Friday, May 29th, 2026
Monday, May 4th, 2026: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Shaw, Southeast Arizona.
Another tough decision this Sunday. I’d been really careful with my foot for the past month, and last week had been the first free of foot pain since the beginning of January. I knew I should probably continue the short hikes with low elevation gain for at least another week, but the next one on my list was at least a two-hour drive north. And after last week’s long drive, it was hard to justify.
My appetite made the decision for me. The best food would be southwest of here in Arizona, a significantly shorter drive, and it would offer a couple of hiking options under 4 miles and 700 vertical feet.
The forecast was mostly cloudy, with a high in the 70s at lower elevations. With an early start, I arrived just before the cafe opened, and enjoyed an early brunch. My plan was to do the hike, return to the cafe five or six hours later for an early dinner, then drive home before sunset.
But the hikes I’d considered were too close to the cafe – I would finish early and end up driving home for boring leftovers. There was another hike 45 minutes away, up on the crest, that I’d been hoping to do. So I drove up the canyon to the end of the pavement, let 7 pounds of air out of my tires, and hit the rocky road to the crest.
The far northern stretch of the crest trail is accessed from an old mine road that I’d passed many times. It turned out to be narrow, rough, and very seldom used, so it was fun to drive in my little Sidekick – but I imagine it would be a lot more stressful in a Jeep, Bronco, 4Runner, or any other supersized modern 4WD. I suspect that’s why most people are now leaving their trucks in the campground and exploring these backcountry trails with UTVs instead.
The crest is like a knife edge here, so driving the road back and forth over it gave me a preview of the expansive views to east and west that I would enjoy on the trail. I reached the trailhead in about a half mile.
A barbed-wire fence runs along much of the crest here, reminding me that despite being such a hot spot for recreation and science, these mountains also offer prime cattle range. The trail starts almost three miles north of the wilderness boundary and leads in the opposite direction. Still, the only cattle sign I found was years old, and I couldn’t tell whether it was on the east or west side of the fence.
The trail starts by passing through the fence, and runs beside the road for a while before climbing over a low peak. I found no evidence anyone had used it, at least since last fall. I had no trouble following it, but it was often overgrown and had stretches with no visible tread. Approaching that first peak is where I really started doubting my post-brunch decision, because it was much steeper than expected, and steep is what hurts my foot.
As usual, I made excuses, vowing go slow and take short steps – and that’s what I did. On the way out, it took me two hours to go just over a mile and a half.
This trail leads to the shoulder of the highest peak on the northern crest, and beyond. That peak is only 7,800 feet, much lower than the peaks on the central crest, which approach 10,000 feet. Just before the peak, the trail dips into a 7,070-foot saddle where it meets other equally abandoned and disused trails coming from east and west. Reaching the saddle would give me more elevation than I wanted to put on the foot, especially with these steep grades, so I figured I would turn back as soon as I had a clear view of either the peak or the saddle.
But the intervening hike turned out to be a non-stop rollercoaster, with five intervening peaks or bumps, continually moving back and forth between east and west sides of the crest. Which apart from the strain on my foot, gave me views that would’ve been amazing except for the heavy cloud cover and general darkness of the landscape.
On the north side of the second peak, the trail drops into a surprisingly lush Douglas-fir forest which made me feel a thousand feet higher. And after I passed out of the forest, I got a view east which I realized offered my first view into the lower canyon of a big west-side creek that I’d hiked last November and had hoped to explore more. That canyon features spectacular rimrock and a series of four side-canyon trails that have been abandoned since the 2011 wildfire and have seen little or no use since then – fantastic bushwhacking opportunities.
I realized that although not particularly interesting in its own right, this trail is worth it just for the different vantage it offers on the landscape.
As I continued lower down the northern crest, the trail passed back and forth over even sharper ridgelines and traversed steeper slopes. On the east side, I always had a view of the iconic granite formation that resembles the profile of Cochise, the legendary Apache leader whose territory this was.
To take some of the load off my left foot, I was now using trekking poles – but that put more strain on my rotator cuff and bicep injuries, which are by far the most painful part of my body now. Any time I try to relieve one source of pain, it usually makes something else worse.
Much of the trail is overgrown with dense bunchgrass that I just forced my way between, and halfway down a long switchback on the north side of one of those intervening peaks, I noticed a reptile tail disappearing below bunchgrass where I was about to place my next step.
I took off my sunglasses (which on this dark day I hadn’t really needed), and leaned down for a closer look. Obviously a small snake, then I noticed the barely formed rattles, and the head emerged a few inches away – a juvenile rattler, probably Western diamondback. With no time for a photo, I watched as it disappeared into the next bunchgrass. I wear heavy canvas pants with cuffs that completely cover the tops of my boots, so there’s little danger for me, even from a mature rattler. But it’s always special to encounter one, and since the temperature up there had only reached the 60s, I was surprised to see any snake exposed and active.
Finally, I climbed and traversed the last bump on the ridge, came into view of the peak for which the trail is named, and spotted another trail, hundreds of feet below, coming up from the east. This gave me an idea of how much elevation I would lose, and have to regain, if I continued to the saddle. So after reaching a level stretch of trail facing the peak, I stopped and turned on my GPS message unit.
I was in a steep north-facing clearing surrounded by Gambel oak, so I was surprised to immediately receive a text on my phone from the GPS provider. But typically, when I returned home and checked the waypoint, it was incredibly inaccurate – off by an error of more than 600 horizontal feet and more than 400 vertical feet. So much for the miracle of satellite technology.
Despite being mostly uphill, the return hike took only about half as long as the descent. According to published maps, the distance from trailhead to junction saddle is 2.5 miles, so I was surprised when I got home that night, plotted my route, and discovered I’d only gone 1.67 miles one-way – consistent with the online trail guide which shows 2.1 miles to the saddle. However, I did accumulate over 1,000 feet of elevation gain, a 50 percent increase from past weeks, so there’s some progress.
I’d tried hard to go easy on my foot, and as far as I could tell, it was okay – but tomorrow would be the real test.
And meanwhile, the trekking poles I used to protect my foot, had strained my shoulder injury – on top of the strain of driving here – so I ended up needing a pain pill before leaving the crest, another by the time I got home that night, and still another when I woke in pain the next morning. At this rate a wheelchair can’t be far off…
The drive down from the crest got me to the cafe at a perfect time, before the dinner “rush”. After my junior rattlesnake encounter in the backcountry high above, I was amused to find a convoy of expensive vehicles with California plates stopped on the paved canyon road, and men with elaborate cameras filming something on the shoulder. I slowed and rolled my window down, and an older woman in stylish outdoor gear breathlessly exclaimed, “There’s a rattlesnake crossing the road!”
The drive home took me out from the under the day’s near-solid cloud cover, and the low-angle sunlight highlighted unexpected banks of glorious cumulus clouds that immediately recalled my mother’s joy during last year’s monsoon season. I realized that at the end of her life, she’d given me yet another gift – how could I ever take our monsoon skies for granted, or see clouds like this without thinking of her, and what we’ve lost?
Monday, May 11th, 2026: Hikes, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico, Whitewater.
Last Sunday’s hike was a milestone for my foot injury – I’d accumulated 50 percent more elevation with no pain afterwards. So in keeping with my gradual, safe recovery plan, I was looking for something about the same this Sunday – roughly 4 miles out and back, roughly 1,000 feet of elevation gain.
There’s a spectacular short hike at the foot of our high mountains – I’ve done it many times. The 2.2-mile trail starts on a mesa above our longest and most spectacular canyon, traverses the slope high above the big creek, then drops to meet the main canyon trail.
I wanted to get an early start, so I didn’t give it much thought. The trail junction is 100 feet above the creek, so stopping there would be anticlimactic. In the past, I’ve always continued down to the creek, and then up the canyon to some more interesting destination. But I didn’t factor that into my plans or my preparations. I figured it would be a two-hour hike, three at most, and before hitting the road, I was thinking more about where I would go for lunch afterwards.
The sky was almost perfectly clear, and the high in town was forecast to reach the mid-80s, which is normal for this time of year. The canyon elevation is lower, but after weeks of cool weather I was looking forward to a warm day.
On the drive up, I did recall that this trail has a lot of steep grades, which could be a problem for my foot. But I had trekking poles, and would just have to take it slow and easy.
Using the poles since last fall – after both the knee surgeon and the physical therapist suggested they’d be good for my knee – I’d always assumed they function by taking some load off the injury. But today, paying closer attention, I realized that’s bullshit.
What they really do is disrupt my habitual gait, and the unconscious coordination between eyes, proprioceptive system, legs and feet that decades of hiking have ingrained into me. This disruption forces me to pay attention to each step, slowing me down significantly – that’s how trekking poles help with joint recovery.
After climbing from the mesa over a low ridge, traversing above the main canyon into a deep side canyon, and traversing back out, I began the main stretch, traversing high above the narrows of the lower canyon, which is a major tourist attraction. There’s a swimming hole with a waterfall hundreds of feet below, and sometimes you can hear kids yelling. Today I just heard the creek rushing over rocks, somewhere below the cliffs and the green riparian canopy.
I was introduced to this trail long ago by a woman who lives in a farming community south of here. Other than that, I’ve only met people on this trail once, last fall when I met a couple close to my age coming out as I was going in. I try to avoid popular trails, and this, seldom used, has always delivered plenty of solitude.
Eventually the traverse ends and switchbacks lead you down to the canyon trail, with the canopy and the creek still below you. According to my original plan, I would’ve turned back here, or near here, but of course I didn’t. I turned east and followed the main trail up the canyon. I always forget this part. The canyon trail is like a rollercoaster. It never actually reaches the creek, but repeatedly climbs steeply high above it then back down. The next significant destination is the confluence with the south fork, but I’d forgotten how far it is, so I just kept going.
Some little clouds were forming far to the east, beyond the head of the canyon. Would they reach me? At one point I stopped to take a picture up the canyon, and as I pushed the button, people started coming into view ahead.
It was a party of about ten young guys, probably college age, wearing backpacks. They were split into three little groups – the first passed me, remarking on what a great day it was. I asked the next group how many nights they’d been out, and that stopped the whole parade as we fell into a detailed conversation.
They were all really excited, and asked me question after question – about where I came from, my hometown, the climate, etc. They were the friendliest group I’d ever met on a trail.
A guy in the middle of the group said they were all originally from California, but he’d recently moved to the city nearest me – I assumed he was a student at the state university there. Finally we exchanged best wishes, and as they started up again, the last members of the group said what a pleasure it was to meet me.
Little flies swarmed me in the canyon bottom and I had to pull on my head net. It seemed to take forever to reach the confluence – where the young guys had camped last night. And when I finally reached the trail sign and started down the short trail to the creek crossing, I heard voices and spotted more folks ahead, in the shadow of the dense riparian forest.
It was two women, probably a little younger than me. They were just shouldering their packs, on the bank of the creek, which is wide and shallow here and is split into two channels by a long, forested gravel bar – a beautiful spot, and cool on a hot day. I dropped my pack and we fell into another detailed conversation. They live in the rural settlement about halfway between here and my hometown, and had been out since Friday, hiking a series of trails from the top of the canyon down to here, getting “shuttle” rides between trails and camping in different places each night.
They were also really friendly, and we exchanged stories from different hikes in the area. During the past 8 years of hiking remote, obscure trails in this area, I’d met a couple of interesting people at long intervals of several years, but this was something else. It was as if the universe realizes I’m lonely, and arranged all these people to meet me here today!
One of the women mentioned a partner – otherwise I would’ve volunteered and asked for contact information. It was all so unexpected, I’ll remember it as a rare but special encounter.
All these other folks had hiked up the canyon from the tourist area, whereas I had taken the steep mesa trail to avoid crowds. When I mentioned that, one of the women asked if I had plenty of drinking water, and I said sure. But I was now facing a long series of climbs during the hottest part of the day, and above the riparian forest I would be completely exposed.
Before heading back, I decided to try to cross the creek on stepping stones others had left – something only possible with trekking poles, since it’s nearly a foot deep between the stones, they can be loose or slippery, and climbing out of this canyon would be no fun with wet boots. The total crossing was about 30 feet, but I made it okay, and continued up the trail on the other side to a clearing I remembered from my last visit, two years ago.
My legs were wearing out even before I reached the climb out of the canyon, so I had to stop often under that hot sun. Talking to all those folks, I’d basically forgotten to eat. I’d expected to finish my hike by noon, then drive to a rural cafe, but here it was mid-afternoon already – I couldn’t figure out what went wrong. On the way up, I ate the usual snacks I’d brought, and of course the trekking poles were making my shoulder hurt, so I knew I would end up taking a couple of pain pills later.
After I climbed above the canopy into the sunlight, it felt like it was pushing 90 degrees. Fortunately cumulus clouds were spreading, in typical pre-monsoon fashion, providing a few intervals of shade. I’d been sweating heavily all day, and it took so long to reach the high traverse, and the deep side canyon, that I was running out of drinking water. There’s a gas station and convenience store in the village a few miles down the highway, but I seemed to recall that they close early.
Finally, trudging down to the mesa, I arrived at the vehicle six hours after I’d left. Six hours, three times what I’d planned for! The interior was baking, so I opened all the doors and started the A/C on high. But I couldn’t get inside because one of my legs was cramping bad.
After the cramp subsided, I drove off the mesa, but just as I approached the highway my other leg started cramping, and I had to pull over, get out and pace back and forth for about five minutes. Thankfully, the village store was still open and I got a delicious chilled bottle of water for the one-hour drive home.
And at home, I discovered I’d hiked twice as far as in the past weeks, with yet another 50 percent increase in elevation gain. My foot was definitely aching – time will tell whether I’ve screwed up my recovery and will have to start over.
Sunday, May 17th, 2026: Animals, Hikes, Holt, Mogollon Mountains, Nature, Plants, Southwest New Mexico.
The weather had cooled off a little, with high winds forecast in the afternoon, and not a cloud in the sky. Today’s hike starts on an old familiar wilderness trail on the west side of our high mountains, climbing up an outlying ridge then traversing down to the canyon bottom.
Occasionally, I find another vehicle waiting in the steep, rocky parking area at the trailhead – but today, unlike last Sunday, I had the whole area to myself.
About a mile in, the trail reaches the canyon bottom in a burn scar from our massive 2012 wildfire. The first creek crossing was dry, and I was surprised to find the creekbed lined with columbines. I usually find them farther upstream under the intact riparian canopy. Maybe their seeds washed downstream and germinated recently after our late rains.
I planned to continue on the main trail for another mile, then take the branch that climbs over the ridge to the east. The creek was dry up to a few hundred yards below the trail junction, where I found stagnant pools and a trickle.
The branch trail leads over the ridge and down the other side, into a big spectacular canyon, ending at an old miner’s cabin. The actual trail is completely different from the route shown on all the maps, paper and digital – it has over twenty switchbacks, and is significantly longer. I suspect it’s maintained by the old miner’s family, who seem to visit annually around Memorial Day.
I was just planning to take it to the saddle on the ridgetop, and from there to the high point of the trail for a view over the big canyon.
Way up there, the breeze felt great. The burned slopes across the canyon had turned a vibrant green from Gambel oak, aspen, and bigleaf maple.
With all the flowers and pollinators to check out, I’d stopped many times on the way in, and I tried to take it easy on the way down from the ridge.
Even in the cool of the morning, flies had started to bother me, and when I reached the canyon bottom in the afternoon they were getting nasty. I was also bummed to see trash in the canyon bottom, on the trail to the ridge, and in the ridgetop saddle. I couldn’t remember ever finding trash here before, and I wondered if it was from the people who use the cabin – descendants of the old miner. They’re from Arizona, and Arizona trails tend to be trashy compared with ours. They also visit on horseback, and I find that equestrians tend to leave more trash – they can’t be bothered to dismount if they drop stuff.
With all the stops and slow descent, it took me a little over 4 hours to go 6.4 miles. Definitely better than last Sunday, and in general I feel like I may be making progress – after two years of intractable injuries. Just gotta keep taking it slow and easy…
GPS Error + Shoulder Pain = Danger
Monday, May 25th, 2026: Burro Mountains, Hikes, Southwest New Mexico.
I was on my way to Tucson for a mini-vacation, and I’d made big gains in my hiking distance and elevation during the past week, so I was temped to skip Sunday’s hike completely. It wouldn’t impact my conditioning and it would give my knee and foot a break – they’re still on the edge of chronic inflammation.
Plus, the high at home – at 6,000 feet – was forecast to be in the low 80s, and the route to Tucson is nearly 2,000 feet lower and ten degrees hotter. I looked hard and couldn’t find a convenient high-elevation hike between here and there.
So I packed, and of course the packing triggered my shoulder pain. And at the last minute, my Calvinist masochism led me to do a partial hike in the mountains south of here. The trail would be exposed, the sky was mostly clear, and it was already warm in town – but it should yield just the right amount of distance and elevation to avoid damaging my joints.
I was drenched in sweat and swarmed by flies within a hundred level yards of the trailhead. Then the trail began climbing, and of course, I’d forgotten how steep it is. Sweat was clogging my head net – I had to keep taking it off, wringing it out, and swabbing my head with one of the bandanas I carry. That all made my shoulder pain worse, but I was running out of pain meds and had to pace myself for the next week.
On the plus side, it’s a rocky landscape – some kind of granite-like igneous boulders and exposed bedrock – and the cactus flowers were gorgeous. And as I climbed higher, little clouds were forming overhead and giving me brief episodes of relief from the heat.
The hike to the peak is a little over 4 miles – I was just aiming for the top of the ridge, the edge of ponderosa pine habitat, for a little over five miles out-and-back. Like everywhere, the small pines here were dying off from drought-induced bark beetle infestation.
On the way down, I stopped for a drink of water – I’d stored my water in the fridge overnight and it was still cool. And a guy in his twenties passed me on his way up. An obvious stranger, he was likely visiting from a distant city for our big event of the year – a music festival – and picked this hike because it’s part of the world-famous national trail. He was dressed very neatly in white t-shirt and crisp REI-style synthetic shorts, and he’d obviously done the climb in this heat without breaking a sweat.
I’ve been plagued by flies during the past month, and have encountered several other hikers like this one who seemed to have no issues – so I have to recognize I produce excessive amounts of sweat. I believe that’s why I’m attracted to warm, arid climates – my body is unusually efficient at cooling itself, even though I do seem to be more heat-sensitive as I get older. Also, I remember vegetarian girlfriends claiming I attract insects because I eat meat – but my younger girlfriends were always looking for an opportunity to make me feel inferior.
On to Tucson – another two and a half hours of mostly interstate highway driving. And the activities of driving an ancient unautomated vehicle – shifting gears, controlling the A/C, managing music on my iPad, and taking photos and notes on my camera, all on the seat beside me, and all using the injured shoulder – escalated my shoulder pain to the point where my stress got out of control and made me drive recklessly when I reached the congested zone an hour from the city.
But again on the plus side, pre-monsoon clouds were spreading until they became continuous and were producing rain in the south. And shortly after I arrived at the hotel it was thundering and pouring down, and because I always have rain gear in my pack I was the only guest prepared to cross the courtyard without getting drenched.
I’d recorded a waypoint up there on the ridgetop with my GPS message unit, in a broad clearing where it immediately found a satellite. But amazingly, when I checked it the next morning, it was off by a third of a mile. What could cause such a huge error? That’s really troubling – what if I was snakebit and needed rescue? Apparently this can happen if the device and your mapping software are calibrated differently – but waypoints have been mostly accurate for years, and I’m not aware of any recent changes.
Friday, May 29th, 2026: 2026 Trips, Regions, Road Trips, Sky Islands.
As my birthday approached, I wondered – idly – if anyone would remember and contact me. I used to keep track of dozens of birthdays, but since few friends ever reciprocated, I gradually gave up. Losing my mother last fall, I lost the last person for whom the day had as much significance as it does for me. And of course, our culture trains elders to either ignore or actively resent their birthdays.
But after years of stress and trauma, I’m taking every opportunity to celebrate my existence and treat myself well – even when I have to do it alone.
The birthday was planned to be the last full day of my mini-vacation – the next day I would check out of the hotel and drive back home. The birthday fell on a Wednesday, a day when I normally work out in the late afternoon. So I decided to leave in the morning, drive into the cool mountains above the city, and return in mid-afternoon.
I’d driven up into these mountains only once before, when I’d passed through the city in 2002 on a relocation scouting trip. 24 years later, the road and landscape were totally unfamiliar – apparently back then, it had been late in the day and I was desperate for a place to camp. And for me, that meant someplace informal where I could park near the road and carry my gear a short distance out of sight.
I recall driving a few miles through pine forest on a dirt road, then walking down a ridge to a rock outcrop where I watched the sun set and the city lights begin their sparkling far below. After dark, I set up my stove in a tiny grove of pines, made dinner, and crawled into my sleeping bag. Then I heard the voices of young people – high school or college students – chanting rhythmically, somewhere hundreds of yards away, as if they were playing some kind of primitive game. And later, I was shocked awake by a long line of young people tramping silently past the foot of my sleeping bag, in the dark, on their way to the rock formation. And returning just as silently, an hour later.
Today, midweek in late spring, the sky was clear and the high in the city was forecast in the low 90s. Heading northeast toward the mountain, the four-lane thoroughfares of suburban sprawl funnel decreasing traffic onto a two-lane road with sporadic stop signs, which proceeds into the foothills past expensive view homes.
There was relatively light traffic, but other drivers were either in a big hurry or pretending to be racers. I got tired of being tailgated and pulled off at an otherwise abandoned scenic overlook above a lush desert canyon. And heard the gunshots.
Across the highway is a much steeper canyon, and back at the hotel I found an article about it. It’s a well-known spot where gun nuts simply pull off the scenic highway, set up their folding chairs and coolers full of beer, and start shooting in full view – and hearing – of the passing tourists. It’s technically legal – more than 200 yards from a formal recreation site – and despite constant complaints from residents and responsible gun owners, the Forest Service refuses to do anything about it.
From there, the road winds up through high desert habitat, and this is where the tourists start pulling over for photos.
At an elevation of about 5,000 feet you reach a zone of spectacular hoodoos and dark Arizona cypress. At about 7,000 feet you hit typical Southwestern mixed-conifer forest with Douglas-fir and several species of pine. This is where the crowds begin to disperse on forest roads and hiking trails, to picnic areas and campgrounds.
Even at midday on a Wednesday, trailheads along the highway were packed with dozens of vehicles, reminding me of how lucky I am to live in a remote small town.
At 8,000 feet you begin to see aspens, and the road drops into the tiny alpine tourist village. I hadn’t brought lunch, expecting either to eat at the lone restaurant there, or to pick up snacks for a picnic at the general store. The congestion was such that I gave up on the restaurant and grabbed snacks at the store. I was too distracted by the crowds and traffic to take photos.
In the 90s in the city below, it remained in the 60s up here.
I’d considered doing a short hike down a northern ridge, but gave up when I found the trailhead being dug up by a giant backhoe. So I became the lone picnicker at a beautiful spot at 8,000 feet, overlooking the northeast canyons draining to a basin 5,000 feet below.
I made it back to the hotel in plenty of time for a birthday workout, followed by grilled salmon in the hotel restaurant.
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