Little Dry
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.
Sunday, September 25th, 2022: Hikes, Little Dry, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
The day before, I’d driven a half hour east of town to attend the harvest festival that I started when I first moved here, in 2006. I was truly grateful to see it resurrected two years after the start of COVID, with a new generation of volunteers to keep it going.
A few of the old-timers are still around, too, and it was good to see them. But everyone else was just a stranger.
After forcing down a mediocre lunch prepared by one of the food vendors, and after enduring a mediocre performance by what used to be called a folk singer and is now called a “singer-songwriter”, I discovered that the mother-daughter country gospel act had canceled due to a family injury. And I realized that they were the only reason I was there. I’d been in charge of “entertainment” – everything from oral history and poetry slams to music and the announcing of prize winners – and they were one of the first acts I’d hired, and my personal favorite. In their honest, angelic voices, they’d delivered the songs I grew up with in the Appalachians.
So I left early.
I devoted hundreds of hours to that festival, and I’m still proud of it, although it’s no longer part of my life. It now seems to be self-sustaining, and it’s the only event in that rural valley that brings everybody together, once a year.
That night I tried to figure out where to go on my Sunday hike, and was stumped. I had a busy week coming up and didn’t want a long drive or an overnight, but most of the nearby hikes were undesirable due to monsoon overgrowth.
I woke up in the morning completely unmotivated and could barely get out of bed. I’d found a recent online trip report from a trail over in Arizona that I really wanted to try, but it would involve 5-6 hours of driving and an overnight, so it was out of the question right now.
After delaying my start to make up my mind – and almost giving up – I finally made a decision, and hit the road late. I would drive an hour and a quarter northwest and take a slow, overgrown canyon trail up to a high saddle, where I could cross into a more remote canyon and eventually reach the confluence of two big creeks. The latter part of the hike would offer some epic views.
I’d hiked the first canyon ten times in the past four years, but always found it maddeningly slow – the rampant vegetation, the debris flows, the random piles of logs, the continual detouring around giant boulders, the dozens of creek crossings. Really, the only reason I ever came back here was for the views you get once you climb out of the canyon to the crest. I had only made it to the remote confluence, in the farther canyon, once before. Out and back, it would be a little less than 13 miles and 4,000′ of elevation gain.
Driving north up the highway into the valley of our famous wild river, I saw signs for the river festival, and realized it was also on this weekend. It’s organized by our local environmental non-profits, and features conservation-oriented lectures, panel discussions, field trips and workshops.
I’d volunteered and attended several sessions at the river festival in my first year here, ultimately deciding that something more subsistence-based and inclusive – like my harvest festival – could be more effective for both land and community. The river festival is just preaching to the choir – the liberal retirees and idealistic youth that always temporarily patronize this sort of thing, but seldom put down roots in this land or this community.
I reached the turnoff for the trailhead, and discovered that the little creek was flowing vigorously out of the foothills and past the highway, something I’d never seen before. And I quickly found that the long gravel approach road had been washed out by debris flows at many places – something that should’ve tipped me off even before reaching the trailhead.
The road was in such bad shape it took me twice as long as usual. And at the trailhead I was surprised to find two vehicles – only the second time I’d had company here. According to the log, there was a birder from Arizona – he wouldn’t go far! – and a party of two planning the same remote destination as me.
Like most of these west-side trails, it traverses down into the canyon first, then continues upstream a few miles to the base of switchbacks that then lead to the crest. In this case, it’s 3/4 of a mile from trailhead to first creek crossing, and that’s where I had my next surprise. The canyon bottom had been scoured by a very recent flash flood – probably in the last couple of weeks – that had brought down tons of debris – rocks and shattered logs. The creek was roaring along but was precariously crossable on submerged rocks thanks to my waterproof boots.
But the farther I went, the less trail was left. What made this trail bad to begin with with – the narrowness of the canyon forces it to stay in or near the creek – means that when there’s a bad flood, the trail just gets wiped out, and the going gets very tough, since you have to find your way over, under, or around an obstacle course of shattered logs and boulders while trying to stay out of the rushing, foaming water.
I kept thinking of the other hikers ahead of me. Surely I would meet the birder soon – they typically stop after only a short distance to watch and listen for birds. But although their footprints were everywhere, they all must’ve gotten a much earlier start than me. I was beginning to feel like a real loser.
In the end, I made it less than a mile and a half before giving up. The general outline of the canyon I knew so well was still there, but the canyon-bottom trail was completely gone, and I had no desire to spend my day in this congested, scrambled up place. It had become such a brutal scramble, I couldn’t believe the birder was still ahead of me. I was sure the party heading for the high saddle and the remote confluence would not make it – it would take them most of the day just to get through this apocalyptic canyon. Presumably they were young people who would just embrace the challenge.
I remembered a party I’d gone to in 2008, where I met a guy returning from a hike on this trail. The original trail ascends over 4,000′ to the crest of the range, passing an iconic 10,600′ peak and connecting to a broad network of crest trails, but that network has been completely abandoned since the 2012 wildfire.
The guy I met had been part of a large group of young people who set out to reach the iconic peak, a round-trip hike of 18 miles and over 5,000′ of elevation gain. He was older than them, and gave up and headed back as the sun was beginning to set. He arrived at the party around 9 pm, sore and exhausted.
The others continued, scrambling on dangerous talus slopes well after dark, returning long after midnight – the kind of adventure many of us have had in our youth.
Back at my vehicle after only two hours of hiking, I tried to think of another nearby option for the remainder of the day. But they would all require long backcountry drives and would likely have experienced the same amount of flooding and disruption. Most of my high-elevation hikes are in this area – would all those trails now be lost? It would take a huge effort to rebuild them – an effort I doubt will be practical. This was the worst flood damage I’ve seen in this area in 16 years.
This Sunday’s hike was a total washout.
Wilderness Access, but at What Price?
Monday, May 22nd, 2023: Hikes, Little Dry, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
Again I had trouble choosing a Sunday hike – my first choice, on the east side, turned out to still be inaccessible due to road closure. Then I drove west planning to try an alternate route to another trail that had been inaccessible since last fall, but at the last minute decided that was too risky, too. So I continued to the turnoff for a trail that had been wiped out last September by a big flood, because I’d seen some notes online that indicated someone had been using it recently – maybe they’d cleared a path through the damage.
This is one of those few trails leading to the crest of the range that are precious to me. So imagine my delight when I found that someone had cleared a path and laid down good tread through last year’s flood damage!
It had rained yesterday, the temperature was in the low 70s, and as soon as I reached the canyon bottom a rich cocktail of plant perfumes hit my nostrils. Spring flowers were out, and my boots and pants were soon soaked with dew.
But after I reached the abandoned cabin, the trail work ended. Distances on this trail are confounding. The cabin doesn’t show up on any maps – I’ve always assumed it’s two miles in from the trailhead. I’ve hiked this trail often enough that I was easily able to find my route through flood debris, blowdown, and overgrowth beyond the cabin, but two things soon became obvious: big floods like this renew habitat, and the equestrian trail crew had been here, because the trail was now lined with invasive dandelions.
Despite the online notes, and invasives spread by horses, I found no tracks anywhere. It looked like I was on virgin trail, especially as I began climbing the traverse to the first saddle. Birdsong surrounded me everywhere, and the traverse was more choked than ever by scrub oak, manzanita, and the thorny shrub I have yet to identify. I literally had to force my way through dense thickets in addition to climbing over occasional blowdown, all the way up to the saddle. Most hikers would’ve simply turned back, assuming the trail no longer exists, but I’ve gotten used to conditions like this and can follow even the most subtle indicators of a route.
Storm clouds had started peeking over the crest even before I left the canyon bottom, and now towered over the ridge to the east.
It took me over three hours from the trailhead to reach the saddle, which is shown on maps as a distance of less than four miles. This never fails to amaze me, because I’m good at estimating distances, and this part of the trail always feels closer to six miles. And I hadn’t been moving slow – the trail in the canyon had felt easier than usual to follow.
Past the saddle, the trail climbs steeply in a series of switchbacks, which are not shown on any maps. A hiker who had left a recent note online said the trail simply stops here, but of course I know the route well and had no problem continuing. But the shrubby overgrowth was so bad on this next ascent that I fell once, tripping over a low branch that had been hidden by the plants I was pushing through.
Beyond the switchback, there’s a traverse that rounds the base of a white comglomerate cliff and enters the head of the main drainage, revealing the arc formed above by the crest. As before, there were no human tracks anywhere, but elk love this area and are the only thing maintaining tread at this point. I suddenly realized that I so seldom find footprints on these wilderness trails because backpackers are the only people who penetrate as deeply as I do, and backpackers in this part of the range are few and far between.
The trail traverses toward a second set of switchbacks that lead to a second saddle. But these switchbacks are faint and easily confused with numerous game trails left by elk, so I usually end up finding different routes going up vs. coming back down. At the saddle, the little cairn I’d made a couple of years ago was still waiting for me.
Past the second saddle, there are only faint, occasional traces of a trail, but again, I know the route well. After entering intact forest, it climbs in several switchbacks – also omitted from the maps – and passes an old junction before beginning another long traverse toward the crest.
This traverse looks exactly like a game trail. If you can follow it, it leads across a series of narrow talus falls, through thickets of thorny locust, to more switchbacks that climb the back side of a sharp rock outcrop. The air was muggy and I’d been getting pretty hot climbing thousands of feet, but as I continued up this traverse the clouds had been spreading, it had been getting darker, and a cold wind had dropped the temperature to the 50s.
Stopping before a switchback that’s blocked by deadfall, I noticed a tick on my sleeve, and after brushing that one off, saw one climbing my pant leg.
It’d been a hard climb and I was really beat. And my time was running short, so I stopped at the top of the switchbacks, next to the upper part of the rock outcrop, instead of continuing a couple hundred feet higher to the ghost grove of burned aspens below the crestline, as before. I figured I’d gone almost seven miles and climbed 4,000′, although the map would show less than six miles and 3,600 feet.
On the way down, the leg cramps began, and continued for the next three miles. I always get leg cramps on this descent, and this is the only hike where I get them – despite other hikes being much longer and harder. I drink plenty of water, with added electrolytes, and stretch regularly, but it makes no difference. Something about this hike just triggers cramps.
I’d only felt one tiny raindrop, and now the clouds were moving off and the air was quickly warming. When I reached the first saddle, I stopped to do a complete series of lower-body stretches, and drank a bunch more water.
Despite all the precautions, I still fought cramps all the way to the canyon bottom. And when I reached the bottom and began seeing dandelions again, I slipped and fell a second time, at a debris-choked creek crossing, and thought more about trails, condition and maintenance, and the larger issue of wilderness access.
Although I usually give up when confronted with hundreds of fallen logs per mile, I figured I’d climbed over at least a hundred today, spread out over a distance of six or seven miles. And I’ve long been perfectly content with trails that are faint or overgrown by thickets. But the vast majority of hikers seem to expect trails that are clear and meticulously maintained – probably because most of their hiking occurs in crowded urban parks and popular national parks, where the effort and cost of trail maintenance is justified by the level of traffic.
I only recently had the revelation that trails themselves, as we know them, are a product of wildfire suppression. The trail networks in our national forests and parks would never have been sustainable before, in natural wildfire regimes, which regularly rearrange the landscape.
But very few hikers, even backpackers, will attempt to penetrate wilderness areas without trails. So the whole idea of “wilderness access” ultimately depends, to some degree, on wildfire suppression.
And the demand for wilderness access has led, since COVID, to some troubling trends in my region. Just over the border in Arizona, a coalition of urban mountain bikers has been granted a permit by the Forest Service to do all trail maintenance, and the mountain bikers have accompanied their work by a slick online propaganda campaign, in which they conceal or downplay their agenda as bikers, promoting their selfless work “for the benefit of all trail users”.
Equestrians are doing the same thing in my local forest. They got an exclusive permit to do trail work, and they’ve established a slick, authoritative website on trail conditions which likewise hides their agenda as equestrians, claiming to be selflessly improving trails “for the benefit of all trail users”.
It’s clear to me that both these special-interest groups are working proactively and effectively to assure themselves access to public lands. Equestrians know they’re accused of damaging trails and spreading invasive plants, and afraid of losing access, they’re positioning themselves so nobody can exclude them from wilderness.
Likewise, mountain bikers have been fighting for decades to get access to wilderness, and by making themselves indispensable to all trail users, they may finally succeed.
My question is, does anybody actually deserve good trails, and “access to wilderness”, at the cost of habitat degradation?
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!
