The Anguish of Sisyphus, The Florida Saddle (Feb. 10)

This was tough! It was tough the one and only time I did it way back when, the first time I was preparing for Mt. Wrightson, trying to challenge myself. And it was tough when young Guiseppi and I took a crack at it last March but was forced back because of snow, oncoming darkness, and me having a day less than stellar for not having taken a day off to rest. Guiseppi could have made it, I have no doubt.

Well, today, I was determined to make it all the way back up to the saddle, almost 9 1/2 miles round trip from the Experimental Station on the back side of Madera Canyon. The total elevation gain is 3,450 ft. and there is no respite for people like me.

I thought with all the hiking I have been doing, with Russell playing the task master, no problemo, but not so. I simply could not keep the pace with Russ. At a certain point, I shouted up the snowy switch back, through the forest of tall Chihuahua pines to Russ, and told him, “you go on without me. I’ll keep coming but at my pace”. I was thinking that would be it for me. He would make the saddle, and I would fall so far behind that the saddle would only appear in my dreams. He reassured me, “No problem, Leo, you are doing fine!” The next thing I knew, he was gone! That son of…no, don’t say it, hold that thought, you don’t really know the whole story…but he was gone!

I said, “to hell with it.” I was thinking, “where did he disappear to?” It was about that time I decided to sit and take a “lunch” break, to refresh, re-group, and stop thinking about whether I could make it or not. If I did, I did. After about 10 minutes, I continued my plight, thinking to myself, that I was higher up on the mountain than I had realized. Then I got it in my head that if I ran into him on the trail at this point, I would keep going. I suspected he would just turn around and go back up the mountain with me.

Sure enough, he appeared, and just as I had suspected, I was closing in on the saddle. He was in a jovial mood and had hiked over the back side of the ridge onto the Sawmill Canyon Trail curious about a trail he had never done. And just as I thought, he was quick to explore the surrounding trail (in this case, the first quarter mile of Sawmill Canyon Trail), then return to Florida Saddle and march back down the trail where he then intercepted me. Jeese, it must be nice to have boundless energy!

Once I had time to sop the sweat, catch my breath, relish the success of making the ridge, I wallowed in the view and re-constructed in my mind, where this nexus of trails was relative to the northern end of this cordillera. Having been up there once before on the Florida Trail, and having hiked almost to this spot from the Four Springs Trail in the west, I had a better idea how it all came together. But, it was still all speculation. There was about a quarter to a half mile of forest covered crop of mountain leaving a question mark in my mind. I could almost guess where the Crest Trail took off for Mt. Wrightson. But it would have taken a better person than myself or an earlier start to finally put an end to the mystery. We had to turn around and start down the mountain if we were to be back by 5 PM, which was getting close enough to sunset to make me feel uncomfortable.

A celebratory flex with the 8,357 ft. peak of Mt. McCleary in the background

There is something psychological about turning around and beginning the fast plod downhill that always gives me the illusion of “mission accomplished”. But, I know better! It was still going to be 2 1/2 hours of gnarly discomfort and aching fatigue, endlessly stepping between sharp rocks, even if the pace was relatively fast. The trail was narrow, overgrown and intermittently steep with five good-sized logs laying across it that had to be climbed (one of which left me with a healthy, bloody scratch on my calf). Trails in these untraveled woods just don’t get a lot of maintenance.

Logs, logs, too many logs

Russ says he’s tired at the end of a hike. He makes it sound like he feels his aches and pains. Yeah, I know I should add at least a 2 or 3 mile walk through the desert, on off days, just to keep toning the muscles, but the reward of a day off, motivates me. But, he’ll be out there again, tomorrow, walking 8 miles, albeit on gentle, rolling desert floor, looking for unique objects to add to his garden.

Every once in a while, we spot an Arizona Rainbow cactus. Beautiful little botanical jewels.

Saguaro Nat’l Park, Mt. Wasson (Feb. 8)

Around the ravine and up the ridge, yes!

Mt. Wasson was a bit of a wild hair. I certainly didn’t know anything about it. Russ said it was the highest peak in the western half of the divided Saguaro National Park, though it was under 5,000 feet in elevation. I admit, I have been curious about Saguaro National Park. And the fact that the “loop” up to the top of the mountain, then back around all the way to the starting point was supposedly 8 miles, made it almost the perfect length for where I am at these days, that combined with a nearly 2,000 foot elevation gain. Of course, in my mind I am thinking it does not sound nearly as bad as a mountain 8,000 feet high. I mean, how tough can a mountain be under 5,000 feet high? The lowest spot in the Tucson region has to be nearly 2500 feet high. Yeah, let’s bump off Wasson Peak.

I have no idea where Wasson Peak is. I only have a vague idea where Saguaro National Park (East) is. I’ll let Russ be the guide. It turns out his Trail Ap has us driving all over the place. We even drove right by San Xavier mission where Gordon and Norlyn insisted we go, back in Dec.! The Ap had us zigging and zagging all through the back roads of western Tucson. In the end, where do we end up going, but the Desert Museum! The trail head is right there, on the east side of the road, and we even had to park in their parking lot because the Mt. Wasson parking lot was full!

But hiking this country is not like hiking Madera Canyon. There are no trees; there is no shade. And it is not high enough in elevation to provide a little respite from the heat. It’s gorgeous country, but bleak, steep rolling hills—very parched stony desert, wild with cacti and saguaro. Russ said he hiked it 14 years back in late May and it was 95 degrees and miserably hot. He saw no one but one ranger scanning the trails making sure no one was attempting to do the trail to Wasson without proper attire and plenty of water. I was thinking to myself, one would probably not enjoy this trail after March.

We finally got to the base of Wasson mountain and the trail cut north, up the prominence. At the fork in the trail, we met a young man, Bill (he claimed he was 49, but I secretly scoffed). He was from Philadelphia and said he came out every winter—he had the kind of job that let him work technology on line, so he could travel. But he was becoming very spoiled and was getting anxious to retire (so he could hike and explore and indulge in this warmer clime). We visited with Bill while I re-grouped, re-hydrated, and psychologically braced myself for the last mighty grunt up the side of the mountain. Bill, had done the mountain a few times before and said not to be fooled by the false peaks we could see from the trail junction—the real peak was hidden from sight. Oh, good to know. Typical mountain. I’ll look forward to that.

And so up we went. Russ shot on ahead, and I just stuck with it, switchback after switchback, pausing here and there, slowly inching closer to my goal. Once I hit the first false summit, I could then see the peak. Russ was waiting for me at a fork. Ah, yes, faithful Russ, making sure I did not go the wrong way, the easy way down. But from the saddle, it was a piece of cake.

At the top, we met another young man, Joe, from Scotland. Tucson seems to attract everybody from the north in the winter. There’s something very alluring about a snow free, blue sky country that is easy to like. We chatted with Joe for a good 10 or 15 minutes and found him to be a very likable and adventurous guy. He did a lot of hiking in Scotland in May and June, before the mosquitoes took over. Indeed, tempting.

Joe, originally from Scotland. Now living in Ontario, Canada. (Mt. McCleary, Mt. Wrightson, and Mt. Hopkins on the horizon)

And then Bill showed up and we visited some more. One of the more pleasant things about hiking all these back trails is running into people with an appreciation for this kind of outdoors.

Looking east, across Tucson, the Santa Catalinas where we hiked Sabino Canyon last week

From the peak, Russ and I went three-tenths of a mile down the saddle and branched right, in my opinion, way the hell out of our way, down, down, down, away from our goal. It was kind of a forlorn stretch of trail. But, we started seeing side-blotched lizards! What, you’re kidding me! No, Leo, I’ve been seeing these all day. I am thinking, “Really!” Well, I had no way of knowing because Russ was cutting trail, scaring the lizards and naturally didn’t give it a thought, AND he did not know something so little would make my day—give me an extra shot of energy. Just as I was about to give up and ask Russ if he could carry me out, new inspiration put a bounce in my step. “Let me lead!” And so he did.

This is supposed to be one of the most common lizards in the arid Southwestern US. How is it possible then that I so rarely see one? Well, now I know. And they are out more months of the year than any lizard in the US!

It was a long haul back to the parking lot, maybe 4 1/2 miles, through some parched country, all rather steep downhill. If you’re gonna hike this country, this is the time of year. But it is dry. And stony. Have water and the ability to stay with the march.

Back down the mountain

Just as we were exiting the parking lot.

Rattlesnake Canyon (Feb. 5)

Note: At the tippy top of this mountain, is the Whipple Observatory, the golf ball looking dome atop the mountain.

This was a painful hike for the likes of me. The last 2.5 miles was a 2600 vertical foot gain. That may not sound like much to somebody young, or in good hiking shape, but for me, it was a little taste of hell. I do the best I can to blame Russ for most of my hiking misery, but this time he gave me lots of leeway to pass on the hike if I wanted. He told me, “Leo, you may want to forego doing this hike”. “No, no, I’m good”, I reassured him.

I don’t know what I was thinking because 2600 feet in such a short distance was not the promise of something kindly and good. But I wanted to sound positive; I wanted him to think my hiking pace was improving, like a machine that just needed a little drink of clean oil, cough-cough. As it turned out, just as I had suspected, every foot of the way, I felt the pain of slogging uphill at an unprecedented rate. At one point, I was standing on the trail, gasping for air when I heard voices coming up from the rear. I hate being “passed”. It is always a testament to my poor shape. But then I noticed the couple passing me looked older than me. Later I asked Russ how old he thought this couple was. He said something like late 60’s, maybe 70’s. I felt a little better about it all, but down deep, I was thinking they were at least in their mid 70’s, maybe older! But they were tough and in good shape for their ages.

I kept thinking the saddle was right there. But then every switch back through the forest led to another steep incline, and the trail just kept going. I felt like a goldfish on a wet paper towel, begging for a dose of oxygen. Russ came back down the trail, looking for me, “oh, there you are. I was wondering what happened to you”. Yeah, yeah. “I needed to take a pee; I decided to rest a moment. No, no, it was water; I needed water”. The truth was, I was whipped and a couple minutes of rest was not going to hurt anyone.

After about 10 more minutes, I heard that other couple and Russ talking. Yes! That must be the top of the ridge! Nope, no such luck. That other couple was sitting on a log, having what looked like a delightful lunch of tomato and salami sandwiches. “What’s going on?” I asked. They explained they had reached their limit and they were headed back down the mountain as soon as they ate! Yes!…I mean, oh, really? Truthfully, I was a little surprised because they were pretty tough birds. I guess they didn’t really care, they had gone far enough. I bid them farewell, and continued the grind.

Russ assured me that I only had two more switchbacks to endure, then it would be flat the rest of the way—to the saddle. Well, that turned out to be a crock of bullshit. I swear he said that just to keep me moving, but he swore, he had forgotten! How do you forget something like that?! That was steep! The entire half mile that was left was miserable, and it was all uphill—there was NO “level”. It was hell! What was he thinking. Even he could not explain what he was thinking when I finally met him on the forested ridge. But, yes! I made it. Wow, that was ugly. And how fitting; it was the same spot I had hiked to way back when, months back at the end of a Vault Mine hike coming up from the opposite direction, only from the east, that last half mile was actually almost level. But I had to have been feeling good to hike this way months before just because my only purpose was to see where the trail ended.

From Agua Caliente Saddle, we had a good view of the 2.2 mile Crest Trail along the ridge coming across from Wrightson.

And now, here I was! I could say I knew where that trail had come from. Man, what I would give to be in the kind of shape Russ was in. Well, I don’t know if I would be willing to cut back on my excessive eating habits…that’s one of my rewards at the end of a hard hike. And I am not sure I would reduce drinking my two Micholob Ultras and my shot of tequila; that would kinda take the fun out of life for me. Oh, plus he hikes every single day! Once every other day seems like enough. Well, on second thought, I guess I’ll just settle for being me, semi lazy. Getting in shape involves a helluva lot of work. We’ll see what happens.

So I snacked, changed out of sweat soaked clothes, re-hydrated, and enjoyed the views of the saddle. Somebody misspelled “AGUA”. Must have been an Anglo who cut the name out of steel with a welder and refused to make a new sign. How else would you get “AUGA”? Now I know, both sides of the mountain ridge are brutal hikes for heavy set old men. While I refreshed, Russ disappeared for 20 minutes, going up another mountain ridge. Man, he’s like the Energizer Bunny.

How do you spell Agua?

When he returned, we assessed how much time we had left in the day in order to beat the setting sun, and gathered up our things for the steep, spiraling, downward trek. Tough hike on body parts, you know, feet or knees or the lower back, depending on what your step rattles, but definitely scenic, and rather isolated. It’s always nice in some perverse way, where stress and beauty intertwine while exploring a new trail.

The trail looks to be angled casually, but Russ is taking small, cautious steps, rapid but methodical.

By the time we were finally back, settled into a little automobile comfort, we were already calculating our next hike, some low-lying mountain down in Saguaro National Part, Wasson Peak. I keep thinking these are the evils necessary for preparing for the likes of Picacho daring me in Baja.

A young buck sniffing the air.

Seven Falls (Feb.4)

Except in Winter, this is a hot, grueling country that involves some hiking with about a 6,000 ft. elevation gain. There is no end to the affliction one may subject oneself to on these trails. Go until the sun sets.

I am a creature of habit. I don’t like to do new things nowadays. Not because I don’t think new things can be good, positive, stimulating, but because as I have gotten older, my confidence is not what it used to be. And the things that drive me these days are not the things that used to drive me. I don’t take distinct chances because I am not sure I can recover from a miscalculation. In the old days, I could getaway with mistakes, things I can’t getaway with these days. So now, I play things safer, a little more cautiously.

But give me an ounce of reassurance, and I find the older self willing to take some of the chances I used to take. Travel is like that. It used to be I did not need to know a lot about an area I am traveling into—I assumed I would figure it out—I had the energy and the strength to lend me the confidence that I would emerge from a situation none the worse for my wear. It was the same for diving. And backpacking or hiking. Being alone was not dangerous per se, but a case of enduring solitude.

The nice thing about company these days is risk-taking does not really involve the gambles that it used to involve when traveling alone. Two sets of eyes minimizes getting robbed or rolled. And injury simply goes from actual risk to semi-serious inconvenience. And it is a good feeling being able to discuss a situation. Two considerations on a matter are far better than one. Taking excursions with Russ really expands the bubble of what one can dependably get away with. And I really like being with someone who knows a territory.

I have wondered about Sabino Canyon on the side of Mt. Lemmon against Tucson for well over a year now. But it is so far away compared to Madera Canyon. And it is a fairly vast playground that allows for infinite possibilities in terms of terrain, challenges, climate, and crowds, let alone exactly where it is located. I do like solitude, though running into a soul, now and then is reassuring. But finally, with Russ, opportunity has come crashing at my door.

It turned out to be a very appealing hike, and the trails are everywhere with no real limit to how much pain one might suffer, though as I imagined, the primary trails are a big hiker draw. There is not the solitude nor the shade of Madera Canyon, but it is still a reasonable wilderness. And this is winter. I am sure in the stark heat of summer, the number of hikers willing to endure exponentially expanded hardships will be substantially reduced.

We plodded uphill for 4 1/2 miles. Compared to Atacosa two days ago, the climb was not as excruciating, maybe only a thousand feet. Right at Seven Falls, there is a fork in the trail that leads to god knows where, up over an arduously steep-looking ridge called Bear Trail 29A. We met a guy who says he went up the trail at one time and it went for miles and miles. I have a sick side to my personality that makes me morbidly curious about where that trail goes. It is pretty obvious 98% of hikers don’t go that way as, not only is it unforgivingly steep, but it looks like an over night distance for all but the fittest of hikers, though if you were going to spend the night out, you’ve got to carry overnight supplies: tent, sleeping bag, food, and water. In my mind, it is six of one, a half dozen of the other. That damned Piccacho really forces me to step things up. I can tell there is a sick puppy in my soul thinking like a frigging mad man.

So we hiked our way into Seven Falls. It is pretty obvious why that place is so popular: it’s right up against Tucson, it’s got a “tram” bus line that cuts 1 1/2 miles off the beginning and end of the hike if you so desire, it’s only a 1,000 ft. gain, and the beauty is superlative. But after Seven Falls, the trails begin to grow lonelier and more distant. Can we take it to the next level?

At Seven Falls a nexus of monolithic red rock, seeping waterfalls, pools, cliffs, and dead end isolation under maya blue skies came together. It was everyman’s moment of peace and beauty and anybody willing to do the climb back and up the canyon deserved one of those indelible moments that help us to color our life. Maybe that is all life is about, finding what it is that gives us meaning, whether it is money, power, love, or memories. It makes me wonder if one thing is more important than another.

At Seven Falls, find a comfortable rock, a little shade, and a view suited to your liking. Eat lunch, sip your drink, and wonder…about purpose, about beauty, about life in general. Be thankful. No, I am not a bird, I can’t fly on the wind over mountain ridges and ravines, but I am human: I have long life, and I can wonder. And there are few places I can’t go if I am determined to get there. My mind has wings, if not my body. Seven Falls is the kind of place that reminds me that my life is punctuated with blessings should I decide to experience them. And I can only speculate what other animals think or experience, but as a human, I can believe in anything, and really, maybe, somehow it shall eventually become. Wandering canyons, mountains, and deserts, crossing the seas, staring into the night skies, maybe these things are just the soil surrounding the seed of our being. Life is the soil the gives our soul nutrition.

Little Elephant Head (Jan. 30)

Little Elephant Head

I was thinking Little Elephant Head would round out the hikes up the Quantrell Mine Trail. So, when Russ mentioned adding that to our list, I eagerly consented. However, on the way up the mountain, he reminded me that we have yet to knock off Rattlesnake Canyon. )-: And I think that is a bear of a hike, maybe 8 or 9 miles of a pretty mean and tenuous trail. I’ve seen Rattlesnake on the extreme edge of the Madera Canyon map, but there was no easy way to get to it coming from Madera Canyon. It turns out, the best approach is from west, from the Quantrell Trail “parking lot”. Okay, so Little Elephant Head is not quite the end of hikes on that side of the mountain.

I think the illegal aliens went out this trail below, at the base of Elephant Head, but who knows?

But, Little Elephant Head was definitely easier to knock off than Elephant Head. We reached the first ridge, before dropping into a bit of a valley where we had to hike up another slope just before Chino Canyon—the canyon that made Elephant Head so undesirable. At the first ridge, we caught up with an older couple of life long hikers. On this ridge, we visited with them for 15 or 20 minutes. Many years back, maybe 20 years before, they said they had climbed Elephant Head as well as Little Elephant Head. But on this day, they were just meandering, hiking as far as they were motivated. I know that feeling; you go until you are too tired to continue the self-flagellation of uphill hiking.

As we spoke, a group of maybe ten illegal aliens breached the ridge on which we were standing. They were not dressed badly, though they had no supplies, including water. There were two women and the rest were men, not more than 25 or 30 years old, and most of them kind of looked down, not making eye contact with us. Their pace was strong and determined. The leader, who had a good cell phone with him, spoke a few amiable words of English to us as they passed. They could have been afternoon hikers had they been more confident and carried packs and water with them. The guy leading the way must have known exactly where he was going, where they could find water and possibly food. I would have loved to engage with them and taken some pictures, but obviously that would not have been very kosher. And as fast as they had appeared, they were gone.

The saddle leading to Little Elephant Head. Look very carefully and the very tip of Wrightson can be seen in the distant background. Believe it or not, to the right of Mt. Wrightson, a tiny little “white ball” can be seen—Whipple Observatory—that is the general proximity of going up the “Rattlesnake Canyon” hike!

We chatted a few more minutes with the couple we had met, then parted ways. Russ and I started up the Little Elephant Head pathway, a route of switchbacks, up and down a series of scenic crests until we got to the last significant crest and sink before we were confronted by the wall of rocks that formed Little Elephant Head. I could see dots of people at the very peak. I had noticed what looked like people on the top, twenty minutes back; I kept catching glimpses of metallic reflections. We finally intersected with them halfway down the crown and stopped to chat for a minute or two. It turned out the last fellow in the line of five hikers was a 57 year old from Nogales who happened to know my cousins fairly well, being that he was raised in Nogales and had lived there all his life. Of course, it is easy to think, small world, though Nogales, especially the American side, is not a very big city, and my cousins are of a fairly prominent family. One of my most memorable episodes as a kid in the seventh grade was coming to Nogales for two weeks and having wild and crazy adventures I could have never ever had in Fresno.

Note the four hikers coming down from the top less than 1/2 way over almost at the top

From atop Little Elephant Head, Russ and I sat on the edge of a mighty cliff for at least 30 or 40 minutes and admired the incomparable beauty of the surrounding mountains, including Elephant Head. To our east, we could just see the peak of Wrightson in a cleft between Hopkins Observatory and another high mountain.

Russ going up the final stretch…thumbing his nose at slow Leo (Neil) )-:

In general, it was an easy hike, somewhere around 4 miles with less than monstrous elevation gain. It was pleasant, having a “lazy” day. It happens once in a while. However, the rest of the week was not such a delightful vacation.

The Mysterious Atacosa Trail (Feb. 1)

This peak may look nearby, but believe me, it would have been a chore reaching it.

Oh, yeah, finally the mystery of Atacosa. I used to drive the back dirt road to Arivaca, but it was so friggin’ long. I didn’t know there was a paved road up I-19 cutting west to Arivaca, so I ended up taking the dirt road, the one road I knew. I would see this Atacosa Trailhead going straight up a mountain side going to who-knows-where. I was always curious, but not stupid. That trail did not just end at the top of the first ridge, a half mile up the mountain. Now that I have officially done it, (with Russell) I admit, it was good judgement on my part, not to just jump into it, especially in the heat of summer. It was a long assed, painful hike. But with Russ leading the way, I thought, what is the worst that can happen? Well, the worst that could happen is I go on a hike so long and painful, he would ultimately have to carry me out. But, that is Russ…always there for a friend. (I am trying to imagine what it would look like, seeing a 148 lb. man toting a 248 lb. man out on his back). I’m a sorry son-of-a-bitch, but oddly enough, loving every moment of my sickness.

The Atacosa Trail is in some pretty country. Grasslands. And impressive rock formations. But it is up, up, and farther up. Just as we reach a ridge and I think, “Ah, good, that must be the peak, right there”, I realize no, we are just beginning. I would like to be able to bitch to Russ about the incline and the distance, or the weather, or something, but he is too far ahead of me to hear my woes. Then he finds a wide spot in the trail with a view and waits for me. Just as I catch up and am ready to share my thoughts on the whole affair, he takes off.

I am sweating like a broken faucet despite the cool temperatures, while he is calm, cool, collected, and dry. What’s with these 65 year old kids that hike an average of 8 miles a day?

So we march on and on, and suddenly at some point, I think, “hey, maybe this is our peak”. I look across some ragged range of mountain side, and think to myself, “that can’t be Atacosa! There’s no trail leading to the peak; it’s savage! And it is too far away; it’ll take us the better part of two hours to climb across the saddle and then come back! How are we going to do this all by dark?” I am thinking to just let Russ know, I will wait for him on this peak. He is off exploring, and I think maybe he is actually considering going across this insuperable saddle. Oh, please, Russ, be reasonable.

Russ searching out anything unique. This is where he finds his crown of thorns.

We piddle around the peak, poke here and there, and I take a certain relief in finding the seal with the name of the mountain emblazoned on it, knowing we met our goal. I was sure Russ would have proceeded to the next peak, a very long way across a miserable looking razorback, down, up, then down again, with no trail anywhere to be seen. Then of course, back again. If Russ had insisted on exploring that faraway-looking peak, I was prepared to tell him, “go without me, my back is hurting—I’ll wait up here for you”. I learned that line on Petty Coat Junction, when Uncle Joe wanted out of a little work, his back gave him trouble. Then the moment Russ was out of sight, I would have been on my way down the mountain. But, he had the car keys, so that was a dilemma. I would have had to convince him to give me the keys to the car for safeguarding.

Yes! He has found no trail leading to this other peak. Thank you, God. Now he’s looking for souvenirs, unique wood formations, metallic finds…and he finds a loop of rusty barb wire. I suggest he carries it back to home base, around his neck, (like a dead albatross). I know that makes him happy. He looks like Christ with a crown of thorns around his head. I chuckle to myself. It gives me at least a modicum of satisfaction after he has worked me to death up the trail. We both conclude, we are on Atacosa peak. And the strange thing is that the magic seal at the top of the mountain has spelled the peak wrongly—-it is different than what the trailhead says. Personally, I don’t care. But Russ caught the mistake. I am thinking he should be rewarded for catching the discrepancy, but he scoffs, and says, “no one cares”. I am saying the state owes him at least $25,000 for making such an egregious blunder that no one has caught in 80 years; he should be rewarded!

As usual, we both get a little facetious chuckle out of the thought. Ah, to be going down hill again where I can almost keep up with him.

Russ photographing the seal, with the other peak in the background, calling his name, telling him, “you must climb me even if darkness is drawing near and the clouds are beginning to squeak out snow, climb me, climb me…”

Soon we were joyfully on our way down. That is my speciality, going with gravity. And the colors were splendid: grass a golden yellow spotted with olive green oaks, and the rich red of iron in the soil and the white and gray of granite. The country is warm, soft, and sublime—easy on the hiking eyes at least all the way to Mexico, and maybe even more.

Spunky’s Great Misadventure (Jan. 28)

As this blog swirled in my mind, I was thinking how sad it was going to end, and maybe I should just forgo writing it; maybe it should just be one of those stories that should never be told because it ended too tragically. Everybody who knows me, knows how much I love canines. My thoughts are: everyone should own at least one dog, especially if they do not have any children of their own living at home. Without a dog, who would there be to feed, to clean up after, to repair damage that they so much like to do? Who would listen to us when we desire to express our inner most feelings? Who could we bathe when they get stinky from frolicking in a mud hole or rolling over and over on a dead animal for the sake of that special scent; Who could we vaccinate (besides ourselves)? Who could we take to the vet in lieu of children to the hospital when an accident occurs? Who would complicate our travel plans if we could not find a motel willing to accommodate us? Who would scratch at our doors to be let out at 5:30 AM to take a pooh outside, which we could then pick up to place in the garbage? Who would need (or should have) a walk or play-period daily for the sake of an energy release? Who would shed everywhere they went (except for poodles or unusual varieties). And the list goes on.

Okay, I am being a little facetious. Yes, dogs are a lot of work.

And then, out of the blue, I run into Robert Grimes, the third time I have encountered him in 17 months. I must admit, his dog seems as faithful and well behaved as any dog could be. So, I tell myself, settle down, quit generalizing. Every time I see him and his dog, (and I can’t remember her name), she is as faithful as rain and snow on the Olympic Peninsula come winter.

The truth is, a dog takes someone with a lot of extra energy and they are easy to “luv”. With a dog, you can always be yourself, no matter what the mood. And unlike a mate, they are not going to argue with you. They accept what they receive. BUT, with them, comes a lot of responsibility. As a kid, and young man, wanting a dog went without saying. I loved dogs. Yes, maybe as much or more than I did my own siblings!

I could never understand why my parents were strongly hesitant to embrace the idea of a dog. Maybe they knew the things I would fail at as a dog owner, they would end up having to pull the slack. Eventually, I became a cat person, of all things, as I reached middle age. A dog was just too much work in my world, and I liked to travel…a lot. When I had my own family and had to be home, cats were a good alternative. Cats kind of came and went as they pleased. They could disappear for days, and usually be okay. And if they never returned, you could always get another one. I liked their “independence”.

Yesterday, I introduced Russell to Marcela and we all did a 6 mile hike together. It was fun and definitely a good hike. We looped all the way around Kent Springs, down past Sylvester Springs, and the last mile and a half, Russ showed Marcela and I, a little side trail of about 150 yards up a stream where there was a beautiful 25 foot waterfall dropping into a crystalline clear pool. Again, I had hiked this area I don’t know how many times, and never knew there was a waterfall hidden in a narrow ravine.

Marcela always watches Spunky very closely—keeps him on an expanding leash. She is very conscientious about his presence. She has said, he might take off if he is free to roam, so the only time she has ever let him off in the past is when the spaces are wide open and far away from distractions. He likes to “hunt”; to sniff about and if he were to smell a deer (or see one, while not on his leash, god forbid), he will be gone…

For some reason, and I’m not sure even Marcela knows why, she let him off the leash at the waterfall. It was for just a moment. But, he disappeared. It took about 45 seconds for Marcela to realize he was out of sight. Then Russ spotted him, “oh, there he is!” And then that was that. He was gone.

We spent the next hour looking, looking, whistling, clapping, calling, wandering, searching, “Here, boy, come on; here boy! Good boy, come on, here boy!”

Russ and I have discussed all these possibilities. One theory he had seemed outlandish. But the more I thought about it, the more I considered how I suppose it could actually be true. Russ speculated that Spunky was deaf! Deaf! Is that even possible? Some might even say deaf and dumb, though I have never been sure what that meant: “dumb“?

Russ, wondering, thinking, where could he be? Where in the world did he go!

Marsela finally conceded, “he’s gone”. He could be anywhere. He could have gone down the stream, followed the trail, taken side trails, gone back up to Bog Springs a way he had never gone before; he could have his harness caught in a bush. But we all agreed, he doesn’t bark much (maybe this is where the “deaf” thing comes in? Why bark if you don’t even know you are making a sound?” It was 1 1/2 miles back to the parking lot, and this was not the way we had come in 5 hours earlier.

We decided Russ and I would head back to the Amphitheatre parking lot, then drive the main road looking. Marcela would hang at the waterfall for another 30 minutes, then start back. She could only hope someone would find him, see the phone number on his collar, and contact her within a day or two.

About half a mile down the trail, my phone rings! It’s Marcela. She says she received a broken and static ridden call she could hardly understand, from some concerned and thoughtful guy down in Madera Canyon, a half mile farther down than even the Amphitheatre. She understood him to say, he would take Spunky there.

Within 30 minutes, Marcela passed me on the trail! She was flying. I shouted to her as she flew by, “How are you hiking so fast?” I did not see wings on her heals. She shouted back, “A mother’s love!” Oh, yes, that would make sense…magic!

That said it all. At the Amphitheatre, the exchange was made. Spunky was whipped, shivering, dirty, and scraped up. Marcela was cleaning and preening him. In kind of a cloud of confusion, we bid our farewells, and that was that. I thought to myself, “dogs, that’s the way they are”. I’ll never ever understand what motivated Spunky to just bolt off and disappear unless maybe he was deaf and dumb, in which case, I need to keep my mouth shut because that is not something to make fun of.

Marcela repeatedly took responsibility. She could not emphasize enough, how foolish—careless?—-she had been letting him off the leash for a few seconds, giving him a moment’s freedom way back up in the mountains. Myself, it just emphasized how having a dog is much like having a child—they are precious because they are so close to you, just as a dog loves you because it is a dog’s nature to do so with his or her master, but with that love, comes the quid pro quo of vigilant responsibility, that unlike a child, they will never grow out of that state. But, there is obviously some endearing quality most humans will swap for. Maybe, that is the very thing that bonds us so closely with our children, especially when they are young—that innocence!

Spunky, not his usual, ebullient self. Shamed? Frightened? Perhaps in a state of shock?

Ugh! Down the Backside of Josephine…(Jan. 25)

The Three Amigos: Mike Page, Russell Bunner, and myself on Josephine Saddle 2 1/2 miles up the mountain

What is it about Russell? Is he a masochist and just likes to suffer hikes of great, rollicking valleys and mountainsides of ups and downs? Or is he a sadist, and takes a quiet pleasure in seeing old foolish men bleed excruciating pain? I have always hiked by one rule: go up until you’re whipped or exhausted, then go down from whence you began. But Russ doesn’t think like that. He’ll go up and up to a ridge or peak, then back down another side, descending, descending into a canyon, THEN turn around and go back up a couple of the miles he just surrendered to gravity, before finally dropping downwards again miles back to his point of origin. My rule guarantees there will be no more uphill suffering once I decide to return to the parking lot. I guess Russ just doesn’t see hardship quite like I do. But I am learning. If you are going to hike with Russ, get in shape.

Josephine Peak

Today he talked about going over Josephine Saddle and down the backside at least 2 or more miles. And it was a steep descent! He really didn’t think it was all that steep (until we were climbing out). Okay, I am not going to cast all the blame on him. I admit, I took his invitation as an opportunity to prepare psychologically and physically for Picacho del Diablo in Baja. I went and boasted how I would like to try that mountain. So now, occasionally he brings it up and reminds me of how I need to start preparing for that outlandish three day excursion. But the truth is, Wrightson is child’s play compared to Picacho.

Just as we climbed out of my Jetta at the end of Madera Canyon this morning, there was another guy getting out of his vehicle as well. He looked lean and enthusiastic, not to mention at least 20 years or more our junior. I had no doubt this guy was a hiker. After talking for a few minutes he acknowledges this was his first time into Madera Canyon and he seemed ardent about shooting for the peak of Wrightson.

It turns out, this fellow, 44 year old Mike Page, is from Calgary, Alberta. Immediately I flash on the two month long trip Bill Anderson and I took 2 1/2 years ago through that neck of the woods on our way to Alaska. We actually got a wild hair to drive up to the Great Slave Lake in the Northwest Territory, just because we figured nobody casually drives the length of Alberta, to the edge of the tundra, way up into the Northwest Territory almost to the end of the road, to the Great Slave Lake. I think the capitol, Yellowknife, was the actual end of the road. But, I don’t know, maybe I have forgotten. It was kind of a fantasy in my mind, wondering what that region looked like. And Jasper and Banff were right on the way. They were spectacular sights. Glorious views of snowy, ragged mountains and extreme waterfalls every quarter of a mile. And the Great Slave Lake—who can say they have ever heard of that, let alone been there, and that is one of the largest lakes in North America besides the Great Lakes between Canada and the U.S. This is what happens to your reality, when you grow up always fascinated by wall maps or classroom globes, almost pathologically curious what a place might look like in real life.

And I’ve got to admit, I have almost always had this peculiar belief Canadians are what most humans should be like if they were anywhere near “normal”, you know, where you trust your fellow man, you don’t lock your doors at night, simply because it does not occur to you that your fellow human beings would stalk you, or prey on you, if there was a chance they could get away with it. I always start off believing a Canadian is what people would be like if they were at all mentally healthy. With Americans, I disdain confessing it, I have a strange suspicion if I get to know them very well, I’ll come to realize how dangerously different we are—competitive, aggressive, mistrusting or money-driven—how superficial our values really are. But, of course, that is just the paranoid generalizations of one coming from a society of eggs already stressed. I’ve been as bad as anybody )-:

It only took a couple of minutes of conversation and we were inviting Mike to join us at least up to Josephine Saddle. And we were off! Russ bolted and Mike hung with our indomitable pace setter, the irrepressible and spirited Russ. I knew better than to even think about trying to keep pace with these guys.

I just chugged quietly behind, steadily fading to the wayside, occasionally catching glimpses of them as they rounded bends somewhere in my future. Then strangely, they would pause long enough for me to catch up. Ah, to be young again (or in good shape)! I just kept the same slow but steady pace.

I don’t think it took more than an hour and we all met at Josephine Saddle, chatted a little more, got to know Mike, and pointed him in the right direction, miles yet to go, up the mountain. And we told him about the upper half of the Super Trail, the long way around the backside of Wrightson, which he seemed eager to experience. Just as we were about to part ways, some gal came jogging around the loop, ready to proceed 4 miles down the lower half of the Super Trail. I am getting accustomed to all these great, athletic nuts of which I would love to be one, but unfortunately must accept I am but very mortal.

Russ and I then began our journey down the backside of the mountain. That’s right, the backside! The whole while I am thinking, “we’re gonna have to hike out of this in an hour or so”. It was a fairly steep and steady descent into territory that made me feel a little uncomfortable. There was the “Josephine cabin” we were aiming for. Then, within a mile, the trail ran into a four wheel drive road. “What’s there?”

What! Russ relaxing at the doorstep of the Josephine Cabin?

Russ explains that there is a rusty, abandoned car a thief left there back in the 1940’s. I’m wondering how precious this site is, after all, the price is two more miles of hiking, round trip. “Maybe next time”. We decide Josephine Cabin will be our reward. Turns out, the “cabin” is just a couple of remnants of stone walls a few feet high. But, it’s a landmark of sorts. Russ pokes around, hikes down to the stream, finds more remnants, and I basically sit and relax, sip water, eat a fig newton, and psych myself up for a two mile plod back up to Josephine Ridge. But now I have done it and I have an idea what this side of the mountain looks like…and I know what the “cabin” looks like if anyone asks me.

Russ, sniffing around another “ruin”, always searching for souvenirs.

So, we start back up the mountain. This is what is involved in getting into shape. Time and a certain amount of pain. And where else in America can you hike at 7,000 feet in January? The day is stunning, and the skies are all blue. I am sucking eggs, but the hike is not a race. Once we are at the saddle, with only 2.5 miles left to go, it’s pretty much a piece of cake and I am thinking to myself, this is not so bad—it could be a lot worse.

An old alligator juniper, beautiful trees scientists suspect live to be 400 years old.

Marsela…and Spunky on the DeAnza (Jan. 24)

Sterling and Marcela, as we prepared to do one of our hikes.

Marsela just likes to walk or hike with Spunky…I mean Sterling. Sterling is her silent partner. Everyday, she takes Sterling out, into the world, and she lets him go, on his long leash, and he runs and sniffs, stops, stares, runs a little more, stops, and looks for something possibly transgressing a law of nature, that is, being something other than a wire haired terrier. He goes mile after mile, running, sniffing, looking—I have never ever seen him tire.

He really likes to harass deer. But if he is down on the De Anza trail, he will settle for a lone steer or maybe a horse. And squirrels are very special—I believe Marsela has told me he can even catch squirrels, every once in a great while. My thought is, if a squirrel is so dumb that a dog can catch it, then it is only fitting that a squirrel pay the ultimate price.

The other day, Marcela invited me to walk a segment of the endless De Anza trail. My sister, Suzie, and her husband, Bob, hike certain stretches of the trail south of Green Valley, somewhere around Tubac. I have always visualized it as a tame, broad and flat paved trail lined with tulips, along a man made lake where lots of older folks hold hands and peaceably stroll as they silently reminisce the pleasantries of a long life, as they guide their little leashed schnauzers along the trail. But Suzie and Bob have always said, “No, it is not so domestic; it is rather wild and scenic”. But in my mind, I have really tamed it down. I am not sure why.

Marcela has told me there are many segments of that trail, and although it is flat, it goes and goes through wooded parts, across ranches and wild thickets, along the Santa Cruz River that is more of a stream meandering up from Mexico during the rainy season or the monsoons. I’ve never bothered to even ask what the trail is about. I honestly had no idea that the DeAnza Trail was an extraordinary, 1200 mile footpath of desert wilderness stretching, basically from what is now Nogales to San Francisco, California, across the Sonora and Mojave Deserts, all the way to the coast of southern California, up through the central coast of California to what is now San Francisco. The wayfarers of 1775 beat a path for the better part of five months packing and carrying everything they owned on horseback, across a wild, untraveled terrain, I imagine always on the lookout for water and food if not marauding Apaches. What kind of daring could see that kind of unbelievable feat to successful completion?

The Santa Cruz River, coming up from Mexico, headed north through the Tucson region.

Juan Bautista de Anza not only completed this trek once to San Francisco, but twice: first to size things up, then to do the main expedition again shortly after his return from the first expedition. Where in the world would one begin when there are no roads, few trails, the rivers are intermittent and far, far between, no cities, hostile apaches, no radios, no phones, no satellites, no wagons, no real maps of any detail to speak of, AND…to top it all off, if my memory serves me correctly, only one member out of this group of several hundred “pioneers” going across this unexplored and feral land lost his life! That to me is rather extraordinary! This DeAnza had to be a most phenomenol (Spanish) explorer.

Suzie and Bob planted the seed for me to consider walking the woodlands around Tubac, exploring it, forming my own opinion of what the countryside amounted to nowadays. Marcela took another step, reinforcing the idea to at least look at it. With Marcela, I now had a guide. What better chance would I ever have to get a glimpse of what kind of country the DeAnza exploration party experienced as they left Mexico.

Lots of woodlands along the Santa Cruz

Now that I have a wisp of knowledge what this trail is about, I think I will eventually take the time to go back to the Tubac museum and learn a little more about Juan Bautista DeAnza, I mean, I am right here where this little piece of history basically began 250 years ago and he is indeed a unique and interesting character, one of the more impressive explorers of this portion of what is now the United States.