Dry Springtime
Monday, April 28th, 2025: Chiricahuas, Greenhouse, Hikes, Southeast Arizona.
Over to Arizona again, this time to climb the first couple miles of my favorite long hike in the range of canyons. Clear skies, temps in the mid-70s, and bone dry everywhere.
There’s a 1.5 mile forest road leading to the trailhead. Most people park at the entrance and walk, because the road is completely lined with big loose rocks that would likely destroy their vehicles.
The road is gated to keep cattle out of the wilderness, but some fool – probably an ignorant city dweller – had left it open. Because I wanted to hike the trail not the road, I drove all the way to the trailhead, at less than 5 mph over those rocks.
Again, it recalled my long-standing ride quality quandary. Shortly after buying this vehicle, on a 2019 camping and hiking trip with a friend, I’d literally become a nervous wreck trying to keep up with his new Toyota FJ on rocky backcountry roads. He rocketed ahead of me going 45-50 mph, while I was getting shaken to pieces doing 12 mph.
I ended up spending $1,000 on new shocks, with no change to the ride. Eventually, I did this entire suspension upgrade, and now, if anything, it rides even rougher.
After buying a pair of noise-canceling headphones, I learned that what stresses me out is not the ride, but the noise of the vehicle slamming or rattling like a machine gun over every tiny imperfection in the surface.
And after scouring the forums for this popular vehicle, I’ve concluded that ride quality is complex and highly subjective. Some people say this vehicle rides rough, while others with the same model claim it’s not a problem.
Eventually, I recalled field trips I made back in the 90s and early 00s with a scientist friend who drove old trucks owned by the Department of Fish and Game. Off the highway, he used to drive the rest of us nuts by never exceeding 15 mph – he said he was extending the life of the vehicle by reducing wear on the suspension. Conclusion: there’s no objective standard for ride quality, nor is there a proper speed for driving rough roads.
The trail starts out climbing the upper valley of a creek, through pine forest burned at low intensity in the 2011 wildfire. I found old cattle sign here, unfortunately showing that the gate had been open for weeks, if not months. Cattle were likely all over the wilderness by now and would be impossible to eradicate.
A half mile into the wilderness, the trail begins switchbacking up to the dry waterfall, which is over the ridge at my left, in the next drainage south. With my bad knee, I hadn’t been able to hike this trail in over a year, but someone had cleared it since the last monsoon. I did find stretches of trail, and nearby ground, that had been turned over by an animal looking for insect larvae, and since I found no bear sign, concluded it must’ve been coatis.
Surprisingly, there remained an algae-choked trickle of water over the falls.
One attraction of this climb is the views it reveals over the inner basin of the mountains. The next stage, the climb to a saddle overlooking the upper, hanging canyon of the creek, involves a series of short, steep switchbacks, each one with a better view.
At the top, my hat was blown off by a torrent of wind down the hanging canyon. It would’ve been a great place to hang out otherwise. But it was past noon and I was getting hungry – part of the plan was to get a late lunch in the cafe at the entrance to the mountains.
After descending all the switchbacks into the final creek valley, I came upon a hiker just starting up the trail. He said he’s from Alaska – a snowbird – and lives here seasonally. We discussed my knees, the weather, and the drought, and he asked me about the condition of the Emory oaks, which I hadn’t really focused on.
On the drive out, I noticed the leaves on the oaks were mostly dead. Unlike most deciduous trees, Emory oaks drop and regrow their leaves in late winter and early spring. I’d noticed them changing but hadn’t looked for drought effects.
In the desert, I’m used to the foliage of shrubs drying up as a reaction to extreme drought. What freaks humans out is seldom a disaster for resilient wildlife and habitats.
I avidly attacked an excellent burger in the cafe, but I’d just gotten over a week-long bacterial infection and my stomach wasn’t prepared. By the time I started the drive home I had terrible stomach cramps that lasted for hours.
Then on the drive north to the dry lake, I entered a dust storm. The interstate remained open to the turnoff for my hometown, but it was closed past there, so on the final leg of my drive, climbing into the mountains, I was joined by an endless parade of big rigs and city drivers, all of whom were angry at being detoured hours out of their way. The only thing that kept me relatively calm was the pain meds I’d taken for knee and shoulder.
