Trails of Ozymandias
Monday, April 24th, 2023: Chiricahuas, Greenhouse, Hikes, Southeast Arizona.
It was late April and I figured my favorite high-elevation trails would be sufficiently snow-free. But a combination of snowmelt flooding and blowdown in this windy season had left so many inaccessible. Plus, I was losing too much productive time to hiking and chores, so I needed to stay within the local area – leaving only one good option, the crest trail east of here.
The day was going to be warm but partly cloudy, and up on the crest it should be cool. Getting an early start, I drove 12 of the 40 miles east, only to be reminded that the highway over the range is closed – cracks in the roadway indicate a potential failure, our climate taking its toll on the works of man.
Another option, closer to town, would take me through exactly the same kind of terrain I’d been hiking all month. The early start meant I now had an on-time departure. So I decided to violate my better judgement and drive over to Arizona after all. I would decide on a hike once I got there.
To my dismay, when I entered the range, I found cars and people everywhere. But there was no turning back now, so I decided to take the most remote trail, which involved a very rough high-clearance 4wd drive up a rock-lined canyon. Hopefully that would discourage the riff-raff.
But I found two cars parked at the turnoff – hikers walking up the canyon since their vehicles wouldn’t handle it. And approaching the most difficult section, I saw a well-dressed, distinguished-looking older man, standing in the road ahead, staring and frowning at me. I smiled and waved, but he just kept frowning back, refusing to move. It was really hard to drive around him safely, but I smiled and waved again, while he kept staring and frowning.
I parked and started up the trail. After a quarter mile, I met a twenty-something guy coming down, carrying binoculars but without a pack. I asked if he’d gone to the waterfall, and he said he was looking for birds. Of course! All these people were birders, here for the big spring migration! That’s why the old guy in the road had been pissed at me. Birders treat everyone else as an obstacle in the way of their competitive obsession.
But this was good news for me – birders aren’t hikers, and would stay within a mile of their vehicles. I had the wilderness to myself.
The winter of pain and trail closures had weakened me, so I felt slower than usual. And even on the lower, eastern segment, our windy season had snapped living pines and firs that now blocked the trail.
Blowdowns continued when I reached the hanging canyon – our prevailing southwest winds funnel through here from the saddle above. And just below the crest, a 100-foot-tall fir had been snapped off right next to the historic Forest Service cabin. It was a miracle the log cabin hadn’t been crushed – the tree fell less than a foot from the corner. But its branches damaged the roof, which will need repairs in the next month or so to avoid water damage.
I’d been climbing with my shirt unbuttoned, but the saddle is a wind tunnel – when I reached the crest I encountered a bitter gale and had to pull on both my sweater and shell jacket. Clouds were building and casting cold shadows too. But I fought my way south – I thought I had just enough time to reach the saddle I’d hiked to six months ago, when our monsoon was transitioning to winter snowstorms.
The last stretch of trail was where I found the most remaining snow, plus more blowdown – and this is the rockiest part of the trail. In my weakened state, I’d been slipping, stumbling, and even falling a few times so far, narrowly avoiding injury. I found a couple of faint bootprints on the upper trails, but their treacherous condition is discouraging most hikers.
On the way back, I thought about how, through a combination of our ecological ignorance, hubris, and a changing climate, nature is systematically destroying the works of man. From the eastern highway to trails and a wilderness cabin, my whole day told the same story. And these aren’t skyscrapers and palaces we’re talking about – these are basic infrastructure even the most environmentally-conscious of us take for granted. Like it or not, none of it’s sustainable.
The descent was really hard on my knees – more evidence the long winter weakened me. I was hobbling by the time I reached the vehicle. And to add insult to injury, the birders were running the cafe staff ragged – I had to wait an hour for my order while they were deliberating over their fine wines. And they’d taken all the rooms at the lodge, even on a Sunday night. I had to drive all the way home in the dark, arriving exhausted at 10pm – having put in a 14-hour day to accomplish a 7-hour hike.
