Temporal Gulch

Passage Four: Mile 53 Patagonia, AZ to mile 75.1 Gardner Canyon Road

Day 8: The dogs of Patagonia cheered for me as I made my way down 1st Avenue. Hopping and barking feverishly, they were telling me how proud they were because I showered and almost ate an entire 16" pizza by myself last night. People were waving goodbye to me like I'm sure they've done to countless other nameless and wayward strangers who pass through. Thumbs up are exchanged frequently and I begin to like this little Main Street of a town.

I felt good, refreshed even. It was about noon by the time I was really serious about leaving. I had spent the morning at the post office getting my resupply box, signing a trail register, and repacking my bag. I did spend a fair chunk of time sitting outside the Gathering Ground coffee shop, eating a delcious pecan bar and enjoying the freshest lemonade I've ever tasted. I'm not sure there's much better than ice cold lemonade on a hot, sunny day so I know it was time well spent. Support your local lemonade stand!

The trail departs Patagonia at 1st Avenue, which turns into dirt road that you follow for 7 miles through what is called Gringo Gulch. It's pretty monotonous, road walking...and this passage is full of it. I start to think about little bits from my favorite Walt Whitman poem, the Song of the Open Road. "Afoot and lighthearted, I took to the open road..." and then, "the long brown path before me" became less joyful and more of an annoyance.

I start to think about the Beatles and how this is indeed a long and winding road. Then, I start to sing the Beatles because I'm a crazy person. Anything to pass the time. 

I'm 4 miles down the road - warbling like a bird that butchers Beatles tunes - when I'm startled by the storm alarm on my watch. It only goes off if there's a big drop in air pressure in a short amount of time. Usually, it's pretty spot on and goes off when I already know something fairly gnarly is a'coming. Well, I look to the sky in the west, towards Mt Wrightson, and I see some wickedly wispy mare's tails. The W. And before I could even think Ah man, seriously? cannon blasts of wind come raging down the road and there I am in the thick of it. 

Bummer. I keep on trucking, head down like a sled dog once again and make my way down to the trailhead. The wind dies down by the time I get there so I still don't really know what that was all about. A microburst, I suppose. Perhaps, my singing summoned the wrath of the wind gods. I doubt it.

7 miles and I'm at the trailhead, ready to get some trail walking in. Well, not today me lass,'tis more road walking for you. The trail now follows a 4WD road into Temporal Gulch. Rocky and rutted, I imagine it's a Jeeper's dream. 

I march forth and notice that this passage is far different from the others. In this passage, there is no shortage of water. There's puddles of it and the road crosses mini streams of it and everything seems so, so alive. There's large trees and leaves and organic matter everywhere. It feels like a jungle in comparison to the other sections. It feels...wonderful. 

I lazily meander - as best as anyone with a giant pack on can - through the gulch, taking it all in. I notice to the swoosh of the blades as I pass a windmill, I watch some baby cows romp, I delight in the little insects swimming in the ponds, and I investigate a cave opening, sauntering along until I find a campsite. In total, I've hiked a mere 9 miles for the day and I call it a quits. I'm in no hurry, I'm on vacation. 

I set up my tent as the sun sets and eat dinner. The last two peices of pizza are on the menu, but they have become a big ball of cheese and dough since I didn't have anything to wrap then in so I used the free shower cap from my hotel room. Mushed backpack pizza tastes fine to me. 

Laying in the dark, I start to feel like I've accomplished nothing all day. I don't know when hiking 9 miles started to feel like nothing, but I guess that's where I am in life now. Perhaps, it was the road or because this was the first day of hiking that didn't have a whole lot miserable in it. Or, perhaps, I just didn't really do much at all. Alas, I fall asleep fat and happy in my little orange tent.

Day 9: Morning. It seems that I have parked my tent in the middle of an insect intersection. Light is shining through the tent and I lay there, listening to the morning commute of countless pollinators. The flies are in an incredible hurry as the dart and dash around me in surround sound. I hear bees bumbling, spilling their coffee as their minivan pulls into the school parking lot to unload the wee ones. There are small, high pitched racecar bugs that fly by so fast I can almost feel the breeze in their wake. There's the low buzz of a large semi-truck of an insect and I can see its shadow on the tent wall. Everyone off to work, getting the day started.

I take note and pack up my belongings, ready for hopefully a more productive day. I've just hefted my pack up and was securing the hip strap when I hear a vehicle. I look back and it's a red Jeep, followed by five more Jeeps, all a different color. Jeeps on parade! 

The ring leader has his window down, and says as he passes, "You're a long way from home."

I smile, and with a laugh, reply "You have no idea."

The Jeep rainbow passes and I see that all the drivers are men over at least 65, but I'm thinking they're well into their 70s. Gray haired, gun toting war vets in Costco pants, they all give me the what the hell are you doing way out here, girl? look but in a friendly way. I like them. They remind me a lot of my grandpa. I follow them up toward Anaconda Spring and almost could keep up because the road is so rocky they had to go slow. Not far down the trail, they've stopped at an old mine and try to pass group, in an effort not to disturb their wilderness experience. 

One of the grandpas comes walking down the hill, his hip holstered revolver shining in the sun, and asks, "You hiking the trail?"

"Yep." (No, I just carry this pack around for fun all them time)

"Where to?"

"Hopefully, Utah."

"What! No way."

Smiling, "Way."

"What have you got for protection?"

"Just this." I say as I thumb my large buck knife attached to my hip belt. "It's a big knife."

"Huh. Well that is a big knife."

-This is a weird conversation. I don't really want to talk about weapons. Change of topic to the trail, where I'm from, my profession, etc...

"Alaska? Why you ARE a long way from home. Say, do you know [insert the name of his daughter's friend who works in Big Bend but has been to Alaska once]? 

"Nope." We talk more about the trail and the rest of group comes down.  Somehow I'm standing in the center and I almost feel like I should be giving and interpretive talk about the Arizona Trail. A round of rapid fire questions and one request for a picture later, I remark about how I should be heading up the trail for water. They offer me a ride, they're going 5 miles up the way to the end of the road. I say, "Thank you, but I think that would be cheating." They laugh and we depart.

Well, that was intense. I peel off the road at the spring to grab water. Sip sip, cool and clear. I eat a Pop Tart and head uphill. It's 5 miles of up, steep and strenuous. It is so hot. The sun bakes my everything. Exhausted and only half way up, I wish I would have accepted the ride. Who am I to be so prideful? 

The road continues to weave it's way up the mountain. I'm 3/4 of the way up when the Jeeps return. They remark that I'm making good progress and depart with waves and thumbs up. I'm back to my lonesome, and I'm going to get to the top of this mountain if it kills me. 

Hike hike hike. Upward and upward. The road finally ends and then it's back to a singletrack of just one more mile up, through the trees. I'm a little grumpy on account of the heat and just going through the motions. 

The way down is rocky and forested. It's easy to get lost in thought, which I do. Miles go by and I barely notice until I get to Bear Spring. (This is the 2nd Bear Spring on the trail so far.) I'm rattled out of my mindlessness by the beauty of the river. It is the first water source on the trail that I would call an actual, real river by northern, non-desert standards. I fill up. 

The trail continues, following the river corridor for awhile and offers some nice views. Once I got to mile 72 at Tunnel Spring, there were actually interpretive panels talking about the mining in the area. That was an unexpected bonus for this nerd! It was around there when I decided to set up camp, next to the soothing sounds of a river...a novel concept on this trail.

Mac and cheese for dinner. Trail planning. Evening ablutions. Sleep.

Day 10: 3:35am. Darkness. The sounds of two large animals getting into a fight. Moaning. (Possibly cat?) Injured animal sounds like it's coming nearer, splashing. I grab my headlamp and knife and wait. The sound of footfalls get fainter, like it's moving away. I relax. Eventually, I fall back asleep.

Morning. Birds are having lively conversations as I open my eyes. 

"Chickadedidaleodee. Do you think she'll ever wake up?"

"Todoodeladeedidleo. No, it doesn't look like it!"

[ceaseless bird laughter]

Pop tart for breakfast, pack up the bag, and I make way to leave the land of plenty. There's too much life here, I've decided. Scoop some water from the river and I will miss the grab-n-go lifestyle. It's a short walk from where I was camping to Cave Creek, which is nearly the end of the passage. 

As I'm crossing the creek, I hear a terrible moaning moo from a nearby cow. This is a horrific one, really. I don't know what this cow is going through...Is it giving birth? Did it get caught in a barbed fence? I obviously know nothing about cows in distress, but I do know to leave 1000 pound animals alone. 

I cross the creek and make it to Gardner Canyon Road. There are more cows there, and they're looking at me as I'm coming from the same direction as the sound of the cow in distress. "Hey, I didn't do anything to your friend! I swear."

I follow the trail and make my way towards the end of the passage. One last gauntlet of cows. There's a group of 4 calves sitting in the shade by a tree. They see me and bolt. Mama is on the other side of me and she sees them running. I've never known cows to charge, but I get a little nervous as mama moo starts walking towards me. (To be continued...)

Huachuca

Passage One: Mile 0 US-Mexican Border to Mile 21.7 Parker Canyon Lake Trailhead

Day 1: My trip into the mountains started like many trips do, with a fond farewell. I had been visiting with friends Andy and Ali in the greater Californa-Nevada-Arizona area for about a month, camping and hiking and exploring. They so kindly said they'd drive me down to the border to start this crazy trek along the Arizona National Scenic Trail (AZT) and they did just that on Monday. What swell people and first trail angels they truly are!

Hugs and goodbyes finished and fully loaded with gear, food, water and hope, I made way up the Joe's Canyon Trail from the Coronado National Memorial Visitor Center. This trail is nearly 5 strenuous miles up to Yaqui Ridge and back down to the border. It's a haul for sure, but I happily hoofed towards the border still filled with anticipation and those awesome pre-hike jitters.

As I rounded the final corner of the trail before the border monument - which is the true start of the AZT - high velocity wind gusts came cruising around a bend in the topography and rather unpleasantly blew sand directly in my face. This made it difficult to joyfully commemorate this momentous beginning and hastened me along the trail. Little did I know that this breeze was just foreshadowing for my entire trip in the Huachucas.

Up up up and back to Yaqui Ridge and finally to Montezuma Pass, where many begin their hike to the monument. It was really getting windy up there, but one must press on. I used the pit toilets one last time and waved to the Border Patrol officer. Crossing the road, the trail follows the "Crest Trail," which winds up past old mine adits and along some stellar ridges. I met two Canadians on their way down, and they were the last people I'd see for two days.

I had gotten a late-ish start. The sun was getting low, my shadow was getting long, and the trail was getting steeper so I had to think about where to camp soon. There's no camping in Coronado National Memorial on account of the border activity, so I had to get to the boundary with the Miller Peak Wilderness in Coronado National Forest, which is only 2 miles from Montezuma Pass.

A rough two miles, steep with heavy pack and the wind now blowing 35 mph, it was slow going. On a knife ridge, a tremendous gust popped my hat up and with it my sunglasses flew into the air and down the canyon. I could see them tumble, hitting rock and after rock after rock. It was way too windy and steep to retrieve them, lest I wanted to end up where they are...so my sunglasses are now forever sacrificed to the Huachuca Mountains. Woof. I put my head down like a sled dog and just grumbled my way to the top. If it weren't so windy, I would have soaked up the scenery more.

I made it to the wilderness boundary with a little light creaking from the mountains. I've never been so happy to see a sign and a flat place to camp. 

The wind was howling and the trees were  bashing and rubbing against each other, but I was in a little alcove that I thought wasn't too terrible. I tried setting up my tent but every time I got the stakes down and lifted one of the trekking poles, a gust would come tearing through and turn my tent into a parachute. 

After several tries, I gave up and decided I'd just have to set down my sleeping bag and pad and wrap myself in the tent like an emergency bivvy or hypo wrap one learns about in WFR. It worked pretty well at keeping the wind out and me from being too chilly. There were cracks, which every now and then I would get a cold shot of air on my back or face, just enough to keep me from sleeping. 

I laid there, tired after hiking 8 miles, looking at both the stars in the sky and the lights of Mexico with mixed feelings. I've made mistake. This hike isn't going to be fun and it's just not worth it. No, this hike will be challenging, and that's so worth it. I literally could have gone either way. 

Day 2: Many sleepless hours pass, the wind becomes more of a breeze and the sun begins to rise. I slowly get gumption  and begin to get the F out of there. 

Not far down the trail I find a perfect snow patch in the sun and use it to get some fresh water and eat breakfast. I listened to some Hank Williams on my phone - because it just felt right - while I scraped the top layer of ice off with my trowel and got down to the good stuff in the middle. Trowels really are so useful. Snow extractor, cathole digger, impromptu tent stake...I love you, trowel. 

Feeling better after Hank, grub, and sun, I begin the long journey up the steep rocky trail through fire scars to nearly the top of Miller Peak. Oh my god, did I mention steep? I will have amazing legs after this. 

9000something' and that breeze below now whips up and kicks you right in the face. Alas, the worst is behind and it's time to descend. I've been looking forward to this because I'm sick of the up and sick of the wind.

Not far from the Miller Peak turnout, the trail goes into the shady leeward side of the mountain. And so, the trail is easy to follow because you step in someone's ankle-high footholes in the snow. In some places, trees have fallen across the trail (presumably the night before) and new little routes would have to be made, causing adventures in waist-deep post holing. 

The snow continued for awhile, until about AZT mile 8.3 where a bizarre but welcomed sight awaits the weary traveler... A seemingly algae filled bathtub, trickling out spring water, cold and clear! Why yes, I spent some time there and filled up my various vessels.

Onward and upward as the 6 o'clock hour approaches. Soon, I find my way to a nice flat and breeze-free campsite on Bear Saddle at 8100'. Not far from a spring if need be, though I had just filled up. All's well as I set up camp and eat dinner as the sun sets. The sunset was so peaceful after a hard day sweating and trudging up and down...the soothing blues, pastel pinks and faint yellows put me to ease as they let way for stars and more far off city lights and I drifted to sleep. 

Darkness. I'm abruptly awoken by pummeling winds announcing themselves from distant canyons and roaring into the sides of my tent. The walls collapsing around me and I was cold. So cold. I grew up in Wisconsin. I live in Alaska. I've never been this cold. Shivering for warmth in my 0 Degree Never Summer down chrysalis. Fade into sleep. Fade out. Fade in. I awake several times throughout the night to thundering wind. 

Day 3: Morning, fade out. Cold. Crunchy. Why am I so crunchy? Frost. Why does my throat hurt? Dry cough. Thirsty. Water's frozen.

I wait for the sun to shine in on me before I escape the sleeping bag or tent. I thaw out and slowly get moving, warming water and making breakfast. Cough. I think I'm sick. 

Packed and ready to once again get the F outta there, I head up the hill. One last up before the long downward zigzag to Sunnyside Canyon. Hard to breathe. 

Down down down down. Will I have knees after this? So worth it. Warmer already as I make it to Copper Glance trailhead at 7194' and feeling almost good when I get to mile 16 for water. This stop, the cement water trough, is known to be a fairly reliable source. Now, I wasn't expecting much as cows outnumber people in these parts, but frankly, yuck. Stagnant and scuzzy, this trough is not for me. There's a perfectly good stream right next to it, so that's where I scooped in my H2O.

Following Scotia Canyon, I walked out of the wilderness and past a few windmills, spooking cows and vise versa along the way. 

The sun crept slowly down as I made it to mile 20. I camped in some grass and the night was wind-free, clear, and cool.

Day 4: Drip. Drip drip. Drop. I had dreams about caving. I woke up crunchy again but my tent ceiling was dripping water onto my face. Melting frost in the morning sun. My throat still hurt but life  was not nearly as miserable as the night before, so I was thankful. Funny how it takes being cold and miserable to truly appreciate the many comforts one is afforded in life... 

Not feeling very well or motivated at all, I waited until noon for the tent to dry out and get back on the trail. I was going to finish the passage that day I decided because it's only 1.7 miles, but I'm not sure how much more I could do after that. Maybe I could just camp at Parker Canyon Lake (not far from the passage terminus) until I feel better? That could be nice since I can't really breathe and it's sunny and there's plenty of water.

I weave through savanna like shrub and grasslands and finally get to the Parker Canyon Lake Trailhead. Woot! I made through and the sun is shining. There's a bit of trail behind me and a beautiful lake ahead of me. Maybe things are looking up after all.

Maybe, I can go on. (To be continued...)