Winter Wonderland
Monday, January 26th, 2026: Hikes, Holt, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
I’d spent September through November rebuilding my hiking capacity. By December I felt like I was on a path to recovery, but life spun out of my control. I went from 8-9 hikes per month, to only 5 hikes in the past two months.
Still, my brain was stuck in recovery mode, so even with 2-3 weeks of down time between them, every hike had to be more challenging than the last, leaving me in lots of unnecessary pain. Before this latest hike, I even wrote a big note to myself: Take it Easy! But we’d had a two-day storm, and in the end, the only hike that appealed to me was one that would get me up into some snow. It was an old favorite hike I’ve done many times, and this would be the first time since my knee injury that I would try to reach the first milestone – a spring just below the 9,500 foot crest.
Under clear skies, the air temperature in the shade was in the 20s as I began the traverse into the canyon. In a sunny spot where the dirt of the trail had melted, I came upon the bootprints of a lone hiker – probably a man – who had gone out and back yesterday.
Expecting snow, I was wearing my winter boots for the first time in almost two years, and after entering the wilderness area in the first half mile, the stiff boots had triggered a pressure point on the inside of my right ankle, and it felt like someone was driving a nail into the joint.
Three options: (1) dose myself with pain meds, which I hate to do this early in the day, (2) stop, take off my boot, roll back my socks and thermal bottoms, dig the adhesive-backed felt out of my backpack and cut a piece to fit around the hurt area, or (3) keep going and hope it would get better. (Actually, a 4th option would be alternate lacing, but I’m not thinking too well these days.)
I chose option 3, and instead of it getting better, I just decided to put up with it, every step hurting equally for the next 4-1/2 miles.
It’s about a mile to the canyon bottom. From there, the trail up the creek bank is easy for another mile, but after that, the grade up the canyon increases steadily for another mile, to the base of switchbacks that climb to the crest.
And I discovered that, probably because I’d had so many inactive intervals between hikes recently, I’d lost much of my cardio conditioning. Any grade at all – even less than 5 percent – immediately left me out of breath. The farthest I could go without stopping was about 100 feet. How could I possibly make it up those increasingly steep switchbacks?
One thing that kept me motivated was the gaps in the forest opened up by drought-induced tree mortality, providing better views of the rock formations on the slopes above. And at one point I got a glimpse of snow-laden trees on the crest. They were two thousand feet above me – at this rate, and in this much pain, how would I ever make it?
I couldn’t remember ever having to stop so often, but every time, after long minutes of regaining my breath, I continued for another 50-100 feet. I expected deeper snow in shady spots ahead, and my pant legs were already getting soaked from creek crossings, so in the first bare spot I pulled out and strapped on my gaiters.
In shady spots where the snow was deepest, I found the other hiker’s deep tracks overlaid with an inch or so of overnight snow. I knew if I could make it past the lower steep part of the switchbacks, I would have a much easier time on the long stretches traversing the upper slopes of this side canyon. Holding that thought, I finally reached the overlook, on an outlying shoulder at 8,400 feet. This is always an inspiring moment, because you actually look down on the mountain that was looming above you while you were ascending the canyon bottom.
I’d made it most of the way to the crest – but the steepest climb was still ahead of me. As before, I just doggedly continued in very short stages. The steep part faces west and was mostly snow-free. And I eventually made it, to the higher shoulder with a little rock outcrop which is where I stopped the first time I hiked this trail, seven years ago.
Past that outcrop, the trail turns back into shade and gets steeper – hence it held snow, mostly about 4 inches deep. I hadn’t planned to go any farther. But the sight of untracked snow ahead – the other hiker had stopped either at the overlook below, or here at the little outcrop – tantalized me. I believed I had plenty of time, and it’s only another quarter mile to the spring.
What I’d forgotten is that this stretch of the trail crosses two deep gullies on a steep, shady slope where snow drifts two or three times as deep. The first drift completely obliterated the trail. If I lost my balance or slipped crossing that drift, I would slide 60 feet down a 45 degree slope before hitting a log.
But I’d brought trekking poles, and I figured I would just cross the drift a step at a time, taking short steps and kicking a foothold in the drift before the next step. With that, and the poles for balance, it took me about fifteen minutes to traverse 50 feet – but it worked.
Despite the constant ankle pain, the safe crossing and a view of snow-frosted trees above elevated my mood. I was going to make it to the spring after all! I would definitely dose myself with pain meds here, and hopefully have less pain on the descent.
What a magical place! There’s a small ledge below the spring where someone had apparently built a cabin a hundred or more years ago – hauling tools and supplies on muleback, cutting native timber. Now all that’s left is the spring and the ledge. I’ve drunk from this spring many times – delicious – but there’s no trail and the slope is too steep to climb in snow. So I just dosed and started back down, trying to keep as much weight off my ankle as possible with the trekking poles.
On the way up, the pain in my ankle had distracted me from discomfort in my left foot, where I have chronic inflammation that was triggered a few weeks ago. I clearly hadn’t recovered, because on the way down I found myself shifting weight to the outside of that foot. And with weight shifted to the outside of both feet, I soon had sharp pain in the outside of both knees. Of course my right shoulder was in constant pain from the long-standing rotator cuff tear, so the 4-1/2 mile descent was an increasing ordeal.
I reached the bottom of the switchbacks, where it was getting very dark. And halfway from there to the trail junction, I suddenly developed cramps in the inside of both thighs. I literally screamed and fell over on the ground, jerking around in excruciating pain, and couldn’t find a position that relieved the cramps. That nightmare went on for about ten minutes.
After the cramps faded away, the ankle and knee pain became bearable! I made it up the final climb out of the canyon just as the sun was setting behind the range in the west. Sitting in the vehicle, I actually felt free of pain for the first time all day. It had taken me 8 hours to go 9 miles out-and-back.
But at home, the minute I tried carrying my gear up the stairs to my back porch, all that knee and ankle pain came back, worse than ever. Even my shoulder was screaming. So I took another dose of meds, and spent the night waking over and over, never able to find a comfortable position. When will I ever learn?
