Mountains of Mexico
Monday, December 29th, 2025: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Morse, Southeast Arizona.
Returning from a trip to Arizona offered me another opportunity to hike the west side of the range of canyons, normally too far for a day trip. The east side is world-famous, but the west side is known only to natives, accessed via long, lonely highways across a vast, flat agricultural valley.
The map shows a forest road entering the mountains halfway down the north-south trending range, accessing half a dozen trailheads and a couple of primitive campgrounds. Google Maps claimed it would take me only an hour and ten minutes to reach the end of that road from the town on the Interstate where I was staying – the same driving distance as most of my hikes near home.
The trail at the end of the road starts at 6,600 feet and climbs south up a canyon to a saddle at 8,500 feet. From there, a second trail runs east along a ridge, then climbs to a 9,400 foot peak – the southwesternmost peak on the crest of the range – topped with a fire lookout. I’d tried to reach that peak once, from the east side, but the road to the trailhead was so slow that after seven miles of hiking, I ran out of time, only a half mile short.
Whereas that east-side route was almost 16 miles out and back, this would only be 8. It would still be a challenge – at almost 2,800 vertical feet, it would be the most elevation gain I’d attempted since before my knee injury in May 2024.
Beset by trauma after trauma, I’ve been increasingly worried about my mental health. Today, after a healthy breakfast and a cup of fresh-ground coffee, I stopped for gas before leaving town. I left the pump running and ducked inside for a bottle of water. At checkout, the teenage girl, her eyes wide, asked urgently “Are you okay, sir?” Unaware of any problem, I gave her a puzzled look. “You seem really out of breath!” she cried. Still puzzled and convinced I was breathing normally, I paid, went outside, got in, started up, and drove off. Hearing a bashing sound behind me, I stopped. A glance in the rearview – it was only then I realized I’d forgotten to finish at the pump.
This has literally never happened to me before. I got out, picked up the hose handle and returned it to the pump – but couldn’t find my gas cap, which I’d left, as usual, sitting on the rim of the truck bed. Getting down on my knees to look under the truck is really hard with an injured knee and shoulder, so I got in, started up, and moved the truck another ten feet forward. Still no gas cap anywhere, so I painfully lowered myself to look under the bed and around the rear wheels.
Still no gas cap. I actually spent another five minutes looking – until I finally spotted it, twenty feet ahead of the vehicle, out near the street. I was numb with shock. If I hadn’t been in a tiny, remote rural town, with no passersby to witness my astounding dysfunction, I probably would’ve given up and returned to the motel.
Fortunately, I expected an easy drive ahead. The big north-south valley intrigues me. It’s far from the nearest city. And although the highway that runs down it from the Interstate is paved, it leads only to a small, obscure town on the Mexican border, with no significant tourist attractions along the way. Ranging from about 4,000 feet elevation in the south to nearly 5,000 at the north edge, it’s over a hundred miles long and thirty miles wide. It’s dotted with huge but widely-separated agribusinesses – tomato greenhouses, dairy feedlots, beef cattle ranches – and a surprising number of unincorporated residential settlements. Surprising because they’re generally lost amidst the flat vastness.
Seeing much more of it on this trip, it reminded me of California’s great Central Valley – a rural feudal enclave, but in this case, even more remote from urban seats of power and wealth. The big agribusinesses enrich the few by exploiting the many, who live in dilapidated shacks and trailers. And in between, you’re surprised by the occasional remote, isolated mansion. At the north end there are even a few wineries, patronized mainly by RV-driving retirees, and retirees in trailer parks make up the rest of the demographic.
Nearing the turnoff east toward the mountains, I found myself approaching cool-looking volcanic hills, isolated in the middle of the valley, that had been hidden from the north by the curvature of the earth. Then I passed an official highway sign saying “Earth Fissures Possible Ahead”. What the fuck does that mean?
Around the turnoff stood the mostly ruined remains of unidentifiable commercial buildings – a motel? Auto shop? Restaurant? Strip mall? And on the side road, what appeared to be a country school with a tiny, historic-looking library – but no town.
Finally, the paved road ended, the gravel forest road began, and I entered the foothills. Topped by rimrock, grassy slopes golden in the morning sun, all very welcoming. I came to a sign: “Do Not Enter When Flooded”, and after yesterday’s rain, the road was flooded from edge to edge. It looked to be a foot deep in the middle, and my pickup has low ground clearance, but after that long drive I was not about to give up. I backed up, built up some speed, crossed at the very edge and raised spray higher than my truck.
Entering the forest, the road became rockier and steeper. I passed a couple of pickups, saw a compact Japanese sedan, RVs, and city SUVs parked in the campgrounds, wondering what they’d make of the flooded road. But it was quiet here on the west side, and felt very, very remote.
Parking at the end of the road, in a deep dark canyon, I was alone, and I guessed the temperature was in the 30s when I got out, pulled on my storm shell, thermal cap, and gloves, and shouldered my pack. I hadn’t brought my fleece jacket for these temps, but hoped the hike would keep me warm.
The comprehensive, detailed online guide for this range says the trail was recently cleared of deadfall, and the forest had mostly survived the 2011 wildfire, so I was looking forward to easy walking conditions for a change. But a glance at the topo map hadn’t prepared me for this climb up a steep, narrow canyon in morning shade. Much of the trail surface was pine needles on packed dirt, but it was really dark, and really cold!
I immediately encountered what appeared to be recent horseshit, and beyond the first half mile, the well-built trail had been chewed up badly, when wet and muddy, by mysterious hooved animals. I did find tracks of javelina, deer, and bobcat, but the damaging tracks were much bigger, punching deep holes into the trail, and with few exceptions, unshod. There was lots of recent equine scat, and about halfway up, I found logs which had been cut within the past month or two. But I’d never heard of a trail crew in these mountains using horses or mules, and if they had, why weren’t they wearing shoes? I puzzled over the mystery all the way up and all the way down, and I didn’t find a single human track all day.
Despite the steep climb, I was cold all the way up, and again, about halfway up, the dirt was frozen solid. The temperature in this shade was actually in the 20s – I definitely hadn’t dressed for this!
Finally I could feel myself approaching the saddle, where I expected sunlight, and hopefully warmth.
At the saddle, I found myself overlooking a deep, narrow canyon with steep, densely forested slopes – a rare and refreshing sight in our new wildfire regime. The head of this south-draining canyon curves east and is completely hidden from outside. Just under a mile to my southeast rose the peak, and with the naked eye, I could just barely discern the lookout tower peeking above the forest.
To my relief, the trail stuck to the south side of the ridge so I was mostly in sun, and it was a beautiful forest – until I reached a small burn scar on the north slope of the peak. The trail here hadn’t been cleared recently – I stepped over about a dozen logs on the way – a piece of cake compared to the hundreds blocking many of my wilderness hikes.
Approaching the saddle below the peak, I encountered patches of snow from yesterday’s storm, frozen to a hard crust. In that saddle, with view blocked by forest, I met the end of the crest trail, and from there, found an informal, unmaintained trail to the top.
This felt like the first hike since my knee injury that had an actual, dramatic destination. And the view, to the south toward Mexico, was glorious! Mexican mountain ranges, one behind the other, fading into blue haze, with the rugged southern ridges of this range fanning out in high contrast, far below.
I spent a half hour up there, the sun warming me to my core, and I sure didn’t want to leave!
Likewise, when I reached the saddle above the first canyon, I sure didn’t want to drop back into that frozen shade!
I’d brought the trekking poles, and following my new physical therapist’s guidance, I used them all the way down. But I’m not liking them any better, and I found myself stumbling more often with them, than I usually do without them.
My boots are new, having seen only a couple dozen short hikes during the past year, and they were causing sharp pain in both ankles. And by the time I was halfway down, both my knees were in pain, because the ankle pain was changing my gait. So I finally downed a couple pain pills, which would take effect on the drive out.
On this freezing Sunday night, I was surprised to find four vehicles at the remote trailhead turnaround where I’d parked. They were all from a single party, a small group standing around a huge campfire with flames roaring at least a dozen feet tall. They’d walked down to the bank of the creek, fifty feet below the road. I didn’t see tents – was this just some kind of late forest party?
On the road out, I passed four more groups camping – hard-core in these conditions, in this remote, dark canyon, on a weeknight.
And on the long drive up the big valley at sunset, the pain pills worked their magic. If the past year had been the worst ordeal of my life, this was the most rewarding hike I’d done since my knee injury. Maybe I have a future, after all.
