Canyon of Confusion
Monday, February 6th, 2023: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Indian, Southeast Arizona.
After weeks of health issues, deep snow in the high mountains, and boring local recovery hikes, I’d really been yearning to return to Arizona for a change of scenery. So I spent a few hours on Saturday in deep online research, trying to pinpoint an interesting low-elevation trail within my 2-hour-drive radius that would also be near the cafe and motel, so I wouldn’t have to drive the deer-infested highway home after dark.
There turned out to be only one trail that met my criteria, but relevant information was sparse and contradictory. The authoritative, detailed trail guide I normally rely on says it was only partially surveyed more than a decade ago and is in “terrible” condition, but the official trail map provided at the ranger station, updated in 2018, shows it as a major trail suitable for “Hiker/Horse/Mountain Bike”. And mapping websites show it as part of a national route used by through hikers, like the Pacific Crest Trail.
To further confuse the issue, the access road goes through a remote settlement which Wikipedia and other history sites call a ghost town, but satellite views show a sizable farm and many occupied, well-maintained residences. It’s in a part of the range I’d always wanted to explore. If it turned out to be a bust, I could always drive to the more familiar area and do a shorter hike in the time remaining.
According to maps, the trail begins on a forest road and continues up a canyon for a few miles to a short fork that leads to a large rockshelter called “Indian Cave”, which would definitely interest me. From the fork, the main trail climbs to a saddle, from which you can continue to a landmark rock formation I’ve seen many times from the crest of the range. That was my ideal destination, assuming I could even find enough trail to follow.
A further complicating factor was my back pain. I’d been surprised on Saturday to find it on the edge of triggering again – only a month since the last severe episode. Normally I recover completely and these episodes are about six months apart.
The hidden valley turned out to be really interesting – far from a ghost town, it was a living rural community with a winery and a collection of modest but attractive homes, some of them large, most of which I assumed were vacation homes. The access road was well-graded but clearly subject to massive washouts which would be expensive to fix and could leave residents cut off for weeks.
The forest road dipped into a dense sycamore riparian forest and crossed a clear, strong creek, leading within a few hundred yards to a neat, unoccupied cottage surrounded by foraging wild turkeys. I literally drove through their front yard and came to a gate with a small parking area on the bank of the creek, where I decided to stop and continue on foot.
I’d worn sneakers and brought two different pairs of hiking boots, planning to change into the appropriate pair depending on conditions. But when I tried to take off my sneakers, I triggered another episode of severe back pain. There I was in a remote location, at the start of a major hike, after two hours of driving, nearly paralyzed.
I’ve had this condition for 24 years. It began with episodes separated by years, then about a decade ago increased to the six-month intervals. Apparently now it’s accelerated to a third level. More than anything, I was angry. At 10 am, the sky was clear and the temperature was already approaching 70 – a welcome change from the freezing temps we’d had at home for over a month. The sycamores made this a beautiful canyon, and I loved the sound of the creek. I was determined not to let the pain stop me.
After all this time I have a whole suite of things I can do to mitigate it, from stretching to meds. With a little preliminary stretching I was able to get my boots on – the waterproof pair because I’d surely have to cross the creek, and from the road I’d seen snow below the distant rock formation.
Pain stabbing me with every step, I passed through the gate and walked up the road, which the trail guide said had been washed out by floods after the 2011 wildfire. And sure enough, a little over a quarter mile in, I came to the first of the washouts, with a superfluous “Road Closed” sign, and after that, the damage became more and more apocalyptic.
Information on this trail had been so confusing, I really had no idea what to expect, and was just trusting in my routefinding skills. I’d brought some printouts, one of which claimed I would find a cabin on the left side of the old road. But the cottage I’d driven to and parked near was on the right side.
On its way upstream, the forest road had apparently crossed the creek several times, actually using the creek bed itself for lengthy stretches. But after the 2011 fire, major sections of that road had completely disappeared, and what was left was debris – boulders, logs, and the creek. To avoid triggering severe pain and paralyzing myself, I had to somehow maintain posture while picking my way over the obstacles, and it was a continual ordeal, punctuated occasionally by cries of pain. At least I was alone – no one could hear my cries.
The only tracks I found in occasional patches of dirt were from the wild turkeys. There was no evidence humans had been here in years – maybe not since the trail guide guy had partially surveyed it right after the 2011 fire.
I would pick my way up the debris-strewn creek bed for hundreds of yards, eventually coming to a point where the old road reappeared. Then I would follow the surviving roadbed up the floodplain through riparian forest for a few hundred yards until I came to the next washout – a pile of huge logs, huge boulders, or an abrupt four-foot dropoff.
At each washout a black insulated phone cable would emerge from underground, and I found eight to ten “Caution – Buried Cable” posts beside the roadbed. Apparently someone had laid a telephone cable up here, at great cost! The follies of mankind…
I painfully found my way up this devastated canyon bottom for almost a mile and a half, finally reaching the cabin on the left. It was preceded by another big washout and a collapsed gate adorned with metal bird symbols, so I assumed the builders had been birders like most inhabitants of this range. And now they would never use their cabin without either a difficult hike or fantastically expensive and unsustainable road work. Building a cabin on a creekbed road in a narrow canyon just shows that birders are no more ecologically aware than the rest of us. I once had similarly clueless ambitions for my place in the desert.
It was sad – a nice little cabin, furnished with family antiques. I was surprised none of these remote properties showed vandalism. This valley really is off the radar.
The cabin marks the end of the old forest road, where the trail proper begins. But following the old road had been such an ordeal, I needed a couple pain pills even to consider continuing.
The path was clear at first, but I began to lose it at the first creek crossing. I looked for cairns but could find none, so I mostly just followed the creek. This is not wilderness, so I found old cattle sign, and wherever a faint, narrow tread appeared up the bank into the forest, I assumed it was cattle trail. I was sporadically bothered by flies, and butterflies had started hatching out here.
The printout I’d brought said I would reach the “narrows”, where the creek flows over bedrock, and over a mile past that, the turnoff to the Indian Cave. But walking was so difficult with my back pain and the lack of a clear trail, I totally lost track of distance. I came to places where the creek flowed over bedrock, and it was beautiful clear water and interesting rock, but I wouldn’t call it a “narrows”.
I stopped frequently to do hip stretches and a standing spinal twist. Finally the meds kicked in and my attitude began to improve. What a beautiful day, and what a beautiful canyon! I’d never seen such clear water, and the air temperature was perfect – I even unbuttoned my shirt.
I began to find sporadic, minimal cairns, half-buried in grass along the “cattle trail”, proving there really was a hiking trail here once, long ago. And I reached a major side canyon on the right. According to the map I’d brought, this would have to be the Indian Cave canyon, so I started up it, holding myself stiff at the waist to avoid triggering my lower back. It was really steep and split into two branches. I climbed the ridge between them but hit an impassable wall of shrubs. Then I climbed back down into the right fork, but was soon stopped by a wall of flood debris. I figured I’d gone too far anyway – this probably wasn’t the cave drainage.
I made my way back down to the main creek, and worked my way farther upstream, enjoying the day despite all the confusion. Soon I found another, even bigger side canyon on the right. This had to be the cave drainage! And shortly after turning up it, I spotted an old shovel on the far bank. People had been this way, so I must be on the right track.
The cave is supposed to be less than 300 yards up the side drainage, but I could see no evidence of a cliff ahead. After about 200 yards I saw what appeared to be a trail up the right bank, so I climbed about 60 feet up in loose rocks and dirt, but was no wiser for the effort. I returned to the canyon bottom and continued, but after going more than 300 yards saw no evidence of a cave. Where the hell was I? The map didn’t show these side canyons at all.
Returning to the junction, I found a huge cairn, standing alone in the forest with no sign of a trail around it. But continuing up the bank of the main creek, I eventually found more stretches of the old trail. My printout said the trail would start climbing the left bank after passing the cave turnoff, and sure enough, I soon came to a steep trail up the left bank, marked by a tiny cairn.
This trail quickly disappeared in dense grass and rocks. I was stuck partway up a steep hillside, and the sun was going down and it was time to turn back, without reaching any of my goals for the day. I couldn’t even tell how far up the canyon I’d gone.
On the way down, it turned out to be easier to find cairns and sections of the old trail. Like most canyon trails it kept crossing and recrossing the creek. My back pain was increasing and I took a third pill. I was looking forward to dinner and a beer at the cafe, and a bed for the night so I wouldn’t have to drive all the way home.
Many small trees along the bank had been bent all the way over by floods in last summer’s monsoon, and many larger trees had dropped branches recently, maybe during winter winds. I’m always looking for remote places where I will be the first visitor in ages, and I sure found one here! What a beautiful canyon, developed by the ignorant hubris of humans, only to be completely abandoned!
I reached the vehicle with plenty of time to drive around the mountains to the cafe and motel. But it turned out to be mobbed by some sort of tour group – as usual, folks in their 60s and 70s, likely birders. After a long wait I got my burrito and beer, but there was no room for me at the inn. Exhausted after a day of pain, I would have to drive home in the dark.
But one encouraging discovery was a dramatic improvement in my vision – after sharply deteriorating over the winter, now it was better than at any time in the past few years. I wouldn’t need glasses after all. A full moon was rising in the east, and for a change, it wasn’t doubled – I could focus on it and the surrounding stars, just like in the old days.
