Mogollon Mountains
Monday, January 24th, 2022: Hikes, Mogollon Mountains, Rain, Southwest New Mexico.
Distractions at home have been preventing me from reaching my weekly target levels of hiking, and last Sunday’s hike, on an unfamiliar trail near the heart of the wilderness, didn’t provide the elevation gain I needed. So this Sunday I was looking for something that was still relatively low-elevation – to avoid deep snow – but with a lot more elevation gain. I decided to revisit my favorite trail over on the west side. It’s a hard trail, but if I could make it far enough, it would yield over 4,000′ of gain.
The day’s forecast was partly cloudy, with no precipitation, and a high in town of 46 degrees – a little colder than we’ve been having recently. The rest of the week was forecast to be clear – sadly for our drought, no rain or snow on the horizon.
Those partial clouds were moving over from the southeast as I started down the trailhead into the canyon of the first creek. And surprisingly, I could see some serious snow clouds several miles to the south.
Given the forecast, I’d dressed for cold but not for rain or snow. And given our mild winter so far, I’d forgotten the lifelong lesson that weather in mountains is unpredictable. But the sky over the canyon ahead was still mostly clear.
What worried me more, initially, was the roar of the creek. I wondered what the crossing would be like. When I got all the way down the rocky trail, I was able to find a couple sticks and some partly-submerged stepping stones that managed to keep the icy water off the uppers of my boots.
The first thing I found heading up the steep, shaded trail on the other side was a dusting of sleet, apparently from last night. And as I climbed the 1,400′ slope to the peak of the rolling plateau, I could see snow clouds moving over the head of the canyon and dropping snow that gradually hid the high ridges beyond. I was still hoping the weather would avoid me, but I figured I was now in for an unusually cold hike.
The next thing I found, as I approached the peak, was another swath of vegetation butchered by the backcountry horsemen in the name of trail clearing. Since this trail had already been cleared by previous volunteers and was in good shape the last time I’d been here, I could now see that what they were doing was selecting cleared trails and widening them into wilderness super highways.
As I started across the rolling plateau that fills the divide between two major creeks, I could see snow clouds and falling snow hiding peaks and ridges all over the mountains, from north to south. And I saw how the backcountry horsemen had left, in many places, a nearly continous berm of slash piles beside the trail that would act as fuel for future wildfires, channeling fire along trail corridors, allowing it to move freely for long distances through the mountains.
Particularly sad was how they targeted beargrass and yucca, beautiful native plants that apparently scratch their horses’ legs – so they chop them to the ground wherever they can, far back from the trail.
When I finally reached the last saddle above the canyon of the next creek, cloud cover was complete, but I’d still only encountered very sparse flurries. The initial hike led through some 6″-8″ snow drifted in the narrow drainage at the head of the descent, which began dampening my boots, which I’d learned were not waterproof. But my feet were still keeping warm. I eventually moved out of the snow-covered drainage onto the steep, seemingly interminable, rocky switchbacks that led more than a thousand vertical feet down to the tall ponderosa forest of the creek’s tall banks.
The horsemen hadn’t worked the switchbacks – there was already a broad clear corridor in that stretch of trail – but they’d clear-cut the dense creekside willows at the crossing. Unfortunately, with the creek swollen from snowmelt, there were no stepping stones for hikers at the crossing, and I had to work my way up the remaining willow thicket about a hundred feet to find a crossing point.
I still had an hour before I had to turn back, and I assumed, from their note on the trail log, that the horsemen had cleared the stretch of trail up the other side of the canyon. This was the only stretch that previously had some hard to follow stretches that slowed me down a little. Maybe I could get farther now – maybe even make it to the third creek?
But as I started up the trail, which alternated between dense bunchgrasses, steep rocky slopes, and thickets of oak and mountain mahogany, large flakes of snow began to shower down in earnest. I kept pushing and found, again, broad corridors where the horsemen had clear-cut living shrubs and piled them alongside the trail. They hadn’t improved navigability for hikers at all, and they continued to target yucca and beargrass, ignoring deadfall in favor of killing living plants.
My time was up when I reached the saddle above the next creek. No matter, I was content to turn back because I knew my elevation total for the day would be good.
The snow gradually ended as I worked my way back toward the second creek, but now I had a new problem. The snow had melted on all the bunchgrass in the trail, and my heavy canvas pants were getting soaked. I had lightweight thermal bottoms in my pack, but the temperature was still only a little above freezing, and I hated to stop and take the wet boots and pants off to put them on.
My feet were now wet inside the boots, and I knew that eventually I’d have to change into the spare pair of wool socks in my pack. Fortunately my hands stayed dry and warm inside my wool glove liners. I made it back down to the creek, bushwhacked to my crossing point, crossed easily, and headed up the endless switchbacks on the other side of the canyon, hoping the climb would generate enough body heat to keep my extremities warm, maybe even enough to dry out my heavily soaked pants a little.
That climb is normally the hardest part of this trail, but a positive mental attitude made it manageable until I reached the narrow, congested, snow-drifted drainage near the top. It was snowing again, my wet legs were freezing, and my wet toes were starting to burn, so I stopped in the snow of a level stretch of trail in the dense riparian forest. I laid out my thin plastic tarp across the snow as a changing area and began to undress from the waist down. My camera was in its holster on my belt, so I moved it to the pocket of my shell jacket. I had to take off my gloves to untie the double-tied boot laces, and by the time I’d finished working with the wet laces, my fingers were burning with cold – always a scary thing, because it takes so long to warm them up again, and I was not sure I could even do that in these damp, near-freezing conditions.
But there in the dark, snowy forest, with fumbling fingers I managed to get my pants off, pull on the thermal bottoms and wool socks, force my legs back into the soaked pants and my now dry-socked feet back into the soaked boots, and double-tie the boots yet again.
I immediately pulled the glove liners back on, and with difficulty yanked my heavy Goretex ski gloves on top. Packing the wet tarp in a plastic bag I bring for emergencies, I continued up through the deep snow of the narrow drainage, flexing my burning fingers and toes constantly to improve circulation and maybe return some heat into them.
My toes warmed up fairly quickly, but I had to keep flexing my burning fingers continuously for another 45 minutes as I climbed to the saddle, dropped hundreds of feet into the next hollow, and again climbed hundreds of feet up the next rise of the plateau, where I was surrounded by a dense cloud that hid the surrouding forest, canyons, and mountains, with snow falling continuously.
All but one of my fingers had finally warmed up, with feeling returning so I could use them normally, when I reached a stretch where the horsemen had left a slash pile right on the trail. I figured I would get another picture of it, and discovered my camera was gone. Christ! What was happening to me? Was I losing my mind, or was I under some sort of curse?
I was sure I’d taken it out of the holster when I’d stopped to change, putting it in my jacket pocket. I was sure I’d scanned the ground around the trail after changing and shouldering my pack to leave that spot, to make sure I hadn’t left anything. I thought I remembered seeing nothing there that I’d left behind. I even checked my pack, but the camera wasn’t there.
The jacket pocket was recessed enough that I couldn’t imagine the camera falling out by itself, unless I’d taken a big fall, which I hadn’t. I’d simply lost my camera – this camera that I’d bought last summer, after weeks of searching, to replace the identical model which I’d dropped so many times it’d stopped working. I’d been developing a new protocol to protect the new camera, getting the holster for warmer conditions, training myself to use the wrist strap whenever I took it out to carry, moving it to the jacket pocket when the weather got cold. As much as I hated giving it up, I thought I could probably buy yet another replacement. Going back to find it, after suffering so much from the cold, having to climb all those hundreds of feet again on some of the worst stretches of trail, seemed inconceivable. And the extra time spent retracing my steps would mean finishing the last mile or two of the hike back to the vehicle in the dark – maybe even having to recross the creek in the dark. So I continued on the winding trail across the long brushy rise.
It was only a hundred yards farther that I realized I hadn’t only lost my camera – I’d lost the photos I’d taken so far that day. That was the last straw. Damn it, I would just have to go back and try to find that camera.
The thermal bottoms and wool socks had done the trick – although still wet, my legs and toes were now warm enough, as long as I kept moving. The middle finger on my right hand still had no feeling, but by the time I reached the bottom of the deep hollow, after an hour of continually flexing my fingers, feeling finally returned to that finger and all was copacetic.
Crossing that hollow, I suddenly remembered that the thin wrist strap of my camera usually hung out of the jacket pocket, and occasionally caught on passing branches. Whenever that happened, I would feel it – it would usually bring me to a stop until I disengaged the strap from the branch. But maybe I hadn’t left the camera in the snow of that drainage – maybe a branch had pulled it out of the pocket somehow, without me noticing?
The climb out of that hollow to the last saddle is the hardest part of this trail to follow – blocked often by major deadfall, deeply eroded, with many informal, unmarked detours. Heading up it, I remembered a steep passage where the old trail is completely blocked with a fallen dead tree with all its branches intact. When you’re ascending, the way around it – through a steep, narrow gap in vegetation – is fairly clear. But descending from above, you always end up on the old trail and have to clamber through the limbs of the fallen tree to reach the detour. That would be the logical place for a branch to grab my camera.
When I reached that spot, 2/3 of the way up to the saddle, I first saw the fallen tree blocking the old trail on my left. Then I peered into the shadows of the narrow detour, where I saw my camera, hanging against a rock, suspended from an almost impossibly delicate branch.
The glass display had been scratched in several places, and the edges of the metal body had been nicked from swinging against the rocks as it was pulled out of my pocket, but the camera still turned on. The display itself now had a jagged black line of missing pixels down the left side, but otherwise it functioned normally. And best of all, I didn’t have to continue climbing to the saddle and down through the snow of the other side.
I resumed the hike with fresh energy. My new camera protocol had been an experiment, and now I had information that would help me improve it. The camera was still just a tool – like my car, my computer, my power saw. It wasn’t the purpose of my adventures – it was just something to help document those adventures. I would never mold my behavior significantly around it – I just had to take reasonable care of it.
One thing that makes this my favorite trail is the views from the rolling plateau. The snow had finally stopped, but as I recrossed it, the entire landscape round me was hidden under clouds. Storm clouds had spread across the west and I could barely tell where the sun was in its descent to the horizon.
Hidden though it might be, the sun was clearly setting by the time I started down the switchbacks into the first canyon. There was just enough light left to cross the creek, and then on the final ascent to the trailhead on the mesa, I tested my night vision as long as I could, finally strapping on my headlamp for the last extra-rocky stretch.
The road down the red clay surface of the mesa, which had been frozen in the morning, had turned to wet cement during the day, and raised a deafening splatter against the underside of my vehicle. I switched into 4wd low to avoid sliding off. And my fingers, on the steering wheel, became numb yet again.
This is something that’s been happening occasionally, for as long as I can remember. There’s nothing I can do about it, but it gradually fades away over a half hour or so. After the scary incident on the hike, I began wondering if the occasional numbness could be related to the sensation I feel when my fingers or toes get cold. Other people say their extremities get numb when cold, but mine burn as if they were on fire. It’s really scary – I’m always convinced I’ll get frostbite and lose my fingers – and I have to work really hard to get rid of it.
So I looked it up when I got home, and discovered, after all these years, that I have an authentic medical condition called Raynaud’s disease, or syndrome, or phenomenon. It’s rare and the cause is unknown to science. It simply means that the blood vessels in your extremities contract in response to cold or stress, cutting off the blood supply and causing numbness or pain. There are no effective treatments – you just need to try to avoid stress and cold temperatures. As if!
Monday, February 14th, 2022: Hikes, Holt, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
After solving part of my wet feet problem with a pair of waterproof boots, I finally had to take the next step and get gaiters. This is a no brainer for people in the Cascades or northern Rockies, but hard to swallow for someone living near the Mexican border!
The fact is, I’ve been researching gaiters – along with snowshoes – for years, ever since I started hiking the high mountains year-round. In my less ambitious earlier years, I simply turned back when the snow got too deep. But it’s not just snow that gets my feet wet – even a heavy dew during our summer monsoon can soak my pants and wick through my socks all the way to my toes.
Even with waterproof pants, the act of walking forces snow up between the pants and the boots to get the socks wet. Gaiters are the only solution. Having to accumulate so much gear drives me crazy – it accelerates the cycle of consumption and it all has to be cleaned and maintained regularly. But there’s no way I’m going to abandon those mountain hikes just because of weather. A big reason why I hike is to experience, and learn from, habitats and ecosystems in all conditions.
The snowshoe option remains off the table. It would be relevant for hiking fresh powder during or right after a storm, but most of my snow hiking comes later and involves a lot of elevation change, transitioning repeatedly between snow and bare ground. Most of the snow I encounter is patchy – covering trail distances from a few yards to a hundred, and either wet or frozen. It doesn’t make sense to carry snowshoes that I’d have to keep putting on and taking off a half dozen or more times per hike.
More and more, I’m turning to hunting suppliers for well-made outdoor gear. I still respect REI for being a co-op, but they simply don’t stock the best quality gear in many categories. After years of research I ordered a pair from Stone Glacier, a high end supplier in Montana that produces fancy seasonal catalogs similar to Patagonia featuring full-color stories on conservation.
The hike I chose to test them on is one of my old favorites, the trail which took me into our local wilderness for the very first time, three years ago. In many return visits I’d learned that the 9,500′ saddle at the high point of the trail accumulates knee-deep snow by January. I was hoping the gaiters would allow me to get past the deep snow and proceed down the other side for another two miles to a distant trail junction at a dramatic rock outcrop.
But the first thing I found is that the rogue trailworkers had mutilated this trail too – their recent work has butchered all my favorite nearby trails. Most of my pictures from today’s hike document the damage, but I won’t bore you with any of those.
Nature had more dramatic changes in store at the bottom of the canyon: more birds than I’ve encountered yet this winter, and an explosion of flies and gnats, which doesn’t bode well for our warm seasons. The day had started below freezing as usual, but midafternoon temperatures were forecast to approach 70, and the creek was already stranded with vibrant algae.
Another hiker I will call Bigfoot, along with his big-footed dog, had preceded me to the saddle. They’d been turned back by the knee-deep snow, but I wasn’t. I ended up grudgingly post-holing for another quarter mile, expecting to emerge from the deep stuff farther down the back side. But I was forgetting that the back side is a steep north slope, shaded in winter, holding snow until late spring. I couldn’t stomach any more post-holing.
On the way back to the saddle I stopped in a short bare stretch of trail to check inside the gaiters. Snow had driven up inside them and was packed against my pant cuffs all the way to the top of my boots, so I had to fine-tune the fit. Fortunately they’re adjustable enough that I was able to minimize the leakage going back. They did make my lower legs feel significantly hotter, but it was worth the trade-off to stay dry in the snow.
I’ve had cheap gaiters in the past – these are the real thing, tough and well-thought-out.
Despite all the habitat damage by the horsemen, and having to cut my hike short, I was feeling pretty good about the day as I started down from the crest. Unfortunately after the first half mile I developed severe pain in my left ankle. Damn, it seems I just can’t finish a hike anymore without ending up in pain! I couldn’t even figure out what was causing it – something about the fit of the new boots had triggered either inflammation or nerve pain around the back of my inside ankle bone, and walking downhill became unbearable. I tried lacing the boots lower, but that had no effect at all. I wedged a bandanna/handkerchief between the boot and the ankle, and that helped but kept working its way out. Finally I found an adhesive-backed felt pad in my pack that I applied directly over the ankle bone, and that enabled me to slowly limp the five miles and 3,700 vertical feet back down to the vehicle.
In the end I concluded that I’d simply tied the boots too tight on the way up. With their stiff soles, I’d felt my heels slipping on the steep climb, and kept lacing them tighter and tighter, which ultimately must’ve tweaked my ankle bone.
During the slow descent past vegetation hacked by the horsemen, I again pondered the irony of our “wilderness areas”. Aldo Leopold’s invention is popularly viewed as preserves of raw nature protected from human interference. But just like the Anasazi country of the Colorado Plateau or the Indian mounds of the Ohio and Mississippi Valleys, these wilderness areas are actually cultural landscapes of our European legacy, with abundant colonial artifacts like mines, fences, corrals, and developed springs, modern trails maintained for the enjoyment of privileged white people, and wildlife wearing the radio collars of colonial scientists.
Monday, March 14th, 2022: Hikes, Little Dry, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
Apologies to my loyal readers for the long hiatus between hiking Dispatches! No surprises – life’s been a little challenging lately, and an earlier attempt to resume my hiking routine was kind of a bust.
This Sunday morning, the time change confused me, because I rely on my iPad’s alarm to wake me, and the iPad was set on Phoenix time from a flight I made months ago. The time change makes New Mexico an hour later than Arizona, so I was sure I’d lost an hour of hiking until a mile or so up the trail when I realized the sun – and my body – was still on the old time, and despite what my watch said, I had a full 8 hours to do a serious hike.
The hike I’d chosen was actually my third choice for the day, because I’d done it before and it had ended inconclusively, short of a ridge top, at a logjam of wildfire deadfall. But the important thing, after a hiking hiatus, was that it gained me plenty of elevation. It was a real workout.
The day started just below freezing but temperatures were expected in the 50s by afternoon, under clear skies. The creek in the canyon bottom was running strong from continuing snowmelt. Small butterflies were everywhere.
This is the canyon whose middle stretch is choked with debris flows and deadfall, twisting between sheer bluffs and giant boulders that require constant detours. The trailhead logbook featured a recent entry from a couple who’d continued over into the next canyon, to the remote creek junction I’d bushwhacked to last year. They’d done it as an overnight and complained about the bad trail condition – I’d done it as a day hike.
One thing that surprised me in the canyon was the large number of seemingly healthy firs and alders which had fallen recently. I don’t think of a narrow canyon with sheer walls as supporting the kind of wind that could bring healthy trees down, but it’s hard to imagine a hidden disease that would weaken such different species, and drought shouldn’t be an issue in this well-watered canyon.
The trail traverses steeply out of the canyon to a pass where the trail into the next canyon begins. But from there, I continue up and across the west wall of the first canyon, snaking around massive rock outcrops and following a scarcely visible but well-remembered route which is now only maintained by elk. In fact, elk love this trail so much their scat and tracks were all over it. There was no sign of human use since my last visit here – this route is generally believed impassable.
Like before, I was able to follow the elk trail all the way to the deadfall logjam near the ridge top. Whereas my first visit had been frustrating – the top is tantalizingly close – this time I was just glad to be back hiking and reaching my highest elevation since last summer – 9,750′.
I’d tweaked my back, which remains on the edge of severe pain, climbing over a big log in the trail, so the first thing I was looking for on the way down was a clear, level spot to stretch. It took me nearly a mile to reach that, because the upper trail traverses and switchbacks across steep and rough ground, including talus slopes. Finally stretching on a grassy saddle high in the sky, in the warmth of the sun, felt wonderful.
I reached the vehicle exactly 8 hours after starting. No adventures, and at this point that’s a good thing!
Monday, June 27th, 2022: Hikes, Holt, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
A long hiatus since the last hiking dispatch – more than two months – and even longer – three months – since I last ventured into our legendary wilderness area. I may explain elsewhere why I’ve lost most of my conditioning and am having to gradually rebuild my capacity. In the week prior to this Sunday, I’d done three easy hikes of up to about 4 miles and 800′ of elevation gain. All of those were on trails near town, heavily used by dog walkers, trail runners, and mountain bikers. I really wanted to dip my toes inside the wilderness, where I rarely encounter other people.
But finding a wilderness trail that would suit my recovery was a challenge. I maintain a 7-page list of regional hikes, and every wilderness hike on that list far exceeds my current capability. Doing a partial hike on any of my favorite trails would be frustrating, but I finally figured out something that would work: a partial hike of between 2 and 3 miles onto a spur trail that branched off one of my favorites. The spur trail led up over a saddle into one of the biggest canyon systems in the range, and I’d tried it last year, found that it disappeared into a jungle along a narrow creek, and decided it wasn’t worth pursuing. But the saddle itself provided a spectacular view over the big canyon, and would be a worthy destination for a short recovery hike.
I actually wasn’t confident of making it to the saddle, which would require almost 1,500′ of total climbing, but there was an intermediate spot I could use as an alternate destination if I ran out of steam. In any event, I’d get to spend time in wild habitat that would’ve changed dramatically in the weather we’d had since my last visit.
On the drive northwest from town, the mountains were almost completely hidden by rain clouds, which made me very happy. Even better, I drove through a nice little storm shortly before reaching the turnoff.
It was raining enough at the trailhead that I pulled on my poncho. The half mile of trail before the wilderness boundary was more damaged by erosion than I’d ever seen. Unusually, there’d been another vehicle parked at the trailhead, and past the boundary, on my way down into the first canyon, I encountered a lone woman returning from her morning hike. She wished me a good day and passed quickly without slowing. I stopped, turned, and said it was good to see another hiker who liked this kind of weather. “It’s just weather,” she muttered curtly without stopping or looking back.
She clearly wasn’t interested in socializing, but I continued to think about her as I continued. Short, slender, very fit, and 15-20 years younger than me, she’d been moving too fast for me to form a precise image, but she seemed to evoke several women I knew of who frequented this area. One was a hiker who lived nearby that I’d corresponded with and done another short recovery hike with years ago. Another was the “peak bagger” from Arizona that I’d tried to emulate on a difficult bushwhack last year. And a third was the trail runner whose enigmatic shoeprints I’d studied on another bushwhack three canyons to the south. I wished she’d given me an opportunity to talk more, but it occurred to me that she wasn’t prepared for wet weather – dressed lightly in a short-sleeved top and cycling-type shorts, she wasn’t even carrying a day pack, let alone a storm shell – and had likely cut her hike short for that reason.
I was surprised at how quickly only a week of rain had turned the canyon bottom into a jungle. Apparently there’d been enough groundwater to support the vegetation even before our premature monsoon. But despite today’s storm, streamflow was modest.
I was moving slower than usual, and having to take off the poncho when the rain stopped, shake it out, and repack it, only to need it again 15 minutes later when rain resumed. It was warm and humid enough that it just wasn’t comfortable to wear when I didn’t need it. But I would end up needing it a half dozen times by the end of the hike.
Having only hiked the spur trail once before, I’d forgotten how many switchbacks it has. The hike to the saddle is nothing but a series of about two dozen switchbacks, most of which don’t show up on trail maps. But I was grateful because they ensured a climb that was gentle enough for my physical condition. A friend had said my body would be eager to start climbing again, and I found that to be true – not only did I make it to the saddle, but I continued higher for a half mile to reach a better vantage point over the big canyon.
It was raining harder up there on the ridge, so the view was too hazy to savor. But it felt great anyway!
Since I wasn’t rushing to complete a marathon hike to a remote destination like so often before, I felt in no hurry on the way down, and was able to stop many times to appreciate the little things, and really enjoyed this hike as a result. It’s precious to be immersed in this arid habitat during such a wet period. But also, after being in regular touch with friends in distant cities, I was reminded again of how lucky I am to live in a place like this, where a huge mountain wilderness area, with a mostly intact ecosystem virtually free of invasive species, is only a short drive from my home. And because of its size and our low population density, I typically have it all to myself!
Monday, July 11th, 2022: Hikes, Little Dry, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
I wanted a hike through open country with expansive views today. I knew exactly where to go, but then I realized my little 2wd truck wasn’t up to it. I really need to get the Sidekick fixed, because during monsoon season, the approach to many hikes involves muddy roads and deep stream crossings that my truck won’t handle. So I ended up with the polar opposite of what I wanted – a maddeningly difficult struggle through a jungle in a canyon bottom where visibility was often limited to a few yards.
The sky was clear, and I expected temps in the 80s, but I knew storms could form over the mountains by afternoon, so I wore my heavy waterproof hunting pants and waterproof boots.
This is a relatively short canyon with steep sides, creating a small watershed, so while our larger streams and rivers are currently in perpetual flood, this stream wasn’t even running continuously on the surface. But when it was there, it was making plenty of noise, and the trail, already congested with flood debris and deadfall, was more overgrown with vegetation than ever.
The flies found me as soon as I approached the canyon bottom, and never left me alone the whole day. The highlight of the battle through the jungle was when I reached two logs that had fallen down a very steep slope, blocking the trail. I decided to climb up the slope past the first, smaller, log and then scramble over the second, much larger, log. But when I stepped up on the larger log and was balancing there precariously, I suddenly heard the brief rattle of a rattlesnake.
Lush vegetation covered everything so I couldn’t see the snake. I stepped backwards off the log, broke off a small branch, and beat it on the log to trigger another rattle. But then I was immediately swarmed by hundreds of bees! They had a hive in the log! I beat a hasty retreat, sliding down the slope, barely avoiding a fall.
But as soon was I back on the trail again, the rattle resumed, and I finally saw the snake, coiled under the smaller log right next to the trail, a couple yards in front of me.
I was getting really sick of this trail anyway. But I’d only gone about 3 miles, hadn’t gained much elevation, and worst of all, I hated to turn back now and let this combo of logs, bees, and snake get the best of me.
That big log was really long, and it was a hard climb in rain-loosened rocky soil to get above it, but I finally did, and detoured up the slope to give the bees a wide birth. Once back on the trail, I memorized the look of this spot, so on the way back, I’d take special care to avoid the snake.
I’d gotten a late start and the hike up the canyon bottom had been such slow going that I wasn’t sure how far I’d get. But sooner than expected I reached the base of the switchbacks that climb to the saddle – my original destination. I was running out of time but figured I might as well continue until I at least had a view over the head of the canyon..
As I did, storm clouds began to gather, dimming the sky. I felt better climbing out in the open, and I ended up going most of the way to the top before finally deciding I’d had enough for the day. When I’m in good condition I would’ve gone at least 3 miles farther and 2,000′ higher, but I’m still having a lot of trouble with my wind – I have to stop repeatedly for breath any time I’m climbing.
Since I was dressed for rain, I was hoping for rain, but all I got was the sporadic sound of thunder from miles away. And I made it past the big log with no sign of the snake, although I ran into another, bigger one nearly a mile farther down.
About a third of a way home on the highway, I had the stereo turned up when another noise joined it. When I turned off the music, there was a rushing sound that seemed to be on the right side of the truck. I hadn’t felt any change in the ride – was something coming loose?
I slowed and pulled into the empty gravel parking lot of a remote country store. When I got out, I found my rear driver’s side tire was shredded. That was a new tire!
I couldn’t figure out what had happened, but it’s par for the course with this truck. I keep putting cheap tires on it, then abusing them by driving on rocky roads. Maybe a rock on the road to the trail had somehow started a slow leak that eventually blew up on the highway.
I’ve destroyed so many tires on this truck that I knew the drill. I grabbed everything I needed, crawled underneath to lower the spare, and was ready to go in about 20 minutes. Just as I was tightening the lug nuts, an old guy in a UTV pulled up to see if I needed help.
