All Boxed Out
Monday, April 27th, 2026: Big Lue, Hikes, Southwest New Mexico.
This Sunday’s trip was one I’d been planning and dreaming about for months: to explore one of the most obscure parts of my state, and hopefully to hike into a dramatic canyon that few are even aware of.
This is an “orphaned” part of the state because to reach it by vehicle you have to make a long detour through Arizona – the New Mexico side is completely cut off by roadless mountains.
Surprisingly in this day and age, GPS-based digital mapping platforms omit most of the backcountry roads in this area – I had to study a scanned, ten-year-old Forest Service map and other even older scanned maps to determine whether my destination might be accessible. These roads, most of them requiring high clearance and 4-wheel drive, were built and are maintained by miners and ranchers. I suspect that they’ve graded illegal roads over the decades simply because they get so little scrutiny from New Mexico officials. I had no idea what condition those “ghost roads” were in, or whether they were even passable. This is truly a living relic of the Wild West.
Dangerous winds were forecast for our entire region, with a high in the mid 70s at the average elevation of 5,000 feet. I’d originally hoped to try a much higher forest trail far north of here, but was worried about getting trapped by trees blowing down across the access road. As it was, I had to fight the steering wheel whenever I was moving at speed on a highway.
Like so many of our hikes, this area is reached by a long drive up a “finger” mesa with deep ravines on both sides. I’d driven this road in the opposite direction once before; now, heading east, I got an intriguing, enticing view of the entire mountain range above the area I hoped to explore, as well as glimpses of the two rock spires I’d previously climbed to the south. And through an unexpected gap in the range, I was surprised to see the remote Homeland Security radar installation on a mountain about 15 miles east – an installation I’m used to seeing from the opposite direction, from the crest of our highest mountains.
When I reached the dirt road I’d hoped to take into the interior, I found it unused and overgrown, so instead, I turned back and followed a well-graded and well-used gravel road that begins by dipping into a broad, shallow canyon.
I found water troughs and salt blocks for cattle scattered all over, but I didn’t meet another vehicle or see another human all day. Crossing the wash, the road followed the north bank, well-graded for a mile and a half, until I reached a fork. I was confused by this and the map I’d printed and brought, but I was expecting to traverse south around something called Twin Peaks, and I could just glimpse a double peak on the skyline between the two forks, so I took the right-hand fork.
This fork appeared to be newly built, which confused me even more. It traversed a canyon that got narrower and narrower, as the road got more and more rugged, running up the bedrock of a wash at one point. And then I found myself climbing toward Twin Peaks, where I found a half dozen cattle resting on a ledge near a water tank.
Past the cattle I found myself in a saddle overlooking the interior I’d been dreaming about exploring. Apart from the cattle and the range infrastructure, the entire landscape surprised me. It was way more topographically complex than I’d expected – I’d expected an interior basin surrounded by peaks, but instead, it was a maze of rolling ridges and hidden gullies and canyons. And it was beautiful, both rockier and more lush than you would expect at this elevation, probably because of the rimrock-capped mountains that completely surround and hide it from the outside. Like they say about the highest mountains, this area creates its own weather.
Based on my map, I was now looking for another fork in the road that would lead east toward the mouth of a box canyon that I hoped to hike into. I expected this to be much less used, and potentially impassable. And sure enough, it didn’t even look like a road. I came to a clearing with a salt block, parked and started walking, and found a vague corridor leading back through the dying junipers.
This was clearly the road shown on the map, and although it was barely drivable, it was apparently still used by the rancher. I almost immediately had to switch into low-range 4wd, but was mostly able to drive in second gear. It was a fun road, cruising along low ridges for short stretches, suddenly plunging into narrow gullies, bouncing over bedrock. And after about a mile I reached a wide arroyo where the road had been washed out, leaving a nearly sheer bank about two feet high.
I was sure I could drive down it okay, but being alone with no cell signal, I wasn’t willing to risk not making it up on the way back. I was pretty sure I could’ve done it, but it was such a beautiful day, I realized I would much rather continue on foot anyway. According to the map I had less than two miles to go to the box canyon.
The grasshoppers were unbelievable! Dozens of them exploded off the ground continuously as I walked up the road. And the views kept changing all around. From the wash where I’d left my vehicle, the road climbed up a ridge to a fence and gate. The map showed this road continuing south to connect to a ranch road which used to be the main access to the box canyon. The ranch was bought by an obscure Buddhist retreat center, and they’ve erected a huge locked gate across that road – hence today’s attempt to get in the back way.
Shortly, I came to another branch road, which climbed over the ridge and down toward the creek that empties the box canyon. It was damn windy on that ridge, and it was all I could do to keep my hat on. From there, I could easily see the old mine road into the box canyon, traversing high above the opposite slope. I’d found one trip report online, from an avid Phoenix hiker who’d reached the canyon 15 years ago using that now-inaccessible road.
I was expecting the creek to be dry, but I was leery of cattle, especially bulls, and descending the road I came to a water trough, solar panels, and a pump box. The road into the creekbed would’ve likely been too steep and rocky for my vehicle, and sure enough I saw another half dozen cattle resting in the dry creekbed downstream.
The old road resumed across the broad creekbed. Although it clearly hadn’t been used in ages, it was easy to follow, and I was soon surprised to see big pools of water in the creekbed below. When I finally reached road’s end, the creek, although full of algae, was running sluggishly. It hosted a beautiful sycamore forest, and unsurprisingly I found myself clambering over bigger and bigger boulders as I approached the mouth of the box canyon.
This is where I need to define “box canyon”. Technically it’s a canyon with only one way in – either from above or below. From my map studies, I knew you could hike into it from above – so by definition today’s attempt was probably doomed. But I didn’t know that for sure.
I knew from the maps and that old hiker’s description that somewhere ahead of me were cliffs 800 feet high, with caves. But before I became buried in a jungle of huge boulders and dense vegetation, all I could see ahead was a steep juniper-dotted slope topped by a high saddle. How did the creek drain from that?
The water running between the boulders here was clear and free of algae, so there had to be a grade ahead putting some force behind it. The mouth of the canyon was curving north, and just before I lost sight of what was ahead, I spotted a rock pinnacle that seemed to be separated from the cliff directly above me, by the narrowest of cracks.
I climbed over boulders and fallen trees and pushed my way through low branches, reaching a little hollow completely hemmed in by a solid wall of vegetation. I could see the top of the cliff, high above the vegetation, but could go no farther. I assume the creek drains through a slot, somewhere ahead of where I stopped. You might be able to push or hack through all that if your life depended on it – but maybe not!
It was past lunchtime, but I wanted to reach the vehicle before those cattle stirred themselves and blocked the road. This is another one of those outrageously beautiful Western riparian areas spoiled by ranching. The cattle can reach anywhere we can reach here – there’s really no place to hang out and enjoy it without facing cowshit and mud.
Once I reached the ridgetop and rejoined my original road, it was all downhill to my vehicle, with more intriguing views. North of here is a wilderness study area with the promising name “Hells Hole”. It can only be reached on foot, and from a distance appears very rocky – but again, I expect it’s overrun with cattle.
I snacked beside the vehicle while waiting for a GPS waypoint, followed by a leisurely drive out, past Twin Peaks. This obscure, hidden, rarely visited area just seems to get more and more beautiful the more I explore it – even during severe drought, with junipers and pinyon pines dying on all the lower slopes.
Driving out the mesa I could see a whole array of distant peaks I’d either climbed or driven over. And after reaching the highway, it was only a dozen miles to the steakhouse in the Mormon farming village, where I enjoyed an enchilada plate before driving home through that howling wind.
