High Lonesome

June 9

I woke at first light and made myself coffee and breakfast burritos over a fire. Not the fastest way to break camp! And as much as I normally defend Spam and Amercian Cheese, I cannot really recommend building two back-to-back meals around them. The fake taste starts to shine through pretty badly. It was very picturesque and cowboy-like, though. I'd even made an impromptu grill out of some fence wire I found nearby. I think you could base a good country song on the metaphor of grilling over a barbed-wire grill. A great song would even reference Spam.

The snow along the trail started crisp, and I thought I might have an easier time of it than the day prior, but by 9 am I was falling through again. The snowpack was getting really rotten as the summer wound on -- this was far less reliable than the snow had been a week ago.
The morning became a race to get to the flanks of Jicarita Mountain. Named after a band of Apaches, this mountain was the beginning of 12 miles above treeline. While high altitudes are generally correlated with more snowpack, this relationship falls apart when you get above treeline. With no trees to shelter it from the wind and sun, the snow melts out much more quickly.
As it turned out, that was exactly what had happened. Below Jicarita and along the ridge connecting it with Trouble Peak, there was no snow. No real trail, either. Just cairns along the ridge and your own decision about how to cross the mix of jumbled rock and alpine tundra.
There were lots of animals -- two herds of bighorn and a herd of elk that must have been 100 strong, streaks of chocolate brown running just north of the ridgetop. I nodded to my elk guides, but I also carefully threaded my way between the herds. They may be inadvertently showing me the way, but I still do not desire a close encounter.

Beyond Trouble Peak (which looked easy to summit but who has the time), the trail continued right along the ridge, popping over unnamed summits. Open meadows and lakes accompanied my path on either side and I walked straight toward Chimayosos Peak, looming in the near distance. The trail, my twelve miles above treeline up, dipped down into a forested bowl on the southeast side of Truchas Peak.

The trail immediately started getting elusive under snowpatches, but I was able to follow it all the way down to the side of Truchas Lake. From there on, things got a bit hairy. I lost the trail and followed a little game trail to a cliff beyond which most mere humans wouldn't want to proceed without ropes. I backed up, chose another route, and found trail again. I followed it high up onto a steep hillside, where it disappeared under steep, deep snow.
Traverses on steep, snowy slopes are about as much fun as an 8:59 am traffic jam on the Bay Bridge. Except that in this traffic jam, there is a slight possibility that the bridge will crumble underneath you and plunge you to the Bay below. Protecting the hikers from slipping down the face is what ice axes are for, and I had sent mine back days ago. Bummer. There's nothing to be done about it except go across or go back. This traverse wasn't long, and it wound me around to a more southern-facing section of trail, where the snow should have melted.
I went for it, carefully kicking each step into the snow and making as sure as I could be that it was solid. Light exploded all around me, bright sun from above and reflected from the snow below. Rocks, streams, and sky all dwindled to a little corner of my mind as I concentrated on each step: Kick Kick Kick One. Breathe. Kick Kick Kick Two. Breathe. Kick Kick Kick One. Breathe. Kick Kick Kick Two. Breathe.
When I finally grabbed a sapling on the far side, and I knew I'd made it, the sensory input that I'd been stalling all rushed in, and I stood to reflect on the surroundings, crowded with beauty and devoid of humans. I am so rich in these memories, I thought, in the mental remnants of millions of moments
and thousands of hours spent in these places. I ascribe all sorts of positive effects to my time in the wilderness; I tell people it's made me a much more well-adjusted person. But maybe I just do it for the straight, uncut joy of it. Maybe that's what humans need: More of this uncomplicated joy.
The trail found it's way back to the ridgeline and above treeline again, and cruised right past a mile of cliffs colorfully named the "Trailriders' Wall." It was late afternoon, and within the hour The trail sloped off to the south of the ridge and into the little bowl holding Pecos Baldy Lake. There were suddenly dozens of people around. Friday night, I realized.
I had a trail junction here with a choice: The recommended route followed river valleys down, and back up a bit, on it's way southwest to Santa Fe. The Horsethief Alternate was more direct, but spent more time in a burned-over section left from an intense fire in 2013. I chose Horsethief, reasoning that less live trees meant less snow cover, and silently passed the other campers by. I craved company, but not quite yet. I wanted to hike a few more miles. I'd be in Santa Fe soon enough.
The route headed up to a little notch in the west wall of the lake's basin. That wall turned out to be another harrowing, steep, snowy ascent. As soon as I could, I made my over to a little line of trees and used them to haul myself up the wall, hand over hand. It's never been boring on the NNML, I thought, using my arms as much as my legs to gain the pass.
Up and over the pass, the trail got faint. It wasn't under snow, mind you; now it was the faint track of an abandoned, or nearly abandoned, trail. It was getting dark, and I couldn't be bothered with how ominous that was for the rest of my trip. I collected water from a spring, found a place to lie down, and strong up the tarp one last time.