Someone Else’s Playground
Monday, January 3rd, 2022: Hikes, Pinos Altos Range, Southwest New Mexico.
I have to start this Dispatch with several caveats.
First off, this was one of the most punishing and least rewarding hikes I’ve ever done.
Second, the pictures don’t really show what made it miserable. I had a friend – a young coder in the tech industry – who once told me that for his generation, if I didn’t get any pictures, whatever I was talking about simply didn’t happen. Most of my friends are urban professionals who would be really annoyed by much of what I experienced on this hike. Hence they’ve arranged their lives so they never encounter these kinds of people and their lifestyle, and may have a hard time imagining it.
Third, the title of this Dispatch was inspired by a song by my long-lost lover, bandmate, and loftmate, Francesca. She was my original partner in the Terra Incognita loft in San Francisco. Whereas we were temporarily together when we moved in, her “true love” was a classmate at CalArts, just north of Los Angeles. A few months after we moved in and recruited other artists and musicians, I met and fell in love with a student at the San Francisco Art Institute. At the same time, Francesca’s long-distance boyfriend dumped her, and her father cut off her allowance. Since the wheel of fortune seemed to be favoring me and punishing her, she started lashing out at me in various ways, and wrote “Someone Else’s Pocket” to express her feelings of helplessness in an environment where I was the authority figure. Ironically, she had to rely on me to put her lyrics to music.
We’d had a couple inches of snow in town yesterday, which partly melted in the afternoon. Since there would’ve been much more in the mountains, and snow always significantly limits my winter hiking choices, I’d made a short list of possible lower-elevation hikes. Sunday was forecast to be the coldest day we’ve had in many years, and I wasn’t even sure if it was a good idea to be hiking in such conditions. When I got up, it was 15 degrees outside and perfectly still under a crystal clear sky.
At the top of my short list was an unfamiliar trail in the heart of the wilderness due north of town. That trail stays below 8,000′, so I was hoping the snow there would be manageable. The trailhead can normally be accessed from town in about an hour’s drive, by two different paved highways. The longer route tops out at 6,500′, but the shorter, more direct route reaches 7,500′.
But after packing for the hike, I discovered that the door locks on both sides of my vehicle were frozen. We’d had high winds all day yesterday, and the snow had been preceded by rain – apparently water had blown into the locks and frozen. I didn’t have a blow drier, a torch, or anything I could use to warm the locks from the outside.
I was able to unlock and open the rear hatch, so I crawled through the vehicle, and found the inner door locks wouldn’t move, either. But since the two back seat doors have no external lock, I was able to unlock and open them from the inside. Should I simply crawl over the front seats and drive it anyway, accepting that the front doors wouldn’t work and I’d have to crawl in and out through the back? What if I had an accident on the icy/snowy roads, and ended up in a ditch? I’d have to hope I could crawl over the seats and get out that way. I hated to take the risk, but I equally hated to give up and stay at home.
For some reason, as I was driving across town, I decided to take the shorter, higher route. I suppose I wanted to test the abilities of my 4WD Sidekick and its expensive all-terrain tires. The snow got progressively deeper as the highway climbed to its first 7,000′ crest, and it had been plowed just wide enough for two vehicles to pass. I drove slowly and switched to 4WD when I saw the first patch of ice on the road.
There was literally no one else traveling until I reached the twistiest part through the dark forested mountains and suddenly saw a sheriff’s vehicle approaching me from around a blind turn. I lightly tapped the brakes and immediately began to slide sideways, narrowly missing the big SUV. That showed me how little grip I was going to have, so I slowed down even more and stopped using the brakes, using the accelerator and gear shift instead to control my speed.
I was encouraged to find clear stretches of asphalt where the road dipped below 7,000′ in the dark, narrow canyon, but at the end, where the road began winding and climbing steeply again, it was still plowed wide enough for two vehicles, but the pavement was entirely covered with frozen snow and ice. I kept going slowly and carefully for about a mile, but before reaching the highest point of the road, the plowed surface suddenly ended, with only a single pair of tire ruts continuing. The snow here was over a foot deep. If I encountered another vehicle I’d have to drive off into the deep snow, and my vehicle only has about 9 inches of ground clearance. I had to back up to the nearest bend, where there was just barely enough room to turn around.
When I reached the sharp turn at the canyon bottom, where a dirt forest road branches off, leading to the fire lookout on the peak above, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the snow there had been packed down by vehicle tracks. I’d hiked down that road from the peak once and discovered the bottom stretch of it was lined with clearings and informal campsites. If my only other option was to go home and give up on hiking, why couldn’t I at least hike up that road? It was 7-1/2 miles to the lookout, with over 2,000′ of elevation gain. If I made it all the way, that would be a 15 mile round trip hike.
I figured I would drive up the rutted forest road a hundred yards or so, looking for a place where I could park without getting stuck in the snow. Almost immediately I found a big clearing in the mature pine forest above the road. There were no other vehicles, but oddly, there was a tent pitched under the trees, surrounded by a large collection of valuable camping gear, all covered with 8 inches of snow.
I crawled out the back of my vehicle and suited up for a subfreezing hike through the shade of the forest, where I began walking on the hard-packed, now-frozen snow in the tire tracks of vehicles that had been here yesterday. The forest was beautiful under the snow, but the slopes on both sides of the road had been driven over randomly by UTVs and big trucks yesterday, clearly in the afternoon after most of the snow had fallen. I hadn’t realized it, but apparently this was a traditional playground for my town’s off-road enthusiasts.
The road climbed back and forth over the gently rolling foothills of the peak, soon leaving the forest and entering the moonscape burn scar of the 2014 wildfire. Above me on the right rose stark snow-white slopes populated with standing snags stripped of bark like toothpicks. Below on my left I could gaze across the entire wilderness landscape, rumpled, snow-blanketed mountains stretching 40 miles to peaks and ridges on the northern horizon. I quickly warmed up and shed ski gloves and heavy fleece jacket. That would be another theme of the day, shedding layers in sunlight and putting them back on again in shade, over and over again. Shortly I came upon a big 4WD pickup truck that had slipped off the road into a ditch, gotten stuck, and been abandoned there.
I could easily spot the fire lookout high over my right shoulder, less than a mile away as the crow flies – but the access road heads east, in the opposite direction, for several miles before climbing to a high ridge and looping back to the lookout peak. And since it runs almost entirely through the burn scar, it’s fully exposed and I’d be getting sunlight reflected off the snow as well as from above. In cold weather I wear a small cap instead of my shade hat, so I had to dig out the sunscreen for the first time since last winter, plastering what little of my skin was uncovered.
After the first couple of miles most of the vehicle tracks ended and I had only two ruts left to walk in, left by two vehicles with completely different tread. The snow was now over a foot deep and I hadn’t even reached 8,000′.
Finally the road left the burn scar and began to climb through intact pine forest. At 8,500′ the snow was knee deep, and the winds yesterday had blown powder into the tire ruts, so it became harder and slower going. Since there was still hard pack under the powder, but I could never tell how deep it was, it was unstable footing and really hard on my hips and knees. But it was doable – without yesterday’s tire ruts I never would’ve been able to hike today.
In the back of my mind was all those vehicle tracks through the forest at the beginning of the road. Would the off-roaders come back today? Every now and then I stopped to listen, but the entire frosted landscape was silent and seemed to be at peace.
After I crossed the ridge, the southern basin-and-range landscape unfolded below on my left, 5,000′ lower, into an endless golden haze. The road follows the high ridge for a couple miles, then dips a few hundred feet to a small saddle, before climbing steeply across a north-facing slope the last mile and a half to the peak. On that last climb I’d be almost completely in shadow and it would be very cold. I toyed with the idea of turning back there – it would still be a decent day’s hike – but as usual I hated to turn back with a clear destination in sight. And I figured I had just enough time to reach the peak and return to the vehicle by sunset.
So I trudged on, climbing hundreds of vertical feet up that difficult snow-covered road, gradually feeling better as I finally neared the peak. My quads were cramping, so I spent my brief time up there doing some long slow stretches.
I was halfway down toward the saddle when I suddenly heard an angry engine growl from somewhere ahead. I scanned the high ridge and finally spotted two dark UTVs driving out of the ridgetop forest and down into the burn scar. Within minutes they reached me. They didn’t slow down, so I had to quickly step off into the knee-deep snow as they raced past – both closed-cab 4-seaters full of high school kids, with the windows rolled up. I waved, but most of them ignored me, one or two waving back as they bounced up the road.
I kept hiking down the road in the shadows, and after a few hundred yards heard more growling ahead of me. This time it was two giant open-cab, open-frame, homemade-looking UTVs designed for travel in deep snow or mud – with at least a couple feet of ground clearance, extra-wide tracks, and tires almost 4 feet in diameter – each driven by a middle-aged guy. They looked like something built for the apocalypse in somebody’s garage. A red-tailed hawk flushed from a snag by the road as they approached and soared out over the void. They slowed and I told them how impressed I was by their machines, and they thanked me before rolling on.
By now I could tell that whatever benefit I’d gotten from yesterday’s tire ruts was being eliminated by today’s UTVs. Because they were lightweight, they didn’t pack the snow down, and because they drove fast and bounced on soft springs, they spread the snow back over yesterday’s ruts and created wavelike softer and harder patterns that were really hard to walk in. If I’d known this I never would’ve started up the road, but now I was stuck, with another 6 miles to go.
Moving more slowly now, I passed the saddle and began trudging up hundreds of vertical feet to the high ridge. There I encountered a smaller open-frame UTV driven by an old guy with a ZZ Top beard. He didn’t look or slow down as he passed me, so I yelled “It’s like a freeway up here!” and he gave me a vague wave.
From then on, I could hear engines in the distance, all the time. With the snow tossed around by so much UTV traffic, the road was getting harder and harder to walk. But finally I reached the end of the ridge and began descending, although the snow was so unstable, going down really wasn’t much easier.
Suddenly I realized my cap was gone. That was a new cap, ordered from San Francisco! I looked all around, but I had no idea when I’d lost it, so I gave up and kept trudging down. Then I realized it was time for a drink of water, and when I unshouldered my back, the cap fell off it onto the road. It had slipped off the back of my head and was just perched on the sloped lid of my pack, with nothing but friction to hold it on.
Shortly after that I was passed by the high school kids’ UTVs, again racing past without slowing, forcing me off the road into deep snow. I was now out of the forest, crossing the burn scar, with the vast northern wilderness laid out to my right and the bald toothpick slopes rising on my left. Rounding a broad turn, I saw an unfamiliar open-topped UTV ahead, parked just off the road. There was a young guy standing on the side of the road scratching in the snow with a branch, and sitting in the UTV watching him was a beautiful young Native girl, with long braided hair parted down the middle like something out of a 19th century painting.
As I approached them I noticed writing in the bank of snow along the road: “Suck Me” followed by something I couldn’t read. “Suck Me!” I yelled, laughing. “So that’s the word of the day!” They both cracked up and I wished them more fun. The whole thing was finally becoming clear. This area really was a traditional playground for the local working class folks, who work hard to afford their expensive mechanical toys, and yesterday’s snow was an opportunity none of them could pass up. Today was their big day to celebrate.
Across the next long bend, I could hear an engine laboring and men yelling. I saw two pickup trucks pointing up a steep, shaded section of the road, one of them obviously stuck in the snow.
More young people. There was a couple sitting in the stuck truck, the guy revving the engine, spinning his tires, as two other guys tried to pull from the back with a nylon strap. The young guy had obviously been trying to impress his girl, driving up this steep road in the deep snow, and it backfired. I didn’t see how they were going to get it out – the other truck was no bigger and no better prepared for towing – but I wished them well.
Around another bend, and I came to another pair of trucks, one of them stuck, too. The young driver was obviously pissed – I asked him if they’d tried laying branches under the tires, but he just spat “I’ll get it out!”
Shortly after that, the two giant UTVs driven by the middle-aged guys overtook me going down, waving as they passed. The road was entering the foothills where it wasn’t so steep, and ahead I saw two big 4WD pickups parked on a rise beside the road, with middle-aged men and women standing around as their kids played in the snow. A younger man dragged two laughing tots on a sled down the road toward me.
“There’s two trucks driven by young guys stuck up there,” I said to one of the older men. “That’s why we stopped here,” he said, laughing. “You really need UTVs for that stuff.”
More UTVs passed me coming up the road. I started down through a small patch of forest with a clearing and corral, and saw two kids sledding and a big SUV parked by the corral. As I was passing them, more UTVs driven by older men raced up the road toward me and I dashed out of their way.
Shortly after that I heard another engine behind me. It was the big SUV from the corral, towing two kids sitting in inner tubes at the end of long lines. They were moving slow so I had to wait a long time, standing off the road in knee-deep snow, for them to pass.
Finally I approached the end of the burn scar and could see the forest below. Another open UTV approached me driven by an older Hispanic man with his wife. At least half the people I’d seen today were Hispanic, matching our local demographic. They stopped to ask me if I was okay and if I needed a ride or some water. Despite the fact that I was warmly dressed and carrying a backpack, everyone I’d met acted as if walking were a sign of something terribly wrong.
As I walked down the road into the gently rolling forest I could hear a lot more noise ahead, and vehicles parked off the road in the deep snow under the trees. A young woman raced up the road in a single-seat UTV with two smaller girls hanging on her back, asking me if I needed help. There was a big family party going on in a clearing under the trees on the right side of the road. There were no tents or RVs, but they’d set up tables and stoves and had a campfire going, and there were kids and dogs running around. The folks nearest me waved and smiled. A little farther down I passed an even bigger party on the left, with a roaring fire and half a dozen big pickup trucks parked randomly in the snow under the trees.
Then I saw another big party farther back in the trees, and another up ahead on my right. I was getting near the end. Suddenly an old pickup truck pulled alongside me, driven by an old long-haired guy wearing a cowboy hat who looked like a Mexican bandit out of an old movie. He couldn’t roll his passenger window down, but he frowned and used sign language to ask me if I was okay. I’d been picking up trash in the road so I couldn’t sign him back, but I yelled I was fine and after a while he drove on.
The young girl on the UTV passed me again and asked if I needed a ride or some water. I couldn’t count the offers for help I’d had so far. Most people were worried about me, and nobody could understand why I was walking.
Finally I reached the big clearing where my vehicle was parked. There was another big party going on there. The tent and all the camping gear had disappeared, and several more pickups surrounded the spot, with stoves set up on tables and campfires burning on the ground. This party was strictly young folks, and I could see tall liquor bottles in the cab of the nearest truck.
I smiled and waved yet again. My whole lower body was sore from 15 miles of walking in unstable snow. The temperature had climbed slightly above freezing at this elevation, and my door locks had melted free. Still, it was a stressful drive back through the mountains, because the traffic was now relentless and the shaded asphalt still bore long patches of ice and frozen snow. Even after sunset, people were streaming from town out into the mountains. At one point where the icy road topped a rise and the ice cleared, there was a Prius stopped in the opposite traffic lane, rightly afraid to go any farther. An out-of-state plate – a tourist learning about our conditions the hard way. They’d be lucky to get turned around and make it back out of the mountains.
If I saw a bear take some one off a UTV, I would be grateful to and for the bear.
Thanks for the photos! 🙂