Monday, December 18th, 2023
Monday, December 4th, 2023: Hikes, Mogollon Mountains, Nabours, Southwest New Mexico.
For the past three months, foot trouble had prevented me from doing the high-elevation-gain hikes I crave. But after last Sunday’s successful test, I felt I was ready to up my game. I scanned my eight-page list of hikes but couldn’t find anything exciting within an hour of town – until it struck me that the brutal trail that’d defeated me during our summer heat wave might’ve been cleared during this fall’s season of trail work.
Back then, I’d only been able to hike about three miles of the five-and-a-half miles to a high saddle and major junction. This is a fairly obscure hike I’ve been craving since I recently discovered it on the map, but it’d been a low priority for trail crews, and twelve years of post-fire erosion and regrowth had mostly blocked it and obliterated the old tread, especially in the upper part that traverses steep slopes.
It took me a while to track down reports of recent trail work, but I finally learned that an additional two miles of the trail had been cleared in October. Now the only potential obstacle was runoff – we’d had two storms in the past two weeks, and the high-clearance forest road to the trailhead crosses a creek draining the biggest and highest watershed on the west side of the range. Even if I could cross it early in the morning, by late afternoon it might be a raging flood.
I decided not to take the chance, but rather to turn off the highway earlier for a closer, much less interesting hike I’d done many times before and wasn’t excited about today. But on the drive up, I saw that all the smaller creeks crossed by the highway were dry. So I just kept driving, and when I got to the big creek crossing, it was bone dry – it normally flows underground at this point, and not even the highest afternoon temperatures on previous days had melted enough snow to flood it. Yay!
The first snowfall in these mountains had been two weeks ago, during my road trip to Arizona. And the second had been during the past few days. The temperature in town was just below freezing when I left home, the sky was blue to the horizon in all directions, and as I drove north I could see the snow line on the mountains lay at about 8,000 feet.
But the climb to the top of the long ridge is steep enough that I shed my storm shell, knit cap, and lined gloves on the way. And as I remembered, the climb up the ridge toward the foot of the mountains, mostly exposed through sparse scrub and open pinyon-juniper-oak woodland, is one of the steepest sustained climbs in our region. But I was motivated to see the newly cleared trail ahead. What attracted me to this trail on the map is that it doesn’t mess around – it climbs directly from the lowest to the highest elevations of this most dramatic western side of the range, crossing watersheds at the end, promising spectacular views both west and east.
In the dirt of the ridgetop trail, I found the hoofprints of the equestrian trail crew, two or three bootprints, and tracks I at first thought were from cattle, but soon realized were a bull elk and one or more cows. Like I’ve found elsewhere, they’d used this man-made trail as a quick and easy path to the crest.
The moment of truth came when the previously cleared ridgetop trail entered a maze of deadfall and regrowth near the foot of a steep, rocky upper slope. This is where I’d wasted the better part of an hour unsuccessfully trying to find a route last summer. And sure enough, deadfall logs had been cut, a wide swath of brush had been cleared, and a path lined with loose rock led up the mountain.
Trail workers had cleared a winding path across a couple of steep drainages that had been filled with post-fire debris flows and dense brush, and I knew that path would be washed out again in the next heavy rain. But for now, it led me almost a half mile north across the western slope of the rocky peak above, which temporarily hid the higher peaks from sight. It wasn’t until later, looking up from below, that I discovered the canyon below the long ridge is blocked on the other side of this peak by a sheer rock wall that extends from side to side like a high dam, with only a narrow slot for the creek to drain through. This, and the rock bluffs surrounding the lower peak, is why the trail had to be routed far to the north.
But eventually, the trail took me around a corner into a drainage that would lead, via many switchbacks, back toward the crest. This drainage is in shadow all winter, so the snow from both storms still covered the trail. I’d already climbed 2,500 vertical feet and had amazing views west, across the valley of the San Francisco River, to the rim of the alpine plateau I’d visited on my Arizona trip, and even to the now-snow-covered range ninety miles to the southwest that I’d last climbed in mid-September. This is what excites me about these crest hikes, climbing through a view that encompasses a vast landscape I’ve explored on foot and gotten to know up close as well as from far away.
The trail climbed steeply up this first drainage and reached a broad saddle where there had been a big blowdown – dozens of mature ponderosa pines snapped off at the base or uprooted, all toppling eastward. But the trail snaked its way through them, logs cut by the trail crew where necessary.
Past the blowdown saddle at 8,000 feet, the snow cover became continuous – at first an inch deep, then two. The trail switchbacked up into another steep, north-trending drainage, even darker than before, where snow had accumulated from four to five inches deep, and I was daunted to see the continuation of my trail towering above, cutting clearly through burn scar and talus slope. I’d forgotten to bring my storm pants and gaiters, and snow was soaking into the cuffs of my canvas pants.
It was here, in the deeper snow, that I discovered one previous hiker, a bigger man, had hiked this far in the past two weeks, between snowfalls, because his tracks had been filled in by last week’s storm but were still faintly visible. But his tracks ended at the last talus slope, which I had to cross very carefully because the snow hid the deep cracks between rocks. And past that, in an eroded gully, the rebuilt tread ended.
This is a situation I’ve learned from several different mountain ranges and national forests – initially, trail crews scout far ahead, flagging a route, and even doing cursory clearing of brush and cutting of smaller logs. Then during a formal work party, they return with more people and gear to clear everything and rebuild tread, but only up to a shorter distance. A hiker can continue beyond the rebuilt trail, as long as you can find the pink ribbons, which can be far apart and hard to see.
Beyond that gully, the route switchbacked and traversed a sunny, snow-free slope up a shallower drainage, then, on a short stretch of surviving, snow-covered tread partly blocked by deadfall logs, ascended what appeared to be the last slope to the crest. At this point I was beside myself with anticipation of a never-before-seen view.
Pink ribbons led me into a thicket on the crest, where I found myself with a view across the head of the canyon I’d started out in today, nearly five miles and 4,000 vertical feet below. I could see the peak whose shoulder I’ve climbed many times on one of my other favorite hikes, but I couldn’t seen the interior summit crest of the range, which is what I’d been hoping for.
East of the thicket I stood in lay a steep, rocky, trackless slope covered with stubby scrub oak and deadfall. I could see another pink ribbon in the distance, and it appeared that by traversing that slope for a few hundred yards, I might round another corner and get a view toward the heart of the range.
There was no trail left, but I found the fresh prints of the elk, so I just followed them from ribbon to ribbon. They led to a rock outcrop which was almost too good to be true: it was like a viewing platform for the highest peaks of the range, laid out before me in their fire-scoured, snow-blanketed majesty.
About three hundred feet below I glimpsed another red ribbon, in the saddle which led to the trail junction. And at my feet were piles of elk scat, which was so fresh – still moist – they had to have been there earlier today. Due to the steep grade and the snow, it had taken me more than four hours to go five miles. But this was already one of my favorite hikes.
In fact, with a nearly fifteen percent average grade, this is the steepest major trail in any of the mountain ranges in my region. That became painfully clear on the descent, when I struggled to walk slow enough to protect my foot and knees.
But in stretches where the grade decreased, I was able to study the view to the west, trying to identify peaks I’d climbed or driven past. The landscape was all laid out for me, but much of it remained a puzzle until later, when I could study a large-scale topo map.
The final traverse of the newly cleared trail took place in the full light of the setting sun, and I had to stop to take off my sweater and thermal bottoms. In the process of taking off my snow-soaked pants, I got my socks wet and had to change into the spare pair I always carry. I’d developed a sharp pain in my right knee and wondered how bad it would get – I still had over 2,000 vertical feet to descend.
The answer is, pretty bad. Halfway down the long ridge I strapped on the knee brace – my heavy pack is permanently loaded with first aid and other emergency gear for situations like this. That ridge always seems to go on forever, but with the brace, I was able to reach the vehicle about fifteen minutes after the sun sank behind the western horizon of the river valley. Ending hikes in pain is a fact of life now, but in this case, I guess it was worth it.
Monday, December 11th, 2023: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Snowshed, Southeast Arizona.
After the relative success of last weekend’s big climb on an unfamiliar trail, I decided to drive over the state line this weekend to re-do a slightly longer big climb that I hadn’t done for over a year. Unfortunately, in multiple instances of wishful thinking, I mistakenly assumed I was back in top shape after more than a year of setbacks, and I forgot how challenging the hike actually is and what limited time you have to complete it once you drive over there.
It was 21 degrees out when I left home, and I packed my gaiters, expecting both creek crossings and patches of deep snow.
Approaching the mountains I was surprised not to see snow on the crest. The temperature at the trailhead, a couple hundred feet lower than home, was still in the mid-20s – colder than I remember in this location – and my uncovered nose quickly got cold, so I hurried through the shady spots. The creeks were lower than I’d ever seen, so the gaiters would just be dead weight.
The first three-mile segment of trail climbs 2,000 feet, with the first mile and a half at a steady 15 percent grade, from oak scrub to ponderosa pine forest. From there it traverses a shaded north slope to the junction with the upper trail. I always forget how hard a climb this is.
I’d seen a couple of footprints on the initial climb, but most people just do the first mile or so, and I was the first hiker on the traverse in many months.
The first payoff of this hike is when you cross into the next watershed, a big east-trending canyon whose head is on the crest of the range. Much of the forest was destroyed in the 2011 wildfire, and at this time of year the rocky, treeless slopes are dominated by ferns in their fall color, rust-red.
What follows is a traverse that climbs 1,300 feet in another three miles – which doesn’t sound like much, but the trail hasn’t been cleared in many years, the footing consists almost completely of loose, sharp rocks, and our wet year of 2022 resulted in erosion of tread and overgrowth of woody shrubs that block the trail in many places. There was no sign that any other hikers had tried this trail in the past year.
I found this traverse so difficult that I had to stop repeatedly to catch my breath, and in the last mile I realized I wouldn’t reach my destination, and began feeling like I’d made a mistake in coming. This trail climbs to a barren saddle, and from there continues across the head of the canyon to its junction with the crest trail. I’d forgotten that it originally took me three tries, simply to reach the barren saddle, and then another couple of tries to reach the junction, which offers a view into yet another big canyon.
You have to be in killer shape to reach that junction quickly enough so you can return down the trail before the cafe closes, and I was not in killer shape now. The six miles to the saddle had taken me almost 4-1/2 hours, and continuing to the junction would force me to hurry down that treacherous loose rock, almost certainly missing my deadline.
On the way down, I gradually became aware that I’d been so distracted throughout this hike – thinking only of my problems at home – I’d barely even been aware of my surroundings. Normally I love the views here, and I had noticed four redtail hawks working the canyon and a young whitetail buck crossing the saddle, but overall, this was the first hike I could remember that I simply hadn’t enjoyed.
To compound my discontent, I developed a leg cramp on the way down, so bad that for about fifteen minutes, I was screaming whenever I tried to move. This was the third hike in a row where I’d developed a cramp, despite drinking plenty of water and adding electrolytes. I’ve been bringing 3-1/2 liters since cold weather started – that was more than enough in the past – but this year I find I’m running out of water before trail’s end, and getting these terrible cramps.
By the time I reached the pine park – the halfway point – my neck, shoulders, hip, knees, and ankles were all aching. I didn’t know if it was due to lack of conditioning, or simply natural aging. My whole routine for the past five years has been oriented toward longer, higher-elevation-gain wilderness hikes. And whenever I find myself losing capacity, I wonder if the loss will be irreversible this time.
On the way down, instead of enjoying the hike, all I could think of was dining in a restaurant and spending the night away from the problems that are crushing me at home. But despite giving up on my original destination, I still ended up cutting the return too close – the cafe was closing so I had to get my burrito and beer to go.
Monday, December 18th, 2023: Hikes, Mogollon Mountains, Rain, Southwest New Mexico.
Trying to regain the capacity to do long, deep wilderness hikes with massive elevation gain, I thought I was ready for one of my favorites, on the west side of our local mountains. It involves steep grades that are brutal on the feet, so I’d avoided it for the past seven months, but I hoped I was ready now.
The sky was clear and the temperature in town was expected to reach the mid-60s. The hike involves crossings of two major creeks, but the drainages are on the south side of the mountains, we hadn’t had any precip in weeks, and I figured flows would be low.
I was surprised to find a new restroom installed at the remote trailhead. As I’d learned on my last visit, there’s a dirt airstrip a short walk away. It serves no purpose other than as a destination for aviation hobbyists, who like to fly into remote strips like this simply so, like birders, they can check them off their life lists. Fly in, fly out.
Anyway, they’d built a pristine new restroom at this trailhead that doesn’t need one, for their private convenience.
The traverse down into the first canyon gets full sun, so I was shedding layers all the way, until I reached the shade of the bottom, where the temperature immediately dropped 30 degrees. It was so cold down there my nose and face were in pain – probably another symptom of Raynaud’s syndrome – so I stepped up my pace.
The climb up the switchbacks on the opposite side soon warmed me up. I’d seen one footprint on the descent, but like most visitors here, other recent hikers had stuck to the canyon bottom, and the trail out of the first canyon had only been used by animals since the last work party, probably last spring.
My energy and wind seemed pretty good, but it still took me two hours to climb the two miles and 1,400 vertical feet to the west end of the rolling plateau, at a 13 percent average grade. It struck me that my old familiar trails are harder now, after months of foot trouble, than they were last spring. And last spring, they were harder than they were a year earlier, before my near-fatal illness. It seems that my loss of capacity is permanent.
After that sobering realization, the “walk in the park” north-eastward across the rolling plateau, toward the dramatic talus-draped wall of Lookout Mountain, cheered me up, and I covered that mile-and-a-half, including another steep climb in loose rock, in only 45 minutes.
The 1,200 foot descent from the saddle at the east end of the plateau, to the creek at the bottom, takes place mostly in shade and involves a steady 19 percent grade, in loose rock, for a little over a mile. Whereas most people find going downhill on loose rock more daunting than ascending, I’ve been downclimbing on this kind of surface for years and it doesn’t trigger my foot condition like going uphill.
Lunchtime had arrived, and I was holding an open bag of homemade trail mix at one point while hiking downhill and trying to do something with my other hand. A dozen or so nuts and sesame sticks tumbled out on the ground, but I still had plenty left, so I kept walking for half a dozen steps before catching myself. You’re deep in the wilderness, dude – waste not, want not. So I turned back and carefully picked every single nut and stick out from among the rocks.
It’s always a relief to reach the parklike ponderosa forest on the lower slope, where the surface immediately changes from loose rock to packed dirt and pine needles.
Sometimes I cross the big creek and traverse the opposite slope toward a third canyon. But my research had suggested that two miles of the upstream trail had been cleared since my last visits, so I wanted to try that today. But it’d taken me 3-1/2 hours to reach the creek, and I only had a total of 8 hours to finish the hike by sunset. Two miles upstream would take me at least another hour, getting me back to the vehicle in the dark. But carrying a headlamp, I wasn’t worried, and I really needed to check out the newly cleared trail, which could take me that much deeper into wilderness.
The upstream trail is another slow stretch, traversing a steep slope between ten and fifty feet above the creek, up and down and in and out of side drainages, around tree trunks and boulders, the forest blocking most of your view. I crossed the creek a few times, scrambled over some blowdown, passed the beautiful bedrock soaking pools I’d discovered a couple of years ago, and finally reached the debris flow where the trail had ended before.
Sure enough, there was now tread leading down the vertical bank and up the debris flow. I knew this was unsustainable – it’d be completely obliterated in the next big flood – but this is the future of trails in the new fire regime.
I had entered a stretch of canyon that had been devastated by the 2012 wildfire and subsequent flooding and erosion. The trail crew had done a huge amount of work here, but unlike trail work I’d seen in other more popular national forests, this was quick and dirty. Tread had been hacked up banks of loose dirt that would wash out in a heavy storm, and brush had been cleared across floodplains that would fill with debris in a wet monsoon. Still, it was new trail so I kept going.
After passing a huge pool, I finally reached a place where the creek ran wide over flat bedrock for 150 feet. I’d used up another hour and a half and really needed to turn back. But I saw a pink ribbon upstream, so I picked my way across, and saw that the trail continued on the other side.
It’d taken me five hours to get this far, and it would take me almost that much time to return. I’d never stayed out this long since I started doing these wilderness explorations, and I knew I’d end up hiking over an hour in the dark – but it’d be on familiar trail, with a headlamp.
On the way back down the canyon, while scrambling over all that flood debris, I managed to fall and slam the ball of my left foot against the point of a sharp rock – which is something I can never allow myself to do, because that’s where the inflammation is always latent. There I was, seven miles back in the wilderness, facing a 1,200 foot climb on loose rock at a 19 percent grade, and I might’ve set my recovery back six years, to when the condition first became acute.
But all I could do was keep going. I could still take short steps, thanks to my stiff winter boots. And when I reached the bottom of that killer grade, I forced myself to climb super-slow, with little mincing steps to minimize the flexing of my foot and the pressure on the ball. I’d never tried that before, and it worked – despite the grade, I could climb continuously, indefinitely, without stopping for breath – something I’d never been able to do before.
It took me an hour and a half to climb a little over a mile up that brutal grade.
The sun was still peeking over the plateau in the west, but I had a mile and a half of plateau to cross, followed by two miles of steep descent on loose rock, and the final climb of more than a mile out of the first canyon. I was trying to avoid rushing, trying to take short steps to protect my foot, but the sun was setting, I was running out of water, and I still had many difficult miles to cover.
The sun set as I descended from the plateau. My night vision is pretty good and I was able to see well enough to reach the steep switchbacks into the first canyon, but less than halfway down I was stumbling too much and strapped on my headlamp.
It’d been full dark for a half hour by the time I reached the first creek. I was still stumbling a lot, because with a headlamp there’s no shadows or contrast and you still have a hard time seeing the rocks in the trail. But I was still forcing myself to go slow, and that helped keep my spirits from sinking. That and the moon and the stars.
I’d seen the crescent moon overhead while back in the second canyon, and now it was setting toward the western wall of this first canyon. A bright red star hung high over the opposite wall, and as I climbed out of the canyon, I could see Orion rising in the east.
When I reach the trailhead, the Milky Way arched over the northern sky, Cassiopeia glittering at the crest. I’d gone fifteen miles and climbed a total of 4,100 feet, it’d taken me almost ten hours, and I didn’t think my body was up for this any more.
I’d brought my new noise-cancelling headphones to try them out – they’d worked amazingly well on the drive up. And now, wearing them again on the long, bumpy dirt road down the mesa, I had a revelation.
I heard every detail of music I’d been missing over professional studio speakers at home. But more than that, I was happy! A drive on a bad road after dark that has always been nerve-wracking was now peaceful. I was suddenly aware of the aural abuse I’d been subjecting myself to for years. I’d always believed that the rough ride was one of the major drawbacks of this vehicle – I needed to either find a solution for it, or find a different vehicle. But now I knew – it isn’t the rough ride, it’s the noise! From highway to 4wd road, the interior of this vehicle fills with an increasing cacophony of engine noise, road noise, wind noise, squeaks, rattles, and bangs.
And I now knew that I’m hypersensitive to noise. Noise makes me tense, anxious, and ultimately angry. It’s a disorder recognized medically as misophonia, and I’ve been suffering from it for years. It began with my neighbor’s barking dog. After two years of that, I went on a road trip in my new vehicle, accompanying a friend, and ended up having unexplained fits of anger so bad that we had to split up, and I sought therapy afterward. There, it was the dog followed by the vehicle noise that did me in. And since that was followed by two years of landscaping ordered by my new absentee neighbor – operating heavy machinery and gas-powered equipment a few feet from my office – I guess it’s no wonder I ended up a nervous wreck.
Now that I’m facing regular air travel, the noise of airports and airplanes is yet another trigger. But finally, I have a solution. And that night, driving home in the dark, I felt like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
