Holt
Monday, July 26th, 2021: Hikes, Holt, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
Conflicting desires this Sunday. The weather was forecast to be cloudy and cooler – in the 70s. So this was a perfect time for a lower-elevation hike, for example over in Arizona where I could get a burrito and a beer afterward.
But for the past few weeks I’d been frustrated with shorter hikes and less elevation gain, so I felt I really needed a bigger hike today to maintain my conditioning. On paper, I’d been investigating ways to get longer hikes by stringing together multiple trails into loops. However, these loops would have to include include trails that were abandoned or in bad shape. The problem with Arizona is that the longer driving time limits me to shorter hikes on bad trails or longer hikes on good trails. So for today, I decided to try a loop close to home, involving two trails I knew to be in good shape, and one that appeared to be long abandoned, with no info available on its condition. As usual, I was just going to take my chances, hoping I could redeem myself somehow if the first attempt failed.
Driving west of town, I could see clouds literally hugging the low mountains ahead. We’d had a lot of rain the past week, and both air and ground were saturated.
The hike starts with a two-mile stretch on an old familiar trail, dropping into a canyon and following it up to the trail junction. As usual this time of year, the canyon bottom was a green jungle, but the creek was barely running. The branch trail, climbing over a ridge into the next, bigger canyon system, leads ultimately to an old miner’s cabin, and is maintained by the Arizona family of his descendents. The Forest Service reports this trail impassable, and at the junction it’s overgrown to the point of invisibility, but once across the creek, it turns into a good trail.
Entering the monsoon jungle of the first canyon I discovered an unexpected problem: heavy dew on all the vegetation crowding the trail meant that by the time I started climbing toward the ridge, my pants were soaked. This was a northwest slope, mostly in shade, so I was hoping that once I crossed over to the southeast side, sunlight from regular openings between the clouds would dry me off. Despite the cooler temps, it was so humid that my shirt was soon soaked with sweat and I had to keep mopping sweat off my brows as I climbed.
One unexpected benefit of this trail was the different perspective I got on previous hikes, which continued north up the first canyon. As I climbed higher, I could see that canyon was much rockier than is apparent from the trail, which sticks to the densely forested canyon bottom most of the way. Above the forest are numerous huge rock outcrops and cliffs.
The miner’s cabin trail crests the ridge at a low saddle, where I had a great new view into and across the bigger canyon. This canyon is eight miles long and very rocky, and there’s no trail up it from its mouth like there are in every other canyon on this side of the range. You can only drop into it from farther up the sides, as on this trail.
The trail drops into the narrow side canyon of the north fork, which is where I hoped to pick up the abandoned north fork trail that climbed to a ridge, far back in the wilderness, where I would return on the continuation of the trail I’d left in the first canyon. The full loop would be about 15 miles, with nearly 5,000′ of accumulated elevation gain.
The clouds shifting around, covering and uncovering the peaks and ridges across the big canyon, made this a spectacular descent. Most of it had been burned in the 2012 wildfire and was exposed, through oak scrub, but I was relieved to find a little shoulder halfway down, shaded by parklike ponderosa forest. Descending past that, I flushed a white tailed deer.
From there the trail got steeper and rockier. I began to hear a roaring from the canyon bottom – this side must really be draining a lot of rainwater!
As I approached the canyon bottom, I checked my map for details of the junction with the abandoned north fork trail. It seemed to be close to the creek, but when I got to the bottom of the canyon it was very narrow, with steep sides lined with dense jungle. The cabin trail just disappeared – the only way down this canyon was via the flooded creek, through overgrown riparian vegetation. There was no sign of a trail junction, and this was no place to linger.
I double-checked my map, which was a just a low-resolution printout from a trails website. Now I could see that the junction probably lay 40-80 feet above the creek, so I began climbing back up the steep trail, carefully examining the right side for any sign of an old branch. After a quarter mile of climbing, I was about 120′ above the creek and had only seen one faint game trail that might be worth exploring, so I climbed all the way back down and tried it out. It disappeared within a dozen yards, and clearly wasn’t the old trail.
I spent about 45 minutes exploring all along that stretch of the cabin trail, bushwhacking several long side trips, and never found any sign of the old north fork trail. It’s just completely vanished. The only thing I could do was return, back over the ridge, to the first canyon. It was a steep climb and I was feeling exhausted and very sweaty as I headed over the saddle and back down to where I’d started, but at least the sporadic sunlight on the southeast-facing slope had dried the dew off my pants.
Approaching the original trail junction in the first canyon, I decided to make up for my aborted loop hike by walking up the first canyon trail a ways. I was pretty beat, so I’d just see how far I could get. I know this trail well, and figured I’d probably turn around at the base of the switchbacks that lead to the crest. That would give me another mile-and-a-half one-way and a few hundred more feet of elevation.
Not far past the junction in the first canyon, I surprised a rattlesnake at the base of a log alongside the trail. It’s always surprising to find a western rattlesnake in such a lush environment. I carefully sidestepped it and stopped to look back and memorize the configuration of rocks and logs so I could watch out for the snake on my return.
When I reached the base of the switchbacks, a tiny clearing in creekside forest, I wasn’t feeling completely exhausted yet. So I started up the switchbacks, figuring I’d stop at the boulder pile before the long traverse up the other side. There’s a really steep stretch leading to the boulder pile, and I figured that would do me in.
But somehow I was getting a second wind! I breezed up the steep part and past the boulder pile. A trail crew had been up here recently and cut up all the logs that had been blocking the trail for the past couple of years, which made it easier. Now I figured I might make it to the end of the first long traverse, where you get a view out over the big canyon where I’d failed to find the abandoned trail. That would really give me some elevation to compensate for the aborted loop.
As it turned out, I was feeling so good, I not only made it to the end of the first traverse, but I continued onto the much steeper and more difficult second traverse, which brought me to the edge of the final ascent to the crest – as far as I got on my first hike on this trail, 2-1/2 years ago. I now knew this was turning into a respectable hike – true redemption for my failure to find the abandoned north fork trail over in the other canyon. Although the combined hikes would amount to a little less than 13 miles, my accumulated elevation gain for the day was now nearly 5,000′. After being pretty miserable a couple hours earlier, I was now elated.
I descended in late afternoon through a forest made magical by alternating low-angle light and blue shadow. It looked like some weather was coming in the west, toward the mouth of the canyon.
Sure enough, when I reached the rattlesnake’s place, it was still there, in exactly the same position, but now it was asleep. It must’ve eaten recently and was immersed in the long, slow digestive process.
Climbing out of the canyon toward the trailhead, I finally got a glimpse of rain, miles away to the south.
It just kept getting better. Light rain appeared on my windshield as I neared the highway, and when I stopped there to loosen my bootlaces, I saw a half rainbow to the south. Rain and rainbows kept shifting around as I drove south, and all the arroyos were in flood. A big storm hung over the Gila River where it emerges from the mountains, and it was way over its banks at the bridge. What a day!
Monday, August 23rd, 2021: Hikes, Holt, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
Insomnia Saturday night…only 3 or 4 hours of sleep. When my alarm went off at 6 am, I had no faith in my ability to get back to sleep, so I got up and prepared for my Sunday hike. I felt half dead, and figured I’d just go as far as I could, and stop for a nap along the trail if I ran out of steam.
I’d already decided to take the trail I’d hiked most frequently and used to consider my favorite. How things have changed in only two years! When I first hiked this trail, the 10 miles to the crest and back was two miles too far. Now, 15 miles doesn’t seem far enough.
Last time I’d been over here, I’d discovered a trail crew had cut a path through the many deadfall and blowdown logs that’d accumulated since the last trail work in 2019. I wondered if they’d continued up on the ridge, where the trail snakes along the crest into the heart of the range, and where I’d been exploring farther and farther over the past year, bushwhacking over deadfall and through thickets of thorny locust. If they’d cleared that part of the trail, I might be able to make it all the way to the junction saddle. That would be pretty cool.
I wore my new “upland hunting” pants, in case of rain. The day started out cool, but the lining in the damn pants ensured that I immediately overheated down in the humid jungle of the canyon bottom. And the flies – gnats, really – swarmed me from the beginning, so I quickly got tired of swatting and donned my head net.
Two and a half miles in, not far from where I’d encountered a rattler on my last visit, I was forcing my way through the jungle when I spotted a rattlesnake tail receding across the trail right in front of me. It disappeared under the dense vegetation on my left, rattling weakly. I started pushing through the equally dense vegetation on my right, but that triggered a second rattle. There were two snakes, one on each side!
I retreated out of the thicket and found a broken limb that made a good walking staff. I returned to the snake spot and began probing ahead through the vegetation on both sides of the trail. No response. I crossed the jungly patch and passed a small tree. More rattling on my left. After peering into the vegetation below the tree, I finally spotted the snake, coiled in the shadows. Interesting. I wondered if this was the snake I’d encountered nearby, weeks earlier. And now it had a mate.
I left a small stick across the trail to remind me of the location when I returned in the afternoon. And I used the staff to probe for snakes while crossing thickets up ahead.
The thickets, the hot pants, the humidity, and the snake factor were all slowing me down. I had to stop regularly to rinse my sweaty head net and hat in the creek. I knew I wouldn’t get very far in these lined pants. I planned to stop at the base of the switchbacks, about 3-1/2 miles into the hike, and take them off. Beyond that, I’d be climbing out of the canyon bottom, and the trail would be mostly clear until the crest.
The pant legs are cut super wide, and zip up to the knee, so you can, with a certain amount of struggling, get them on and off while wearing boots. So I climbed the mountain in my skivvies, which felt great! Once the pants were rolled up in my pack, I realized I should never start a hike wearing them. I should simply always bring them along, and switch pants when the going gets wet.
Highlights of the ascent were giant, beautiful fungi, and a Montezuma quail – my first! That quail simply refused to fly away – it kept hiding behind clumps of bunch grass only a few feet off the trail, where it kept bobbing its head up briefly to see what I was doing.
Just past the spring below the peak, the steep trail through the forest was blocked by a rope hanging from a ponderosa branch, about 20 feet above. Tied to it were 3 large carabiners, and there was another long rope wrapped separately around the tree trunk. Someone had obviously been camping at the spring, and had constructed this elaborate setup to lift their food out of reach of bears. But they’d walked away without it. This was the second time this summer I’d come upon things left attached to trees in the wilderness – a bad trend of careless forest users. I pulled both ropes down, coiled them up, and stashed them in my pack to carry out.
I was really happy to find that the recent trail crew had cut a path through the dozens of logs blocking the trail along the crest. Despite my slow ascent, I was now determined to head for the distant saddle. I figured if the trail ahead continued to be passable, I had just enough time to reach it.
But what I found was perplexing – and much harder.
Past the saddle at 9,500′, a wide swath had been cleared through the thickets of aspen and locust, continuing down through the stand of fir that’d been blocked by dozens of deadfall aspen. On the other side, an eerie 8-foot-wide swath of trail had been completely cleared, like a firebreak, for a few hundred yards. Then it stopped, and the old path continued through locust thorns. My bare legs were soon bleeding from multiple scratches and I had to stop and pull my hot upland pants back on. Fortunately there was a good breeze blowing across the crest.
That’s when I realized I’d left my snake staff a mile or so behind – and I noticed I’d also lost the splint I wear to keep my trigger thumb at bay. This is only one of several health problems that have accumulated since the house fire, and I haven’t had time to treat properly. It has to be special-ordered and takes up to a week to replace, but over time the fit gets loose, and I wasn’t surprised it’d fallen off. It’s just hard living without it.
Descending the ridge, I discovered the trail crew had indeed cut through all the logs across the trail, but except for that short “firebreak”, they hadn’t done anything about the thorny locust overgrowing the trail and often completely blocking it.
I fought my way down and across to the farthest point I’d reached in the past, and kept going past that. The locust thorns just kept getting worse, to the point where you couldn’t even see a trail ahead.
Then suddenly another “firebreak” appeared – a several hundred yard clear swath, isolated in the middle of nowhere. It was welcome but didn’t make sense. Why would they clear these isolated stretches and do nothing with the rest of the trail?
It was taking much longer than expected and I was running out of time. I kept misreading the landforms ahead, thinking I was almost there, and that’s what drew me forward, despite how difficult it was.
Finally the trail switched to the opposite side of the ridge, and I could see what had to be the junction saddle, much farther ahead and hundreds of feet lower. I’d come too far to stop, so I kept going, through a broad burn scar choked with thorns.
I came to a forested rock outcrop, behind which, but much lower, I could sense the saddle. The vague trail continued down a deeply eroded bowl, then abruptly stopped at a big blowdown which was completely overgrown. Massive trees had fallen every which way across the trail, and locust had grown up between them, forming an impassable wall. The trail crew’s work ended here, only a few hundred yards from the saddle. It was amazing to get so close and be unable to go any farther!
Still, from the rock outcrop, I had a great view across the spectacular, almost inaccessible big canyon I’d fought my way into earlier this year.
I was now way behind schedule. I try to get home by 7 to warm up leftovers for dinner, but it was now looking like, despite getting an early start, I’d be 30 minutes to an hour late. I’d been wondering all day if I’d get any rain to further test the new pants, and working my way back up the ridgeline, I could see rain falling from heavy clouds a few miles to the north. An occasional crash of thunder reached me, but the storm didn’t seem to be moving my way.
It took just as long to fight my way back up that ridge as it had to fight down it – exacerbated by the 1,500′ climb. Fortunately my insomnia hadn’t caught up with me – I still had plenty of energy. And even wearing those hot pants, the ridgetop breeze and sporadic cloud shadows kept me relatively cool.
Finally I crossed the 9,500′ saddle and began my descent. Since walking too fast was regularly causing me pain, I paced myself. Halfway down the switchbacks I stopped at the big boulder pile to fill my water bottle. I happened to glance down, and there was my thumb splint! Out of the dozens of places where I stopped on this hike, I’d lost it here, and by accident, found it here hours later!
When I reached the canyon bottom, the swarms of flies found me. I picked up another branch to probe for rattlesnakes, but when I reached the spot where they’d been in the morning, didn’t find any.
It was only a few hundred yards farther that the familiar rattling started. There was a huge rattlesnake a few yards away, in rocks above the trail on my right. I photographed it and continued, but another rattling started immediately, below the trail on my left. There were two of them – they must be the same pair, on opposite sides of the trail, just as before! I’d never encountered this many rattlesnakes before – as much as I hike, I usually only see two or three a year.
I wasn’t walking slow, but I was really going to be late. I realized I wouldn’t get home until after 8, and I’d be exhausted.
The sun had just set by the time I reached the vehicle, but it was still plenty light out. I offloaded my gear into the right places and dug my iPad out of hiding so I’d have music on the hour-plus drive. Finally I got into the driver’s seat, belted up, and felt my shirt pocket for my sunglasses. They weren’t there!
I checked all around the front seat and in my duffel bag. I got out and looked under the seats. Nothing. I freaked out. I’d paid $150 for those, out of desperation, on my recent trip to Indianapolis. I’d tried cheap sunglasses from the drugstore in Silver City but they hurt my ears. I’d looked at REI in Phoenix, enroute, but they only had a half dozen pairs on display, all over $200. Sunglasses are surprisingly hard to find if you don’t live in an affluent neighborhood in a huge metropolitan area.
I got out of the vehicle, opened the rear door, and scanned the ground all around. Then I trudged up toward the trailhead. I knew I’d been wearing them on the hike back – maybe I’d absentmindedly dropped them near the trailhead. But I’d left the vehicle running – first I’d have to go back, turn it off, and lock up.
It was on the walk back to the vehicle that I spotted my sunglasses sitting on the corner of the rear bumper, behind where the rear door hinges open. That was a place where I never would’ve set them consciously or intentionally. There was simply no reason for them to be there. I guess the insomnia was finally catching up with me – not to mention the lingering PTSD, which often makes me feel like an idiot.
I was treated to a spectacular cloud show, amid occasional sparse showers, on the drive home.
I got back at 8:30. I was too tired to eat, so I just swallowed a shot of protein supplement and took a quick shower. I’d hiked over 16 miles and climbed over 5,000′, but it had taken me 10-1/2 hours.
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, 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, August 8th, 2022: Hikes, Holt, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
This Sunday’s weather was forecast to be partly cloudy and warm. I’d been having such a hard time climbing – my lung capacity didn’t seem to be recovering – I felt I needed to keep pushing, forcing myself to climb higher on each new hike. And getting up in the higher elevations would help with the heat. Maybe I’d even get some rain.
With the wildfire closures, the only nearby hike I hadn’t tackled yet was my old favorite, which climbs to the shoulder of a 9,700′ peak and continues down a ridge to a saddle with dramatic rock outcrops. It would involve between 4,000′ and 5,000′ of accumulated elevation gain, depending on how far I got.
But first I had to get through the jungle in the canyon bottom, which occupied 2-1/2 miles of the hike. It was as overgrown as I’d expected, a riot of flowers, flies, and waist-high growth with heavy dew, completely covering the trail, soaking my canvas pants. As usual, I was drenched with sweat from the beginning, but in the sections where the creek was flowing above ground, I could wet my hat and head net for a little evaporative cooling.
And I’d worn waterproof boots, so my feet stayed dry.
The long climb to the 9,500′ crest was difficult and slow. I’m beginning to suspect the damage to my lungs was permanent, and I may never regain the ability to climb steadily at my normal walking pace.
I stopped at the spring below the peak, to rinse out my hat and head net. I’d been glad to see no recent cattle sign so far, but unfortunately found a big cowpie near the spring less than a day old. The beast was apparently hanging out in the high country – avoiding the Forest Service’s recent attempt at removal.
Far above the spring, just as I turned the corner into the interior and got my first view of a storm building over the wilderness, it began to rain. I first pulled on my poncho, then when I reached the saddle with its little surviving stand of pines and aspens, I changed into my waterproof and thornproof hunting pants.
Last fall’s trail crew had cleared most of the logs across this trail, but from here on, the main challenge was thorny locust, and they’d done nothing about that. I’d chopped about a half mile of locust with my machete a couple of years ago, but it’s fast growing, and if I wanted to continue I’d just have to fight my way through it.
I knew there would be little reward – after the slow climb to the crest, I knew I didn’t have enough time to reach the rocky saddle, and the intervening trail would just be a thorny jungle with no view and no landmarks. But I still wanted to give my lungs a workout, so I fought my way through the thorns for another mile or so, stopping at an arbitrary point on a traverse just below the crest of the ridge. Through an opening in the locust, I spotted something far down the canyon, a hazy spot that might or might not be smoke.
I watched it long enough to see it drift and change. Yes, there was a little fire down there, apparently a lightning strike. But the whole landscape was saturated, and another big storm was building over the mountains – surely this would burn out quickly?
After I began the hike back up the ridge, the vegetation was so dense that I didn’t get another view of the little fire. But it was soon raining again, and I knew I didn’t have to worry.
At the saddle, I trudged up the little rise that gives a view over the peaks of the range. The northern half of the interior was getting hammered by rain, and another storm was forming outside the mountains in the south.
Lightning and thunder were bombarding me from all sides up there, and the first part of the descent is totally exposed, so I wasted no time descending. The rain fell harder, blowing sideways, but I knew it would move on soon.
After the rain moved on, the air was so chilled I regretted leaving my sweater at home. But as it turned out, the hike down the long switchbacks and through the canyon bottom jungle went much faster than the climb up, and hiking kept me warm.
In the canyon bottom, I was really glad of the waterproof pants now that all that waist-high vegetation was soaked from the rain. Unable to see the rocks in the trail, I was constantly slipping and stumbling. And my third rain of the day began during the last stretch before the climb out of the canyon. I’d been accompanied by the sound of thunder continuously since reaching the crest hours ago.
Driving out of the mountains, and looking back at where I’d come from, I could see storms getting bigger both east and west, over Arizona. And back home, I’d no sooner parked in my driveway than it began to pour.
