I slept poorly. A bright moon, occasional flashes of lightning, and the unexpected advent of mosquito season all conspired to have me up most of the night. When day broke, a cacophony of birds was augmented by a pack of coyotes and an elk bugle and I was like, okay, I get it, it's time to wake up. Sheesh.
The trail, here a dirt road, was a sodden mess. Squishfoot in full effect. But the surrounding landscape was amazing. The relatively narrow canyon gave over to a mile-broad meadow valley, carpeted in plush bunchgrasses and wildflowers. Hawks cried in the trees, flocks of redwing blackbirds chattered at me, and a bright sun overhead.
And the elk were everywhere. I counted the herd in the valley until I hit around 70 and then gave up. They would spook as I walked up, but then, I was spooked too. As I've mentioned, mama elk in calving season can be very... zealous in the protection of their young. And yup, sure enough, I could see baby elk and yearling elk moving with their matriarchs.
Our mutual fear set up a situation in which we were both unwillingly herding each other. They would run away from me, but would unfortunately run toward the head of the valley, in my direction of travel. I would then make a wide, sweeping detour to get around the herd; I detoured over a mile from my designated route to skirt the trees at the valley's edges trying to get around them. In fives or dozens they'd prance past me, down-valley, heads held high. But there were always some in front, and more than once a big cow shadowed me, just 100 feet on my left flank, watching.
And thus was it with a little sadness and a lot of relief that I finally reached the head of the valley. I knew I'd come to the edge, because I found a barbed wire fence that told me not to cross upon pain of prosecution. I didn't, instead skirting the fence as it climbed steeply, super steeply up and over a couple ridges. I finally walked across a fence, unmarked this time, and made my way on abandoned logging roads to Mills Pond. This was almost certainly on somebody's property, but it was also on my route, and I needed some water. So I filtered a few liters, gave the place a furtive look, and got out as quick as I could, climbing toward Mt Baldy.
Observant readers will remember that just the day prior I had climbed Baldy Mountain. But this, Mt. Baldy, is a totally different peak of a much more prominent alpine nature. Also, it's on the Philmont Boy Scout ranch, where in 1988 I had my first relavatory backpacking experience. It is a sure sign we live in a patriarchy that two such peaks in such close proximity were both names after a vanity injury for aging dudes. I mean, one could have been named Mt Babybutt, Mt Smooth, or just Mt Amazing, but no, both are essentially Mt Past His Prime.
My climb followed an old jeep road, now long since abandoned. Soon enough it was choked with small pines on the left tread and snowbanks on the rights. The snow was totally rotten, my feet pushing all the way through with each step. But, you know, there was only one way forward, and that was up. I gained the summit ridge in forest about the same time I heard the day's first thunder.
Crap, I thought. I'm above treeline for miles today.
Still, ever hopeful, I plowed on up to the we of treeline. And my luck served me well: Jus as I reached the wide-open expanses of alpine tundra that would take me over Mt. Baldy and down to the town of Eagle Nest, there was a break in the weather!
I stepped out onto the tundra like it was a frozen lake in spring. Yes, the sky above was blue, but there was an awful lot of grey and black around me. I skitttered across grass and scree as quick as I could, and soon enough I was right at the foot of the peak.
The map said go up and over, where a low-altitude alternate beckoned. I checked out the sky. The sky, in turn, looked at me and asked me if I felt lucky.
Well do ya, punk? Do ya?
I did not. Something about discretion and valor, and how guys who know how to read maps live longer. I sketched out a moderately doable route that would link up with the alternate and took a jeep trail off the ridge that moment. I was immediately back in forest and relative safety. Any regrets I may have had on not sumitting were softened by the loud, consistent thunder that started up behind me. Screw that, I thought.
Which is not say that it was all smooth sailing. My jeep road faithfully followed its mapped route for about half a mile, then experienced the joys of independence and started going in a totally new, unmapped direction. I responded by traversing across a wicked steep slope cross country, coming across an abandoned mineshaft in the doing. Totes routine, right?
An hour of hard buahwacking later, Inwas back on the route, which is to say I was bushwacking down a drainage my map suggested I bushwhacked down. But I t was green and beautiful, and there were plenty of game trails.
Then, suddenly, there was an old Wedgewood stove and a metal box of a building. It looked a bit like the trailers sheep herders use, which themselves look a bit like covered wagons. But this one hadn't been used in a long, long time.
That was just the beginning. As I walked further down the drainage, I saw all sorts of evidence of failed human occupation. There were a lot of old mining contraptions, including an excavator that looked like it might start if you tried. There were sluice boxes still in place in the creek. And then there was the ruin of an old brick building, vaguely church-like, crumbling in the sun at the edge of a meadow.
I kept on walking. More mining stuff, all looking like it had been left at shift's end in 1970 and then never touched again. It was awesome and creepy.
The route left the drainage, much to my regret, and started a tour of old defunct logging roads. I suspect I wasn't always on public land, ahem, but I didn't see anyone and sure didn't disturb anything. Below me on a grassy plain, I could see Eagle Nest, my goal. The trail took me there, stitching roads together with short hops of cross-country, culminating in a mile-long trip down a brushy dry creek bottom.
The creek crossed under a highway and I climbed up through thorns to the road. Three miles of road walk later, I was walking through Eagle Nest. I saw a hotel and bar built in the nineteenth century, asked about prices, and moved in when I realized it was cheaper than the Econolodge. Meal, laundry, and shower, and then to an crumpled mess on the bed. Underslept and overworked, I barely made it under the covers.
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