I knew today had the potential for morning rains, but I was not going to let a little rain intimidate me. I wanted to get in a some hiking exercising—it didn’t have to be a long hike nor steep, but I needed something to minimize the fear and guilt I have for my lazy nature. So I left for the Nature Trail at Seven something this morning (it never rains that early).
Well, today I miscalculated. I didn’t even bother to bring a windbreaker let alone a rain poncho. Simply put, I did not want to wear a pack bigger than my fanny pack. I thought for sure I could squeeze in three hours of hiking (at that hour in the morning) before it began raining.
As it turned out, not so. Just as I got to the furthest point from the beginning of my hike, the turn-around point where I usually sit and take a bite to eat and sip of water, rain drops began to plop down around me. No big deal. Yes, I was in the fog, but so what. How much rain can fog produce anyway? Just to be safe, I would leave right then and there and beat the rain back to the beginning of my hike. And besides, I did have enough sense to pack an umbrella.
By the time I had my umbrella out, and I had hiked down a steep decline a few hundred yards, the rain got a little heavier. It’ll go away.
By the time I had hiked 1/4 of a mile, too far to turn around, it was a veritable deluge. And it didn’t let up. The rain pounded me into the trail. The trail became a flowing stream. My umbrella was pounded into oblivion. The only dry spot on my entire being was the top of my hat, safely beneath my umbrella. Everything else was soaked. All of the contents of my fanny pack were wet: money, cards, check books, my passport, note pads, business cards hikers had given to me, everything of any value that I always keep with me whenever I travel. The sum of all the rain I received in that 45 minute burst of a downpour was more than the total sum I received in 48 hiking days on the Camino! I would have cried if it would have made me an iota drier.
Oh, look! I am within a half mile of the car, the rain is letting up.
Halfway down the trail, I overcame two other hikers, an older couple (they looked older in the rain). They were even more soaked than me—they had no umbrella and were wearing long pants. We had a good laugh. There is something very comforting about seeing someone else caught in misery that might have produced death if caught alone. Lightning flashed, thunder clapped, rain came down in torrents. But we shared in one another’s company. I concluded, no more umbrellas for me. My boots were full of rain water. Every step I took was a squish. I was soaked through and through, except for my hat. It’s time to reevaluate my approach to hiking in the rain.
You have no idea how much comfort you and your husband have brought me. (-; (I really have to smile)
A bite from one of these lizards will send a human to hell and a hospital in a hand basket for a few days.
This was kind of a special hike today. I was actually happy with Russ’s keen eye at spotting a Sonoran Desert Toad. I couldn’t believe it, a nice, fat, healthy Sonoran Desert Toad in a hot, humid, and waterless environment. We were moseying along, and my eye was peeled for the infamous, unintimidated lesser earless lizard, a lizard rapidly becoming one of my favorites for his distinct patterns, gutsy manner, and brilliant yellow sides and underbelly. The Mustang Trail is where I had my first lesser earless encounter almost exactly one year ago. I guess I was really locked in on spotting such a specimen, so much so, that I practically stepped on a Sonoran Desert Toad. Russ shouted to me to “pay attention!”.
If a dog mouths one of these toads, (and it will), the dog will become paralyzed with a good chance of dying. (Note the small white gland next to the eye—as I tell Russ, “don’t be lickin’ that unless you want to cosmically leave this universe!” as a certain indian tribe in Mexico has learned. The big parotid gland above this gland, will kill you.
I thought it made my day, such an unusual find, i.e. a healthy, sizable toad far from water, (though it had rained hard the day before). But I am easy. We plodded steadily up the hillside. It was not the glowing green of a year ago with all the tens of thousands of “Arizona Poppies” to accent the countryside, but it was coated in monsoon greens with the promise of monsoon wildlife. We did see lots of illegal alien signs, their litter here and there, empty water bottles and articles of clothing shed unconscionably. I am not going to judge people struggling for their lives out in the desert. The desert was verdent and the ocotillo plump with rich green stems. There were lizards—plenty of whiptails darting down and across the trails, but I have told myself to go for better quarry when with Russ—I can do whiptails anytime I am alone.
Leaving Arivaca Creek
We toiled to the top of Mustang, me dripping sweat profusely from the humidity. Of course, Russ was as dry as a potato chip. We sat atop the peak, until the swarms of flies finally got Russ to say “uncle”. He doesn’t sweat, but the insects drive him mad.
Baboquivari, heart of the Tohono Oodham nation, center peak on the horizon, viewed from atop Mustang Looking northwest from atop Mustang PK
On the way down the mountain, we took our time and scanned the trails. We listened to desert song birds and I scrutinized plants and rocks for potential reptilian subjects. Then I heard my name, “Leo, Leo! Hurry back, you missed something on the trail!” Oh, yeah, I am thinking. Russ would not call my name for just anything. I scurried back up the trail full of anticipation, thinking maybe he saw a horned toad, or something special. Wouldn’t you know it, he had spotted a Gila Monster. You gotta be kidding me! Yes, yes! How in the world did I miss that?! They stand out like beacons with their bright orange and black beaded patterns. I walked right by it! Makes me wonder. I wonder if maybe their obvious flagrant color patterns aren’t actually camouflage when we are not looking for them. Strange. So I got to mess with him a little and get all the pictures I wanted. Made my day—actually made my month.
I don’t think there is a more interesting lizard in North America than the highly venomous Gila Monster (excepting perhaps the beaded lizard in Mexico, a very close relative of the Gila Monster)
Then I came across a second Sonoran Desert Toad and got some good pictures. Wow! When we finally got down to the old hidden “ranch house” back along the Arivaca Creek, where Russ searches out artifacts—and lord knows he deserved all the time he needed today—-I saw a third Sonoran Desert Toad. Kind of took a little glamor out of their uniqueness, but then I guess that comes with the monsoons.
The highly toxic AND hallucinogenic giant Sonoran Desert ToadView to the southeast, from atop Mustang Pk,
On the way back, driving the lone Arivaca road, a beautiful, pink five foot (or larger) coachwhip shot across the road. Both Russ and I got equally excited and automatically pulled a U turn at 40 mph and tried to ID where it had vanished into the brush. I let Russ out, went down another 75 yards, U turned again and met Russ where he was pointing and trying to get a shot with his cell phone. Unbelievable! They are the fastest snake in North America, not to mention one of the largest (and most aggressive) snakes. They feed on other snakes and rattlers are a common food item. The only non venomous snake that has ever intimidated me was an eight foot coachwhip some 30 years years ago in roughly the same area, while I was out with Doron and Aria hunting for herps. I was so relieved when this thing vanished down a burrow; it meant I did not have to try to catch it (and no doubt get viciously bit in the process). I was going to go for this snake, take the bite—no doubt multiple bites—just because it was potentially catchable. I am sure it was between 5 and 6 feet long, but not as lethal looking as the one I encountered 30 years ago. I was psyched for the bite, but it was too quick for Russ and I, and made a lightning quick getaway. Damn, that would have been a catch of catches.
The mother of North American non-venomous snakes, the very beautiful, but aggressive coachwhip (subspecies, red racer). To my knowledge, there is no snake in North America as cobra-like as the coachwhip: extremely large (8 1/2 long), fast and aggressive.
Quantrell Mine Trail is a hot and desolate trail of a slightly different geographical feather. I like Madera Canyon: it has elevation, and it is forested, albeit semi steep climbs. However, you go on the other side of the mountains—west, and all of a sudden things get a bit drier. But I am a little like Russ, I like some variety now and then. I was looking at my elevation app, and I could see Quantrell is scarcely over 5,000 ft elevation. So things are a little drier, a little warmer, which means it is going to offer species a little different than what I am normally accustomed to.
Just below Quantrell Mine, Russ hiking up the ravine, always looking for artifacts
We got an earlier start, sometime after 6:40 AM. The hike is only five miles so it is little more than a maintenance hike. But it is a different territory so no telling what we might encounter. The mountains are steep, actually kinda ragged. It is the best way to reach Elephant Head. I wouldn’t try it any other way, but if I were younger, more vivacious, there are some riskier routes I might take on. Quantrell is a good trail to size up some bolder hikes. Russ is always ready to take on a challenge, but he knows it is going to take a stick of dynamite to get me to add another couple of steep miles to the hike. But I suspect, Elephant Head is probably in the not-too-distant-future. Russ will not do Elephant head alone, but if he has a fool to hike with, he’ll take it on. And it looks like great rattler country. And that, by itself, is almost enough to get me to sample the terrain.
Elephant Head, sticking its rocky nub of a crux into the sky, begging a couple of old fools to climb it
I was seeing lizards today, spiny lizards, if not the mountain variety—maybe desert. And tons of whiptails. I would have put more energy into getting some decent photos, but they are finicky and demand a lot of attention. I did not want to put Russ to the test of patience and told myself I could get shots of them when I was alone. But then, out of the blue, what should I see but a lesser earless lizard. Up close they are very uniquely colored and patterned. And the nice thing about them, is they are not shy! They don’t really care how close you get as long as you use a little caution and respect. This made my day.
Now I know another spot besides Mustang Peak where lesser earless thrive.
Storm clouds were brewing and flash flood chemistry was beginning to develop so I couldn’t spend endless time trying to get the perfect photo
…but this was another territory of theirs, and they were making it easy to indulge my eye so I had to dawdle a little. A new spot for lesser earless
With Florida, it’s just always up, up, and a little more up.
Nobody likes to set their alarm for 4 AM. What madness would motivate anyone to rise at that dark hour? I reason that every 3 or 4 days, a long hike has to be made. Otherwise, all hiking gains will have to be given up. At my age, gains are lost in hours practically speaking, so just accept it. Now on the other hand, if you are a Russ Bunner, you rejoice getting up at such an ungodly hour. You like the cool of the morning, there is no pain in any of this, only pleasure. I won’t even try to understand it. I just accept some people take pleasure in rising well before the sun is up, and hiking a mountain really is no big deal. But for myself, it has everything to do with self discipline.
Into the fire zone of 12? years ago.
We finally reached Flor-eeh-dah parking lot at 5:40 AM. Of course we were the only vehicle there—and it would remain that way, all day long. Nobody else would even consider going up there in late July. I could tell as soon as I stepped out of Russ’s vehicle, this was not going to be like Mt. Wrightson, where there was a little pleasure in the hike. This was one of those hikes where every step of the way was felt. The trail was steep, narrow, and stony.
Russ still fresh, plodding downhill, about halfway down the mountain
Initially I thought we might reach the top, i.e. the saddle, and we could contemplate playing around a little, maybe hiking about on the trail and sizing up the Crest Trail, doing something I have yet to have the stamina to do. But, there was no chance. It took everything I had to make the Saddle. I would like to shed some big crocodile tears for this fact, but by the time we reached this point, I was whipped and the simple reality was, I did not have much left for exploring the Saddle. C’est la vie.
Pipevine swallowtail butterfly on firecracker penstemon.
The good thing though, was there were lots of song birds, mountain spiny lizards, the woods were fresh and green from previous days of rain, and the views were impressive. Admitted, the trails were narrow and over grown, and there were few signs of any other hikers up in that country. The hike was a grind.
It’s always a relief to begin the downward plod, and roughly 5 miles of stoney downhill takes its toll, but almost always, it is almost impossible to imagine the trek downward as being that demanding. I was pleased to note so many accommodating mountain spiny lizards, always willing to pose, but inevitably Russ and I forgot how fast the temperature rises as we descended. By the time we reached the Florida parking lot a 1 PM, we were almost in a state of shock; the temperature was an irrepressible 96 degrees (36 Celsius)! Personally, I was stunned. I thought hiking back down from Shovel Pass was bad earlier in the week; this was horrendous compared to that. I kept thinking that it was possible to just collapse from excessive heat and exhaustion. But, the theme was to just push on. I’ve got to learn my limit. I got lots of good (lizard) photos—-I was always willing to take one more chance, take one more photo, but I really felt I was right at my limit.
The perfect male mountain spiny lizard A lucky break, the ornate tree lizard.
Florida is a special place. But a person has to be in good shape to make it happen. It is off the beaten path and the trail is not the best. The elevation gain is probably close to 4,000 ft. It goes through a number of eco zones: high desert, i.e. cholla, mesquite, prickly pear, ocotillo, yucca, and agave; oak, pinyon, and juniper; ponderosa, Apache pine, and Douglas fir; and in the end, rock and alpine. You name it, the Santa Ritas will have it.
We stumbled back to the lone car at 1 PM. Russ still had a few quips left in his repertoire, but myself, I was in an absolutely humorless state of semi paralysis, numb and dumb really, thinking the next time I attempt Florida Saddle would be in another dimension, another life…fun as it is.
…admitted, as we hiked, I felt okay, kinda good, actually. We did a steady plod 2 1/2 miles up to Josephine and I needed no breaks for water or rest! That was a first. I actually felt stronger than I felt a few days before when we crossed Josephine en route to Agua Caliente. Wow! That was a first. Must have been that two days of sitting around doing nothing, resting from Shovel Pass. It was only 6:50 AM when we made Josephine Saddle, so we had made good time…actually visiting most of the way up.
Then began the Upper Old Baldy Trail. I always dread that 2.2 mile stretch because it is steep, narrow, intermittently stony, and the last third of that section of trail, from Bellows Spring to the Crest Trail, is 32 switchbacks. The mountainside was verdant from days of rainfall. Colorful Yarrow mountain spiny lizards were everywhere, in full mating colors and variety, much to my delight. We broke over the Crest at about 8:15 AM, into glorious sunshine, comfortable, still temperatures. Last time I hiked that stretch of trail, I was stopping for respite every quarter mile, or less, basically dying, though I knew if I stuck with it, I would eventually make the top. This time, no problemo! Could the Camino have made that much difference? Despite Covid? I guess 10 miles of hiking everyday for a month and a half actually made a difference—and losing 10-15 lbs—even though Madera Canyon was steeper and more rugged. Maybe it was all the alcohol, who knows.
Always impressive views as we switch backed our way to the top of Wrightson
We sat at the Crest and took a brief buffet of drink and snacks. It was nice having so much liquid that I could indulge and still felt comfortable that I would have spare, cool refreshment upon my return to the parking lot. And there were lots of mountain Spiny lizards running about, ignoring us, a glorious day indeed. At the Crest, before heading to the top, we snapped a few photos, boasted of our reasonable time, the clement weather, what great hikers we were, and then proceeded up the last (reasonably) easy 9/10 of a mile, knowing that with a little luck, this would be the fork in the trail we took if we took two vehicles and were to dare the Crest Trail in a week or two, south to either the Florida Canyon Trail or back down to the Shovel Pass loop. (That would take some balls for me).
Hopkins Observatory, across from Wrightson
We hadn’t hiked a quarter of a mile when yours truly got his first healthy glimpse of a Slevin’s bunchgrass lizard! It made my hiking day, considering what long hikes I had to endure to enter into their territory, in this case, probably 8800 ft. elevation. I was so delighted. I was tempted to catch it (I believe it was a female) for better photos if Russ hadn’t started grumbling. I don’t know what it is about Slevin’s bunchgrass lizards that brings the grumbler out of him. He claimed we needed to beat the heat down below, or some such thing. So I kindly smiled, took what photos I could get, and we proceeded. But, yes! Now I know another spot to find them.
Yes, a Slevin’s bunchgrass lizard trying to elude me.
On that last 1/2 mile up to the top of the peak, we must have come across a hundred spiny lizards: big ones, small ones, males, females, black ones, golden ones, aqua marine, blue, green, lavender; it reminded me of dreams I have about catching snakes and lizards! I have never seen so many. I did all I could to restrain from spending too much time indulging in such great pleasure, knowing lizards are not Russ’ great pleasure, though he can be kindly tolerant if the lizard is fat and has lots of color.
So many splendid colors!
Of course, at the peak we must have dawdled for almost 30 minutes taking in the views—impressive compared to my normal world. There can’t be a better place in southern Arizona for such a grand vista, deep into Mexico, across all the geographical ranges of that particular countryside. Beautiful.
I saw no more Slevin’s bunchgrass lizards, but I thought that might be a blessing. I don’t know what it is that I like about them, and whatever it is I like, must be what Russ doesn’t like. However, having said this, no sooner had we dropped over the lip of the Crest, what should I see, but a mountain short horned lizard, in all its glorious colors: orange, beige, cream, gray. I fell upon him like a hawk upon a mouse. He scarcely knew what befell him. Russ would hardly turn around because he thought, in my joy, it must have been another damned Slevin’s. I got my photos.
What a glorious day for lizards: here, the magnificent mountain short horned lizard, the first of three!
Then scarcely a quarter mile farther down the trail, who should spot another one! Yes, Russ, the gods must want you to see what they have created for your eyes. He seemed to take a little more interest once he knew it wasn’t a Slevin’s. It wasn’t quite the splendor of the first one, but nevertheless, it was a mountain short horned!
And just for good measure, I bumbled on one more, just down the trail! What are the odds! That mountain must be covered in them.
We finally got back to the car around 1 PM. It was a very good hike. It just goes to show that conditioning can make a difference. And when the weather breaks your way. Also, preparation, as in water and snacks. If every hike I did up Wrightson was so splendid, Wrightson would be a regular hike for me.
rubberboa 