Floating in a Void
Monday, January 31st, 2022: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Snowshed, Southeast Arizona.
After last week’s scary experience with wet hands and feet in near-freezing conditions, I finally broke down and got a pair of waterproof mountaineering boots. I guess I was in denial all those years, believing like most people that I shouldn’t need waterproof boots in the arid Southwest, and after all those decades of hiking in the desert, convinced that all I really needed was breathable boots to keep my feet from overheating in the summer.
So for this Sunday’s hike, I was looking for some deep snow to test the new boots. For the first time since our New Year’s Day snowstorm and my misconceived snow hike with the UTVs, I actually wanted a trail that ventured above 8,000′.
But we’d been having an unusually cold winter, so that New Year’s Day snow was mostly still up there. The high-elevation trails near home would require me to spend most of the day slogging through knee-deep snow. That made me think of the trail over in the “range of canyons” that climbed a steep north slope to a clearing at 8,000′, then spent over 3 miles traversing an exposed south-facing slope to finally connect with the crest trail at 9,300′. Snow on that south-facing slope would’ve melted by now, so it was one of the few ways I could reach 9,000′ in winter, but I knew that when the trail cut back into side drainages it would have to traverse short sections of north-facing slope that remained in shadow, preserving isolated patches of deep snow a hundred yards or more wide.
Those patches should give my boots a test, while the overall distance and elevation gain should help “break in” the new boots, which are the stiffest I’ve ever worn. After last week’s wet pants and freezing legs, I would also wear my “upland hunting” pants, which are both waterproof and thorn-resistant. The cuffs adjust to fit tightly around the boots like gaiters, so I should be fully prepared for deep snow.
Approaching the mountains from the northeast, I could see there was still plenty of snow around the crest.
With all that snow up above, I was surprised to find the first creek crossing dry, and where it was still running a little farther up, the level was unusually low. Apparently low temperatures persisted here, too, so the snow that remained on shaded slopes up above was keeping frozen and releasing its moisture slowly, a good thing for the habitat.
The new boots were so stiff it felt like walking in ski boots at first. I kept tightening them to keep the heels from slipping and raising blisters. This is what most hiking boots used to be like – you had to rub oil or wax into them to limber them up, and spend days or weeks breaking them in. My feet were starting to hurt before I even reached the halfway point in the high “park”.
Long before that I passed a friendly retired couple from Wyoming, the only other hikers I saw that day.
Past the “pine park” I turned the corner into the big canyon and began traversing the burn scar, parallel to the spectacular snow-draped slopes of the opposite side. Partly cloudy conditions had been forecast, and I was hoping I might even get some weather. But the alternating sun and shadow during the climb meant that I had to keep stopping to shed or add layers to keep from overheating or chilling.
When I reached the patches of snow on north-facing cutbacks, I found they were covered with frozen crust – something I should’ve anticipated this long after a storm. So instead of testing the water-resistance of the new boots, they became a scary test of my ability to kick footholds on steep, smooth slopes where a slip would’ve sent me sliding a hundred feet or more down toward rock outcrops or standing snags in the gullies. My feet were now really sore and side-hilling in the new boots made me grit my teeth. It took me 20 minutes to cross the first 100-yard patch.
But after safely crossing the two biggest patches, I realized it was doable and focused on what was ahead. In previous years, it had taken me three tries to reach the crest on this trail – the traverse had seemed really daunting. Today I’d gotten a late start, so my time was limited, but I was determined to reach the crest. And despite the many stops and the slow snow crossings, my pace on dry trail was good and I thought I could do it.
Wind increased the higher I got, and whenever clouds came over, the wind chill became brutal. In shadows between shrubs over 9,000′, I encountered tiny surviving patches of snow 2 feet deep, showing just how much snow that New Year’s storm had really dumped here. I finally made it to the “bleak saddle” at 9,300′, but only by assuming that a trail that took me over 4 hours to ascend could be descended in less than 3 hours. As usual, I wanted to get back to the vehicle in time to catch a burrito and beer at the cafe before its 6pm closing time. I’d done this hike 5 or 6 times before, so my guess was based on experience. I prefer trails like this that involve hard work early in the day and reward you with an easier hike on the return.
I was able to literally run down much of the trail on the way back – it’s very rocky, but there are stretches of steep fine gravel that beg to be taken quickly. When I reached the pine park, I could tell I was cutting it close and had just enough time to finish the hike and drive to the cafe, if I maintained my pace on the next section.
The boots were still stiff, but I was developing a little more feel for them. My feet were hurting a lot, so I loosened the laces on the last, steepest descent, and found that helped. The last half of the trail was mostly shaded so I had to pull all my layers back on to keep warm. And then my left hamstring began cramping, from crossing patches of icy snow. It was all I could do to avoid the cramp taking over and paralyzing me with pain.
Still, I managed to reach the vehicle with just enough time to reach the cafe before closing. There was only one other table occupied, by a couple in their late 70s, probably birders. That burrito and beer were as good as usual and convinced me to get a room for the night. All clean from a very hot shower, lying in a strange bed, I tried to imagine the canyon, ridges, peaks, and rock formations outside my room. But with the heat turned off, the room was absolutely silent and darker than any place I could remember sleeping in, and I felt like I was literally nowhere, floating in a void.
