented me from enjoying the wilderness and views around me, and disrupted my usual rhythm of stopping for pictures, snacks, and hydration. Instead, I began hiking faster than usual and made much fewer stops.
Back on the subject of the U.S. vs. Germany, he said he’d grown up in East Germany, where his family had been oppressed by both the Nazis and the Russians, so he sympathizes with Native Americans. But he complained about how rude they’ve been on the few instances he’s met them. That’s when I told him about my place in the desert and my Native friend, and the German said he really envied my experience. He wondered if maybe he was making the wrong decision, and should stay in the U.S., moving to the West where people might be more open-minded.
I mentioned I’d done carpentry myself since childhood, even working on construction projects here and there as an adult. That’s when the German stopped complaining and really lit up. He said his passion is for wood-framed construction, and began an endlessly detailed description of the little houses he built for the goats on the farm in Connecticut. One he built in the shape of a wooden ship, with a surrounding deck, a sleeping loft inside, and a wooden anchor on the front door. He told me about something he’d built out of cherry and walnut – maybe some kind of cabinet – with wooden hinges and a wooden lock. This is when I began to visualize the classic old German craftsman out of Grimm’s fairy tales, deep in the Black Forest, carving gingerbread decorations in the lintels of doors and windows.
More random stories of living on a kibbutz in Israel, persecution by hard core Zionists, wanting to have kids but accepting it wasn’t likely to happen. He enjoys being the “bad uncle” to his sisters’ kids but rejects the loss of freedom that comes with raising a family. He didn’t completely monopolize the conversation – I regularly interrupted with questions and comments, and he did ask me a few questions about my life – but by the time we reached our vehicles I was more than ready for a break.
His vegan and animal welfare complaints had put me off at first, since they often reflect an ignorance of ecology and a bias toward domesticated animals at the expense of wildlife. In general, he’d spent a lot of time sharing simplistic complaints on complex subjects. Then he’d proudly mentioned a photo someone had shared of him taking a dump off the side of a sailboat, and said since he’d left the farm he’d launched a project of him pissing at various scenic spots around the U.S., which he was sharing with friends. I said I expected his friends’ kids would love that, and I finally realized that even in his 30s, the German was a kid at heart – that characterized everything he’d said. And in some way, that made him lonely, and anxious to connect on this wilderness hike.
I’d been able to share my experience of moving west to escape the European worldview that dominates the old colonies of the eastern U.S. I’d described how I’d pursued, met and befriended Native Americans, and how they’re struggling to survive our “progress”. I’d described how I’d moved to southwest New Mexico hoping to grow my own food, stayed on a commune and almost tried to join it. The German and I parted as friends, and we both seemed elated by the experience. He seemed impressed by what little I’d managed to share about my accomplishments and experiences. I can only wonder how he’ll continue to ponder all the topics we discussed, and whether he’ll really return across the ocean to stay – because it sounded to me like he might be better off here.
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