Sunday, February 19th, 2023
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, February 13th, 2023: Brushy, Hikes, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
There was a hike on my list that I’d been avoiding, up in the heart of the wilderness, where elevations are moderate and snow wouldn’t be as deep. It didn’t seem to cross any major creeks. But it started from a famous corral, so I assumed it would see a lot of equestrian use. The day was forecast to be warmer, so I could expect mud, churned up by the horses. And worst of all, it seemed to be in the zone of the dreaded volcanic cobbles, which make walking extra hard.
I didn’t expect to find anything spectacular along the way. And yet another disadvantage is the drive – an hour and a half on a really scary mountain road, half of which has no centerline, so people tend to drive in the middle, even around blind curves. But I got an early start, and only encountered a couple other vehicles in 45 miles.
The corral is just downstream from the famous cliff dwellings, ground zero for tourism. There was a late-model city SUV at the trailhead, and a young guy was studying the info kiosk. I wished him a good morning but he ignored me – typical city behavior. By the time I set out, he was a couple hundred yards up the trail.
The trails in the heart of the wilderness either follow the forks of the river, or climb ridges. This was a ridge trail, recently cleared, which I hoped to follow to an 8,133′ peak, eight miles away.
It was freezing when I set out. I was catching up with the young guy within the first half mile, but that’s when I stop to stretch and tighten my boots, so I didn’t actually pass him until ten minutes later. He was already descending – it looked like he’d just been trying to find a cell phone signal. This time he managed to return my greeting.
The first half of the trail was in really good shape, and dry enough to avoid mud, so I made really good time. I’d expected this to be a popular trail, and the dirt showed a mixture of boot and horseshoe prints.
Continuing up the ridge past the first fork, the trail rises from the open pinyon-juniper-oak woodland into the ponderosa pine zone, then descends 300 feet into the canyon of a creek. I’d overlooked this on the map, and was surprised to find one of the biggest creeks in the range, in full snowmelt flood. It took me fifteen minutes to find a place downstream where I could cross on a log and a series of big rocks.
Past the creek, the day’s hike began to fall apart. I’d reached the zone of volcanic cobbles – a geological discontinuity – and from here on, it was rocks and mud churned by horses’ hooves.
It was a long, steep climb up another ridge. The equestrians had almost completely chewed up the trail, but I occasionally spotted a bootprint or two the horses hadn’t stepped on. It appeared that a man and a woman, probably backpackers, had toiled up the mud of this trail within the past month.
Fortunately no patches of snow yet, and the dirt was mostly still frozen, but the hike had gotten much slower. It was warm in the sun, so I took off my sweater, but wind was rising out of the west, and banks of clouds soon drifted over, so I had to pull the sweater back on, only to overheat fifteen minutes later. Eventually the trail dropped into the canyon of yet another stream – I hadn’t anticipated this either – but this one was smaller and easier to cross.
It was sweater weather again in that narrow, shaded canyon. And on the other side, a very steep north slope, the snow began – and under it, ice from successive melting and freezing, which made the climb really hazardous. I’d been assuming I wouldn’t hit serious snow until the final ascent of the peak, but when I reached the gentle slope atop the ridge, it turned out to be just high enough to hold some big, deep patches. And the snow was melting into the trail, which had already been churned up by the equestrians, so it was now a rock-filled bog.
I had to go off trail to avoid the mud, but off the trail, I was lurching and stumbling on the volcanic cobbles, many of which were hidden under tussocks of dried grass. There was enough forest around me that I had no view out and couldn’t see the peak I was aiming for, so I had no idea how much farther it was. This was turning into a truly miserable hike, and eventually I gave up.
Surprisingly, the backpackers’ tracks continued. I didn’t envy them a bit – where they’d walked in the trail, their boots had sunk in the mud several inches. They couldn’t have been having much fun, but as I’ve remarked before, despite its exalted reputation, this wilderness can be a truly nasty place for humans, and is getting worse due to wildfires and climate change.
I still had plenty of time, so on my return, I could pay more attention to my footing on the rough, pitted, boggy ground. It’s a miracle I haven’t sprained an ankle on this kind of surface. I swore never to take this trail again, even in the dry season.
It’s ironic and maddening, because the Forest Service has accepted that equestrians are the only group able to do regular trail maintenance at this point. The horse people see it as good PR, and they’re apparently encouraging increased horse traffic, which in muddy conditions renders trails almost useless for hikers. It’s a whole new regime, and I just need to plan around it.
It was a huge relief to finally cross the first creek and reach the easy first half of the trail. And when I got within 2 miles of the trailhead, I began to see more recent footprints – several people had gone a short distance up the trail while I was struggling up that distant boggy ridge.
In the end, I’d hiked 12.6 miles and climbed 2,300′ – the most I’d managed in the past month, but way below my long-term average. And on the drive home, I encountered vehicle after vehicle speeding on the mountain road, threatening to force me off the pavement as they barreled recklessly around blind curves – including a guy in a huge pickup towing a big trailer, two feet over my side of the centerline, heading straight at me.
The heart of the wilderness is where all the tourists go, and as far as I’m concerned they can keep it.
Tuesday, February 14th, 2023: Relationships, Society.
Exactly thirty years ago I had the best Valentine’s day ever.
We’d fallen madly in love a year and a half earlier, and had just reunited after a brief crisis and a few weeks’ separation.
Over the winter holidays, I’d helped her pick out a blue satin party dress. And for Valentine’s Day I gave her a dozen red roses. I know, conventional, but after the last few weeks, I wasn’t taking any chances! She set them on her side of our bed in her apartment on Grand Avenue in Oakland’s old Adams Point neighborhood, a block from Lake Merritt.
We both had the day off, and we packed our evening clothes into my Geo Tracker, and dressed for a day outdoors. We drove north through Berkeley and Richmond to the Richmond Bridge, and from there to Tiburon, where we parked and rode the ferry across the Raccoon Strait to Angel Island. It was a cool, blustery, but sunny day.
We rented mountain bikes at the landing on the island, and spent the day riding over and around the eucalyptus-clad hills together. The sparkling Bay surrounded us on all sides, with sailboats running and tacking, the white city of San Francisco sprawling over its own hills in the distance, the Golden Gate a window onto the vast western ocean.
In late afternoon we caught the return ferry to Tiburon, where we changed clothes in the Tracker – her satin dress rustling in the back seat.
Guaymas, the Bay Area’s fancy Mexican restaurant, was right next to the ferry terminal and parking lot, and I’d made a reservation. We chose a table on the outside deck overlooking the Bay, and were seated as the sun began to set.
After our drinks were delivered, the mariachis made a beeline for our table. My partner was Mexican-American, and she requested “Sabor a Mi”.
Our dinner was fabulous as usual.
We drove back to Oakland.
All I’ll say about Valentine’s night is that it literally couldn’t have been better.
Sunday, February 19th, 2023: Burro Mountains, Hikes, Southwest New Mexico.
I was finally out of options. We’d had more snow in the past week, and more freezing weather. Rain was forecast for this Sunday, and more snow in the coming week.
There was literally only one hike on my list that might still be relatively free of flooded creeks, deep snow, and mud. I’d left it for last because the trail meanders through rolling mid-elevation pinyon-juniper-oak woodland just south of town, crisscrossed by ranch roads and grazed by cattle.
It was warmer in the morning – in the 40s – but I layered up with all my rain gear, and a light rain began as I headed off the paved highway toward the low mountains.
This would start like one of my regular midweek hikes – a route that’s one of my secrets, known to few others. I would take an unmaintained, high-clearance dirt forest road up a plateau mostly deforested by firewood cutters, leaving my vehicle in a little surviving stand of Emory oaks. From there I would walk up the deeply eroded road to where it dead-ends at the foot of a low peak, and from there I would take a short spur trail to where a seldom-used segment of the national trail skirts the base of the peak on its way north. I intended to follow the trail north for 7 or 8 miles.
But as soon as the dirt road entered the woodland, I unexpectedly found it under 4 to 6 inches of snow. Nobody had been up here, either on foot or by vehicle. The road climbs, and the snow got deeper.
The spur trail was doable, but when I reached the national trail my boots sank into snow over a foot deep. I hadn’t brought my gaiters, but even if I had, I was fed up with hiking through snow at this point. I made it about another hundred yards, but it was still getting deeper so I gave up, after only a mile and a quarter of hiking.
Why hadn’t I anticipated this? When I got home I realized that when choosing a hike, I’d glanced at the wrong line item on my list of routes. I thought this route topped out at 6,500′, which should’ve been snow-free, but that traverse across the base of the peak was actually 7,300′, and that additional 800′ made all the difference.
The result is that I now have no options left. This might be my last hike in a while!
After all, there’s no natural law that says humans should have access to nature at all times.
