Sunday, March 23rd, 2025
Monday, May 12th, 2025: Hikes, San Francisco Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
Again, I was yearning for a long drive to a hike I’d never done before. The region that regularly draws me is the extremely rugged maze of interlinked mountain ranges about two hours’ drive north of here. It’s mostly unprotected cattle range, mostly unknown to hikers, anchored by the tiny town notorious as headquarters of the right-wing anti-government movement. I’ve done enough hikes there to know that most of them are really hard to drive to, and many are overrun with cattle or defended by rogue bulls. But I love the remoteness, the solitude, and the fact that despite being grazed, this area features native habitat in better condition than much of our big, famous wilderness area.
In the upper part of this area, right below the east-west crest that tops out at 9,000 feet, there’s a T-shaped convergence of abandoned, unmaintained, unpublished trails. Back in 2021, I’d hiked the stem of the T from the south – probably the hardest route-finding challenge I’ve ever faced, since there was literally nothing left in the entire seven miles but occasional cairns, many buried in tall grass.
The top bar of the T is divided into an east half and a west half, traversing the slopes below the crest for a total of seven and a half miles. Last fall when my knee injury prevented me from hiking, I drove to the unmarked trailhead at the east end of that crossbar, hoping I could return later to do the whole traverse. But the backcountry access road was so slow as to make it impractical.
So for this Sunday I had a brainstorm. I’d driven the crest road several times, passing the western trailhead of the T’s crossbar at a high saddle in dense mixed-conifer forest. Despite being shown on maps as abandoned, the trailhead features a maintained kiosk. The hike would start with a major descent into a canyon, which I’m usually not crazy about, but returning with an ascent would be better for my knee. And to the junction and back would be about 5-1/2 miles and 1,800 vertical feet, which should be just right at this stage of my knee recovery.
The day was forecast to be warm, but this trail would lie between 7,000 and 8,000 feet, and I believed most of it would be forested with at least partial shade.
At the kiosk, I noticed that someone had tucked a handwritten message into the bottom of the signboard. I pulled the message off, turned it over, and discovered they’d removed and written on the back of the Spanish-language “WELCOME TO YOUR NATIONAL FORESTS” placard which the United States Forest Service posts on every kiosk.
If I could reply to that message, I would point out that I’m a white person with an English last name, raised to speak English. But most of my ancestors were Gaelic-speaking Scots who were forced by the English to leave their homes and emigrate to this land, which had been conquered and stolen by the English from Native Americans. English is neither my native tongue nor the native language of this “country”. Like me, the kiosk vandal is a colonist, a descendant of either invaders or exiles. None of us has the right to impose one language or another on our neighbors.
So as best I could, I restored the Spanish placard to its place on the kiosk, and cheerfully set out down the trail.
As I said above, this trail starts by descending into a canyon – over 700 vertical feet – and unfortunately for my knee, the grade averaged more than 20 percent and increased in places to over 40 percent on loose rock or scree. Of course, I found none of the elaborate steps built long ago in the national monument I hiked last week – this was a clear trail, but there was no sign of humans on it. I initially assumed it was being maintained by cattle, but saw no tracks during the descent.
After spending the first half of the descent in mixed-conifer forest, I was surprised to suddenly emerge in a long stretch of mostly clear slope: an expanse of fractured bedrock with thin grasses and sporadic shrubs and small trees. This bedrock seemed to be mostly volcanic conglomerate containing colorful pebbles.
I approached the canyon bottom through open ponderosa forest, and could see it was lined with a broad, white debris flow from the 2018 wildfire that burned the crest at the head of the canyon. A very tall and slender narrowleaf cottonwood towered above the debris. And here is where I found the first cattle sign.
On the opposite bank of the canyon, I encountered a recently built stock fence, tight switchbacks that climbed the steep slope this side of the fence, and all the way up, cattle sign weeks and months old. Apart from the fence, I still hadn’t seen bootprints or any other sign of human use, so I began to assume that cattle were keeping brush off this otherwise abandoned trail, which had so far been really easy to follow.
Then, halfway up, I encountered the first of several broad swaths of bare, fractured rock. I was really enjoying the variety of healthy native habitats on this trail. The trail hugged the fence for a while, and I noticed how recent it was – maybe within the past few months. But fencebuilding in roadless country requires horses, and I’d seen no sign of horses, which can persist for up to a year.
The trail finally topped out in a vast area of bare rock, a broad shoulder past which I would enter a new watershed with views toward the area I’d discovered four years ago. I left the cattle sign behind and entered a segment of trail that was clearly being maintained by elk.
This next segment of trail traversed the steep south-facing slope below the crest of this range. On my right was a distinctive peak that I’d rounded on that previous hike, forested but with dark talus slopes on its north side.
The varied terrain continued, with the trail descending a scree slope at a 40 percent grade at one point, into a bare-rock ravine where I was surprised by a trickle of surface water.
This appeared to be an elk highway. But suddenly I came upon tiny fragments of orange rind, dessicated into thin, brittle shards. How quickly would they completely dry out? And how long would they persist on the surface without being scattered or buried by rodents, wind, rain, and erosion? We hadn’t had much precip over the winter but we’d sure had a lot of wind. I guessed they were over a month old, maybe many months – maybe they’d been left by the fencing crew. Maybe the fencing crew had been the only humans on this trail in the past year.
I’d stopped a lot, and climbed slowly on the ascents, and this hike was taking much longer than expected. I remembered the terrain ahead from the previous hike, and the trail junction I was trying to reach didn’t seem to be getting any closer. I’d been hoping to get to town before the market closed at 4 pm, but it wasn’t looking likely.
The trail had been climbing steadily, and I remembered it would descend before the junction. Just as I reached what seemed to be a high point, I stopped in frustration to check the topo map. After puzzling over it for a few minutes, I looked up, and behold! The old, partially collapsed trail sign was in shadow, right off the trail, less than ten feet ahead of me. I was already at my destination and hadn’t realized it! To celebrate, I reassembled the pieces of the sign as best I could.
Wind had been picking up all day, and since the trail was more exposed than I’d expected, I was grateful for cooling breezes. What I love about this trail, in addition to the varied habitats, is that it’s a traverse overlooking endless, rugged, roadless terrain, with views that shift dramatically as you proceed from watershed to watershed.
But it was getting later and later, so I began hiking faster than was probably good for my knee.
When I reached the bald shoulder above the deep canyon, and began descending those seemingly interminable short switchbacks, all I could think of was the tall, steep climb on the other side. After reaching the bottom and starting up, I did have to take it slow in most places, but I’ve been working up to it for months now, gradually increasing the elevation of my hikes, so my wind isn’t bad.
After reaching the vehicle, I raced up, over, and down the crest on that terrible rocky road, and reached the market in town 5 minutes after closing, to find lights out and the door locked…
Monday, May 19th, 2025: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Nature, Plants, Snowshed, Southeast Arizona.
Gradually increasing my distance and elevation, the challenge was finding a hike with the right combination, plus a destination that made it interesting. For this Sunday, I picked a steep hike to a “pine park” – a shallow, grassy basin in the sky surrounded by tall ponderosa pines. This destination had the added bonus of a short extension into the next watershed, overlooking a spectacular canyon.
It’s a two-hour drive, and along the way, I found the desert willows were blooming beside the big arroyos.
Over the years, I’ve gradually become more sensitive to species differences in the trees I hike past, and curious about their names. I’d picked up a field guide to trees a few weeks ago, and brought it along. It turns out I didn’t have the time to stop and identify trees along the trail, so I photographed their identifying features, and made the identifications from the photos later, at home.
Dangerous winds had been forecast all over the region, and my hat blew off as soon as I got out of the vehicle. The trail begins in a sycamore-shaded canyon bottom, bores through a long tunnel of scrub, then climbs steep switchbacks on loose rocks past alligator junipers and various oaks and pines.
At the base of a talus slope. the switchbacks end and the trail begins a steep traverse across the upper slopes of the watershed, through mixed conifer forest that now includes Douglas-fir. Eventually it joins another trail that leads through giant boulders to the pine park. Considering how parched the land is now, I was surprised to find wildflowers at the entrance to the park, in a narrow corridor lined with aspen seedlings.
I continued into the next watershed for the big view. Wind was howling through, so this lofty perch was no place to linger.
I rested in the relatively protected pine park for a half hour or so. But I was hungry, the hike was taking longer than expected due to the steep climb, and my lunch was waiting at the cafe below.
On the way up, I’d been surprised to see no tracks – either of humans or animals – on this well-known trail. But I had seen horse sign from last year, and on the way down, I noticed how the horses had damaged the trail, destroying tread on traverses of steep slopes.
Tuesday, May 27th, 2025: Hikes, Horse Ridge, Nature, Southeast Arizona, Whites, Wildfire.
On the eve of my birthday, driving north to some old favorite country I hadn’t seen in almost two years. Alpine habitat that would be cooler now that our weather at home is finally seasonably hot. An escape from problems at home.
Needing a hike, planning another steep descent – this time into the remote, rugged, lonely country around a small river, a region that keeps drawing me. Passed roadside javelinas in their usual spot, a lone yearling doe on the shoulder, then in the high country of tall ponderosa, dark Doug-fir, grassy meadows and bright aspen, two dozen cow elk grazing in a likewise familiar roadside place. When you inhabit a wild landscape for almost a generation, you’re gifted with wisdom in the form of nature’s patterns.
Finding the trailhead unoccupied and the trailhead log unused since last fall, I set out on a trail invisible under a layer of pine needles. Woodpeckers cried and darted through the trees ahead. In openings in the pines the dirt of the trail showed the bootprints of one recent hiker, bigger than me, wearing fairly new boots. The trail climbed in and out of the burn scar of the 2011 megafire, gaining 400 vertical feet to a saddle where I suddenly crossed to the watershed of the remote river.
The sky had been cloudless during the drive north, but here in the mountains scattered clouds were forming. The other hiker’s tracks stopped at the saddle, so my trail was virgin ahead. Birdsong provided my soundtrack as I traversed down from 8,500 feet on a steep, rocky trail, first flushing a swallowtail butterfly out of the brush, then coming upon bigger and bigger patches of wildflowers and more pollinators. In a drought, the higher elevations always host pockets of fertility.
It was windy over here and I had to cinch my hat down – the dropoff was precipitous. At a patch of bare white bedrock, I saw a little saddle below me and realized I was at the head of the ridge the trail would descend. Descending it through forest that began to host pinyon and alligator juniper, I got my first views of the long, narrow ridge below – named for a horse, it did look like a horse’s back, ending in neck and head.
During the descent, I’d had a higher ridge, in shadow, at my right, but suddenly I reached a point where I could see past it, southwestward, to a towering, distinctive rock formation. And trying to get pictures of it with clouds in the background, I rediscovered clouds, which had been missing from my desperately dry region since last summer.
Clouds are the source of rain – not El Nino or the other global meteorological phenomena favored by scientists and TV weather people. Clouds are sacred beings we ignore at our peril. Here, their shade cooled me after stretches of exposure to sunlight.
And reaching the more level lower part of the ridge, I was continuously exposed, crossing big exposures of the fractured bedrock – volcanic comglomerate – I’d seen recently, east of this broad, rumpled valley. Here I found abundant but old sign of cattle, horses, and elk. And hazardous footing on occasional slopes of loose rock.
The bare rock ridge narrowed to just a few yards at a low saddle. Climbing past it, I noticed smaller birds – ravens? – harrying a hawk ahead. I’d stopped a lot and was worried about reaching my lodging for the night before closing time, so I stopped short of where I’d planned to turn back. Just at the base of the rise that formed the top of the horse’s head. I didn’t mind stopping – this had been a spectacular hike in spectacular weather. It’d taken me two hours and fifteen minutes to go just under three miles, downhill.
I spent even more time in the shade on the way back, and the wind was rising, too. I wasn’t looking forward to the ascent, but it turned out to be fine, taking less time than the descent.
I’d reserved a room within the burn area of a large wildfire that had only been controlled within the past week, so I was anxious to see the damage. They’d stopped it precisely at the highway, and from what I could see it appeared to be a low-intensity surface fire.
Both elk and mule deer were out in the riparian meadows that evening. I wondered what had happened to the bighorn sheep whose habitat is totally within the burn area – presumably they’d sheltered in the river canyon, below its walls of sheer basalt.
Sunday, June 1st, 2025: 2025 Trips, Regions, Road Trips, Sky Islands.
Turns out my knee problem was misdiagnosed, last summer, as merely inflammation – a closer look at the MRI shows an actual tear in the tendon that’s never been allowed to heal. My only chance of healing is to wear a knee immobilizer brace for at least three months, and give up hiking for six months.
I already gave up hiking for six months, from fall through winter, while I was traveling. But wearing this brace is going to be harder. I’m still partly in denial, partly in shock. I don’t even want to imagine what it’s going to be like.
I asked the doc what about driving, and he said I could take it off, since driving mostly uses the ankles. So I did another road trip, over to the magical “pine park” in the sky that I discovered last summer. This is a lush meadow right below the 9,000 foot crest of the range, accessed via a very rocky track, surrounded by tall pines and Doug-fir. It’s a dark place at the foot of a dramatic peak, and I hadn’t really explored it last summer. I guessed there had been a campground below the meadow that was abandoned after the big wildfire in 2011. I’d seen rough tracks leading from the meadow down into the darkness of the forest, but those tracks looked too sketchy for my vehicle at the time.
Now, with my lifted suspension, I started following one of the tracks down into the darkness, and immediately came upon some cast-concrete picnic tables and the foundations of cabins. The farther I went, the more of these I glimpsed through the trees, farther down the dark slope. Apparently, before the campground, there had been something like a scout camp up here, with a dozen or so cabins.
There turned out to be a network of dirt tracks winding among the tall conifers, leading to more and more campsites. Two or three had been used in recent years, but none had been used much, because the vast majority of campers here use trailers, and there’s no way you could get a camping trailer down to the park now. Some of the campsites had been buried under deadfall. It felt like I’d stumbled upon the ruins of a lost civilization of campers – both spooky and idyllic.
At the farthest end of the old campground, I found myself driving up a rise, and came to a dead end in a little clearing on a knoll. I had a spectacular view of the west side of the crest, darkening under a rain cloud that was moving up from the south. As I was taking photos, sparse raindrops began to fall.
I’m only now discovering how rugged the west side of this range is. It gets few visitors compared to the more easily accessible east side. There’s an old network of trails, but they’re all abandoned and blocked by deadfall and regrowth. Of course, that makes the whole area really attractive to me – if I’m ever able to hike again.
Above the tall trees, I’d glimpsed the south slope of the peak above the park – rimrock at the top and a broad talus slope below – but to get a full view of it I needed to pull on the brace and carefully traverse a grassy slope over deadfall and embedded rocks. I almost lost my balance a couple times, but it was worth it.
Unable to hike, I still need to get out into nature. So expect a lot of road trips for the rest of the year.
The rain was just a brief tease, as usual this time of year. But the clouds on the way back down from the crest remained spectacular.
I had a burrito in the cafe as usual, and on the way back, stopped in the pass guarded by granite cliffs and boulders.
Sunday, June 15th, 2025: 2025 Trips, Nature, Regions, Road Trips, Sky Islands, Wildfire.
Since 2020, when we lost our local restaurants to COVID, I’ve been preparing all my meals at home. Imagine that, you city folks. Imagine being single and actually preparing every damn meal, every day. Yes, I can do it, and do it healthy. But although I now walk with one knee immobilized, and can’t hike, doc says I can still drive. So I try to get away on Sundays to someplace with both wild nature and a decent restaurant. One restaurant meal a week, prepared by somebody other than me, seems like a huge luxury.
This Sunday I learned that a cafe I like over in Arizona would close on Monday for lengthy renovation. It was forecast to be our hottest day yet, the air conditioning in my 30-year-old Japanese vehicle struggles to keep up, and the destination is lower elevation and would be hotter than home. But I was desperate, and driving our lonely highways helps clear my mind.
When I arrived, setting my watch back an hour, I discovered that all the indoor seating was taken – for the first time ever – so I had to sit outside, where it was nearing 100 degrees and a sycamore offered only spotty shade.
But they had a special brunch menu, and I ordered grilled trout with scrambled eggs and a regional IPA, at about half the price you’d pay in the city. The Canadian Grand Prix was just starting – a guilty pleasure – and I followed it on my iPad via the cafe’s sluggish wifi. Still hungry and wanting to hang out till the end of the race, I next ordered pancakes and an espresso.
Expecting the heat, I’d brought my old Yucatan hammock, and after the extended brunch, I drove up the canyon, nearly empty of tourists during summer, to a secret place, tucked away on a dead-end forest road too rocky for cars. I strung up the hammock in the sometime shade of a cloud and spent a couple hours reading, sweating, and drinking ice water I’d prepared at home and carried in my ancient mini-cooler.
Most of the southeast corner of Arizona lacks cell phone coverage, but as I drove away from the mountains, I began to get text messages on my flip phone from our electric utility. An outage had begun at my address at 2 pm and power was initially predicted to be restored after 5, possibly before my return. I wondered if I would lose the precious leftovers I had stored in the freezer. The closer I got to home, the more texts I received, delaying the resumption of service. No problem – I’m always prepared for camping, and I had canned chili and soup I could warm up on the old gas range without opening the fridge.
I was more concerned about the wildfire. It had started Friday in habitat I hike regularly, fifteen miles north of home, and by this morning it had grown over 12,000 acres, with zero containment. Nearing town, I could see the smoke obscuring most of the range just north of town.
Two blocks from my house, I passed the utility crews, blocking a side street with crane trucks and repairmen hard at work atop two power poles. Confirming my power was still out, I walked next door to check on my older neighbor.
In homage to Cormac McCarthy’s epic Western novel Blood Meridian, I call my neighbor The Judge – he retired a few years ago from a popular judicial career in the state of Texas. Similar to McCarthy’s judge, my neighbor is a large, nearly bald man, but the only other shared characteristic is his encyclopedic knowledge and storytelling acumen. In fact, people like my neighbor have shown me where McCarthy got many of the characters in his Western novels. Rural Texas and New Mexico really are full of eccentric, erudite, and interminable storytellers.
The Judge’s house was hotter than mine, and as we sweated and discussed the power outage, he recalled an episode featuring his former El Paso neighbor, a recent immigrant from Mexico. At home one hot summer day, the power had gone out, and with air conditioning disabled, everyone in the neighborhood escaped outdoors with cans of cold beer while crews worked to replace a blown transformer.
As soon as power was restored, the neighbor’s house began to pop and crackle, with lights flashing on and off, and the new transformer was quickly fried. It turned out the neighbor had hired an electrician from across the river in Juarez, and none of his house had been wired in compliance with the North American electrical code.
The El Paso neighbor was partners with his brother in a chain of botanicas north of the border. The brother, profiting from the superstitions of his fellow immigrants, became rich enough to buy a big ranch in Mexico and stock it with exotic wildlife from Africa.
The brother bred horses as food for his African cats, and one day, he drove out on the range, forgetting there was a leg of horsemeat in the back seat of his convertible. A lion smelled it, tore through the car’s soft top, and proceeded to eat the hacendado.
The Judge assured me he initially deemed this a tall tale, but was surprised to confirm it later on Wikipedia. Anyone wondering what inspired the cheetah scene in McCarthy’s movie The Counselor might likewise be surprised to learn that the truth is both stranger and more satisfying than Cormac’s fiction.
I returned next door to shower off the day’s sweat, but before turning on the water, I heard my fridge powering on – electricity had been restored. After my modem completed its lengthy startup procedure, I checked the satellite data on CalTopo, and saw that the fire had reached the eastern highway, with a hot spot on the far side. This would give it access to the vast Black Range, which had already lost most of its forest in two mega-wildfires since I moved here. Old burn scars can provide plenty of fuel for new fires.
