It doesn’t get any better than this—maybe upper 60’s in the mountain ravines, snow line at 8,000 feet in the shadows. Blue skies, horizon to horizon. Yesterday I was in a funk, today I had energy and couldn’t wait to get on the trail. And my marching pace was moderate. It feels good when the mind is alive, the body is strong, and I think of friends and what they are doing, and wild places to which I can venture. Spring is just around the corner, really. I only hiked five and a half miles but that was because I started late, and I ended up chatting with the occasional hiker(s) I encountered coming down the trail. It felt good, being the expert, sharing inside information with those who were new to this particular trail. Some were older, a little slower, others were young and alive with energy. Then there was me. Ask me and I will tell you. I can name the plants and the trees, I know about the mammal life, the reptiles and amphibians, the birds, I will tell you where the springs are, when it gets dark, where the various trails go and the distances and difficulties. Inevitably I am the last one on the trail, I would like to say, making sure everyone is safely off the mountain or on their way down, but the truth is, I am a late starter, and know how long it takes to beat darkness. I guess hiking the various trails every few days for nearly six months will eventually begin to have dividends, i.e. it will produce reliable knowledge.
I wait the cold season out for the wildlife to return, besides mammals and a handful of birds that know how to handle winter. There is a certain silence that accompanies shorter, shadowy days on the backside of steep mountains, but I know it won’t be terribly long before I spy something that has disappeared from winter and is now, back on the mountain. Each day the sun hangs over the crest of mountains another minute or two and before I know it, the days are going to be long and hot. That is the cycle of nature.
The snow has melted except in the shadows and on the higher peaks. I squeak in 4 mile hikes just to maintain a degree of conditioning. Yesterday, late afternoon, I did a quick 2 hour hike to Bog Springs and back just to get my blood circulating. Today I did another Nature Trail Hike, 1 1/2 hours of brisk hiking. It’s not much, it’s not particularly exciting, I usually see a deer or two, but it’s hard to get a lazy man to do much more than this.
Driving home from Madera Canyon, I carefully scanned the beautiful horizon for Baboquivari, now that I know it is out there, and sure enough, it was there in the distance, a towering shark’s tooth amongst the little boys. Immediately I think about the obscure history, the “border” region where at one time, there was no border. It was all just desert and mountains, and the people were indigenous and somehow they survived in such a harsh region. Then the Spanish came and complicated things with their technology and warlike/conquering ways in search of wealth and fame. (Can you blame them?) They became the policy makers—and they mixed blood with the people. But, if that wasn’t enough, the next wave of “conquistidores” were those of our own advanced culture and we beat back the Spanish and drew our own lines of ownership and made our own cultural rules.
I found myself on the internet, studying the conflict that now exists. I read my cousin Mike’s experience, hiking from Sasabe (of all places!) to Tucson, commemorating those who have died trying to find opportunity, and justice, in a land that is supposed to represent that. And I have read the thoughts of others, those opposed to allowing just anybody to cross the borders. I have my feelings about this.
I suppose it is human nature we guard against. And the nature of law is it is “All or None”. We have no beam of light when shined on someone that says, “this is a good person, let him in”, or “this person is bad, better keep him out”, “this person works hard” or “this person will steal or depend on the system for handouts”. So we lock everyone out and no one is allowed to cross the “border” without a lengthy and convoluted process, and it is an impossibly slow and sticky system where the only people allowed into the country are those who can prove (with money?) they don’t need to live here. Once they prove that they don’t need to live here, that they have plenty of money, then they are allowed to live here. Understandably, we don’t want to create a welfare state. Yet, here we are, a mighty welfare state.
My common sense tells me, we are an empire in big trouble. I don’t like to be negative, but I do want to be realistic. I see things that are not encouraging. I can live with that fact because I have lived the better part of my life and I believe we get what we deserve. I am rather philosophical when it comes to life in general. But it is not easy or fun seeing with the eyes of age, the eyes of experience, a country that is really mortal in so many ways. But all is not lost! There are a lot of people who want to do what is right. They are basically good people. Not just in the US, but around the world. That is what we should be thinking, how to make ourselves better people. And I think we do that by doing what we can to help others (become better people)—not with instruction, shame, or force, but rather by example. The rest well take care of itself.
I knew I was getting greedy, telling myself the weather would hold up for 1 1/2 hours
Three days of foul weather was just too much to passively accept. I had to squeeze something in, just to feel the blood move in my veins and arteries. I can’t talk nobly of hiking if I am deterred every time it turns a little cold or drops a little precipitation. So today in my second day of impatience, waiting for good weather, I took a drive into the Canyon to see how low the snow line was. It was right at 5,000 ft. (roughly 1500 meters). But while I was driving around, the sun burst out and looked ever so promising. Even though I was in my shorts, as is my habit, in all other ways I was semi prepared. I decided to take my chances and see if I could squeak in a 3 1/2 mile hike. No sooner did I find myself halfway through hiking on an empty trail than did the skies quickly darken and commence to dropping snow. I ain’t gonna worry about hiking in 1 1/2 miles of relatively light snowfall, on a well-beaten path, but it did feel like it could click over to heavy snowfall pretty easily. I stepped up my pace and thanked my lucky stars I had my umbrella and that 1 degree Celsius while on the move, didn’t seem terribly cold. This was not quite as threatening as when I was lost on an unfamiliar Dutch John Trail, on the verge of darkness in late November.
A little blue sky was all the invitation I needed to squeeze in a quick hike
I am grudgingly thankful that even southern Arizona gets a taste of winter. Moisture has its place. And if it’s cold enough, microbes die. It’s all good reluctantly I concede as I peer out the window, and semi-patiently let the clouds swirl, drop their rain, reveal a little blue sky, then drop more rain. The sunshine will return and with this precipitation, the desert and mountains will have a new patina of green. So don’t grumble.
I have been debating whether or not to make a run down to Puerto Penasco in northern Sonora to scout it out, but now it is only a week before my long term friend, Judy Ann, arrives for a week’s visit from Colorado. So I might as well wait even though I don’t have the kindly old patience to sit through “winter” weather, much less an infernal year of Covid. I know, I am a terrible person for not enthusiastically embracing a quarantine for the good of my fellow man. Yes, I will wear my mask when required, I will not nuzzle up against my neighbor and breathe in his face to see if he will catch what maybe I have, or that I might inherit what he has. But really, I don’t even do that when it is not called “Covid”. It’s just courtesy and common sense. But sitting at home, alone, is not my thing, especially for a year, and I imagine it is the “new norm”, we just don’t know it yet. I want to be out and about, even if it is just hiking, exploring, seeing a little new territory and what that territory might possess that my own homeland does not have.
As I write these words, in the back of my mind, behind the thought of a “Mexican warm up,” Puerto Penasco, I think about something much more adventurous—Picacho del Diablo in Sierra de San Pedro Martir in northern Baja. It’s a peak much too rugged for me to just casually go off to climb. It’s a substantial drive, not because of distance to the mountain so much, but for lack of direct roads in the desert wilderness—it is a circuitous loop all the way to Ensenada and then south and east up into the high country, for god knows how many miles! The hike, once the jumping off point is arrived at, is a three day ordeal of some apparently wild mountain only the very fit and prepared (or foolish) will undertake. I could see the mountain in the distance when Sierran and I drove up the east coast of the Baja, and it looked dark and mean and steep (but strangely appealing). I would never just go off to hike it, but like Mt. Wrightson, I would like to learn a little about it first. It morbidly attracts. These are some of the thoughts that drift my way as I look out the window, at the black clouds and rain. It lends greater purpose to my Madera Canyon ventures.
The first time I went to the Agua Caliente Trail, I had no idea what I was getting into, but I knew I had to up the hiking ante. The Vault Mine trail said, “steep”, so I had a pretty good idea that it was not going to be fun. For nearly two miles I groaned my way up the trail. I don’t know why, but it seemed like there were something like 32 switch backs I had to endure up the unforgiving trail where it eventually tagged the Agua Caliente. But this time I knew what an unrelenting stinker it was going to be for a fat man, and I knew roughly speaking where the trails came together. The only problem was that I had forgotten actually what “32 switchbacks” really entailed. And who was counting? All I know was that they were steep switch backs and they went on and on, and every time I rounded a turn and saw a new switch back, all I could do was groan. I wanted to quit. But I had gone too far to turn around now, and climb down the trail, as it looked every bit as painful as proceeding up the mountainside. I was stuck between the metaphorical hard place and a stone. Keep climbing!
Finally I made the junction. But this time, sopping wet, I was going to go right and see how far the trail went before it went into a descent on the back side of the mountain into a land, I know not. It said .8 of mile. Then I would return the .8 of a mile and follow the trail another 2.2 where it came out on the Josephine Ridge. But the whole Agua Caliente Trail, back and forth all the way to the Josephine Saddle was nearly 4 easy going miles at 7200 feet. It was my reward after suffering through 2 hellish miles grinding up the merciless Vault Mine Trail. There is something about hiking somewhat level territory that gives the me the illusion I am in shape (cough-cough).
Josephine was a lonely sojourn, nestled in the winter shadow of a steep mountain. I chose to strip down, sop up the sweat, and change into some heavier, warmer, dry clothes, and partake in an abbreviated lunch and gatorade. Peering through the trees, Mt. Wrightson had the look of a holy peak, dusted in snow, against a waxing gibbous moon and intermittent, scuttling clouds. The hike down from Josephine was going to be in the shadow of the mountain, giving me the false impression the sun was set. I decided to forego the next 4 mile leg down the mountain and instead take the shorter but steeper, 2 1/2 mile route knowing I would be saving 30 to 40 minutes.
I had scarcely began down when a couple coming from the peak of Mt. Wrightson caught me from behind. I was a little surprised because it was so late in the day—-most trekkers don’t cut the daylight hours so thin. (I always think of myself as one of the last ones on the mountain, but I am pretty good at judging the daylight hours having hiked Madera canyon so extensively in the last 6 months). We chatted as we scooted along down the trail at the same pace. Shane was a youthful, retired high school principal, who had met his wife, Christine, while in the Peace Corp in Uzbekistan of all places. They had lived abroad in many places and travel was their avocation: Mexico (where they lived for two years), Patagonia, Spain (400 miles of the Camino de Santiago part of that trip), Portugal, Morocco, India, Nepal, Thailand, Indonesia, the Philippines being just a part of their travels. They had more than 50 countries under their collective belt. Needless to say, I very much enjoyed their company and very much related to their curiosity of foreign lands and insatiable urge to see what they could in life. They were the second, sort of young, childless couple, I have met on Wrightson who live in an RV and prioritize North American and world travel, always migrating with the weather and circumstances.
I am restless, as is my nature. And when the weather becomes marginal, and the skies darken, I retreat like a snail into its shell. I don’t want to feel the cold and see the rain, though I know we must have rain for the deserts and the mountains to green up and produce life. When the sun is bright and the skies are blue, my spirit seems to come back to life. I am truly a fair weather friend. No wonder I moved to southern Arizona.
It has been difficult to ignore the politics of the country. There are many things with which I disagree. But there are a few things I am solidly behind. It now feels almost unnatural to have a stable personality running the show with an equanimity and direction not driven by massive ego and the predictability of unpredictability. That alone, is a relief. What a relief to not feel like there is always the brew of a fight in the making. What a relief to not feel personal conflict, watching the country being run as if it were a game show, a continual contest of musical chairs where the only form of consistency is chaos. This has indeed been a very difficult time, i.e. Covid and the elections of late Fall, not to mention fires and hurricanes, riots, real economic instability, and just chaos in general. Now we go into the next phase, which I imagine will be inflation or “deflation”. There will be no escaping what we are going to go through. The genie has been released from the bottle. It’s been working its way out for quite some time—and certainly most of 2020?— but now, it is officially out, and we are in for quite a ride, though the appearance for the moment is a semi procedural stillness. But there is no free ride. You don’t just forgive debts, censure unpopular voices, clip the economy by closing all the small businesses and making people stay home, close the schools, and instead print money, and allow people to spend on line or in Costco, as honorable as it may seem. Choose your poison, the conservative right or the spend thrift left—it’s not going to be easy or fun trying to reach common ground, and nothing we do is going to please all, as everyone believes they are right and that they know best (including my ignorant self)! I know this is a very unpopular idea, but there must be things we are willing to concede, both sides, or our doom will be upon us much sooner than we think!
But enough said on the political front. It’s the kind of day where I need to throw a backpack on my shoulders and head into the mountains before the rain turns to snow. And the foul weather comes rolling in like ocean waves: blue sky, blue sky, rain, rain, blue sky, snow up above, another spot of blue sky as the temperature drops. It all looks so beautiful, kind of like a living, breathing kaleidoscope with scent and temperature. Be strong, be positive in the face of all our challenges.
It is a rare day, I can catch a deer so accustomed to people it allows me to get so close.
I’ve been told the weather we are experiencing is not typical winter weather for these parts, this time of year. And here, I was thinking, “yes, this is one reason why I have moved here!” Everyday now, for a week straight, it has been hitting mid 70’s. Even the mountains only retain a little snow in the upper dells. This is nothing for winter!
But, lo and behold, it has been whispered to me, “this is not the norm”. Okay, I accept this, but it is still better than what I have grown accustomed to over the years. Fresno doesn’t have persistent periods of blue sky like southern AZ; in Fresno, we feel the spirit of winter! Overcast is the norm. It may not be as cold as it gets here at night, but the somber gray of the daytime sky and the semi cold soup of occasional Valley fog is definitely a winter’s experience. At least here, it looks cheerier, and it does warm up during the day—-60’s is not unusual.
So I cannot restrain from driving up to Madera Canyon and pushing up the trails. Yes, my little trek down into Mexico has taken me out of my routine, broken me of my developing habit of poking, prodding, exploring all the possibilities of how I might get up Mt. Wrightson. My mind has begged me to go soft again, but my muscles say, “nope, it ain’t gonna happen”. Fat and soft isn’t a happy place. I sense my body wants to hit the routine again. I’ve probably put in at least 14-16 hikes since returning from the Baja and yesterday I found myself knocking off another fairly steep 6 mile hike on the Florida trail.
A bridled titmouse, year round residents of Madera Canyon, no matter how cold or wet the mountains
Now, I am thinking maybe if I can get into a modicum of shape, call it a Mt. Wrightson conditioning, I can venture out from Madera Canyon and find some mountain/desert peaks in other ranges. I know when we were down in Baja, there were some great looking peaks. I don’t know that there were trails going up these peaks, but they are certainly worth looking into. How nice it would be to be in such good shape that I could fake wandering the mountains without using a trail! A fantasy…maybe.
I have been hiking for many weeks, trying to keep it a secret that I have lost my edge since climbing Mt. Wrightson. Yes, granted, Mexico came at the right time—days after I put the peak behind me. But now that Sierran is gone, and I have no new adventure to intervene, I am back, restlessly in Green Valley, wondering what should be the next travel adventure. But I am now up to a couple dozen hikes, each one taunting me to show a little winter nerve, pushing beyond just maintenance, trusting that I am prepared enough that I can handle a brisk and unpredictable turn in weather. Yes, yes, I should read the weather reports before going out, but as my friend Leo is constantly reminding me with the GPS—know where you are going!—I don’t rely on modern technology, my logic being that I have gone most of my life without relying on cell phones and tracking technology, so what difference is another few years going to make. Fletcher’s logic.
These photos all taken from stock internet photos
I notice the animals. They have no need to be concerned with the likes of me. In the last few days I have seen coyotes understandably slinking in the draws, wondering if I might have a firearm. The day before I saw a coati, exotic, quick, shy. Again, I say run, be smart. Today I saw a herd of javelina scurrying through town. And who can count how many deer I see in a week of beating Madera Canyon trails, crashing through the undergrowth, never quite sure what to expect. But none of these animals are dim-witted. They know the areas where they are, and are not, protected.
A coati, normally a semi-tropical critter from Mexico, but here they cross the border where real estate is habitable. (Stock internet photo)
It would be nice if I could just push a button and all animals could be safe from me, but I am a meat eater; it’s in my DNA. In the meantime, I will do what most humans do, let someone else do the slaughtering. But I don’t want to judge myself for eating meat; I see it as a part of the evolution and it is all a part of process.
So I plod my way up the narrow trails, always alone, like an old Mystic, minus the wisdom. I would like to call it a meditation, but it’s not quite that commendable. It’s more of a gentle but persistent thinking session—sweating, breathing deeply, telling myself there is a reason to the madness, steadily staying with it until I must pause at least a few seconds while I re-group. Then there comes a brief time when I will sit and sip some water from a bottle while I watch the birds pilfer a little of their own water if it is available. My muscles may feel the effort of semi steady hours on the trail, but they don’t really know fatigue. It’s all a small consolation as I think about where we are at as a species. What’s it going to take?
Nine days after the fact, bandaids removed, one of three little bloody messes. (-;
After chatting a bit with the first two guys—-and I can’t remember their names nor find the card one of them gave me—-we started down the mountain together, making the perfect, gentle descent. Going down, I felt good, our pace was strong and brisk. And it was nice having amiable company and being able to visit as we descended. The one hiker told me of a trek he had taken in northern Italy—not terribly far from the Camino de Santiago so he had my attention.
I began thinking about another trail, the Super Trail, that added another mile or two to the hike, that looped around the southern side of Wrightson. Oh, how I would like to knock that off, to “pink it in” so to speak on my personal map, since I was now in the neighborhood and feeling relatively fresh. I told my hiking companions of the moment, about my thought. The one fellow had hiked the trail before and said it had beautiful views. So that was all I needed to hear, and the junction of the trail suddenly appeared. I bid them a cheerful farewell, and forked off in the opposite direction of them, and proceeded down the gentle Super Trail.
Wonderful, sweeping, trail around the south side of Wrightson, on the Super Trail.
It was a gorgeous hike. Vast views of the northern Sonora Desert with its scattered mountain ridges and islands. I could literally see all the way to Mexico. As I marched around the mountain, I grew warm enough that I knew I could change back into my lighter attire. Having my hiking shorts back on felt great. The day had warmed up nicely. I traipsed delightfully around the mountain absorbing the vast views, moving at a good clip, intermittently snapping pictures. Then, about forty-five minutes down the trail, racing along, thinking nice thoughts, I stubbed the toe of my new boot on a protruding rock and slid into a great and hard fall.
Enjoying the view of various ridges and minor peaks, just before my fall.
I felt like a plane hitting the side of a mountain. My revelry came screaming to a fast halt. I lay in the trail for at least a few minutes, contemplating how to begin climbing back to my feet and gathering my things, minimizing the sordid mess, and determining where are all the blood was coming from. It seemed like my flesh was grated in a number of places. I had no first aid gear—just a little water, a scarf, and that was it.
But lo and behold, coming from the south, the two guys that had just reached the peak as I was about to leave, came trundling around the trail to be a witness to the level of my hiking expertise. I wasn’t sure whether or not to be thankful or to feel shame. Thank god, they were a couple of compassionate guys.
Their names were Steven and Bob. They each had more than adequate first aid kits—prepared for everything but maybe a broken leg. They had lots of bandaids, patches, first aid tape, salves and ointments, all the things that suddenly seemed like common sense. As one was giving me one thing, the other was covering something else. After ten minutes, I was patched up and ready to proceed, in their good company. I confess I had little rivulets of blood staining all my clothes as well as my pack, but the bloody scrapes were under control and the wounds had stopped oozing.
It wasn’t long before the Super Trail rejoined the Old Baldy Trail and we were back on the Josephine Saddle, only 2.5 miles from home base. We stopped on the ridge, had a late lunch, swapped stories, and then commenced to finishing the hike. It was pleasant hiking with a couple of guys I could relate to and who were pretty much doing what I was doing: regularly extending their semi daily hikes, pushing their limits, getting in shape.
Back side of Wrightson, delighting in the sunlight
By 3:30 PM we had reached the respective parking lots from whence we had each come earlier in the morning. Yes, welcome back. Steven and Bob, both from the Green Valley area, and I swapped information and then I was on my way home, licking my wounds, but feeling good about completing the goal of Mt. Wrightson.
The trail onto the crest is at the low point on the ridge. It’s just a wall of mountain. From there it is a mere 1 mile, 700 vertical foot hike.
I can finally say, “I did it!”. It’s taken months of hard labor, persistence, and a stubborn conviction that even a lazy guy like myself could prevail if I could somehow turn the belief, the hope, the obsession, so to speak, into some kind of positive commitment. Maybe that is how all things are ultimately accomplished. I realize it is a small victory, in the big picture of things, but I think it is all connected…
I went for my long awaited, big hike up Mt. Wrightson yesterday. Wow! Long hike. It was a legitimate 12.2 miles up (and down) 4200 feet of mountain. I have been blogging the whole journey for the last couple of months, as I have slowly progressed toward a modicum of reasonable conditioning and let the hiking turn into a habit. I am beginning to believe that a key to success in anything is having the discipline to make a positive challenge become a habit. The greater an individual’s insight and fortitude to take on these challenges, the greater an individual’s success will be. So Wrightson has become my little habit, my personal practice.
Yesterday was the day I chose to go to the top of Wrightson. It gave me three days rest, it was sunny, and it was still supposed to be warm. I started the hike upwards at the ungodly hour of 6:07 AM. I was the first person in the canyon reserve (the “park” opens at 6 AM). It was dark and only 45 degrees, so I had a pack full of different layers of clothes, a lot of little miscellany, and some extra food. My goal was to make the peak and be back before dark so I was determined to rise very early. It was pitch black when I arrived at 6 AM, with Venus glowing brightly over the ridge of mountains, not to mention several other stars, and I could see Tucson glowing with night lights in the distance. I got to use my new head lamp. It was not easy hiking with this dismal light and so I was much relieved to shed it by 7 AM.
The Crest
Over and over in my mind I wondered if I had the spirit, the will, to make the top. It was cold…and lonely. But I persevered. I plodded like an old Stegosaurus, until I was within 5 minutes of the “Baldy Saddle” at 8700 ft. The first dappled rays of the sun were beginning to leak around the crest parapets and through the tops of the pines much to my relief. But the wind was too strong, and too brisk pouring over the ridge to keep hiking in my sweat soaked clothes. I paused where there was a slight respite from the onslaught and completely changed out and rearranged my pack. It felt good to be dry and once again, comfortable.
Within a couple of minutes, I was on the crest, delighting in full sunlight. Now it was once again new territory—where I had decided to turn around 6 days before. I did the last mile, 700 vertical feet, in the sunshine and relative calm out of the wind. It was cool, but nice. I had always wondered about the peak, the trail. Like all mountains, the peak became a massive, naked nest of steep rocks with elevation finally running out. The top of a mountain (or even a mere hill) is always a good feeling. I was a little surprised I could feel the elevation. In the old days, 9,500 feet was lower than the lowest base camps.
Josephine Saddle, between Wrightson and the 9,000 ft. observatory on opposite ridge
I finally made it, I think around 10:30 AM, on a pace that would put me safely ahead of a sunset I have always been determined to beat. I used to allow an hour a mile, but nowadays my pace uphill is considerably faster, and downhill is a veritable fast trek. I was the first to the top of Wrightson, then a few minutes later another couple of stalwart hikers made the peak. Got to know them. Interesting guys. Then just before we started down together, another couple of guys made the peak. Beautiful day, stupendous view, pleasant satisfaction…
This guy was quite the hiker and had some good stories of commendable hikes in northern ItalyTrails, trails, and more trails to sample, to harden my leg muscles. Mt. Wrightson is the bulls eye of the circle at the top left of the map. The Super Trail is the circle around Mt. Wrightson.
rubberboa 