Chiricahuas
Monday, September 5th, 2022: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Snowshed, Southeast Arizona.
It was September already, and there was only one of my regular crest hikes that I hadn’t tried since my May-June illness and loss of capacity. It was in the range of canyons over in Arizona, southwest of here, and was far enough that it involved an overnight stay.
The last time I’d been up there was the end of January. We hadn’t had much snow, but there were some drifts that had enabled a test of my new waterproof boots.
Now I was wearing those same boots during the summer monsoon, to help with creek crossings and fend off rain. It appeared that our thunderstorms were on the wane, but I brought the boots anyway, and was glad as I saw a layer of clouds over the mountains ahead. Then I remembered the creek crossings at the beginning of the trail, sometimes a challenge even at low flow, and was doubly glad.
The first half of the hike involves a steep climb from a lush riparian corridor at 5,800′, deep in the central basin, to a “pine park” at 8,000′, up on the shoulder of one of the range’s tallest peaks. It starts with three crossings of the range’s most famous creek, which turned out to be running high as expected, and up to 15′ wide. Trusting in my boots, I basically just ran across on submerged rocks, but at the second crossing I encountered a father and son who were wearing sneakers, and I helped them find a stick to make their crossing safer.
Despite it being a holiday weekend and this being a popular getaway from Tucson and Phoenix, I didn’t see anyone else after that. The 2,000′ climb from oak scrub to mixed conifer forest is very steep – when I started hiking here 3 years ago I considered it one of my most daunting climbs – so with my current reduced lung capacity I approached it with a stiff upper lip. But it actually wasn’t too bad. I realized I was in exactly the same position I’d been in 3 years ago – having to stop often to catch my breath, I’d trained myself to climb more slowly so I didn’t have to stop as often. I covered the 3 miles to the park in 2 hours, which didn’t seem bad. And as usual, I was grateful for how much better maintained the trails are here than back at home. Fighting through monsoon overgrowth of shrubs and annuals has become a real chore this year, but there wasn’t nearly as much of it in these mountains.
Clouds were drifting back and forth over the crest, and the temperature was mild when I started out, but I was soon sweating through my clothes, and before I was even halfway up to the park, I was sweating so hard it was dripping constantly from my hatbrim, nose, and chin – another thing I’m getting really tired of.
Then, as I continued past the park and rounded the corner into the big upper canyon, I was hit by a blast of cold wind, and quickly became chilled. This cold wind chased me for the rest of the climb, and my sweat-soaked hat and shirt didn’t dry out until I reached the end – so it was only the effort of climbing that kept me from being miserably cold.
This second stretch of the hike is not quite as steep as the first half, and I was able to maintain a good pace until the last mile, when I really ran out of steam and had to stop often. It’s always been a hard slog – it originally took me 3 tries to reach the top. But today I was determined to go farther than ever before – to explore a little of the crest trail beyond the junction, into the other big canyon in the south of the range.
In the bleak, burned saddle at 9,300′, the trail disappears in overgrowth of annuals, and makes a sharp turn to traverse the next peak toward the actual crest trail. It’s only because I’ve hiked it before that I know where to go at this point – there’s an almost invisible path through the shoulder-high ferns that you can only detect when you’re right on top of it, and even then you have to use landmarks ahead and behind to keep on track.
But this traverse lies at the southwest head of the long, deep canyon, and today’s wind was out of the northeast, so the entire canyon was acting as a funnel, and all along this traverse I was subjected to gale-force wind, intensifying as I reached the junction saddle. I was only able to keep my hat on by cinching it down tightly over my ears.
It’s always great to reach a new watershed, with new vistas – this hike progresses across 3 major ones – but it was so damn windy I couldn’t linger. I only explored about 300 yards up the crest trail before it was time to turn back.
My shirt and hat were finally dry, but now the wind was in my face as I started back down the big canyon. It’d been a grueling hike and I was feeling a little sick at first, running out of breath and having to stop occasionally, but after the first mile of descent I was okay. The lower I climbed, the wind gradually slowed and temperature gradually increased, until when I reached the pine park I was actually warm again.
From the pine park, you’re descending a north slope in late afternoon, so you’re mostly in shade, with long shadows from the crest cutting across the slopes ahead, making wonderful patterns of light and dark. As usual, I was looking forward to burrito and beer in the cafe, but still lingered as much as time allowed, to admire flowers and butterflies.
Monday, October 10th, 2022: Chiricahuas, Greenhouse, Hikes, Southeast Arizona.
This year’s exceptional Southwest monsoon, which started early, in June, slacked off a little in mid-September. But then it resumed with a vengeance – the heaviest deluge in our local mountains occurred in late September, and in early October, with the onset of cool weather, we’ve turned into the Pacific Northwest.
Not that the Pacific Northwest doesn’t have its beauties, but that’s not what I moved to southwest New Mexico for! What a gloomy week. It started as I was in the midst of repairs on the outside of my house. Most of the work I’d planned for October would’ve occurred outdoors, and now all I wanted to do was lower the window blinds, collapse on the sofa, and read a book.
Sunday, my big hiking day, was forecast to be mostly cloudy but hopefully rain-free across the region. And I’d already decided to drive over to the range of canyons in Arizona, where I guessed it wouldn’t be quite so chilly, with even less chance of rain.
Hah!
Approaching the range from the northeast, I could see only light clouds. But once I entered the valley of the main creek, and started crossing bridges, I discovered it was in full flood, higher than I’d ever seen it. This range had been getting at least as much rain as we had, and it was plenty chilly here.
The part of the range accessible to me, this northeast basin, really only offers four choices of big hikes, and only two of those are interesting to me. I was tentatively planning to redo a version of my favorite, which involves driving a mile and a half up a really gnarly high-clearance 4wd track consisting almost entirely of big loose rocks. Fine, except there’s a creek crossing, and I wouldn’t know if it was too deep for my vehicle until I got there. And I didn’t think there was room to turn around at that crossing, which was at the end of the worst part of the road.
So I checked my maps and pinpointed the spot downstream where that creek met the graded spur road and emptied into the main creek, and slowed at that point to take a look. It was coming down pretty heavy, but I didn’t think it would stop me, so I continued.
Heavy rain had washed more dirt out from under and around the rocks in the road, so it was even rougher than usual. At the start of the really bad part, I parked and scouted on foot. It turned out the creek crossing had been widened, smoothed, and dammed at its downstream end with flat rocks by the original road builders, so even now, the flow was just shallow enough for my vehicle – no more than 8 inches deep. So I made it all the way to the trailhead.
Because the approach is so daunting, and impassable for most vehicles, this trail sees little use. I’d last hiked it in mid-July, and concluded nobody had been up it since at least May. But it does offer a popular short version, to the waterfall overlook, that is well-known enough to attract even novice hikers.
I made my way up the forested side valley, accompanied by the clamor of its little creek, collecting heavy dew from the chest-high overgrowth on my waterproof boots and canvas pants. But after crossing the creek, changing into my waterproof hunting pants, and starting up the switchbacks on the opposite slope, I got lost.
It wasn’t that I’d lost the trail – somebody had lost it before me, and spent a lot of effort thrashing about, trampling vegetation and creating spurious trails that got me so confused I couldn’t relocate myself in the heavy overgrowth of annuals on that steep, shrubby hillside.
Unlike my predecessor, I knew where the trail was supposed to be, so eventually, I just cut straight up the slope, and reached one of the switchbacks before going too far.
Like most of the trails in this range, it’s well graded for hiking, which means it has a narrow tread but generally neutral camber cut through the slopes it crosses. But with this kind of overgrowth, you often can’t see it and have to just keep pushing through the vegetation to reveal the tread ahead. My precessor apparently lacked the experience to do that, and immediately ventured off-trail when he or she couldn’t see the trail ahead.
It got worse, higher up the switchbacks. On the steepest traverses, instead of pushing through the overgrowth which leans across the trail from above, this earlier hiker crossed below, punching postholes in the wet slope, increasing erosion that undercut the original trail. At one point, they even created a new bypass above the original trail that was actually more difficult and further increased erosion.
Clouds had been closing in as I climbed above the waterfall toward the entrance to the hanging valley, the next phase of the hike. In the valley, there were still glimpses of blue sky and rays of sunlight that lit the aspen seedlings, now turning gold. I could hear the creek raging below me – the next question would be how passable it would be. The trail traverses down to the creek, where it follows the narrow bottom, crossing back and forth, for roughly a mile.
The canyon bottom was beautiful with this much water, and there are enough rocks that I was able to cross – 8 or 10 times – fairly easily. But it’s slow going. I keep wondering why this trail is so damn slow. It always takes more than 3 hours to complete the slightly less than 4 miles to the crest – a distance I can normally cover in less than 2 hours on other trails. On today’s hike I paid more attention, and settled on two factors: the mile following the creek, which is like an obstacle course, and the fact that much of this trail involves crossing small talus slopes which have been heavily colonized by shrubs, often thorny locust. There’s no way you can go fast across talus.
I finally made it past the creek section and began the traverse to the head of the canyon and the crest of the range. That’s when I was hit with my first hailstorm of the day – a fairly light and short one, but it brought with it colder temperatures.
I stopped at the cabin to take off my rain poncho and pull on a sweater, then I proceeded up to the crest, which is normally a wind tunnel. It was calm today, and the cloud ceiling was a few hundred feet above, leaving me a view across the plains to the southwest – one of the main payoffs of this hike.
In the saddle, at the junction with the crest trail, you can go left or right. I’d gone right in July, so it made sense to go left today, especially since the left choice offered more options. I’d arrived at the trailhead late today, so my time was shorter than usual.
The first, one-mile stretch of the crest trail is a continuous traverse, blessed by that amazing view. The aspen seedlings had turned gold all across the slopes, but the heavy cloud cover muted their beauty. And all along that traverse I could hear thunder from a storm far to my right, over the range’s western foothills. I could also see a storm forming directly ahead of me, and wondered what it had in mind.
At the next milestone, a junction saddle, I had a really hard time deciding where to go next. The most reasonable choice would be to climb the peak of the range, directly ahead – less than a half mile and a few hundred vertical feet. It was a dead end, so my return hike would be shorter and I’d have plenty of time to negotiate the obstacle course on the return to my vehicle.
But that peak is completely forested and offers no views – a total anti-climax – so I ended up taking the other option, and risked returning to the vehicle too late for dinner at the cafe and a room at the lodge.
Option two is a mile-long descending traverse around the western flank of the peak, leading to a small saddle with the potential to continue less than a mile for a view into the big southern canyon. Three different spectacular views in one hike – how could I pass that up?
It’s not the easiest traverse, crossing a broad, forested talus slope with big sharp rocks. But I made the saddle in good time, checked my watch again, and decided to continue to the viewpoint into the big canyon.
I was only a short distance below the saddle when lightning struck in the cloud directly above me, I was near-deafened by thunder and lashed by gale-force wind, and more hail started crashing down. After quickly pulling my poncho back on, I was barely able to snap some pictures across the head of the canyon, before rushing back up into the partial shelter of the conifer forest.
The storm followed me up to the junction saddle, and most of the way across the traverse to the head of the first canyon, lasting longer than most of our monsoon storms. But what a view!
I made good time on the crest traverse and the upper part of the canyon trail, running down smooth stretches, so that by the time I reached the creek, I began to think I might actually get dinner and a room tonight. And the clouds began parting, lighting up the aspens in the hanging canyon.
I’d been up this trail several times in the snow, and at this point, I could envision this once-in-a-lifetime monsoon simply transitioning seamlessly into a winter of heavy snow, with no break in between. We’ll see, but that would be something to remember, here in the arid Southwest.
I did reach the vehicle with plenty of time, although I used up the surplus time at the trailhead changing into dry clothes and footwear, so I had to literally bounce my little Sidekick down that rocky track.
Since so few people use this trail, later, when I had wifi, I checked trail reports on the popular Arizona hiking website, and found a report from early September. His story clearly suggested that he was the one who’d messed up the trail, and if so, likely left the trash I found in the hanging canyon. Not everyone who hikes is either skilled or conscientious.
Monday, February 6th, 2023: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Indian, Southeast Arizona.
After weeks of health issues, deep snow in the high mountains, and boring local recovery hikes, I’d really been yearning to return to Arizona for a change of scenery. So I spent a few hours on Saturday in deep online research, trying to pinpoint an interesting low-elevation trail within my 2-hour-drive radius that would also be near the cafe and motel, so I wouldn’t have to drive the deer-infested highway home after dark.
There turned out to be only one trail that met my criteria, but relevant information was sparse and contradictory. The authoritative, detailed trail guide I normally rely on says it was only partially surveyed more than a decade ago and is in “terrible” condition, but the official trail map provided at the ranger station, updated in 2018, shows it as a major trail suitable for “Hiker/Horse/Mountain Bike”. And mapping websites show it as part of a national route used by through hikers, like the Pacific Crest Trail.
To further confuse the issue, the access road goes through a remote settlement which Wikipedia and other history sites call a ghost town, but satellite views show a sizable farm and many occupied, well-maintained residences. It’s in a part of the range I’d always wanted to explore. If it turned out to be a bust, I could always drive to the more familiar area and do a shorter hike in the time remaining.
According to maps, the trail begins on a forest road and continues up a canyon for a few miles to a short fork that leads to a large rockshelter called “Indian Cave”, which would definitely interest me. From the fork, the main trail climbs to a saddle, from which you can continue to a landmark rock formation I’ve seen many times from the crest of the range. That was my ideal destination, assuming I could even find enough trail to follow.
A further complicating factor was my back pain. I’d been surprised on Saturday to find it on the edge of triggering again – only a month since the last severe episode. Normally I recover completely and these episodes are about six months apart.
The hidden valley turned out to be really interesting – far from a ghost town, it was a living rural community with a winery and a collection of modest but attractive homes, some of them large, most of which I assumed were vacation homes. The access road was well-graded but clearly subject to massive washouts which would be expensive to fix and could leave residents cut off for weeks.
The forest road dipped into a dense sycamore riparian forest and crossed a clear, strong creek, leading within a few hundred yards to a neat, unoccupied cottage surrounded by foraging wild turkeys. I literally drove through their front yard and came to a gate with a small parking area on the bank of the creek, where I decided to stop and continue on foot.
I’d worn sneakers and brought two different pairs of hiking boots, planning to change into the appropriate pair depending on conditions. But when I tried to take off my sneakers, I triggered another episode of severe back pain. There I was in a remote location, at the start of a major hike, after two hours of driving, nearly paralyzed.
I’ve had this condition for 24 years. It began with episodes separated by years, then about a decade ago increased to the six-month intervals. Apparently now it’s accelerated to a third level. More than anything, I was angry. At 10 am, the sky was clear and the temperature was already approaching 70 – a welcome change from the freezing temps we’d had at home for over a month. The sycamores made this a beautiful canyon, and I loved the sound of the creek. I was determined not to let the pain stop me.
After all this time I have a whole suite of things I can do to mitigate it, from stretching to meds. With a little preliminary stretching I was able to get my boots on – the waterproof pair because I’d surely have to cross the creek, and from the road I’d seen snow below the distant rock formation.
Pain stabbing me with every step, I passed through the gate and walked up the road, which the trail guide said had been washed out by floods after the 2011 wildfire. And sure enough, a little over a quarter mile in, I came to the first of the washouts, with a superfluous “Road Closed” sign, and after that, the damage became more and more apocalyptic.
Information on this trail had been so confusing, I really had no idea what to expect, and was just trusting in my routefinding skills. I’d brought some printouts, one of which claimed I would find a cabin on the left side of the old road. But the cottage I’d driven to and parked near was on the right side.
On its way upstream, the forest road had apparently crossed the creek several times, actually using the creek bed itself for lengthy stretches. But after the 2011 fire, major sections of that road had completely disappeared, and what was left was debris – boulders, logs, and the creek. To avoid triggering severe pain and paralyzing myself, I had to somehow maintain posture while picking my way over the obstacles, and it was a continual ordeal, punctuated occasionally by cries of pain. At least I was alone – no one could hear my cries.
The only tracks I found in occasional patches of dirt were from the wild turkeys. There was no evidence humans had been here in years – maybe not since the trail guide guy had partially surveyed it right after the 2011 fire.
I would pick my way up the debris-strewn creek bed for hundreds of yards, eventually coming to a point where the old road reappeared. Then I would follow the surviving roadbed up the floodplain through riparian forest for a few hundred yards until I came to the next washout – a pile of huge logs, huge boulders, or an abrupt four-foot dropoff.
At each washout a black insulated phone cable would emerge from underground, and I found eight to ten “Caution – Buried Cable” posts beside the roadbed. Apparently someone had laid a telephone cable up here, at great cost! The follies of mankind…
I painfully found my way up this devastated canyon bottom for almost a mile and a half, finally reaching the cabin on the left. It was preceded by another big washout and a collapsed gate adorned with metal bird symbols, so I assumed the builders had been birders like most inhabitants of this range. And now they would never use their cabin without either a difficult hike or fantastically expensive and unsustainable road work. Building a cabin on a creekbed road in a narrow canyon just shows that birders are no more ecologically aware than the rest of us. I once had similarly clueless ambitions for my place in the desert.
It was sad – a nice little cabin, furnished with family antiques. I was surprised none of these remote properties showed vandalism. This valley really is off the radar.
The cabin marks the end of the old forest road, where the trail proper begins. But following the old road had been such an ordeal, I needed a couple pain pills even to consider continuing.
The path was clear at first, but I began to lose it at the first creek crossing. I looked for cairns but could find none, so I mostly just followed the creek. This is not wilderness, so I found old cattle sign, and wherever a faint, narrow tread appeared up the bank into the forest, I assumed it was cattle trail. I was sporadically bothered by flies, and butterflies had started hatching out here.
The printout I’d brought said I would reach the “narrows”, where the creek flows over bedrock, and over a mile past that, the turnoff to the Indian Cave. But walking was so difficult with my back pain and the lack of a clear trail, I totally lost track of distance. I came to places where the creek flowed over bedrock, and it was beautiful clear water and interesting rock, but I wouldn’t call it a “narrows”.
I stopped frequently to do hip stretches and a standing spinal twist. Finally the meds kicked in and my attitude began to improve. What a beautiful day, and what a beautiful canyon! I’d never seen such clear water, and the air temperature was perfect – I even unbuttoned my shirt.
I began to find sporadic, minimal cairns, half-buried in grass along the “cattle trail”, proving there really was a hiking trail here once, long ago. And I reached a major side canyon on the right. According to the map I’d brought, this would have to be the Indian Cave canyon, so I started up it, holding myself stiff at the waist to avoid triggering my lower back. It was really steep and split into two branches. I climbed the ridge between them but hit an impassable wall of shrubs. Then I climbed back down into the right fork, but was soon stopped by a wall of flood debris. I figured I’d gone too far anyway – this probably wasn’t the cave drainage.
I made my way back down to the main creek, and worked my way farther upstream, enjoying the day despite all the confusion. Soon I found another, even bigger side canyon on the right. This had to be the cave drainage! And shortly after turning up it, I spotted an old shovel on the far bank. People had been this way, so I must be on the right track.
The cave is supposed to be less than 300 yards up the side drainage, but I could see no evidence of a cliff ahead. After about 200 yards I saw what appeared to be a trail up the right bank, so I climbed about 60 feet up in loose rocks and dirt, but was no wiser for the effort. I returned to the canyon bottom and continued, but after going more than 300 yards saw no evidence of a cave. Where the hell was I? The map didn’t show these side canyons at all.
Returning to the junction, I found a huge cairn, standing alone in the forest with no sign of a trail around it. But continuing up the bank of the main creek, I eventually found more stretches of the old trail. My printout said the trail would start climbing the left bank after passing the cave turnoff, and sure enough, I soon came to a steep trail up the left bank, marked by a tiny cairn.
This trail quickly disappeared in dense grass and rocks. I was stuck partway up a steep hillside, and the sun was going down and it was time to turn back, without reaching any of my goals for the day. I couldn’t even tell how far up the canyon I’d gone.
On the way down, it turned out to be easier to find cairns and sections of the old trail. Like most canyon trails it kept crossing and recrossing the creek. My back pain was increasing and I took a third pill. I was looking forward to dinner and a beer at the cafe, and a bed for the night so I wouldn’t have to drive all the way home.
Many small trees along the bank had been bent all the way over by floods in last summer’s monsoon, and many larger trees had dropped branches recently, maybe during winter winds. I’m always looking for remote places where I will be the first visitor in ages, and I sure found one here! What a beautiful canyon, developed by the ignorant hubris of humans, only to be completely abandoned!
I reached the vehicle with plenty of time to drive around the mountains to the cafe and motel. But it turned out to be mobbed by some sort of tour group – as usual, folks in their 60s and 70s, likely birders. After a long wait I got my burrito and beer, but there was no room for me at the inn. Exhausted after a day of pain, I would have to drive home in the dark.
But one encouraging discovery was a dramatic improvement in my vision – after sharply deteriorating over the winter, now it was better than at any time in the past few years. I wouldn’t need glasses after all. A full moon was rising in the east, and for a change, it wasn’t doubled – I could focus on it and the surrounding stars, just like in the old days.
Monday, March 6th, 2023: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Silver, Southeast Arizona.
I was beyond stir-crazy. Hiking was the main thing that kept me healthy in body and mind – it relieves stress, lowers blood pressure, manages pain and enhances mobility – but deteriorating trail conditions had forced me to give it up two weeks ago. Since then, we’d had several more snowfalls, and I’d become virtually sedentary.
Local trails were still out of the question, with either deep snow, deep mud, or creek crossings flooded by snowmelt. Besides, I needed to get away from the obligations, the worries and unfinished projects weighing me down at home, even if only for a night.
But I expected to find the same conditions everywhere in our region. Sunday morning arrived and I still hadn’t made a decision before my usual 8 am departure time. I followed the opening race of the Formula 1 season, which would end about 9:30 am, and finally decided to drive over to Arizona to the range of canyons. Conditions would be the same there, but with less than a full day left, I could busy myself with short, boring low-elevation hikes, enjoy dinner at the cafe, and get a room for the night. If nothing else, it would get me out of the house.
I arrived at noon, leaving me five-plus hours to hike and reach the cafe before closing. In normal conditions, that would give me plenty of time to take the nine-mile out-and-back peak trail at the mouth of the basin. But it ends in traverses and switchbacks across a steep north slope above 7,000′, topping out at 8,000′, and I expected north slopes at those elevations to carry well over a foot of snow now.
I’ve done that hike twice before, but I normally avoid it – it’s the most popular hike in the range, too short for a full-day hike, and it falls completely outside the wilderness area, so there’s less chance of encountering wildlife. But it is spectacular, and it would offer my best option for gaining some decent elevation in the time I had.
It was a sunny, calm day with high, wispy clouds, and the temperature surprised me by being in the mid-70s when I got out of my vehicle at the trailhead. It’d been an unusually long, cold winter, and I couldn’t remember feeling so comfortable outdoors since last September! Expectedly, there were three other vehicles there already.
I unbuttoned my shirt, and as soon as I climbed out of the lush riparian zone onto the open, grassy slope, the temperature seemed to rise into the mid-80s. Surrounded by one of the most spectacular landscapes in the Southwest, with layered red and white cliffs and ramparts of towering spires, I stopped to stretch and tighten my boots. And a tiny older man in a drab “socialist worker” outfit – even shorter than me! – passed, running down the trail, carrying no gear, not even a water bottle.
A little farther up, I met an older couple resting in the shade of a juniper. They were on their way down, and said they’d only made it to the prominent “Trail” sign up on the shoulder of the ridge. The woman said “That’s halfway, right?” but I pointed out it was considerably less than that, and the man looked away disgustedly.
Despite its popularity, this is one of the two steepest trails in the entire range, with an average grade of 13% – so although many struggle up the first mile or so, only the truly athletic achieve the 3,200′ ascent to the peak.
It proceeds in two major segments: the climb across the northeast slope, out of the “gateway” basin and around the shoulder of the ridge, followed by the traverse and climb of the north slope. The first segment gets enough sun to be both snow-free and dry, so I made good time there. My body felt healthier – back in the conditions where it thrives – and my spirit rose with the elevation and the unfolding views across the landscape.
1,200′ up, I rounded the shoulder into the broad hollow of the north slope, a complex circling wall of layered red rimrock cliffs and towering spires, bisected by a precipitous ravine. Whereas my view on the first segment had been eastward past the range’s gateway, I now had a view across the northwest ridges of the range, all the way to the snow-draped crest of another range I’d last climbed in December, 70 miles away in the clear air.
I soon met the next party of hikers, a couple a little younger than me. I was curious about how much snow they’d found ahead – I couldn’t see much from this vantage point, but it might be hidden under forest, and snow settles deeper on trails than on the surrounding slopes.
The man said they’d turned back because the trail surface was too slippery with ice and wet snow. I asked if they’d reached the switchbacks – meaning the final switchbacks to the peak – and the man said they’d only made it halfway up. They were both using trekking poles, so I figured the trail must be pretty bad. But I had to find out for myself.
Shortly after I passed them I reached the first set of switchbacks, and sure enough, they were slippery with wet, shallow snow – but nothing I couldn’t handle. I just had to adjust my gait, using the edges of my boots to chop holds in the slush. The couple’s tracks turned back halfway up, so I realized we’d misunderstood each other. There are three sets of switchbacks – they’d stopped at the lowest of the three. Past that point, there was only one set of tracks going forward – also from today – two people, both bigger than me, with a dog.
This first set of switchbacks leads to the first big red outcrop – the face rock. Passing below that, you enter the confines of the ravine. Dwarfed by towering outcrops on all sides, you reach the second set of switchbacks, where the trail condition was about the same. These take you high enough to cross the ravine, through a narrow riparian forest, past which you begin the long traverse of the main north slope.
That’s where conditions got trickier. There were still occasional dry patches, but I was now above 7,000′, and the snow was up to six inches deep, fresh and soft. And before long, I reached a narrow spot where one of the hikers preceding me had slipped off the trail and slid straight down the steep slope below. They’d fallen at least fifteen feet, and maybe much more – I couldn’t tell with bushes blocking the view. The slope itself drops continuously two or three hundred feet into a ravine, with only spindly shrubs to break your slide – pretty scary!
It was a good warning for me to proceed with utmost caution. But their tracks resumed past the narrow spot – I figured they must be young people who wouldn’t let a fall scare them. And whereas their tracks showed that they were hiking in sneakers or cheap lightweight boots, I was wearing my serious winter boots, with good traction and sharp edges to chop holds in the snow.
The traverse winds westward in and out of drainages, eventually entering mixed conifer forest. I always look forward to the tall, shaggy firs – an island of alpine habitat confined to the top of the steep north slope of this relatively low peak. But the shade of the forest meant that the west end of the traverse lay under a continuous blanket of still-fresh snow, six inches or more deep. Here, the temperature had dropped from the 80s to the high 50’s, so I pulled my sweater back on.
At its far west end, the trail swings back to climb through more spectacular rock outcrops, beginning the final set of a dozen switchbacks that end on the summit ridge. These switchbacks held the deepest snow, and this was where I expected the most difficulty. But I was already exercising plenty of caution, and reached the crest with what I thought was enough time remaining for the descent.
On this last climb to the crest, you’re getting glimpses through the forest and between the rock outcrops to the landscape 3,000′-4,000′ below, and it’s a truly impressive and sobering preview of how high you’ve actually climbed in the past three hours. But it gets both better and worse.
This is a freestanding mountain, surrounded by low basins which are themselves ringed by more distant ridges. So on the crest, you’re on a precipitous island with a drop of 2,000′ to 3,000′ vertical feet on all sides. The final switchback leads to a tiny exposed saddle on a knife-edge ridge, which was sun-drenched now, hence blissfully snow-free.
It’s only a short distance up the ridge through low forest to the time-worn, lichen-encrusted cast-concrete stairs that take you to the peak and the foundation of the old fire lookout. These crude stairs violate every safety code you can imagine, with tall risers and shallow treads. They’re like a miniature version of the terrifying stairs up the cliff in Lord of the Rings. Even in dry conditions the climb to the top is more like the crux move of a technical climb up a crack in a rock wall. There’s no railing on the lower, steeper flight, and a fall would dash you onto the rock ledge below, and possibly over it down the north slope.
But today the lower steps were packed with slippery snow, so I made use of every available handhold – the brush and boulders at my left, the wet but snow-free edges of the steps above – and basically crawled up on all fours, trying not to think about the coming descent.
The upper flight of stairs, fully exposed to the sun, was completely snow-free and dry, but since it overhangs a cliff, it has a galvanized pipe handrail – something the lower flight could really use.
Summiting the stairs and stepping into the concrete enclosure, with its 360 degree view across the entire northern range, is one of the most dramatic moments imaginable. And as I was taking it in, and starting to take pictures, I heard a whoop from a neighboring peak, about 300 yards behind me to the east. It was the other hikers. I could make out a tall young man, but his partner was sitting behind a shrub. I waved back, and savored the views for about ten minutes, before firmly grabbing the handrail and stepping slowly down the vertiginous stairs, one at a time, nothing but a pipe railing between me and a 2,500′ vertical drop on my right. My time was getting short and I’d have to hurry down the dry stretches of trail.
I somehow made it safely down the tight, steep snow-packed lower steps, once again using my boot edges and every handhold possible. Then from there onto the forested upper switchbacks, where I had my one and only fall of the day at the best possible spot, in deep, fresh powder.
Just as I approached the lowest of the upper switchbacks, I heard another whoop from above. The young hikers were beginning their descent, and I figured if they were whooping spontaneously it was probably two guys, not a couple.
I was in shadow for almost the entire descent, and running down the dry stretches took its toll on my knees, so I was in quite a bit of pain even before I rounded the shoulder onto the lower segment of the trail. But what a beautiful hike for a short day!
Body and mind had been starved for this – it felt like the hiatus had been much longer than two weeks. I actually hadn’t been able to get this much elevation – over 3,000′ – in any hike during the past two months. Let alone all that beautiful exposed rock – the hikes near town run through monotonous forest. And the fact that I was able to reach 8,000′ after all the snow we’d had was encouraging. Maybe there are more trails accessible now than I thought?
Arriving at the cafe, I saw the full moon rising in the west, and realized I’d returned exactly a lunar month after my last visit. And thankfully, my vision remained clear.
Monday, March 27th, 2023: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Indian, Southeast Arizona.
Still looking for lower-elevation trails, I wanted to try a new one over in Arizona this Sunday. But surprisingly, there was no room at the nearby inn. My second choice was the abandoned, flood-damaged, overgrown trail farther south that had defeated me in early February. I wasn’t really looking forward to the bushwhack, but it’s a pretty canyon and I was still hoping to reach the “Indian cave” and the prominent rock formation at the head of the canyon.
Whereas on my previous visit, I’d been alone in the valley of the remote “ghost town” that leads to the trail, this time I passed two vehicles and a jogger on the road in. And as I approached the sycamore-shaded creek crossing, the water level seemed surprisingly higher.
The creek was higher, but forgetting about all the crossings, I’d brought my non-waterproof boots. Since all the snow was long melted off this low part of the range, I’d expected less water in the creek, but it was just the opposite. In fact, as I made my way upstream and more bedrock was exposed on the surrounding slopes, water was streaming down the surface in glistening sheets. Apparently the peaks and ridges above are porous, collecting and storing snowmelt all winter and releasing it slowly in spring.
The sky was clear, the air temperature was mild, and I was under riparian canopy in the bottom of a narrow canyon, but when I stepped out of my vehicle I was hit by a bitterly cold wind, which whipped at my hat and sucked at my body heat the whole day long.
As before, I found no other human tracks as I scrambled up the first mile-and-a-third of catastrophically washed-out forest road, climbing up and down sheer drop-offs, crossing and re-crossing the rushing creek. But I did find recent tracks and scat from both cattle and what seemed to be wild burros or horses.
The road ends at the abandoned cabin, where two creeks come together, and my trail leads up the right-hand creek. But before the catastrophic floods, the road continued up the left-hand creek, and I suspect that road is still mostly intact above the canyon bottom. Heading up my trail, I immediately found the tracks of three recent hikers, who I assumed came down from above on the upper road, which can be reached from the opposite, west side of the mountain range. When I checked the map that night, I saw they could actually do a 12-mile loop from the paved road in the national monument on the west side, using a combination of trails and forest roads, with presumably the hardest part being the canyon trail I was taking.
I’d expected my previous experience to result in an easier hike than before, but it actually felt even harder this time. Harder to distinguish remnants of the hiking trail from cattle trails, harder to relocate the trail after long scrambles up debris flows in the creek bed, harder to avoid the thorny shrubs on the banks, harder to get around log jams and thickets. I was already discouraged by the time I reached the first washed-out tributary, where I’d mistakenly looked for the cave last time.
And at one creek crossing, I found a rolled-up blanket up on the bank. One of those cheap, lightweight, synthetic fleece things that you’d pull over yourself to take a nap on the sofa – not something a sensible person would take outdoors. I assumed it had fallen off the pack of one of those three recent hikers, and they hadn’t missed it until it was too late to go back. But it set the tone for the rest of the day.
Past that tributary, more bedrock is exposed in the canyon bottom, and if anything, the way gets even harder. But I still hadn’t come to the “narrows” which the trail guide mentions – based on second-hand historical sources, because nobody’s actually surveyed this trail since the 2011 wildfire.
Passing the point where I’d turned back in February, I came to a massive log jam across the canyon, and climbing around it, reached a sandy ledge with an old fire ring. The previous hikers had tramped around here before continuing up canyon.
Finally I reached the “narrows”, where the canyon forms a “V” of stone, and the creek has cut a sinuous channel with many semi-circular hollows, deep pools, and small waterfalls. Here, I found a few decades-old trail improvements – including one walkway across a steep rock face, reinforced by half-rotted logs anchored by rebar sunk into holes drilled through the rock.
It was really tricky walking in the bottom of the V, climbing past the waterfalls, trying to avoid slipping into the three-foot-deep pools of cold water. I fell twice, each time barely avoiding injury. But it was a beautiful stretch of canyon, full of sound from the roaring creek and full of light from the glistening sheets of water flowing down the bare rock sides. And I occasionally got glimpes of the cliffs I was headed for, far upstream.
Finally I reached the junction with a smaller creek on my right, coming down from the cave. The bank was completely trashed by cattle.
The side creek drains a hidden basin, which opened before me as I walked up the creek. The water soon receded underground and I was making my way up a dry wash, surrounded by the eerie white skeletons of trees burned in the 2011 wildfire and green thickets of oak and juniper that had filled in afterward. And ahead, the cliffs, over 200 feet tall, under which I expected to find the cave.
Eventually my way up the wash was blocked by deadfall. The head of this basin consists of nothing but spectacular cliffs and rock formations, and would be a wonderful place to explore if it wasn’t so choked by fire debris and regrowth. But I noticed a narrow track – another cattle trail – up the bank to my right, heading toward the base of the cliff. And following it, I began finding the trash.
It was really old trash – the recent hikers hadn’t come this way, and nobody else but cows had been up here in many years, perhaps not since the 2011 wildfire. But there was literally a trail of trash leading through the brush to the cave itself, where faint prehistoric pictographs had been covered by someone’s huge red initials.
The ceiling was heavily blackened with soot – people had obviously camped in this cave for centuries, if not millenia. And some old hermit had lived here at one point – the rusted top of his cast-iron wood stove lay half-buried just outside.
I wasn’t up for a thorough search among the dense shrubbery and sediment, but what I encountered right on the trail and on the floor of the cave included: a black plastic garbage bag, three decomposed nylon day packs, a decomposed nylon fanny pack, various other decomposed nylon items that may have been gloves or climbing accessories, two small decomposed hiking boots, a cooking grille, a bunch of tuna cans, and a pop bottle. Cheap and shabby stuff like you’d find around an abandoned homeless camp, but some of it was presumably essential for whoever wore it here. Why had they walked a long and difficult trail to this remote location and left it behind?
And of course, there was a deep layer of cowshit across the entrance.
It’s only a four mile hike to the cave, but it’d taken me four hours – half my day. So I knew I wouldn’t reach the rock formation above the main creek. But I should have enough time to explore a little farther up the main creek, to see how far I could get in a half hour.
The answer was, not far. I did reach the next tributary gulch, where I encountered a solitary bull. I didn’t want to risk irritating him, and it was time to turn back anyway.
On my difficult, dangerous way back, I wondered whether it would ever be possible to improve this trail and clean up all that trash. It’s far outside the designated federal wilderness – hence the cattle – so this area was obviously sacrificed in a compromise with the ranching and mining industries, decades ago. And now, limited trail maintenance efforts prioritize trails within the wilderness.
It’s only one beautiful canyon in a range of beautiful canyons. But cleaning up the trash wouldn’t be that hard. There was far too much for me to carry out that day, but three people could do it if prepared.
Logs and brush can always be cut, and tread could be improved, on the creek bank and upper slopes, but big obstacles in the creek bottom will always exist due to flooding. And hikers will always have to carefully pick their way up the narrows. But on my way back, I discovered historical bypasses that climb above the narrows – these could definitely be restored.
There will always be stretches where no trail is possible, where the route leads up long debris flows that get rearranged in floods. But the whole cairn situation could really be improved. Many existing cairns are decorative – something special to this canyon that I haven’t seen much elsewhere. But cairns exist in only about half the places where they’re most needed – at creek crossings, places where the route leaves a debris flow and climbs up a bank, and around major obstacles. That’s another easily solved problem.
A hiker could probably move 50% faster with those improvements, and be rewarded with the prehistoric cave and the spectacular cliffs and rock formations.
I was a little sorry to leave the narrows behind, and my way did get harder in the lower canyon. But I had plenty of time and was able to focus more on my surroundings.
Once past the cabin, I saw a couple of whitetail deer. Before that, I’d seen many, many birds and butterflies throughout the day, but they’d been too skittish to photograph.
Driving under the sycamores across the creek to the valley road, I stopped for a drink of water, and as I was sitting in the vehicle, an old bearded man came out to his gate across the road and stared at me. I waved, he waved and kept staring. It was the gate to what was apparently a big family compound with at least two houses, one of them huge. I was in kind of a hurry, so I just waved again, and drove off. But I regretted not being able to question him about his community. Of course, he just wanted to know what I’d been up to back there – hopefully not vandalizing his neighbors’ properties in this extremely remote, hidden valley.
