Pinos Altos Range
Monday, January 30th, 2023: Hikes, Pinos Altos Range, Southwest New Mexico.
Conditions hadn’t changed since last week’s stroll across a basin teeming with pets – our mountains were still blanketed with snow, our trails muddy, our creeks flooded. But I felt ready for a more challenging hike, if I could only find a lower-elevation trail that didn’t cross any major creeks. And preferably something less popular than last week’s pet parade.
I reluctantly settled for the segment of the national trail that climbs from the remote valley northeast of town toward the crest of the range just north of town. I’d hiked that segment in dense fog at the beginning of December, so it would be nice to experience it with good visibility.
Mornings were still below freezing, so I’d be spared the mud until later in the day. On the way up the valley, the landscape reminded me of possible alternatives, so I pulled over and studied the national forest map. It’s huge but doesn’t show enough detail, and I didn’t want to end up on a lengthy detour that would turn out to be a wild goose chase, so I continued to the now-familiar trailhead.
The large campground around the trailhead was blissfully abandoned – I had the day to myself, and savored the initial climb through windy volcanic badlands to the ridgetop.
The next stretch traverses the eastern rim of the long ridge, winding back and forth, in and out of shadowed slopes that held up to 6 inches of snow. The snow was trodden and pitted by a chaotic mix of old and new tracks that I eventually sorted out as a man who had been here yesterday, and a horse and dog that had been here last weekend. Even where untracked, the snow had a soft inch on top of a harder base, but the tracks made for an uneven surface which turned my gait into a sort of lurch.
Birds were active. I’d seen hawks hunting down in the big valley, and flocks of dark-eyed juncos would surround me on the ridge, throughout the day.
This hike averages about 7,200′ elevation, and I was hoping the snow wouldn’t be too deep. But three-and-a-half miles in, the trail crosses to the west side of the ridge, where the patches of snow were up to a foot deep. The man from yesterday had turned back, and I was now alone with the deep holes punched by the horse. And the snow was sometimes soft enough to sink through, so now I was lurching even more. But there were still a few dry stretches of trail, and I stopped in one to put on my gaiters.
With no fog, I could now see how the trail approaches the crest of the range, starting from 7 miles to the north and trending south to within less than 2 miles before turning east to climb around the head of an intervening canyon. From a clearing 3 miles north of the crest, I could even identify the road climbing to the fire lookout, despite my recently impaired vision.
On the second half of the hike I was walking in almost continuous snow, ranging from 6 to 16 inches deep. But this segment of trail is mostly either level or at a gentle grade, so I was making good time and could take it slow where necessary.
I was hoping to go at least 6 miles, and as before, was relieved when I finally reached the ponderosa forest above 7,400′. This rolling plateau of broad meadows and exposed bedrock continues to the edge of a little valley, and past that, begins the climb towards the head of the next canyon. I figured I’d passed the 6-mile mark and didn’t want to have to climb back out of that depression in deep snow, so I stopped and enjoyed the snowy forest for a while before turning back.
Last weekend’s horse and dog tracks continued – I assumed they’d had someone waiting to pick them up at the other end of the trail.
It was a long 6+ miles back, but at least most of it was downhill, and the snow eventually got shallower, to be replaced by mud. I’d timed it just right, completing the one-hour drive home by sunset – with the sun directly in my eyes so I had to hold one hand up to block the glare.
Monday, May 8th, 2023: Hikes, Pinos Altos Range, Southwest New Mexico.
Today I got to do the hike I planned last Sunday – 18 miles on good trail to rebuild my capacity. Only 20 minutes from town so I can get an earlier start and have more time to hike.
The first stretch is two miles on a primitive road, crossing and re-crossing a perennial creek below rock cliffs and pinnacles. I usually run into others in the first mile, and today was no exception – I met two birders from New England a quarter mile in. They’d already seen new warblers and were really excited. I encouraged them to continue to the narrows, the most spectacular part of an otherwise fairly boring hike.
I was a little surprised to find the road through the narrows recently rebuilt after last fall’s severe flood damage. It must’ve cost the private landowners an arm and a leg, and of course it’s likely to happen again every few years. The property up the road was recently sold, presumably to outsiders who had no idea what they were getting into – like the birders who built and had to abandon the cabin I found over in Arizona.
As usual, I made good time on the six-mile climb out of the canyon to the 9,035′ peak, where the trail is mostly shaded by forest and I was kept cool by a breeze. It really is nice to have a good trail for a change after slogging through deep snow or fighting my way through flood debris and thorny overgrowth for months.
On the way down the north side of the peak I ran into a friendly couple about my age, from a rural community west of town. They were trying to reach the iconic twin peaks north of town, but had missed the turnoff I used and had continued another 5 miles on the highway to the dirt forest road that accesses the fire lookout, driving that an additional 5 miles all the way up to a nearby saddle at 8,600′ instead. Now they were hoping to descend this trail in reverse from the high peak, to reach the much lower twin peaks. They asked about my hike and were pretty shocked by the distance I was aiming for. I gave them all the helpful info I could think of, but was perplexed because there’s no actual trail up the twin peaks, and I’ve never thought of them as a destination.
My destination was the “park” – the level basin at the far end of the eastward ridge, where the national trail crosses and drops to lower ridges. I love these incongruous geological features with their ring of tall pines surrounding a grassy meadow in the center, high in the sky on top of a ridge, and assuming I could make it that far today, I planned to collapse on the ground in the shade of a pine and rest a while.
But first, a half mile after passing the couple, I met a guy in his 40s or early 50s with a dog, running a chain saw, cutting logs that had recently blown down on the national trail. He refused my offer of help so I thanked him and continued another couple of miles on the gentle grades of this section, to the park, where I was still feeling good, but stopped to lie in the shade for at least 20 minutes.
This is one of the two longest hikes I do, and the longest I’ve done in over six months, by a margin of four miles. I expected to develop some pain on the way back, and sure enough, both feet got sore before I reached the lookout road. And I encountered the log-cutter and his dog again. He was finishing up for the day so he was glad to stop and talk a while. Turns out he’s a mountain biker and fisherman, and clears trails so he can ride them himself or use them to access fishing holes. Of course he resents not being able to use his chain saw in wilderness areas, which have the most attractive fishing holes and are now out of reach because of flood damage and blowdown.
The most interesting thing I learned from him is that this section of the national trail isn’t used by through hikers. He laughed when I mentioned other sections I’d found abandoned or blocked by flood damage. “All the through hikers just go straight north from town on other forest trails, to the river, and from there to Snow Lake (50 miles west of the official national trail),” he said. “Nobody but me uses the national trail anymore – they all want to be next to water.”
This confirms what I’ve long suspected. So many times, I’ve seen through hikers tramping along highways, short-cutting much longer sections of trail through backcountry, so they can save time or reach town quicker to resupply. We just had our big “Trail Days” celebration a few weeks ago, but that’s mostly about business – through hikers spend a lot in local restaurants, motels, and stores. I doubt anybody admitted they weren’t actually using the highly publicized, internationally-known trail.
After climbing to the high peak and crossing the saddle to the south slope for my final descent, I ran into the couple from the western community again, on their way back to their vehicle. This time we really got to know each other and exchanged names. She was admiring my old Swiss Army surplus pack, and he was curious about how much water I take on these marathon hikes. This was really turning into a social day, and I was glad I’d met friendly people who were willing to talk.
I was walking so gingerly on the descent I had to take a pain pill, but in general, I was surprised not to feel more exhausted during the last couple of miles along the canyon road. I only do this non-wilderness hike when I feel the need to pile on the miles, but most people find parts of it both beautiful and memorable.
Monday, July 24th, 2023: Hikes, Pinos Altos Range, Southwest New Mexico.
Our daily high temperature was forecast to drop from 98 to 90 this weekend – a significant cool-down from the past three weeks. But the humidity remained high, and I still needed high elevations and shade for my Sunday hike.
And after last Sunday’s routefinding and bushwhacking, I wanted an easy trail. The mountains in Arizona were still too hot, so there was really no choice – I had to do the crest hike near town that I’d already done only two months ago.
There’d been a brief storm yesterday, the canyon was dripping with dew, and the flies were out in force. I was sweating heavily from the humidity even before the air warmed up. I found lots of tracks from yesterday on the canyon bottom stretch of this popular trail, but as usual they dropped off in the first couple of miles before the climb to the crest. The only tracks that preceded me on the climb were from a mountain bike sometime in the past weeks.
I wound my way up through the mixed-conifer forest on the south side of the 9,000 foot peak, and just below the crest noticed an older couple sitting in the shade fifteen or twenty feet above the trail. We exchanged pleasantries about the cooler weather and the beautiful day, and I pointed out we were lucky the wildfire that cleared forest from the north side had left this side intact.
The woman immediately launched into a lecture about fire suppression and the importance of fire in the ecosystem. I smiled, letting her finish, then I said that for years, my hikes in this and other national forests had been amateur studies in fire ecology. I said one thing I’d learned is that hiking trails like this are unsustainable in wildfire habitat. The man said “Yeah, they’re actually abandoning a lot of trails!”
“Yep, habitat will just have to recover without us,” I added.
“And that’s a good thing!” the woman maintained, sternly and emphatically. “Nature is better without humans!”
I smiled again. Here they were enjoying a day in nature, and she was resenting it.
I asked them where they’d hiked from. Like others I’ve met recently here, they’d driven all the way up the fire lookout road to the crest, and hiked less than a mile to this spot. They’d actually spent the night there on the road, battered by yesterday’s storm, and would drive the twenty miles back to town today.
The man asked me where I was hiking from, and after I’d told him said “That’s a big hike! How far do you go from here?”
I told him about the shallow basin with old-growth conifers and a grassy meadow three miles farther out the crest. “Wow!” he said.
“Yeah, eighteen miles out and back, but on an easy trail, which is what I need at this point.” I told them about the bushwhack I’d done last week, when it took me seven hours to cover seven miles. I recommended hikes over in Arizona where trails were better maintained, but got the impression they were only interested in van camping and short walks near town.
The remaining three miles went smoothly, but I was hot, sweaty, and plagued by flies even on the crest. Such a relief to reach the shallow basin and collapse on a bed of pine needles in the shade.
Flowers were more subdued here than on previous hikes – many had already gone to fruit. But the pollinators were still busy. I was really feeling the heat on the way back, stopping to drink my still-cold water in every patch of shade.
The big milestone on the return is the saddle below the peak. At that point you’ve done twelve miles, and what remains is all downhill. I was wearing my best boots and my feet were doing better than on other recent hikes. And bigger clouds were forming, so I had intervals of darkness and cooler air in addition to the shade of the forest. The flies continued, worse in some parts of the forest than others, seemingly without rhyme or reason. But my head net allows me to ignore them.
On the final descent into the canyon I began seeing tracks of people who’d walked a few miles in while I was hiking on the crest. My left heel was acting up. I stopped to stretch, but was still limping intermittently on the last two miles in the canyon bottom, where I found more footprints and hoofprints of horses.
And when I got home, I discovered my whole lower body was covered with a rash that burned like fire in some places. So ironic that what keeps my heart, lungs, and mind healthy is causing skin problems, at the same time as trails become less accessible.
Monday, September 4th, 2023: Hikes, Pinos Altos Range, Southwest New Mexico.
I didn’t feel like driving this Sunday, but the day was forecast to be hot and I wanted to keep working on my conditioning. There was really only one option near town, the eighteen-mile crest hike that utilizes part of the national trail. It’s not wilderness, it’s close enough to town that I often meet casual hikers near the lower and upper trailheads, and cattle occasionally use the upper part, but it allows me to achieve serious mileage and elevation on a reliable trail. And even though it’s not wilderness, it proves how healthy our mountain habitat is in general, compared to public lands near urban areas.
The approach is on a sporadically maintained primitive forest road up a narrow canyon. There were two other vehicles at the trailhead, but the only track I found on the road, and on the upper trail, was from a single mountain bike. The upper trail is so steep and rocky I assumed the biker took the gravel fire road to the crest from the opposite side, and rode down this canyon segment.
The habitat along most of this trail is lush even in a drought, but we’d gotten enough rain recently that wildlife was really thriving. Heading down though dense regrowth past the shoulder of the 9,000 foot summit, I noticed a hummingbird working the flowers ahead and froze where I was. The bird also stopped, to perch on a low branch beside the trail. I waited several minutes, then slowly moved a couple yards closer and froze again. I kept moving closer in stages like this until I was literally only a yard away, and the hummingbird – probably a female broad-tailed – hung in there, staring back at me with what appeared to be curiosity.
That experience was so cool that I kept stopping in flower-dense areas during the rest of the hike, hoping pollinators would ignore me and approach. It generally worked, but I was paying so much attention to what was happening above the trail that I slipped on a rock and tweaked my ankle at one point. My reinforced boots allowed me to keep hiking, but it was swollen and sore the next day.
The lower part of the trail is mostly shaded, but burn scars and scattered clouds along the crest meant that I was moving between hot sun and chilly shade for most of the day.
The last two-and-a-half miles are very seldom used, running just below the crest through wildfire burn scar and remnant forest on a steep and rocky slope. I heard whooping and hollering behind me, and the grinding of tires on gravel, and was glad the mountain bikers were sticking to the fire road on the north side of the ridge.
There’s always at least one hawk working this slope, and today there were three, along with many other birds closer to ground. But finally, I heard tires behind me, and scrambled to find a place to safely get off the trail on this steep slope.
It was a group of three mountain bikers, the first of a convoy of twelve. The leader, the oldest, stopped to placate me, warning about the others to follow and wishing me “peace and tranquillity”. He said they were riding to honor the race which had been cancelled this year – a downhill race where they get a permit to close off one of our most popular trails, and competitors bomb down in full body armor on $10,000 bikes.
The other riders were spread out over a half mile, and from then on I kept having to quickly find a safe place to step off the trail so they could pass. The last group was a duo, and the young female rider lost her balance on a loose rock so I had to wait patiently while she figured out how to get going again.
Riding high on their machines, they were obliviously disrupting all the wildlife I’d been enjoying in my frequent stops. Our natural habitats were just a colorful backdrop for their adrenaline sport.
When I reached the “park”, the shallow natural basin at the end, I stretched out on pine needles in the shade and rested for a full half hour before heading back. The next day, lying on the sofa with an ice pack, I found myself wondering how much longer I can keep doing these punishing marathons!
Eighteen miles is a long hike, even on a good trail, and I was getting pretty sore by the time I reached the shoulder of the peak. That’s an important milestone because it’s all downhill from there.
And by the time I reached the trail crossing four miles from the end, I was limping. I collected some trash left by hikers or bikers during the day, and I finally took a pain pill to get me through the last two miles on the canyon road.
Monday, November 27th, 2023: Hikes, Pinos Altos Range, Southwest New Mexico.
My problem foot had turned out okay after last Sunday’s hike – probably because I was wearing the stiffer winter boots – but I still wanted to work my way gradually up to longer and steeper walks. So this Sunday I was looking for something more than 12 miles but with less than 2,500 feet of elevation gain, and no prolonged steep grades. That’s a big ask around here – all the level ground within an hour of town is private land, hence all the nearby trails climb mountains.
There was really only one option – the boring north-south segment of the national trail I’d done twice before. I was still hoping to link it with the segment I hike from the opposite direction, but wasn’t optimistic – it would involve more than 20 miles out and back. No way would I accomplish that today.
Especially when I discovered my driver’s side door lock had frozen overnight. I had to let myself in the passenger side, then clamber over the center console and shift lever in my big winter boots, start the vehicle and run the heater for 20 minutes before the lock would operate. And while waiting, clamber back out and scrape frost off the windows.
Then on the drive, I had so much on my mind that I passed the turnoff and drove up into the eastern mountains for another 10 miles until I realized my mistake. After turning around, I finally reached the trailhead 45 minutes later than usual.
The climb to the ridgetop was scenic as usual. The sky was mostly clear, with bands of clouds hanging over the horizon, and although the temperature was in the 20s, the climb generated a lot of heat and I kept shedding layers.
Once you reach the ridgetop, it’s just a trudge through forest, with occasional boring views, about 7 miles to a little-used forest road. Birds were active, but I only recognized jays, flickers, quail, and juncos. I did find smallish bear tracks in snow that had fallen the day before.
I was giving myself 8 hours, and I reached the forest road with an hour to spare. And my foot seemed to be doing okay, so I would continue and see how close I could get to linking the two segments of trail.
Past the road, the trail began climbing steadily. I knew from the topo map that it was approaching a ridge that curved around the watershed of a creek – the other side being the segment I’d hiked from the opposite direction. Eventually I reached the ridgetop, and was rewarded with an unexpected 180 degree view, from the 9,000 foot high point of the range I was in, to 9,300 foot Black Mountain, 55 miles north, and the 10,200 foot crest of the eastern range, 35 miles east. My time was up, but despite not closing the chain, I’d reached a worthy destination. I figured I’d gone more than 8 miles, and felt pretty damn good.
But as usual, the descent of that long ridge seemed endless, and before the halfway point my entire lower body was aching. About three miles from the trailhead I encountered a couple about my age, with a dog, just starting up the trail. The sun was setting, and they were only carrying day packs, so I asked how far they planned to go. “We’ll turn around soon,” the man said. “We’re just trying to work off that Thanksgiving dinner.”
I was able to reach the vehicle before full dark without using my headlamp, but I worried about them. The lower half mile of the trail is like a maze. A full moon was rising but only sporadically penetrated the tall ponderosa pines.
