Return to the Rocks
Monday, March 6th, 2023: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Silver, Southeast Arizona.
I was beyond stir-crazy. Hiking was the main thing that kept me healthy in body and mind – it relieves stress, lowers blood pressure, manages pain and enhances mobility – but deteriorating trail conditions had forced me to give it up two weeks ago. Since then, we’d had several more snowfalls, and I’d become virtually sedentary.
Local trails were still out of the question, with either deep snow, deep mud, or creek crossings flooded by snowmelt. Besides, I needed to get away from the obligations, the worries and unfinished projects weighing me down at home, even if only for a night.
But I expected to find the same conditions everywhere in our region. Sunday morning arrived and I still hadn’t made a decision before my usual 8 am departure time. I followed the opening race of the Formula 1 season, which would end about 9:30 am, and finally decided to drive over to Arizona to the range of canyons. Conditions would be the same there, but with less than a full day left, I could busy myself with short, boring low-elevation hikes, enjoy dinner at the cafe, and get a room for the night. If nothing else, it would get me out of the house.
I arrived at noon, leaving me five-plus hours to hike and reach the cafe before closing. In normal conditions, that would give me plenty of time to take the nine-mile out-and-back peak trail at the mouth of the basin. But it ends in traverses and switchbacks across a steep north slope above 7,000′, topping out at 8,000′, and I expected north slopes at those elevations to carry well over a foot of snow now.
I’ve done that hike twice before, but I normally avoid it – it’s the most popular hike in the range, too short for a full-day hike, and it falls completely outside the wilderness area, so there’s less chance of encountering wildlife. But it is spectacular, and it would offer my best option for gaining some decent elevation in the time I had.
It was a sunny, calm day with high, wispy clouds, and the temperature surprised me by being in the mid-70s when I got out of my vehicle at the trailhead. It’d been an unusually long, cold winter, and I couldn’t remember feeling so comfortable outdoors since last September! Expectedly, there were three other vehicles there already.
I unbuttoned my shirt, and as soon as I climbed out of the lush riparian zone onto the open, grassy slope, the temperature seemed to rise into the mid-80s. Surrounded by one of the most spectacular landscapes in the Southwest, with layered red and white cliffs and ramparts of towering spires, I stopped to stretch and tighten my boots. And a tiny older man in a drab “socialist worker” outfit – even shorter than me! – passed, running down the trail, carrying no gear, not even a water bottle.
A little farther up, I met an older couple resting in the shade of a juniper. They were on their way down, and said they’d only made it to the prominent “Trail” sign up on the shoulder of the ridge. The woman said “That’s halfway, right?” but I pointed out it was considerably less than that, and the man looked away disgustedly.
Despite its popularity, this is one of the two steepest trails in the entire range, with an average grade of 13% – so although many struggle up the first mile or so, only the truly athletic achieve the 3,200′ ascent to the peak.
It proceeds in two major segments: the climb across the northeast slope, out of the “gateway” basin and around the shoulder of the ridge, followed by the traverse and climb of the north slope. The first segment gets enough sun to be both snow-free and dry, so I made good time there. My body felt healthier – back in the conditions where it thrives – and my spirit rose with the elevation and the unfolding views across the landscape.
1,200′ up, I rounded the shoulder into the broad hollow of the north slope, a complex circling wall of layered red rimrock cliffs and towering spires, bisected by a precipitous ravine. Whereas my view on the first segment had been eastward past the range’s gateway, I now had a view across the northwest ridges of the range, all the way to the snow-draped crest of another range I’d last climbed in December, 70 miles away in the clear air.
I soon met the next party of hikers, a couple a little younger than me. I was curious about how much snow they’d found ahead – I couldn’t see much from this vantage point, but it might be hidden under forest, and snow settles deeper on trails than on the surrounding slopes.
The man said they’d turned back because the trail surface was too slippery with ice and wet snow. I asked if they’d reached the switchbacks – meaning the final switchbacks to the peak – and the man said they’d only made it halfway up. They were both using trekking poles, so I figured the trail must be pretty bad. But I had to find out for myself.
Shortly after I passed them I reached the first set of switchbacks, and sure enough, they were slippery with wet, shallow snow – but nothing I couldn’t handle. I just had to adjust my gait, using the edges of my boots to chop holds in the slush. The couple’s tracks turned back halfway up, so I realized we’d misunderstood each other. There are three sets of switchbacks – they’d stopped at the lowest of the three. Past that point, there was only one set of tracks going forward – also from today – two people, both bigger than me, with a dog.
This first set of switchbacks leads to the first big red outcrop – the face rock. Passing below that, you enter the confines of the ravine. Dwarfed by towering outcrops on all sides, you reach the second set of switchbacks, where the trail condition was about the same. These take you high enough to cross the ravine, through a narrow riparian forest, past which you begin the long traverse of the main north slope.
That’s where conditions got trickier. There were still occasional dry patches, but I was now above 7,000′, and the snow was up to six inches deep, fresh and soft. And before long, I reached a narrow spot where one of the hikers preceding me had slipped off the trail and slid straight down the steep slope below. They’d fallen at least fifteen feet, and maybe much more – I couldn’t tell with bushes blocking the view. The slope itself drops continuously two or three hundred feet into a ravine, with only spindly shrubs to break your slide – pretty scary!
It was a good warning for me to proceed with utmost caution. But their tracks resumed past the narrow spot – I figured they must be young people who wouldn’t let a fall scare them. And whereas their tracks showed that they were hiking in sneakers or cheap lightweight boots, I was wearing my serious winter boots, with good traction and sharp edges to chop holds in the snow.
The traverse winds westward in and out of drainages, eventually entering mixed conifer forest. I always look forward to the tall, shaggy firs – an island of alpine habitat confined to the top of the steep north slope of this relatively low peak. But the shade of the forest meant that the west end of the traverse lay under a continuous blanket of still-fresh snow, six inches or more deep. Here, the temperature had dropped from the 80s to the high 50’s, so I pulled my sweater back on.
At its far west end, the trail swings back to climb through more spectacular rock outcrops, beginning the final set of a dozen switchbacks that end on the summit ridge. These switchbacks held the deepest snow, and this was where I expected the most difficulty. But I was already exercising plenty of caution, and reached the crest with what I thought was enough time remaining for the descent.
On this last climb to the crest, you’re getting glimpses through the forest and between the rock outcrops to the landscape 3,000′-4,000′ below, and it’s a truly impressive and sobering preview of how high you’ve actually climbed in the past three hours. But it gets both better and worse.
This is a freestanding mountain, surrounded by low basins which are themselves ringed by more distant ridges. So on the crest, you’re on a precipitous island with a drop of 2,000′ to 3,000′ vertical feet on all sides. The final switchback leads to a tiny exposed saddle on a knife-edge ridge, which was sun-drenched now, hence blissfully snow-free.
It’s only a short distance up the ridge through low forest to the time-worn, lichen-encrusted cast-concrete stairs that take you to the peak and the foundation of the old fire lookout. These crude stairs violate every safety code you can imagine, with tall risers and shallow treads. They’re like a miniature version of the terrifying stairs up the cliff in Lord of the Rings. Even in dry conditions the climb to the top is more like the crux move of a technical climb up a crack in a rock wall. There’s no railing on the lower, steeper flight, and a fall would dash you onto the rock ledge below, and possibly over it down the north slope.
But today the lower steps were packed with slippery snow, so I made use of every available handhold – the brush and boulders at my left, the wet but snow-free edges of the steps above – and basically crawled up on all fours, trying not to think about the coming descent.
The upper flight of stairs, fully exposed to the sun, was completely snow-free and dry, but since it overhangs a cliff, it has a galvanized pipe handrail – something the lower flight could really use.
Summiting the stairs and stepping into the concrete enclosure, with its 360 degree view across the entire northern range, is one of the most dramatic moments imaginable. And as I was taking it in, and starting to take pictures, I heard a whoop from a neighboring peak, about 300 yards behind me to the east. It was the other hikers. I could make out a tall young man, but his partner was sitting behind a shrub. I waved back, and savored the views for about ten minutes, before firmly grabbing the handrail and stepping slowly down the vertiginous stairs, one at a time, nothing but a pipe railing between me and a 2,500′ vertical drop on my right. My time was getting short and I’d have to hurry down the dry stretches of trail.
I somehow made it safely down the tight, steep snow-packed lower steps, once again using my boot edges and every handhold possible. Then from there onto the forested upper switchbacks, where I had my one and only fall of the day at the best possible spot, in deep, fresh powder.
Just as I approached the lowest of the upper switchbacks, I heard another whoop from above. The young hikers were beginning their descent, and I figured if they were whooping spontaneously it was probably two guys, not a couple.
I was in shadow for almost the entire descent, and running down the dry stretches took its toll on my knees, so I was in quite a bit of pain even before I rounded the shoulder onto the lower segment of the trail. But what a beautiful hike for a short day!
Body and mind had been starved for this – it felt like the hiatus had been much longer than two weeks. I actually hadn’t been able to get this much elevation – over 3,000′ – in any hike during the past two months. Let alone all that beautiful exposed rock – the hikes near town run through monotonous forest. And the fact that I was able to reach 8,000′ after all the snow we’d had was encouraging. Maybe there are more trails accessible now than I thought?
Arriving at the cafe, I saw the full moon rising in the west, and realized I’d returned exactly a lunar month after my last visit. And thankfully, my vision remained clear.
