Mogollon Rim
Valley at the End of the World
Monday, October 2nd, 2023: 2023 Trips, Hikes, Mogollon Rim, Regions, Road Trips, San Francisco Mountains - AZ, Southeast Arizona.
There’s a large, mountainous area near here that I drive past regularly, on our loneliest regional highway, on long trips to other places – yet for seventeen years it’s remained a mystery.
The area encompasses 1,200 square miles, all within national forests, and is so rugged that it contains virtually no level ground. I knew it has a named mountain range, but from outside, it’s impossible to distinguish that from other, better known mountains. Landforms intrigue me and it really rankled that I couldn’t figure out the topography of this region.
From maps, I could see it contains a river, but the canyon or valley of that river can’t be seen from outside and would take hours to reach on dirt roads. The same maps show a network of hiking trails crisscrossing most of the area, and I’d tried two of those trails on the far east side closest to my home. One was abandoned and lined with sharp rocks, the other was abandoned and heavily used by cattle.
I’d avoided exploring this area because, in addition to being overrun with cattle, I’d assumed most of it was below 8,000 feet elevation and hence less interesting than the surrounding higher mountains. But this Sunday I needed to give my problem foot a rest, and the weather was forecast to be mild, so I decided to explore the unknown land by vehicle.
The unknown land can only be reached by vehicle from the north or east, on one of four dirt roads that are rocky and require high clearance. The road nearest to home enters from the east, winding and climbing up and down through tall, parklike ponderosa forest at an average elevation of 6,500 feet. It took me a half hour to go six miles, where I reached the first milestone, a trailhead and campground. Whereas on my previous short forays on this road, I’d found every turnout occupied by a huge RV trailer, today the whole area was unoccupied.
When I stepped out of the vehicle at the trailhead, the wind almost blew me over, and I had to close the windows to keep blowing dust out. We hadn’t had wind like this since last spring – the tops of the pines were thrashing and roaring like a freight train.
In contrast with trails in my well-publicized local mountains, where a majority of visitors come from places like New York and California, the vast majority of the visitors listed on this trailhead log were from Arizona and New Mexico. I’d gotten a late start and ate a typical hiking lunch, sitting on a log in the shade. Apart from the wind, the temperature was perfect, and forecast to be mild all day.
As I drove away, a Forest Service ranger arrived in a maintenance vehicle – the only other vehicle I met on that road all day.
My next destination was a cliff dwelling which is marked, surprisingly, on Google Maps, another six miles up the road. Past the forested campground, the road climbed, and climbed, and climbed, becoming rockier and rockier, emerging from the ponderosa forest onto steep slopes dotted with shrubs and junipers, with fortress-like bluffs of volcanic conglomerate looming high above. I got a panoramic view of lower ridges and canyons to the south, and I kept scanning the cliffs above, seeing many caves but no cliff dwellings. So I zoomed in and took photos, hoping to spot the cliff dwellings later, when I had a chance to blow up the photos at home. Guess I should pack field glasses in my vehicle!
The road topped out on a knife-edge saddle with the most spectacular views I’ve seen from any road in this region. Above was the stone rampart, on the west was the deep canyon of the next watershed, and beyond the lower country in the southeast rose my familiar home mountains. I was forming my first mental map of this unknown land, and unexpectedly, I was impressed.
Past the saddle, the road wound down into the next watershed, becoming rockier and slower. It entered more pine forest, crossed the head of the new canyon, and climbed again onto a forested plateau between mountains on the north and south. Here I crossed the state line, met one of the dirt roads coming in from the north, and reached a second trailhead. The log at this one recorded mostly visitors from Phoenix or Tucson – a five-and-a-half hour drive away. My friends tend to dismiss Phoenix as a hotbed of ecological abuse, but I’ve learned that the sprawling, water-wasting megalopolis is actually full of nature-loving outdoor enthusiasts, with fantastic landscapes like the Superstition Mountains nearby. How had they found out about this remote, poorly-publicized area far to their east?
At the western end of the plateau I began my descent into the remote valley of the obscure river. The road became really vertiginous, with a dropoff of hundreds of feet, until I eventually reached a precarious wide spot to pull over and study the view. This was the hidden valley I’d wondered about for years!
I was surprised to spot isolated homes and ranches scattered throughout the darkly forested landscape, but I couldn’t see a floodplain – it seemed to be all steep ridges and deep canyons, and on the far side, the 9,000 foot rim of the alpine plateau I knew and loved from many previous trips. This valley had remained hidden from that high plateau.
At the bottom, the road passed a very funky compound, strewn with rundown buildings and dusty vehicles, and immediately forded the shallow river. Then on the other side sprawled a big, well-tended pasture with the kind of modern, upscale ranchhouse you see throughout rural Arizona.
The road wound down the valley, crossing and re-crossing the river, beneath a lush canopy bordered by sheer, dark volcanic cliffs. Homes and ranches were sparse, separated by long stretches of dense riparian forest, and the construction varied between traditional working ranches, funky weathered cabins, and what appeared to be the occasional modest vacation home. Most rural settlements in Arizona are very affluent compared to New Mexico – I hadn’t seen this kind of diversity elsewhere. The fact that the valley is populated at all was an unexpected revelation.
The river road dead-ends about fifteen miles downstream. I drove most of the way, checking out remote trailheads I’d always wondered about. Most of them seem to be used by equestrians, many of which are probably hunters living in towns a few hours away.
The wind was still roaring, and when the road occasionally climbed high above the river I could see it sweeping in waves across the billowing canopy of narrowleaf cottonwoods. Cumulus clouds were forming and I was wondering if I’d have to drive that marginal dirt road in the rain later. I also wondered where these people do their shopping. After checking the map I discovered the nearest gas is over an hour away, on another of these slow, rocky, high-clearance dirt roads. The nearest small town, with shopping, is an hour and a half. And this river must flood regularly, stranding residents from each other and the outside world for days, maybe even weeks at a time in a wet year.
I turned back north when the road became gnarlier, and pulled off at one of the trailheads I’d long wanted to explore. The trail started steep – bad for my foot – and was badly eroded, lined with sharp rocks, and used only by equestrians, so it was also deeply pitted. I only went about a half mile, far enough to climb several hundred feet above the river, to a saddle with partial views east and south.
I’d hoped to explore the upper valley, but my time was running out. I was also curious about the road that accesses the valley from the northeast, the road I’d passed up on the plateau. In fifteen miles, it climbs over the shoulder of a 9,000 foot peak and might offer more spectacular views. The extra distance meant I probably wouldn’t get home until after 7 pm.
I’d passed a total of four vehicles in the valley, but there was still no one on the upper roads, despite it being a weekend. The northeast road climbed gently through parklike ponderosa forest, then steeply up a ridge. I could tell there was an amazing view south, but only found one small break in the trees. Then the road turned down again into a hidden interior valley, and finally began climbing a long, narrow canyon that I believed led towards the high peak.
The habitat in this canyon was completely different – moist, and lined with a pure, dense stand of tall firs, with seedlings bordering the road. The wind was still roaring overhead, and I came to a fallen tree blocking the road. Why hadn’t I thought of this – blithely driving through forest in high wind?
Only six inches in diameter, the tree turned out to be easy to swivel to the side. But then the road entered a burn scar, and I came to tree after tree I had to move off the road. When would I reach one I couldn’t move?
That happened shortly afterward. A tree had fallen from a high bank so that it was wedged in place across the road. I couldn’t budge it by hand, and what if an even bigger one lay beyond? I had to turn back, and retrace my morning’s path on the slow eastern road.
Just before reaching the east-west road, I encountered a 4wd flatbed truck on big tires, with two guys in the cab. I waved them down and warned them about the fallen tree, but they were only going a short ways up the road and weren’t worried. After talking to them, I remembered I had heavy duty nylon straps in the back and might’ve been able to pull the fallen tree out of the way with my vehicle. Or not – there was still the likelihood of more, and the time wasted doing road work instead of driving home.
Of course, with the wind, the clouds, and the setting sun, the landscape just kept getting more beautiful. That eastern road into the valley has to be the most beautiful road in this entire region. In the words of the Governator, I’ll be back.
In the end, it took me six hours to drive 71 miles on those dirt roads, for an average of 12 mph. I ended up driving a total of nine and a half hours and got home in the dark exhausted, starving, and in pain.
If you wanted to escape civilization, that hidden valley might be your best option in the American Southwest. No, it’s not wilderness, and you’d have a motley collection of neighbors. But there’s plenty of water for living and gardening, wild birds and other game love riparian corridors like that, and the bad roads and flooding keep out the riffraff. And the whole area is far more spectacular than I’d ever imagined – truly a hidden gem.
Sunday, November 19th, 2023: 2023 Trips, Mogollon Rim, Regions, Road Trips.
Suffering from burnout, I needed to get away from the problems that surround me at home. My favorite mountain getaway over in Arizona would be cold, but as a result, the cheap motel would have vacancies. I could hike in the daytime, and in the evenings I could get restaurant meals – something I never get at home since we lost all our decent restaurants during COVID. Normally the only time I eat out is during my semi-annual visits with family back east.
The weather up there was forecast to be dry. But as I drove north the sky was full of towering cumulus clouds, past the halfway point it got positively threatening, and I hit rain in the high passes. It was cold enough that I switched into 4wd to keep from spinning off into a cliff or a canyon.
By the time I reached the motel, it was almost full dark and the office was closed. My room was unlocked, but when I opened the door a heavy wave of artificial fragrance poured out. Entering, I sniffed the bed, but it smelled fine. The odor simply filled the air, and I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It was too cold to air out the room, so I drove to the restaurant for dinner – which included one of the best malbecs I’ve ever had.
When I returned, my allergies were triggered by the odor, and I discovered I’d forgotten my antihistamine and nasal spray – something I can’t remember ever doing before. I faced a night of no relief in this very remote place.
Adding insult to injury, I soon had a headache, and the normally complete and peaceful silence was disturbed by a rhythmic screeching noise, like an unoiled pump. I couldn’t figure out where that was coming from, either. I was exhausted enough to fall asleep, but I woke a few hours later and spent the rest of the night tossing and turning.
In the morning, the sky was perfectly blue and everything outside was covered in a thick layer of frost. I walked over to the office and found they open an hour later in winter. In the meantime, I would drive the 20 minutes to the nearest supermarket for antihistamine.
But by the time I got dressed for the drive, the sky was completely covered by low clouds and it was snowing!
The drive wasn’t wasted, though. I was rewarded with multiple rainbows and sightings of the bighorn sheep that were introduced here decades ago, frequenting the shallow canyons that wind through this volcanic alpine plateau.
When I returned to the motel office I met the new owners. The couple looked and sounded like urban hipsters in their late 40s or early 50s, and I guessed they’d seen this place on visits from Phoenix over the years, and decided to relocate and invest in a modest resort, planning to renovate and increase the rates for more profit.
In any event, they seemed shocked when I told them the fragrance was a problem. They said they’d installed devices in all the rooms that emit fragrance continually. I know I’m not the only person bothered by artificial fragrance – every supermarket carries fragrance-free and hypoallergenic products – but we seem to be an aberration in Arizona. They were anxious to help, though – they said I could simply search the electrical outlets to find the device, unplug it and air out the room. They said the screeching sound was probably the well pump, in a shed outside the motel, and I suggested it might need lubricating.
Tuesday, November 21st, 2023: 2023 Trips, Baldy, Hikes, Mogollon Rim, Regions, Road Trips, Southeast Arizona, Whites.
I woke up Monday to dense fog and a dusting of snow here at 8,400′. The temperature was 27 and forecast to reach 37. I hadn’t hiked yesterday – in fact, I hadn’t had a good hike in three weeks, partly because my foot condition had returned after five years pain-free. Despite the weather, I was determined to get out into this spectacular alpine landscape.
I knew there’d be more snow at higher elevations – my favorite hike reaches 11,200′. The highway to the trailhead is closed in winter, and the shortcut from town to the highway is a steep and narrow dirt road. I decided to do a lower-elevation canyon hike I’d started once but never finished.
But I packed my winter gear, and shortly after leaving the motel, I saw the turnoff for the dirt shortcut, and swerved into it. I’d never hiked in these mountains in snow before, so I just had to try it!
I found an untracked inch of snow on the dirt road, up to 9,000′, where the highway had 2 inches. Snow was falling lightly, and the direction I was going had been plowed earlier. I was in 4wd and braked to test the traction before continuing.
When I reached the trailhead parking lot, it was untracked, but as I pulled on my pack and insulated Goretex gloves and started off, I heard an engine. It was the snowplow, returning to clear the highway in the opposite direction.
The trailhead is 9,400′, so I knew the temperature had to be in the low 20s. The only tracks in this fresh snow were from animals – elk, fox, cottontail, squirrel, something smaller.
The first mile and a half skirts the long meadows and bogs that cover the level ground on this volcanic plateau, passing in and out of small stands of spruce-fir forest. This was the first time I could remember seeing the meadows in their winter colors.
The first couple of miles of this trail see a lot of traffic in warmer weather, and I stumbled a lot because the snow hid irregularities like rocks, erosional ruts, and footprints in frozen mud. It would be even worse in deeper snow at higher elevations. My goal was at least to reach the spectacular viewpoint on the ridgetop. I was moving slow and making a lot of stops to enjoy a landscape renewed by snow.
When I reached the last clear stretch before entering the main forest, I could see what the snow was doing to the rock formations. I was in for a real treat!
The trail climbs about 3/4 mile through magical old-growth alpine forest before reaching the cliffs. Almost every aspen I passed had someone’s initials in its bark, but in this snow, silence, and solitude I was truly a pioneer.
Many of these photos appear to be black-and-white – but they were all taken in color!
At the foot of the cliffs, the trail switches back to traverse to the ridgetop. This is one of the most spectacular stretches of forest I’ve ever found, and as with everything else, the snow made it new.
I knew the overlook would be socked in with fog, but who cared? The snow up here at 10,200′ ranged from 3-5 inches deep, easily walkable without needing my gaiters. But the undulating bedrock surfaces had been smoothed over by snow, so I had to take special care in climbing to the edge of the cliff.
Having made it this far, I wanted to at least reach the second mass of exposed rock, about a mile farther up the ridge. That turned out to be a slow mile, with traverses of steep slopes where I could easily lose my footing and slide hundreds of feet down the mountain.
After arriving, I was especially wary of crossing this outcrop, since the route is unclear and the footing precarious even when clear of snow. But I carefully made it across, and with most of the day left, decided to keep going.
Past that last outcrop, it’s all alpine forest to the crest of the mountain. I would just keep going until I figured it was time to turn back.
But shortly after entering the forest I came to blowdown across the trail. I knew some of it had been there on my last visit, two years ago in August, and at first it was easy to step over. But I ran into more, and much worse, ahead. To avoid sliding off snow-covered logs, I ended up having to make long zigzagging detours.
After bypassing dozens of these fallen logs, I finally reached the edge of a burn scar. My time was almost up, and the burn scar would allow me to log a GPS waypoint so I would know how far I’d gone.
I hadn’t reached the crest, but I knew I’d gone almost five miles. In snow, that’s worth 50% more! And what a place! I can think of few places that would be as magical in snow.
The fog was lifting, so when I reached the viewpoint I could see past the cloud cover to the center of the plateau, with a sliver of blue sky.
I was wearing my winter boots, which offer maximum support. But on the way down, I could tell I’d done more damage to my foot. Only time will tell if I’ll be able to resume hiking this winter.
When I checked the map back in the room, I found I’d reached 10,600′. And by morning the weather had cleared, so while taking the long way home east across the plateau, I stopped for a view of the mountain I’d partially climbed.
Monday, January 22nd, 2024: 2024 Trips, Mogollon Rim, Regions, Road Trips.
I could tell from the clouds on Saturday that we were going to get rain Sunday. But I hike in the rain all the time and it’s never been a problem around here.
My problem was, as usual, deciding on a hike. I’d gone three weeks without hiking, in darkest Indiana under heavy cloud cover, and most of our local hikes involve a canyon – I wanted something exposed, with a view to remind me I was back in the West.
I was tempted to make a long drive into Arizona, spending the night over there. But the options there weren’t much better and would involve more complications. In the end, I used up an hour and a half trying to decide, then leaving late, headed north to a new area I’ve been studying on the map.
With the late departure, it would be a shorter hike than usual, but at least I could do some scouting for a later return. On the way, I spotted a blue heron standing in the Gila River – I assumed that was a good omen.
The trail I wanted to try is a long traverse west across the foot of a 9,000 foot mountain, with branches along the way. The turnoff is an hour and a half from town. It’d been raining on and off all the way, and the long forest road to the trailhead turned out to consist of mud, snow, and ice. I’d never really tried this vehicle in serious mud before. The road set out climbing a shallow ridge where, despite being in low-range 4wd, I immediately started sliding around. I only made it about a half mile before approaching a deeply washed out section where I was almost certain to get stuck. When I got out of the vehicle to scout, my boots sank an inch into the muck.
There was another option on my list, a six-mile ascent of a 9,800 foot peak. I knew I wouldn’t have time to reach the top, but again, I could do some scouting. It required driving east through the tiny county seat, a hotbed of the anti-government Sagebrush Rebellion. I had thought about spending the night there, if the town’s one motel actually existed. Google Satellite View showed a vacant lot at the address, but the place had a website and ample online reviews.
The motel was indeed there. And past the town, I found the turnoff to the next trailhead, a long and winding dirt road. It wasn’t too bad at first, but after a few miles it climbed to the rim of the canyon of the Tularosa River – which I knew it had to ford at the bottom – and I could see the descent involved more mud, snow, and ice. I definitely didn’t want to start down and find myself unable to drive back up. This day was turning into a real bust.
But on the way north to the first trail, I’d passed one of those little “hiker” signs that I’d never noticed before, about ten miles south of my destination. I checked the national forest map I carry in my pack, and found there was indeed a numbered trail there, heading west into the Blue Wilderness. This trail is not shown anywhere online – it only appears on the official printed map.
I drove another half hour back south and easily found the turnoff. The map showed a dirt road heading west less than a mile to the trailhead, but what I found was the deepest, softest mud yet. Still, after all that driving I was determined to walk, so I parked just off the highway, and began trudging west, immediately picking up several pounds of mud under my boots.
As bad as it was on this road, the mud was even worse when I tried to walk off the road, where it was uncompacted. The road climbed up a little peak to two transmission towers, part of the powerlines that bring our electricity from the coal-fired plants up north. Past the peak, the road enters the wilderness area, continuing downhill to the trailhead. I was surprised to find an old wooden kiosk, but I wasn’t surprised to find a family of mice living in the box where the visitor logbook is stored.
It’d been drizzling on and off. I’d only gone about 3/4 of a mile, and each boot was carrying a big pad of mud like a brown snowshoe. Past the kiosk, I started up the trail proper, but the mud was even worse than on the road. I made it only a hundred yards before realizing this was pointless. It was forecast to rain all day and this could only get worse. And both road and trail had been heavily trampled by cattle, despite federal wilderness designation.
On the way back I saw headlights approaching and stepped aside for a late-model Toyota pickup. I waved but couldn’t see inside – they’d had all the windows tinted, even in front. Where were they going? The powerline is the wilderness boundary – the road is closed past it. Maybe they wanted to camp under the transmission towers – there’s a great view – but they’d be camping in mud.
So much for hiking. It was close to 1 pm, and I’d had nothing but snacks, so I was hungry. There’s a roadside cafe about ten miles north that’s seldom open, but I’d noticed the parking lot was full earlier, so I headed north again.
I was able to get chorizo and eggs, served by a lady with a European accent and a teenage Black boy, and by the time I was finished it was almost check-in time for the mysterious motel in the right-wing county seat. I now knew that the geology in this area is unlike any of the other areas where I hike – the ground is some sort of fine clay that becomes unwalkable when wet – but I wanted to return in dry weather, and it’s far enough that I would need a place to stay overnight. So I might as well try the motel.
I turned out to be the only guest. Everything looked new, which explains the vacant lot on Google Satellite View. I needed yogurt for breakfast, which led me to the discovery that the “General Merchandise” at the crossroads is really a supermarket crammed into a small building. Of course – it serves an entire county that’s remote and sparsely populated but huge.
After settling into my motel room, I realized this was just what I needed. At home, I’m surrounded by work to do and problems to solve. Maybe this is why I like motel rooms so much. For a minute there, I imagined myself just living in motel rooms for the rest of my life. The phone rang and messages arrived – needy people, demanding my attention – but I ignored them. And the next day, it was hard to leave.
Monday, August 19th, 2024: 2024 Trips, Hikes, Mogollon Rim, P Bar, Regions, Road Trips, Southeast Arizona, Whites.
Now that I’ve embarked on a new, hopefully temporary Sunday routine of one-day road trips, I’m starting to get more analytical and organized – another aspect of my lifelong struggle between left and right brains. But the problem with remote destinations in this remote region – even after decades of internet, web, GPS, smart phones, apps, and social media – is that reliable information is often lacking. And when no one answers the phone or nothing shows up on Google Maps, you have to actually drive a couple of hours to find out if something exists or is open. I find that refreshing and hope it’s never completely “fixed” by the techno-utopians.
I’d been suffering through so much heat at home that I wanted to escape to the Arizona alpine plateau, which would be 15 degrees cooler – in the 70s. Driving north past the big ranches west of town, I approached a pair of bikers weaving constantly back and forth in opposition to each other. They pulled over and stopped as I got close. Their bikes were new and futuristic, stark black and white, as were their outfits – they reminded me of the Apple or Elon Musk aesthetic. But a little farther up the road I saw them in my rearview and they passed me, and began weaving their bikes theatrically back and forth in opposition again. And then, a few miles farther, I passed them again, stopped on the shoulder, gesticulating at each other. More weird city people invading our rural refuge.
The route crosses a series of intermediate passes, and approaching the highest, at 8,000 feet, I remembered there was a forest road heading north along a long ridge that overlooked the canyons and basin to the east. For once, I wasn’t on a schedule and decided to check it out.
It was pretty well graded and led through mature ponderosa pine forest dappled with sunlight and shade. I wasn’t planning to go very far, and I hadn’t seen anything interesting yet, when after a little more than a mile I saw sky through the trees to my right, and wondered if that was the rim of the ridge. Shortly after that I came to a dirt track leading off in that direction.
Winding beneath the big trees, it took me to a campsite on the edge of a rock cliff overlooking a broad thousand-foot-deep canyon toward the distant skyline of our 11,000 foot mountains thirty miles away. It was the most spectacular campsite/picnic spot I’d ever found in my home region. It was litter-free and someone had left a little stack of firewood. I even found a young Arizona cypress growing on the rim, a tree I’d never seen in this area.
From there I drove to the Arizona hamlet at 8,000 feet, a two-hour drive from home, where I was hoping to get lunch. But the grill was closed – once again, no definitive info online – so I decided to drive higher onto the volcanic plateau, another half hour of driving across one of my favorite wild, uninhabited landscapes, to an isolated lodge that I knew was open daily.
The drive winds through burn scars and intact spruce-fir forest, climbing over ridges and into and out of side canyons, passing the broad grassy meadows that line much of this plateau. At an elevation of over 9,000 feet, I came upon the lodge suddenly and pulled off. There were two motorcycles parked in front.
I found the restaurant door unlocked and went in. Two retired-looking biker couples stood examining a map on my left, and a sign said to seat yourself, so I took a seat at the counter until one of the men came over and told me the restaurant didn’t open until noon. I went outside to wait at a table, and the bikers rode off.
I needed to pee, and hadn’t seen restrooms in the restaurant, so I entered the main door of the lodge. The reception counter was unoccupied, but a very old man slumped on a sofa opposite, staring at something in his lap – probably a phone. I peered into the office and up the stairs, then turned and asked the man if there was anyone working today. I was standing less than six feet away, but he ignored me.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said. Then he slowly looked up with an angry glare. Even more slowly, he took a tiny device out of his ear and shook his head in apparent disgust.
“Did you say something?” he snapped.
“Sorry to bother you,” I replied. “It’s nothing.” He put the device back in and looked back down without another word.
I went back outside and tried the restaurant door. It had been locked.
At my table on the front deck, a constant swarm of hummingbirds surrounded a feeder behind my left shoulder. It’s an incredibly beautiful spot, and the weather was perfect. I watched a thunderhead develop across the highway, behind the spruce forest, far to the east. A four-door Jeep arrived with two more retired couples. After I told them about opening time, they wandered off to examine the property. A half hour later an older couple arrived, and likewise wandered off.
This place is known in both the Phoenix and Tucson metro areas. It’s a long, arduous drive, but that’s what bikers seem to crave, and summer in those urban hellholes makes people desperate for relief. And this is paradise compared to the crowds and traffic of closer getaways like Sedona and Flagstaff.
Nearing noon the two couples returned and asked me what I knew about this place – I’d spent the night here once and had dinner. Then the restaurant door was unlocked and our small group filed in.
I had a burger that appeared to be nothing special but tasted unusually good. I overheard the couples telling the waiter they were from Yuma but were spending the summer in Show Low – an interesting life plan. I wondered if they were staying in personal RVs or vacation homes. Yuma houses a legendary prison and is notorious for being the hottest town in the U.S., with an average summer high of 115. I’ve heard it called the armpit of the Southwest. I wondered how anyone would choose Yuma as a retirement destination. But if they did, why would they need to choose a summer home in the same state? Tax reasons?
And then consider the options – towns that would offer a summer refuge. My first choice would be the casual resort village across the plateau at 8,400 feet, but it’s very expensive. Show Low is basically a bustling redneck town, only slightly higher in elevation than my hometown, center of a big ranching district – no way would I consider it a pleasant summer retreat. These folks intrigued me.
We finished at roughly the same time and exchanged a few words at the door. I mentioned I’d overheard they were from Yuma, and said I knew it by reputation, having only passed through. One of the women said “We live there, we’re not from there! We’re from New York state.” Apparently I’d touched a raw nerve, and the mystery deepened.
Driving off, I made it only a few miles down the road when I approached a trailhead and decided to check it out. I’m not hiking, but I really wanted to immerse myself in this beautiful forest with its crystal-clear, high-elevation air.
Unsurprisingly, only a few yards up the trail my legs took over, and I realized my body was desperate to walk. I simply couldn’t avoid exploring farther. A storm had come over and raindrops were falling so I grabbed my shell out of the pickup.
The trail climbed steadily, 300 feet in elevation to the top of the ridge, and unfortunately this patch of forest had been touched by the massive 2011 fire – not at high intensity, but enough to thin it out, creating a maze of deadfall and near-continuous thickets of locust regrowth. One treat was the strawberries – I’d never seen so many, although they were small, and most were not ripe yet.
Light rain fell on and off. I was hoping to get across the ridge with a view into the big river valley to the east, but this turned out to be part of a broad network of ridges and canyons. After three quarters of a mile I turned back – my first, very short, hike in almost a month!
On the way back, I was reviewing my interactions with the folks at the lodge – I’d also had a brief conversation with the other couple. Apart from the occasional angry old man, most interactions with strangers in isolated, lonely places like this are much friendlier than you’d have in crowds or in town. People tend to be excited to meet strangers and discover secrets of their lives. As a result, you briefly get a more optimistic and tolerant view of humanity, which is paradoxical for someone like me who values solitude and is generally considered a cynic. But like all pleasures, it’s fleeting.
