Friday, November 4th, 2022
Tantalus & Sisyphus Go For a Hike
Monday, April 11th, 2022: Hikes, Pinos Altos Range, Southwest New Mexico.
As usual, this Sunday’s hike was conceived with complicated and conflicting desires. I was still reeling from last weekend’s accident, so I didn’t want to drive far and risk returning in the dark. I was worried about the recurring pain in my hip, so I didn’t want as much climbing and rough surfaces as usual. But to give my hip a break, I’d skipped my short midweek hike and was also reluctant to wimp out and do an easy hike on the weekend.
I ended up targeting a trail about 45 minutes from town that I’d had on my list as a lower-elevation winter hike, but hadn’t tried yet, since it didn’t seem to offer as much elevation gain as I usually craved. I’d already located the trailhead along the highway east of town that goes up a rural valley toward remote recreation areas, and I’d observed from the faint tread that this trail is little used. It climbs up a series of canyons to the crest of the low forested mountains that trend from east to west north of town, where maps show that it meets the Continental Divide Trail and ends at a forest road I’d spotted from a crest hike last year. I wanted to try for the CDT junction 8-1/2 miles in, but that would be a 17 mile round trip with nearly 3,000′ of elevation gain, and I didn’t know if my hip was ready for it.
Online maps disagree as to the exact route of this trail. I vaguely remembered reading an online account of a partial hike that said it was confusing and hard to follow and there was a corral or cabin in one of the canyon bottoms. But in my usual hurry to hit the road I failed to bring a map, trusting on my routefinding skills.
The day was forecast to be clear with a high of nearly 80 in town. It was in the low 50s as I left home, but when I reached the trailhead I took my sweater off.
The first thing I encountered was a confusion of trails up a broad, dry floodplain forested with large, old pinyon, juniper, and oak and rumpled with flash flood debris. I just assumed the trails would all converge upstream and took the most direct routes. After a quarter mile they did converge and began climbing the left slope. But that slope turned out to be laced with a dense network of intersecting trails, like the diagonal grid of a chain-link fence, and they all showed heavy use, so it was initially hard to figure out which to take. Most were clearly animal trails, but I saw no cowshit so I was initially mystified.
But I did begin to notice human footprints, and was soon able to pick out the hiking trail from the animal trails. Then, when the trail dipped back into the canyon bottom, I found clearings of disturbed ground covered with piles of horseshit. Horses are not generally allowed to range free, so I figured this must be a rare enclave of feral horses.
The trail began climbing steeply, and two miles in from the trailhead I came to a stock gate in a narrow saddle marking the watershed between this canyon and the next. The gate had been left open by the recent hikers who had left their footprints on the trail, so I reclosed it. We think of hikers as environmentally sensitive people, but this hike would yield ample evidence they can be as insensitive and irresponsible as your average urban consumer.
Through the gate and over the saddle I got my first and only view into the next canyon. The trail was heading down the north slope of a small, densely forested basin, at the far end of which I could glimpse some kind of small grassy clearing. The trail quickly deteriorated into a very steep, rocky erosional gully, in which I slowly and carefully tried to avoid stumbling down a couple hundred vertical feet through dense scrub. I began seeing cowshit, and at the bottom of the basin I entered a thoroughy trampled and overgrazed area with a fence, corral, and a small, muddy water hole. From there I followed a broad cattle trail to a running stream trampled by cattle and choked with algae, and another stock gate. I was pleased and surprised to see so much water in the canyon, but in general, this was turning into a fairly depressing hike.
Past the gate, the trail became a vehicle track. I kept following it through forest and out into a big grassy meadow, but I was worried that like much of the CDT, this trail would turn out to follow a road the rest of the way.
At the upper end of the meadow lay a cabin and a series of old but intact corrals and sheds. The cabin looked maintained and its door was tightly wired shut so I didn’t try to get in. But I could see through a window screen that it was clean and fully furnished inside. I later learned that it’s still used by the family that ranches the canyon.
Beyond the cabin the trail continued to follow an old road, back and forth across the algae-choked creek and its trampled, overgrazed banks, until it finally began to climb a steep, rocky slope and narrowed into a real hiking trail again. The footprints of three other recent hikers continued there, but they were dominated by the hoofprints of cattle.
We didn’t really get that much snow over the winter, so I was surprised to find more water draining from the slopes into the creek here than I’d seen anywhere else in our region.
Continuing up the canyon, I finally emerged into a stretch with more exposed bedrock and clearer running water. I came upon a crumpled piece of toilet paper on the trail, and continuing, saw a scatter of toilet paper on the ground at the foot of rock outcrops above the trail. These recent hikers were truly jerks, failing to carry out their paper waste, leaving it to be scattered by animals and found by later visitors.
I was now in a stretch of canyon lined with huge boulders, cliffs, and impressive rock outcrops, but immersed in dense forest, I could only catch glimpses through the tall ponderosas, oaks, and alders.
Four or five miles in, I came to a junction with a trail that led into the next canyon south. My trail so far had been fairly clear of logs but showed no sign of recent maintenance. But beyond the junction, I encountered a few shrubs along the trail that had been recently chopped. That isolated trail work only lasted a few hundred yards, so I figured the crew had come up the side trail from the other canyon and only worked a short distance in this one.
Flies – the size of house flies – had been visiting me occasionally all the way up the trail, but had never become a nuisance, in contrast to the small flies or gnats that had plagued me in Arizona recently. I associate these larger flies with livestock and was relieved not to need my head net.
The rock formations just became more and more spectacular the farther I climbed up this long canyon, but remained tantalizingly hidden. I figured I’d gone well over 6 miles at this point and was still stuck in the canyon bottom. When would I start climbing to the crest? My hip wasn’t bad yet, but I didn’t want to reach a tipping point where my return hike would become really painful.
As much as I hate perpetuating colonial culture, I couldn’t help mixing up the myths of Sisyphus and Tantalus, kings who were punished by the gods in ways that resonated with my situation. Not that I really think I’m being punished – the life of all true seekers is hard as we refuse to fit into the dominant mold of our culture, rejecting the career, the steady job, the marriage, the kids, and the endless upward climb of consumerism. But today I felt continually tantalized by brief glimpses of majestic rock formations, and condemned to an endless climb.
The last couple of miles were especially hard as I sensed the crest getting near. The canyon narrowed and seemed shallower. I was now in the upper elevation mixed conifer forest with firs and tall old-growth Gambel oaks. My hip was beginning to complain, but surely I was nearing the top?
I wasn’t. The trail turned left, then right, and just kept traversing up a gradual slope, and trapped in the dense forest I had no way of orienting myself in the landscape. Human footprints had ended much earlier – the recent hikers had only gone about four miles in – but cattle were using this trail all the way up. At this point they were the only users. Nor had there been any maintenance in a long time – I found logs that had lain across the trail for at least a decade.
Eventually, instead of cliffs and rock formations, I began to glimpse blue sky through the trees above, and believed I was nearing the top. But after a few more turns and long traverses, I found myself again in the bottom of a narrow, rocky canyon. There I found a rusted, empty water trough half-buried in debris. And after crossing the canyon bottom again, I faced the steepest trail I’d seen yet. Surely this must be the final climb? I’d been hiking for five hours, which would normally take me more than ten miles. But coming this far, I just had to see where the steep trail led.
It turned out to be one of the steepest trails I’d ever climbed. I estimated the grade at 35%, and to prove I don’t normally exaggerate, when I got home I measured it on a topo map and found the average grade is actually 36% on that stretch.
But nearing the top of the steep stretch, I suddenly emerged into a zone of strong wind, and was convinced I was nearing the crest, where wind would strengthen due to the funnel effect. And after traversing an overgrown burn scar, I finally came upon a fence and the dirt forest road. I’d seen no sign of the CDT junction – I’d misinterpreted the topo maps.
I was now behind schedule, my hip was hurting, and this overgrown burn scar offered little in the way of views and was no place to hang out. But I knew I’d achieved a serious hike and was proud of myself. Knowing the descent would be even harder on my hip, I took a pain pill and began the long slog back, most of which would mercifully be downhill.
Before reaching the overgrazed canyon bottom, I did finally encounter some small flies, but they never became bad. I’m always intrigued by the ecology of things like this. Why are they localized, and locally a problem?
The day had gotten windier, and I realized that despite its frustrations, the wind and shade of this hike had been an escape from our spring heat wave in town.
I reached the trailhead 9-1/2 hours after I started. I’d made a lot of brief stops, but it had to have been a long hike. When I plotted and profiled it back home on a topo map, I found it had totalled 17.3 miles, with 2,932′ of accumulated elevation gain. Coincidentally, the forest road where I turned around is only a quarter mile from the point I reached last year on a 19-mile hike from much closer to town. So I was only a quarter mile from connecting the two hikes.
Protected: Bathroom Wall Accessories
Thursday, April 21st, 2022: Restoration Projects.
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Monday, June 27th, 2022: Hikes, Holt, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
A long hiatus since the last hiking dispatch – more than two months – and even longer – three months – since I last ventured into our legendary wilderness area. I may explain elsewhere why I’ve lost most of my conditioning and am having to gradually rebuild my capacity. In the week prior to this Sunday, I’d done three easy hikes of up to about 4 miles and 800′ of elevation gain. All of those were on trails near town, heavily used by dog walkers, trail runners, and mountain bikers. I really wanted to dip my toes inside the wilderness, where I rarely encounter other people.
But finding a wilderness trail that would suit my recovery was a challenge. I maintain a 7-page list of regional hikes, and every wilderness hike on that list far exceeds my current capability. Doing a partial hike on any of my favorite trails would be frustrating, but I finally figured out something that would work: a partial hike of between 2 and 3 miles onto a spur trail that branched off one of my favorites. The spur trail led up over a saddle into one of the biggest canyon systems in the range, and I’d tried it last year, found that it disappeared into a jungle along a narrow creek, and decided it wasn’t worth pursuing. But the saddle itself provided a spectacular view over the big canyon, and would be a worthy destination for a short recovery hike.
I actually wasn’t confident of making it to the saddle, which would require almost 1,500′ of total climbing, but there was an intermediate spot I could use as an alternate destination if I ran out of steam. In any event, I’d get to spend time in wild habitat that would’ve changed dramatically in the weather we’d had since my last visit.
On the drive northwest from town, the mountains were almost completely hidden by rain clouds, which made me very happy. Even better, I drove through a nice little storm shortly before reaching the turnoff.
It was raining enough at the trailhead that I pulled on my poncho. The half mile of trail before the wilderness boundary was more damaged by erosion than I’d ever seen. Unusually, there’d been another vehicle parked at the trailhead, and past the boundary, on my way down into the first canyon, I encountered a lone woman returning from her morning hike. She wished me a good day and passed quickly without slowing. I stopped, turned, and said it was good to see another hiker who liked this kind of weather. “It’s just weather,” she muttered curtly without stopping or looking back.
She clearly wasn’t interested in socializing, but I continued to think about her as I continued. Short, slender, very fit, and 15-20 years younger than me, she’d been moving too fast for me to form a precise image, but she seemed to evoke several women I knew of who frequented this area. One was a hiker who lived nearby that I’d corresponded with and done another short recovery hike with years ago. Another was the “peak bagger” from Arizona that I’d tried to emulate on a difficult bushwhack last year. And a third was the trail runner whose enigmatic shoeprints I’d studied on another bushwhack three canyons to the south. I wished she’d given me an opportunity to talk more, but it occurred to me that she wasn’t prepared for wet weather – dressed lightly in a short-sleeved top and cycling-type shorts, she wasn’t even carrying a day pack, let alone a storm shell – and had likely cut her hike short for that reason.
I was surprised at how quickly only a week of rain had turned the canyon bottom into a jungle. Apparently there’d been enough groundwater to support the vegetation even before our premature monsoon. But despite today’s storm, streamflow was modest.
I was moving slower than usual, and having to take off the poncho when the rain stopped, shake it out, and repack it, only to need it again 15 minutes later when rain resumed. It was warm and humid enough that it just wasn’t comfortable to wear when I didn’t need it. But I would end up needing it a half dozen times by the end of the hike.
Having only hiked the spur trail once before, I’d forgotten how many switchbacks it has. The hike to the saddle is nothing but a series of about two dozen switchbacks, most of which don’t show up on trail maps. But I was grateful because they ensured a climb that was gentle enough for my physical condition. A friend had said my body would be eager to start climbing again, and I found that to be true – not only did I make it to the saddle, but I continued higher for a half mile to reach a better vantage point over the big canyon.
It was raining harder up there on the ridge, so the view was too hazy to savor. But it felt great anyway!
Since I wasn’t rushing to complete a marathon hike to a remote destination like so often before, I felt in no hurry on the way down, and was able to stop many times to appreciate the little things, and really enjoyed this hike as a result. It’s precious to be immersed in this arid habitat during such a wet period. But also, after being in regular touch with friends in distant cities, I was reminded again of how lucky I am to live in a place like this, where a huge mountain wilderness area, with a mostly intact ecosystem virtually free of invasive species, is only a short drive from my home. And because of its size and our low population density, I typically have it all to myself!
Monday, July 4th, 2022: Black Range, Hikes, Sawyers, Southwest New Mexico.
My recovery plan called for a Sunday hike that would yield an incremental increase in distance and elevation from last Sunday’s hike. And to keep me motivated, it needed to avoid the popular trails near town and aim for the high mountains an hour’s drive away. My first choice was on the southern segment of the crest trail in the mountains east of us, leading to a 9,700′ peak.
But the hip pain that had stopped me from hiking 3 months ago had returned during the past week. I was proceeding on the assumption that it was only a soft tissue problem, and not a failure of my prosthesis, so I was trying to get rid of it by avoiding the activities that seemed to trigger it: hip-specific exercises, and hikes with long, steep climbs.
After a long, conflicted inner debate, I ended up reluctantly driving a short distance to a very popular trail just north of town, that would give me as much distance as I was comfortable with, on a gentle grade that shouldn’t hurt my hip.
Near town, the sky was clear and rain wasn’t forecast until evening, so I’d left my waterproof boots and pants at home. This trail starts on a primitive forest road up a narrow canyon, involving about 8 stream crossings. Some of the crossings are barely doable when the stream is low, but today it turned out to be a raging flood.
“Screw this,” I said to myself. “I’m going to climb the damn mountain. If my hip starts hurting, I’ll just cut the hike short.” So, now more than an hour behind schedule, I drove the long hour east.
The crest hike begins at the 8,200′ pass on the highway. Our recent mega-fire burned southward almost to the north side of the pass, and although our early monsoon quenched the flames, the north two-thirds of the range, including the wilderness area, remains closed.
The pass is a popular place with urbanites from Las Cruces and El Paso, and since the trail north was closed, I was expecting company on the southern segment. But despite my late start, the parking area was empty.
In fact, the trail turned out to be overgrown with thorny locust and Gambel oak, and the only tracks were from cattle. I’d encountered cattle once before along this trail, but they’d always been far outnumbered by deer and elk. This new regime echoed a worrying trend in our local mountains – livestock seem to be on the increase everywhere.
The trail climbs steadily, at a gentle grade, through the burn scar of the 2013 mega-fire. That fire had burned at high intensity over most of this area, and the remaining snags continued to topple and block the trail, which now had an abandoned feel.
But occasional views east from the deforested slopes continued to be rewarding. This is a narrow north-south range, and the eastern slope is so steep that the nearest outlying peaks are over a thousand feet lower, giving you a clear view over 40 miles of rumpled landscape to the low ranges across the Rio Grande.
As I climbed southwards along the crest, I saw a dark storm cloud forming ahead, and thought it would be great to get some weather. Be careful what you wish for!
The farther I went, the more the ground had been fouled by cattle. I had to walk carefully to avoid the deep pits made in the mud of the trail by their hooves. Saddles between peaks had been turned into churned-up mudpits, and even on steep grassy slopes the ground was an obstacle course of rain-softened cowpies. After dealing with that and fighting my way over all that deadfall and blowdown, I finally neared the base of the peak, and the rain began.
It was a hard rain, and because I’d originally targeted the trail near town, I was unprepared. Yes, I had my poncho, but I knew my feet would soon be wet in the breathable boots with their dysfunctional Gore-Tex.
But the peak was only a half mile and a few hundred vertical feet above, so I had to keep going.
Deep soil remains on these mountains from the pre-fire alpine forest, and rainwater was pouring down the slopes in a sheet flow, turning the soil into a continuous bog. And on top of that, the slopes are an obstacle course of fallen logs, many of which are so big you have to zigzag back and forth to avoid them. When I finally slogged my way to the top, where the view is blocked by spectral snags, my feet and lower pant legs were completely soaked. And I could see through the ghost forest on the north side that my return route lay under an even heavier storm.
The hike back alternated between long, apocalyptic downpours of rain and hail, with lightning and thunder all around, and brief respites of light rain. Inside my boots, cold water sloshed all the way up my ankles, and my waterlogged canvas pants chilled me and weighed me down. My hip was hurting but it was the least of my worries – I was rushing to get back to the vehicle, put an end to this misbegotten ordeal, and change into dry socks.
The hood on my cheap poncho is designed so it always blocks at least one of your eyes, so I normally carry a cap to prop the hood up. But having left that at home, I had to make do without depth perception, and stumbled a lot, my soaked boots providing no ankle support.
More torrential rain fell on the highway home. All I could do was eagerly anticipate a hot bath!
Monday, July 11th, 2022: Hikes, Little Dry, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
I wanted a hike through open country with expansive views today. I knew exactly where to go, but then I realized my little 2wd truck wasn’t up to it. I really need to get the Sidekick fixed, because during monsoon season, the approach to many hikes involves muddy roads and deep stream crossings that my truck won’t handle. So I ended up with the polar opposite of what I wanted – a maddeningly difficult struggle through a jungle in a canyon bottom where visibility was often limited to a few yards.
The sky was clear, and I expected temps in the 80s, but I knew storms could form over the mountains by afternoon, so I wore my heavy waterproof hunting pants and waterproof boots.
This is a relatively short canyon with steep sides, creating a small watershed, so while our larger streams and rivers are currently in perpetual flood, this stream wasn’t even running continuously on the surface. But when it was there, it was making plenty of noise, and the trail, already congested with flood debris and deadfall, was more overgrown with vegetation than ever.
The flies found me as soon as I approached the canyon bottom, and never left me alone the whole day. The highlight of the battle through the jungle was when I reached two logs that had fallen down a very steep slope, blocking the trail. I decided to climb up the slope past the first, smaller, log and then scramble over the second, much larger, log. But when I stepped up on the larger log and was balancing there precariously, I suddenly heard the brief rattle of a rattlesnake.
Lush vegetation covered everything so I couldn’t see the snake. I stepped backwards off the log, broke off a small branch, and beat it on the log to trigger another rattle. But then I was immediately swarmed by hundreds of bees! They had a hive in the log! I beat a hasty retreat, sliding down the slope, barely avoiding a fall.
But as soon was I back on the trail again, the rattle resumed, and I finally saw the snake, coiled under the smaller log right next to the trail, a couple yards in front of me.
I was getting really sick of this trail anyway. But I’d only gone about 3 miles, hadn’t gained much elevation, and worst of all, I hated to turn back now and let this combo of logs, bees, and snake get the best of me.
That big log was really long, and it was a hard climb in rain-loosened rocky soil to get above it, but I finally did, and detoured up the slope to give the bees a wide birth. Once back on the trail, I memorized the look of this spot, so on the way back, I’d take special care to avoid the snake.
I’d gotten a late start and the hike up the canyon bottom had been such slow going that I wasn’t sure how far I’d get. But sooner than expected I reached the base of the switchbacks that climb to the saddle – my original destination. I was running out of time but figured I might as well continue until I at least had a view over the head of the canyon..
As I did, storm clouds began to gather, dimming the sky. I felt better climbing out in the open, and I ended up going most of the way to the top before finally deciding I’d had enough for the day. When I’m in good condition I would’ve gone at least 3 miles farther and 2,000′ higher, but I’m still having a lot of trouble with my wind – I have to stop repeatedly for breath any time I’m climbing.
Since I was dressed for rain, I was hoping for rain, but all I got was the sporadic sound of thunder from miles away. And I made it past the big log with no sign of the snake, although I ran into another, bigger one nearly a mile farther down.
About a third of a way home on the highway, I had the stereo turned up when another noise joined it. When I turned off the music, there was a rushing sound that seemed to be on the right side of the truck. I hadn’t felt any change in the ride – was something coming loose?
I slowed and pulled into the empty gravel parking lot of a remote country store. When I got out, I found my rear driver’s side tire was shredded. That was a new tire!
I couldn’t figure out what had happened, but it’s par for the course with this truck. I keep putting cheap tires on it, then abusing them by driving on rocky roads. Maybe a rock on the road to the trail had somehow started a slow leak that eventually blew up on the highway.
I’ve destroyed so many tires on this truck that I knew the drill. I grabbed everything I needed, crawled underneath to lower the spare, and was ready to go in about 20 minutes. Just as I was tightening the lug nuts, an old guy in a UTV pulled up to see if I needed help.
