Total Washout
Sunday, September 25th, 2022: Hikes, Little Dry, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
The day before, I’d driven a half hour east of town to attend the harvest festival that I started when I first moved here, in 2006. I was truly grateful to see it resurrected two years after the start of COVID, with a new generation of volunteers to keep it going.
A few of the old-timers are still around, too, and it was good to see them. But everyone else was just a stranger.
After forcing down a mediocre lunch prepared by one of the food vendors, and after enduring a mediocre performance by what used to be called a folk singer and is now called a “singer-songwriter”, I discovered that the mother-daughter country gospel act had canceled due to a family injury. And I realized that they were the only reason I was there. I’d been in charge of “entertainment” – everything from oral history and poetry slams to music and the announcing of prize winners – and they were one of the first acts I’d hired, and my personal favorite. In their honest, angelic voices, they’d delivered the songs I grew up with in the Appalachians.
So I left early.
I devoted hundreds of hours to that festival, and I’m still proud of it, although it’s no longer part of my life. It now seems to be self-sustaining, and it’s the only event in that rural valley that brings everybody together, once a year.
That night I tried to figure out where to go on my Sunday hike, and was stumped. I had a busy week coming up and didn’t want a long drive or an overnight, but most of the nearby hikes were undesirable due to monsoon overgrowth.
I woke up in the morning completely unmotivated and could barely get out of bed. I’d found a recent online trip report from a trail over in Arizona that I really wanted to try, but it would involve 5-6 hours of driving and an overnight, so it was out of the question right now.
After delaying my start to make up my mind – and almost giving up – I finally made a decision, and hit the road late. I would drive an hour and a quarter northwest and take a slow, overgrown canyon trail up to a high saddle, where I could cross into a more remote canyon and eventually reach the confluence of two big creeks. The latter part of the hike would offer some epic views.
I’d hiked the first canyon ten times in the past four years, but always found it maddeningly slow – the rampant vegetation, the debris flows, the random piles of logs, the continual detouring around giant boulders, the dozens of creek crossings. Really, the only reason I ever came back here was for the views you get once you climb out of the canyon to the crest. I had only made it to the remote confluence, in the farther canyon, once before. Out and back, it would be a little less than 13 miles and 4,000′ of elevation gain.
Driving north up the highway into the valley of our famous wild river, I saw signs for the river festival, and realized it was also on this weekend. It’s organized by our local environmental non-profits, and features conservation-oriented lectures, panel discussions, field trips and workshops.
I’d volunteered and attended several sessions at the river festival in my first year here, ultimately deciding that something more subsistence-based and inclusive – like my harvest festival – could be more effective for both land and community. The river festival is just preaching to the choir – the liberal retirees and idealistic youth that always temporarily patronize this sort of thing, but seldom put down roots in this land or this community.
I reached the turnoff for the trailhead, and discovered that the little creek was flowing vigorously out of the foothills and past the highway, something I’d never seen before. And I quickly found that the long gravel approach road had been washed out by debris flows at many places – something that should’ve tipped me off even before reaching the trailhead.
The road was in such bad shape it took me twice as long as usual. And at the trailhead I was surprised to find two vehicles – only the second time I’d had company here. According to the log, there was a birder from Arizona – he wouldn’t go far! – and a party of two planning the same remote destination as me.
Like most of these west-side trails, it traverses down into the canyon first, then continues upstream a few miles to the base of switchbacks that then lead to the crest. In this case, it’s 3/4 of a mile from trailhead to first creek crossing, and that’s where I had my next surprise. The canyon bottom had been scoured by a very recent flash flood – probably in the last couple of weeks – that had brought down tons of debris – rocks and shattered logs. The creek was roaring along but was precariously crossable on submerged rocks thanks to my waterproof boots.
But the farther I went, the less trail was left. What made this trail bad to begin with with – the narrowness of the canyon forces it to stay in or near the creek – means that when there’s a bad flood, the trail just gets wiped out, and the going gets very tough, since you have to find your way over, under, or around an obstacle course of shattered logs and boulders while trying to stay out of the rushing, foaming water.
I kept thinking of the other hikers ahead of me. Surely I would meet the birder soon – they typically stop after only a short distance to watch and listen for birds. But although their footprints were everywhere, they all must’ve gotten a much earlier start than me. I was beginning to feel like a real loser.
In the end, I made it less than a mile and a half before giving up. The general outline of the canyon I knew so well was still there, but the canyon-bottom trail was completely gone, and I had no desire to spend my day in this congested, scrambled up place. It had become such a brutal scramble, I couldn’t believe the birder was still ahead of me. I was sure the party heading for the high saddle and the remote confluence would not make it – it would take them most of the day just to get through this apocalyptic canyon. Presumably they were young people who would just embrace the challenge.
I remembered a party I’d gone to in 2008, where I met a guy returning from a hike on this trail. The original trail ascends over 4,000′ to the crest of the range, passing an iconic 10,600′ peak and connecting to a broad network of crest trails, but that network has been completely abandoned since the 2012 wildfire.
The guy I met had been part of a large group of young people who set out to reach the iconic peak, a round-trip hike of 18 miles and over 5,000′ of elevation gain. He was older than them, and gave up and headed back as the sun was beginning to set. He arrived at the party around 9 pm, sore and exhausted.
The others continued, scrambling on dangerous talus slopes well after dark, returning long after midnight – the kind of adventure many of us have had in our youth.
Back at my vehicle after only two hours of hiking, I tried to think of another nearby option for the remainder of the day. But they would all require long backcountry drives and would likely have experienced the same amount of flooding and disruption. Most of my high-elevation hikes are in this area – would all those trails now be lost? It would take a huge effort to rebuild them – an effort I doubt will be practical. This was the worst flood damage I’ve seen in this area in 16 years.
This Sunday’s hike was a total washout.
