Monday, October 28th, 2024
Monday, October 14th, 2024: Hikes, Middle Fork, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
This marks the hopeful return of my hiking Dispatches, after a three-month hiatus due to knee pain and family troubles. In August, I got an injection for shoulder pain, and the dosage was so high it gradually wiped out pain in both shoulders and the knee, but in September and October, travel prevented me from walking or doing rehab. The long rest seems to have finally eliminated my knee pain – knock on wood! But on my first short walk around town last week, I got bad shin splints – is this old body ready to curl up and die after all?
I was really missing the high mountains, so I decided to make another long, arduous drive for a short hike. We’re having apocalyptically warm weather this fall, and the high in town was forecast in the low 80s, but that would mean 70s in the mountains – perfect.
Since my first journey to the northern edge of our wilderness, four months ago, monsoon rains had torn up the steep, winding, one-lane forest road over the 9,000-foot crest, cutting deep gullies and exposing more embedded rock. Driving it now was like driving over a debris field. As long as I wore my noise-cancelling headphones I could just bounce my little truck over the rocks, although with no weight in the bed there was a lot of wheelspin. But on the last stretch I frequently had to pull over for bigger vehicles, took off the headphones, and the rattling left me a nervous wreck by the time I descended to the open country on the east side.
I picked this remote hike because I needed to protect both the recent shin splints and the long-term knee issue, and this is one of the few pretty hikes in our area that doesn’t involve big elevation changes. I wasn’t thinking of the fall color, but that turned out to be a bonus. We’re at the tail end of a severe drought, so I was surprised to see all the creeks still running.
There are a few small ups and downs to bypass creekside bluffs, and I took short steps or sidestepped down those to protect my legs, so it was a very slow hike.
All in all, it took me almost two hours to hike less than three miles on a very easy trail – but after such a long hiatus this is how careful I need to be.
It’s amazing how noise-dependent my stress level is. The headphones made the rough drive back over the crest tolerable, despite the traffic. For almost the whole distance, I ended up stuck behind a family in a big crew-cab truck. They were sightseeing, never exceeding about 7 mph, the kids hanging out the side windows, yelling at each other and tearing branches off roadside aspens.
My next goal was the tiny restaurant in the ghost town at 6,600 feet. They’re only open on weekends, spring through fall, because the road closes in winter. Basically a burger place, they have counter service inside with tables outside beside the creek, which has been channelized for flood control. It was a perfect chance to chill after the arduous road over the crest and before the final dangerous one-lane descent to the highway.
Despite not being able to do big hikes, trips like this refresh my soul. Spending my days in flat lands, in airports and airplanes, in city traffic – that just destroys me. Friends keep advising me on how to take better care of myself on these trips, but I’m actually the expert on that now, and it still doesn’t help. I simply waste away when I’m deprived of access to mountain wilderness.
Monday, October 21st, 2024: Black Hills, Hikes, Nature, Plants, Southeast Arizona.
Until my knee gave out on me, I never had trouble finding big hikes that would produce interesting Dispatches! But now, I’m limited to canyon walks or traverses of level basins surrounded by spectacular peaks or rock formations – most of which are across the border in Arizona. This Sunday, I wanted to explore a beautiful area of buttes and bluffs that I’ve driven by many times. It’s all unprotected cattle country, but I’d seldom seen cattle there. Access was a big question – the map shows a few dirt roads crossing it, but I had no idea whether my low-clearance 2wd pickup would handle them.
The road I was hoping to use turned out to be long-abandoned and blocked by catastrophic washouts and rockslides, but a few miles past it I found a rocky ranch road that the truck could just barely handle.
The two-lane highway skirts the edge of the shallow basin, and the ranch road took me down to where a dead-end side track branched off. I drove that only a short distance lower into the basin – searching for the abandoned road had used up almost a half hour and I really wanted to get out and start walking.
After yesterday’s winter-like storm, today’s sky was crystal clear, the air was still, and the temperature at this elevation – around 4,000 feet – was forecast to be in the 70s all day. Much warmer than it should be for this time of year.
I set out for the nearest butte, across rolling desert terrain cut by shallow arroyos, featuring big honey mesquites alongside big catclaw acacias, with an understory of junipers, creosote bush, barrel cactus, prickly pear, ocotillo, palo verde, and various shrubs. A diverse paradise for lovers of desert vegetation. As with other areas I’ve explored nearby, the arroyos here often expose bedrock, and although the ground was already bone dry, yesterday’s storm had left hundreds of small tinajas – water pockets – in that bedrock.
The dry wash I was following turned away from the butte, so I climbed a shallow rise into the next watershed, and found a picturesque little box canyon at the foot of the butte. Crossing the head of that, I traversed the shoulders of the butte northward to get a view of the northern part of the basin. Big prickly pears surround the butte, creating an obstacle course that was sometimes almost impassable, but it was all so pretty I didn’t mind. My only regret was the lack of clouds – I’ve passed this area when cloud cover made it look more epic than it is – almost like Monument Valley in Utah.
Eventually I turned back. I needed a little more mileage, so when I reached the head of the box canyon I turned upstream. This proved to be a good choice – the arroyo led me over more spectacular bedrock formations and into the eastern part of the basin below more rugged rock bluffs. I saw a phainopepla and flushed a covey of quail and several ground squirrels.
I’d seen dry cowpies and cattle tracks that were probably a few weeks old, but thankfully no bulls! The basin was shallow enough that if there had been cattle here, I would’ve seen them from far away.
By the time I returned to the truck I’d gone less than two-and-a-half miles, and my knee seemed to be doing okay. I’d been careful to stop and stretch several times, walking slowly and mindfully on the gentle descents.
My next destination was the restaurant in the village I’d passed on my way here. It was packed with local ranch families, but thankfully they have one small table by the door, which just seemed to be waiting for me. I ordered enchiladas and turned to see if there was anyone I could talk to, but they were all immersed in Sunday gossip. These are rural Trump voters – but not the hillbilly types, unemployed and addicted to opioids, that the media seem to love. These hardworking country people were in their best Western wear for church, the men wearing different shades of cowboy hats.
Locals came and went, nodding and smiling at me as they passed. As I was finishing up, a stooped man walking with a cane, who couldn’t have been much older than me, turned on his way out and said “Have a wonderful day, young man!” I don’t hear that much anymore!
Unfortunately by the time I got home my knee was hurting more than at any time since the pain started, last May. At this point, I’ve spent nearly six months icing, elevating, compressing, resting, and doing recommended exercises and stretches. And now, with frequent travel back east, it’s impossible to maintain a rehab routine. Guess I’ll just have to be content with sightseeing instead of hiking, and look for other ways to reduce my stress.
Vista Home or Desperate Lookout?
Monday, October 28th, 2024: Blue Range, Hikes, Indigenous Cultures, Society, Southwest New Mexico.
I drove two-and-a-quarter hours to the most spectacular viewpoint in our region, and climbed a rocky slope to a prehistoric site. My knee was already hurting from a hike three days earlier, and today’s adventure would add insult to injury. But these are desperate times.
Yet again, we had clear skies and the afternoon high in town was forecast to be at least 80. I’d wanted to explore places at lower elevation but they were forecast to reach 90 – at the end of October! Today’s destination is over 7,000 feet and the temps should be mild.
The drive north used to be one of the loneliest roads in the U.S., but in the past year it’s become some sort of mysterious commuter artery. From where to where, I have no idea, but this morning, most of the southbound vehicles were giant RVs. Tomorrow was forecast to be the last day of our fall heat wave, and it’s as if all the snowbirds decided to head south at the same time.
Finally, I reached the turnoff for the backcountry road west, and left the crowd behind. The single-lane dirt road traverses a maze of ridges and canyons between 6,000 and 6,500 feet, forested with ponderosa pine and Gamble oak, up and down around hairpin turns. RVs, fifth-wheelers, and pickups with camper shells were sporadically tucked away under the pines, and I passed at least one group of camo-clad hunters setting up camp.
The final climb to the high saddle is world-class, emerging from the rolling basin to a south-facing slope with forever views. Parking at the top, I had a chat with a retired couple from the village an hour south. I said this is an undiscovered gem, and they replied “Not anymore!”
As they drove off, I set out on my short hike up to the bluffs. I expected it to be less than half a mile, but the slope gets increasingly steeper and the ground is covered with big sharp rocks. This cliff dwelling is actually marked on Google Maps, but the person who recorded it only viewed it from afar with binoculars. From the road, it looks inaccessible, perched in an alcove way up in a sheer cliff. But you never know until you try.
Picking my way through those rocks was even harder than I expected. But cattle had been all over this area, and I followed their tracks where I could, walking slowly and carefully to protect my knee. At several points I had to climb steep sheets of exposed bedrock, lined with loose rocks that were constantly rolling out from under me. I was ascending an outlying shoulder with a deepening ravine at my left, and I could see that when I reached the foot of the actual bluffs I would need to traverse left up the steep side of the ravine toward the cliff dwelling.
Finally I emerged on a ledge below the bluffs with a 180-degree view of the eastern, southern, and western landscape.
The ledge lies at 7,500 feet and the ravine at my left hosts tall ponderosas and a dense understory of shrubs and grasses hiding bigger and sharper rocks – basically a vegetated talus slope. I had to traverse this upward at the foot of the bluffs – more slow going – but found occasional segments of a narrow trail. I’d entertained fantasies of being the first modern human to explore this site, and still hadn’t seen any footprints.
Finally I emerged from the scrub at the foot of the cliff, with the crumbling wall of the prehistoric structure about twenty feet above me, behind an overhang. The cliff curved outward at right, where a partial, primitive rope ladder was suspended, a dozen feet above the ground. I walked closer and saw it was made from nylon rope.
Pushing my way through more brush around the crumbling foot of the bluff, I discovered there was no way up the cliff. The prehistoric structure is inaccessible until someone finds a way to extend or replace that rope ladder. But below the hanging ladder is a small alcove with a sandy floor covered with recent footprints, and at the back of the alcove I found a tin box full of notes from previous visitors, as recent as six days ago. So much for my romantic fantasy.
When I first explored cliff dwellings in Utah 35 years ago, they seemed so exotic, and their locations so beautiful, that I didn’t really question why they’d been built or what life might’ve been like for their residents. It took decades of hard lessons for me to realize these were last-ditch hideouts for desperate people living in constant fear of attack – the prehistoric equivalent of today’s doomsday preppers. They were likely only inhabited briefly during times of known threat.
The wall above me had been incredibly hard to build, and has tiny windows that would be perfect for shooting arrows through. Unless there’s a spring inside the alcove – highly unlikely – whoever was using the shelter would have to traverse down a mile and 900 vertical feet to the nearest seasonal stream for water, and carry their supplies back up that difficult slope. To me, this appeared to be a lookout, from which scouts could scan a vast area of strategic terrain on a route between fertile river valleys in the east and west.
Now came the hard part – the descent of that difficult slope on my already hurting knee. When I reached the ledge below the bluffs, I saw another man approaching, and we exchanged waves as I moved to the side to get a better panorama.
Farther down, descending one of those stone sheets lined with loose rock, I finally stumbled and had a “soft” fall that hurt nothing but my already injured knee. Served me right – I would just end up taking more pain pills and enduring a slower recovery.
Late lunch in the tiny county seat to the north was so mediocre that despite my hunger, I couldn’t finish it. And the drive home on that previously lonely road was made stressful by an endless series of city people in Japanese sedans, tailgating me, imagining themselves race drivers on the tight, steep curves. Where did they come from, and where were they all going?
