Chiricahuas
Monday, August 25th, 2025: Cave Creek, Chiricahuas, Hikes, Southeast Arizona.
I needed another short, level hike to continue my knee rehab. There are several of those within a half hour of home, but after last week’s three-day getaway, I had returned to problems that were just getting more acute and less surmountable.
I discovered that my favorite backroads cafe had reopened, and after studying the trails, realized that a short “nature trail” in the canyon bottom would be perfect for my knee. When I’m in shape, I avoid these easy, dumbed-down hikes, but now…
So I headed across the border to Arizona again, for an escape and a decent lunch as much as for a hike. Our frustrating monsoon was in remission, only a few small clouds lurked on the horizon, and the afternoon high there was forecast to reach 90.
It got hot there in the canyon bottom, with the paved road, and tourist cars, sporadically visible through the trees, just across the creek. But I immediately began noticing tiny marker labels at the foot of trailside trees, and became obsessed with finding them all – so that I had to periodically force myself to back off and scan the habitat around me, and up to spy the looming rock formations.
On this hot day I was alone, until on the way back I encountered a knowledgeable young couple who confessed they’d become equally obsessed with the labels – and had noticed, as I had, that whereas labels identified yuccas, sotols, beargrasses, cholla cacti, and even grasses, none of the abundant agaves or prickly pears had been labeled.
In the trailside plants and labels, several aspects attracted my scrutiny.
First, I was both amused and delighted that in many cases, they’d chosen to label potentially hard-to-identify specimens like seedlings or plants that were damaged or mostly dead.
Next, I have a tree guide, and for years I’ve been struggling to identify the trees here, from the canyon bottom at 5,000 feet to the crest at almost 10,000 feet in elevation. So I was glad to see some of the harder-to-identify trees labeled via widely varying specimens.
And since I’ve barely scratched the surface of shrubs here, I was pleasantly surprised by labels on some of those.
Finally, especially after seeing the Apache pine, I began to wish they’d included Apache names for these…
Monday, September 15th, 2025: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Monument, Nature, Rocks, Southeast Arizona.
After sixteen months and three tries, our local doc’s attempts to fix my knee have failed again. I can’t waste more of my precious life on failures. Time for the big-city options, an hour’s flight or up to a five hour drive away.
In the meantime, I’m no longer worried about making it worse. What limits me is the harder the hike, the longer I’m immobilized with pain afterward.
The hike I chose for this Sunday was in the national monument over in Arizona. I wasn’t looking forward to the crowds, but the habitat would be spectacular, the distance manageable, and the elevation changes should be okay for my knee.
This trail starts on the crest, drops down through the rocks into a series of small, narrow canyons, then loops back up to the start. Pulling into the parking lot, I had to pee really bad, so I stepped behind a tree and checked to make sure nobody could see me.
Five minutes later, as I was placing the sunshade in my windshield, I heard yelling and noticed a car passing me, leaving the parking lot. I walked out, asking “What did you say?”
The small SUV was already past, but a middle-aged matron with beehive hairdo leaned out the window and yelled, in a nasal East Coast accent, “If you gotta pee, go behind a tree where nobody can see ya!” I laughed, but I started the hike feeling like everything was against me – my knee, my doctor, the square tourists in this formerly wild place that had been sanitized by the empire into a recreational enclave.
So much disappointment saps your motivation. As I passed one group of out-of-shape tourists after another – cheerily agreeing with them all that it was a beautiful place and a beautiful day – I asked myself again and again what I was doing there. The miles of stone stairways winding through the rocks, result of Herculean labors by the Depression-era Civilian Conservation Corps, actually made the trail harder to negotiate with my knee injury. Our hallowed National Park Service has even provided catchy names for natural features, handed down from English imperial history. I compulsively shot photos for a Dispatch, without really seeing what I was shooting.
I normally hike in remote locations where I’m totally alone and am often the first visitor in weeks, months, or even years. Here, with tourists both in front and behind me, I felt pressured to just finish the damn hike. The rocks became overwhelming, and the only saving grace was the plants – especially the grasses, which were thriving in our late monsoon.
As the trail began descending a side canyon, I could hear a small waterfall hidden in the rocks below. Soon I came to a trickle of water, and finally, to a pool I could cross on boulders. The side canyon emptied into the main canyon and I came to a trail junction. My loop continued onto a traverse across the slope of the main canyon. This part of the loop was much less traveled – even overgrown in places – and here, I became fixated on the grasses.
Nearing the turnoff where the trail left the main canyon to climb back to the crest, a young couple caught up with me – the old cliche of a tiny girl with a huge guy to keep her safe. As they were passing, the boy asked “Have you seen anything cool?”
Surprised, I asked him to repeat, and when he did, I replied “Are you kidding? Everything here is cool!”
That got me started wondering what wasn’t cool – the stone stairs? The tourists? The fact that it’s a national monument?
Natives talk about the time when animals were people. Before humans, animals had to figure out how to live, by trial and error. Then when we came along, the animals became our mythical teachers.
Long ago I came to realize that everything is alive. Everything has its own form of awareness, and the ability to interact with the rest of us.
This place reinforces my notion of rocks as living beings, more than any place I can think of. It’s spectacular, but it can also feel a little spooky. As you recognize human features in the rocks, you realize we’re outnumbered here. Way outnumbered by this looming crowd. Barring some mutual apocalypse, they’ll be here, watching, long after we’re gone.
The lonely traverse up the main canyon, away from the stairs and the tourists, had somewhat lifted my bad spirits. Parts of the trail had reminded me of favorite rocky, shady spots on hikes in the Pinalenos, the Arizona White Mountains, the Mojave Desert, even taking me back to the Sierra Nevada of my youth. Lush, intimate pockets in a vast, monumental landscape.
Sunday, September 21st, 2025: Basin, Chiricahuas, Hikes, Nature, Plants, Southeast Arizona.
We still had a few hot days ahead, and I’d decided to make the long drive north to the volcanic plateau for a level hike through aspens, fir, and spruce. But on my way out of town I pulled over, realizing I really wanted to do the shorter drive southwest to the range of canyons. I didn’t know what hike I would do there, but the drive – on the Interstate and straight, lonely highways – would be so much easier.
I arrived at lunchtime and had a delicious brunch in the cafe first. Then as I drove back into the basin I encountered crowds of birders, and realized I would need something remote and unpopular.
The gnarly road to my favorite trail, lined with big loose rocks, passes a side trail that I’d partly hiked from the opposite direction last year. It’s a boring trail that I’d always avoided before my knee injury – it just goes from road to road, traversing the western slopes of the basin, without any sort of interesting destination. Its only redeeming feature is the occasional views east over the basin.
Storm clouds were gathering over the range, so I might even get lucky and get rained on!
Before heading over here, I’d considered this trail, but rejected it because it would have too much elevation change for my knee. But at this point, what does it really matter?
The remote, boring trail was overgrown with agaves and catclaw acacia. It hadn’t been maintained in years, and there was no evidence anyone had hiked it this year. I walked in and out of dark cloud shadows and narrow ravines. The trail was lined with beautiful wildflowers, some of which looked new to me.
At the halfway point, I rounded a bend and saw a big outlying ridge across a deep ravine – I knew the trail would start climbing that ridge on switchbacks. But it seemed to take forever, first to cross the ravine, then to climb the long switchbacks. In the meantime, I was treated to thunder and the sight of rain, three miles east across the basin.
The whole mountain range was teeming with butterflies – mostly black – but they were too shy to photograph.
I was wearing the knee brace, which masks the pain, but I was sure I was going to suffer later when I took it off. I’ve got it set to allow 45 degrees of flexion, and with that, I can hike normally except on steep stretches. But without the brace, I can’t stand to put any weight on the knee while it’s bent. This is how it’s been for almost 17 months now.
What a boring trail! But what a beautiful day, in a beautiful place. In the past I would’ve stayed overnight, but I have to watch my expenses now that the whole family depends on me.
Monday, October 20th, 2025: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Snowshed, Southeast Arizona.
I’d been in pain all night long, and was starting the day in pain. Meds hadn’t worked, which rarely but occasionally happens. I was determined to at least try to go hiking, but last Sunday’s hike had been both frustratingly short and difficult, and lunch had sucked. So today I wanted to do something longer and easier, with a more reliable midday meal. That left me only one choice – a trail so boring I’d avoided it while hiking every trail around it multiple times for the past seven years.
I mean, I would never complain about walking through beautiful, pristine Southwest habitat, with dramatic cliffs rising above the trees. But I do like variety and vistas, and this trail is a mostly level stroll through oak woodland that tends to block the views.
We’re still having unseasonably warm weather – apocalyptically so – and where I was going it was forecast to reach 80. Normal temps for this time of year would range from the 50s to the 60s.
Brunch – trout and eggs, with salad and sweet potato fries – was awesome as usual. If you wonder why I make a point of these weekly road trip meals, we lost our good restaurants during COVID – so since 2020, I only eat out while traveling.
I’ve actually done the first mile of this hike three or four times, on the way to the crest of the range. It starts in the canyon bottom and climbs past somebody’s luxury retreat and a series of gullies and ravines to an alluvial bench lined with the oak woodland.
Past the junction, the new trail hadn’t seen heavy use, but I was surprised to find a mountain bike track – the first I remember seeing anywhere in this canyon. It makes sense since this trail is the only one that’s easy enough for bikes.
The alluvial bench narrows as the trail trends westward, until you can glimpse the ravine through which the creek runs, and the gravel road on the other side that serves picnic areas and a campground. I’d been in denial of the fact that I would hear traffic, and kids yelling – more downsides of this hike.
At one point I could see kids down below playing in the creek, and as I turned back to face the trail ahead, a hawk flew past me through the trees, only about eight feet above the ground and a dozen feet from me. A little later I came upon a whitetail doe – the first whitetail I’d seen in a long time.
Approaching the trail junction where I would turn back, the trail got gnarlier, descending into and climbing steeply out of one deep ravine after another – finally, some variety!
Despite being in pain, I’d started the day, and the hike, without meds – hoping the hike would loosen up the joints and get some endorphins flowing. But after three hours of hiking, I was still hurting pretty bad when I returned to the Sidekick, and immediately popped some pills.
Afternoons, with low angle sunlight, are great times to discover new aspects of the landscape. On the way out of the mountains I noticed an area across the highway that would make for promising hiking – if it’s not blocked by private land.
Then, getting ready to pass – for the umpteenth time – the granite spire I’d tried to climb earlier this year, I noticed for the first time a gully up the southwest side that might actually be climbable. Doing 65 on the empty highway, I grabbed my camera and took a sloppy zoom photo of the spire out my side window.
I’ve scoured the internet unsuccessfully for info on this peak, and despite the fact that peakbaggers are competitive and anal about keeping and sharing records of their accomplishments, it appears that nobody has ever claimed an ascent. Examining the photo back home, it does look like that gully might be a route to the top – for somebody with functional knees.
Tuesday, November 4th, 2025: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Rattlesnake, Southeast Arizona.
My itinerary, returning home from Tucson with stops along the way to explore new hiking areas, was resulting in mid-day hikes and missed mid-day meals, which I can ill afford with ongoing muscle atrophy and weight loss. After the Indian Trail hike on Saturday, I’d spent the night in Willcox and was hoping to hike the wild, less-visited west side of the range of canyons on Sunday. And sure enough, I was destined to miss another mid-day meal while doing some hard exercise. A great weight-loss plan if that’s what I needed. Yeah, I always carry snacks, but not enough on this unplanned trip. I didn’t even have enough clean clothes, and would unsuccessfully try to wash and dry a set overnight…
The west side of the range consists of four major west-trending ridges, all designated wilderness, with three primitive forest roads leading up between them to remote, primitive campgrounds and trailheads. Until the massive 2011 wildfire, an intricate network of 4wd roads and backpacking trails penetrated the entire area from exterior basin to crest, but after the fire, flash floods, washouts, and debris flows resulted in all those trails and most of the roads being abandoned.
This is just the kind of hiking scenario I crave! But before now, this area had been just too far from home to explore. The far northern ridge lies within the national monument where I’d done a couple of hikes, and the northernmost forest road leads over the crest of the range to the popular eastern basin – I’d driven that once from west to east.
My map showed a secondary forest road turning south off that crest road, well below the crest, toward a pass and a remote canyon marked with something called “Pine Canyon Camp”. A little more research revealed an elaborate Methodist Church Camp tucked away in this remote canyon, which had been damaged by catastrophic floods after the 2011 fire, and “completely removed” by the Forest Service as recently as 2018. Apparently they even broke up and buried the foundations…
My topo map showed that branch road into Pine Canyon climbing over a pass and ending at the canyon bottom, where trails led up and down canyon. With all that flood damage, I had no idea whether the road over the pass would be usable – let alone the trails in the canyon. If not, I would just continue to the crest, do a hike there, then make the three-hour drive home, stopping at the cafe in late afternoon for my only decent meal of the day.
The main road to the crest is pretty scary, but the minute I turned off onto the side road to the pass I felt like a real pioneer. Not only was it rougher, it was far more spectacular! In tight, narrow turns, it cut between a cliff and a towering rock outcrop, then did a hairpin and climbed precipitously over the pass, between dramatic rock outcrops – one of the most spectacular backcountry roads I’ve driven!
And beyond the pass lay a big, very remote canyon with more spectacular rimrock, and a short, steep descent to the bottom. I’d studied this canyon on the map, and assumed the main access was via a maze of ranch roads in the western basin. But the sign at the bottom said this road dead ends at a locked gate – private ranchland. So this gnarly road over the pass is the only way into and out of this big, spectacular canyon.
I wanted to explore it all, but only had time for a hike. Beyond the sign, the old road north up the canyon was washed out and officially closed, so I parked, loaded up, and set out on foot.
Across the shallow washout was a broad floodplain, where remnants of the old road alternated with debris fields from the floods. Despite our continuing unseasonable warm weather, fall color was spreading through the sycamores, oaks, walnuts, and willows.
Some types of off-road vehicles had recently disobeyed the road closure and rock-crawled over the debris fields, up to a point where a side road – unmarked on any maps – climbed up a small side canyon, and the way up the main canyon was decisively blocked by logs. That side road may just be former access to one of the removed camp buildings, since nothing shows there on satellite view. But I was only interested in the main canyon, where I spotted the tail end of a whitetail buck disappearing into the forest across the floodplain.
Walking up the broad debris field, over and around logs, was easy and pleasant enough, until I reached a small cabin, still standing but partly collapsed by flood debris. On a camp history web page this is called the “Forest Service Storage Building” – hopefully they’re planning to remove it before it washes downstream.
Past the storage building, the canyon narrowed and the debris got gnarlier. Eventually I reached the camp’s water tank and associated equipment, which the Forest Service apparently considered not worth the effort of removing. This is the ultimate legacy of Western Civilization – toxic ruins.
I could still follow traces of the old road up the canyon, but frequent washouts and debris had mostly obliterated it and created an unfolding obstacle course. Initially I embraced the challenge because my knee pain had confined me to easy trails for so long. Eventually I found a trickle of running water.
The map showed that after a mile and a half the canyon split into two upper branches, one coming down from the crest of the range, the other from a saddle in the next major east-west ridge. The latest Forest Service map, from 2016, shows an actual, driveable road not only going up the main canyon, but continuing up the left-hand branch all the way to the crest. So most of this flood damage must’ve occurred since 2016.
I was hiking in the creekbed and could easily tell when I reached the branch point, but there was no sign of a road there. So first, I took the left branch, and there was enough floodplain left that I was able to climb out of the gully and hike through forest for a hundred yards, until I came upon an apocalyptic pile of debris that I had no interest in climbing over.
I sat on a rock and ate a snack, then climbed over a logjam toward the “crotch” between branch canyons. Reaching a gentle slope with parklike forest, I looked back and noticed a shallow gully that was likely the old road to the crest. Amazing, in less than a decade here a road can revert to a natural feature!
A little farther, I came to a broad corridor in the forest, leading toward the next branch canyon, that could only be an old road – an even older road that had been “retired” and left off the 2016 map. I love the habitat in this range, but there was something about the experience of societal abandonment that enhanced my hike, made my spine tingle, and encouraged me to continue past the obstacles in this rewilding canyon.
It helped that the old roadway left intermittent terraces where I could walk faster, making up for the occasional logs, washouts, and debris piles. I spotted another whitetail buck fleeing across the canyon. But I soon came to a sharp dogleg in the canyon that had cut deep banks and left taller piles of debris. That’s where I began encountering minimal cairns – often just a single rock sitting on a boulder – that helped me find a path through the chaos.
Beyond the dogleg, the canyon got narrower and more spectacular, and the debris got bigger and more challenging, but I still found traces of the old road and its terraces. I’d been hoping to reach the saddle, but the sun was going down and I was starting to think about getting home before dark – especially since the time had changed and night was falling an hour earlier.
My route passed back and forth across the creekbed, and eventually I crossed a stretch of slickrock. Not far upstream I reached another daunting debris pile, and decided to turn back. I figured I hadn’t been able to cover much more than two miles in over two hours of hiking, and probably had another mile to go to the saddle.
When I checked the GPS waypoint that night, I discovered that my turnaround point was just inside the federal wilderness boundary. It’s likely been years since anyone had the masochism to hike up there – again, just what I like. HikeArizona has a trip report from a guy who hiked the eastern canyon in October 2019, so that may be the most recent. The official trail guide says some group cleared this trail in 2022, but admits it hasn’t been verified, and the report was clearly mistaken. Maybe some of the cairns dated from that year…
Knowing the way, I was able to move a little faster on the way down – but not by much. Long before I reached the vehicle, I knew I would need to stay overnight at the lodge on the east side, to avoid driving home in the dark through deer-infested mountains.
A long, steep, rough drive – an hour and fifteen – to the crest road and over into the eastern basin, with the sun dropping behind the crest. To a big burrito, only real meal of the day, and a quiet room for the night, where shoulder pain – until now a lower priority than the knee – would keep waking me up.
I found only locals in the cafe when I arrived, but scientists and cyclists poured in shortly after. A scrawny but powerfully muscled cyclist in his 70s was wearing a “We the People” U.S. Constitution jersey, his whole body red white and blue. No way of telling whether he was a right- or left-wing patriot, although populists do lean right.
And after four nights away, the final drive home, to the ongoing trauma of helplessly trying to comfort my beloved, suffering, fading mother.
