Hair Club for Mountains I

June 4 

The good single track I'd been so enjoying the day before gave way to snow within half an hour of leaving camp.

Snow. More slow, wet, challenging snow.

I 'be been thinking a lot about this lately: I'm

about two weeks to a month early to this trail. This Is mostly because of the big snow year. But as a question of preference, I'll carry water through a desert over postholing through snow. Deserts are easy -- just carry more water. But this constant snow challenge is unpredictable, both in the immediate and medium terms. With every step, snow is unpredictable because it may Kenny's not hold your weight. The mental and physical energy of bracing yourself to fall through the snow's crust like it's a trap door is exhausting. But snow also means you naught slow down to a mile an hour, making it hard to know how far you can make it in a day.

I navigated up the drainage through forested snowfields, then through exposed ones. As I approached the ridge, above treeline now, I saw a cleft in a rock face and just decided to climb it hand over hand. At this point, a little light rock climbing was preferable to that snow.

 

The ridge was alpine tundra, half-covered in snow. I layered up for warmth, wind stripping all my heat away, and walked across the wide open spaces. The ridge opened into a Mesa, then narrowed into a knife edge, then opened again.

I smelled elk, and then saw them. Before I could help it, I'd scared a new mama elk away from her baby, young enough that it couldn't follow and stayed on the ground. A year or two ago Lily and I were charged by a cow elk trying to defend the herd's babies, so I gave the whole tableau a wide berth.

The trail dove off the side of the ridge into a bowl holding that same thick, deep, wet snow, not even softer in the day's heat. The bowl also held Heart Lake, a half-frozen glacial lake.

 

Just past the lake was Baldy Cabin, a stout little shack in good repair. I took a long look and the Pork and Beans in the cupboard but figured someone else needed it more than me. And J had so, so much food. I munched a Monster Size Slim Jim in what I hoped was a contemplative pose and struck out to get back up and out of the snowed-in bowl. 

The trail was visible under patches for about half a mile, then disappeared entirely. I have up on following it's route and just struck off cross-country to regain the ridge. It's something g I've been doing a lot of on this trip: Just figuring out where I need to be and walking there however I want. 

Back on the ridge, I crossed over Baldy Mountain, momentarily above treeline, and the started to make my way back down through the snow. There were hours of taking a heading, plunge-stepping through snowbanks and downed trees in that general direction, and then checking the GPS. 

Finally, below 10,000 feet, the snow abated and I followed the Gold Creek drainage, half on trail and half cross-country. There were various abandoned mine remnants, and the graffiti carved into the trees dates back to the 1930s.

The trail bottomed out at Cabresto Creek, and I turned right into a dirt road. My stress level dropped as I realized I'd be walking on a nice, smooth road the rest of the day. I walked up stream, trading Cabresto Creek for Bitter Creek, then following Comanche Creek into a beautiful valley overhung with cliffs. 

Well after dark, I passed an abandoned hunting lodge, now left open to the rats and teenagers. I poked my head in and but did not linger. I'm not overly superstitious, but I also don't make a habit of nocturnal loitering in abandoned lodges with massive stone fireplaces in remote mountain valleys. Because it's incredibly creepy, that's why. Now I was in the position of needing a place to sleep, but all of the flat land being occupied by an archetypal haunted lodge. 

I climbed up onto a ridge and found a flattish spot in the pines. As I fell asleep, I could see lightning illumination the sky further down the valley.

Elephants and porcupines

June 3 

The trail takes the road out of town, past vacation houses and RV parks along the river. Pretty soon I was up on  utility roads along the right side of the road, past the sewage treatment plant. Then an old officially-signed dirt-bike track started to take me up the side of a ridge through dry, open ponderosa forest.

There hadn't been any dirt bikes on that trail in a while -- lots of downed trees barred the way. I was pretty suprised; in California, there is such an appetite for motorcycle trails that someone would have cleaned it up. Maybe they've got better places to ride out here, I thought.

That first part of the day would certainly have been easier on a dirt bike. The trail climbed relentlessly over loose rocks and soil, up over 2000 feet. At the top was Elephant Rock, a series of 15' tall jutting blades of yellow rock.

 

I got just enough time to think "nifty" to myself before the trail drops precipitously off the other side of the ridge, just as far down as I had climbed up.

The trail hit valley bottom and bounced up onto another ridge, this one much greener. Several SUVs with Texas plates passed me, and in an hour I saw why: A largish man-made alpine lake with good camping. Good fishing, too, from the lurking shadows of trout I could make out. 

I pried myself away and continued up a stream valley. It was some of the first really nice single-track trail I'd seen on the Loop -- most other places that should have had great trail had been under snow. There were even other hikers here! Green, shady forests with meadows letting in the light. I spotted some movement off to my left and was surprised to see a porcupine.

 

I hiked through twilight and into ful dark before setting up my tarp right by the stream on a bed of pine needles.

Red River rest

June 2

Another breakfast, another smothered breakfast burrito. Green chile is such a flexible term that it seems to be meaningless. This morning's was in the camp where they believe it's sausage gravy with diced green chile suspended in it. Tasty, but odd.

By the time I hit the sidewalk out the restaurant, the bright morning sky was already beginning to be dotted with clouds, and the wind was picking up. I stopped into an outfitter and got a balaclava and a cheapo low-quality down vest on summer clearance. I'd no appetite for sleeping cold again, and the trail was going up high in this next hitch.

In the grocery store, enthusiasm wrestled caution and won. I walked out with a lot more food than I needed, a direct reaction to having walked into town with literally only peanuts to eat. 

Outside, I sat on the ubiquitous unoccupied bench that all grocery stores seem to feature. Field stripping my food -- removing excess packaging and sometimes repackage in ziplock -- I convinced myself to give up a couple things. Wouldn't be needing all ten packets of oatmeal from that box, after all. When I'd got my kit together, I tossed the garbage and stood there with a little box of extra food. What to do with it? 

An older woman walked by with what looked like her grandson, and I asked her is she wanted the food. I was pretty sure it would weird her out; the unintended implication might be that she needed charity.

But no. She looked at me, accepted it, and thanked me. "You just have extra and want to find someone who can use it," she said. Exactly, I replied.

By this time it was early afternoon the white fluffy clouds had turned into leaden hammer-of-the-gods clouds, When they broke into a sudden downpour of pea-sized hail, I did the brave thing and got a hotel for the night. I spent the rest of my day soaking in the hot tub and watching baseball. 

When night cane, I walked down to the bar to see a live rockabilly band in color-coordinated outfits play to an audience of ten, including the lone, hula-hooping dancer. I'm not too much of a dancer, but even if I had been, she was kind of taking all the oxygen from the room. I walked back to bed.

One of those days

June 1

I ate rare flank steak and eggs for breakfast (included with my one-per center mega-room) and packed up. Today was Wheeler Peak, the highest point on my trail (and the highest point in the state). It was going to be an alpine day, I knew.

Per my usual habit, I took the wrong road out of town, climbing a good 800 feet up the wrong mountain. I backtracked and followed a maze of dirt roads up a drainage toward Williams Lake, passing weird little houses and condo build sites along the way.

 

As soon as the road stopped and the trail began, everything was snow again. Hmm. I climbed up past the lake, and up steeply through forest. Wheeler Peak wasn't far -- just a few miles -- but it was still thousands of feet up from me.

I cleared treeline and saw steep snowfields above. Okay, on with the crampons and up I go. It was hard going, very steep and pretty darn cold. The elevation and elevation gain had me stopping every thirty teps or so. But the visual rewards were intense, as Wheeler Peak to my left was balanced by the high, snowy ridge to my right.

 

Podcasts are a very important part of my mental health when I hike. Probably my favorite is the Trail Show, which is a pretty hilarious podcast in which a bunch of long-distance hikers, friends of mine, get plastered on beer and talk about hiking. I was merrily listening to D-low talk about a trail in Peru he had hiked like ten years ago when they got to their "mailbag" segment. To my utter disbelief, my sweet Lily had sent in an on-the-dedication to me. Her letter stated that she would be on a research vessel and I would be hiking, so she wanted to use this podcast to say she loved me. It was the sweetest thing, and gave me the strength to keep plowing up the hill. P-mags, D-low, POD and Disco; Thank you! Lily: Thank you! Everyone: Listen to the Trail Show and GET ON THE TRAIL!

With fresh legs, I passed a group of young college-age men. No word of a lie, my pride loved the fact that I could blow them away. I kick-stepped my way up to the summit ridge, actually trying to stay on snow, as my crampons made it so easy to navigate. It was early, and the day was cold, so the snow was still nice and firm. Good snow.

After hitting the summit ridge, it was just a quick, breathless jaunt up to the summit proper. A group of state high point Peak naggers was there and took my picture. I took a lol at the weather that was starting to form and thought it'd be prudent to get the hell back down off the rock before any lightning storms found me. Man, lightning at elevation is terrifying!

 

The route took me further along the summit ridge, picking my way between unfortunately rotten snowfields on the eastern side of the ridge and rocky cliffs on the western. I eventually bombed off to the west and through a little basin. On the far side, I attained a little grassy ridge and spotted something moving about 100 yards away. Hey, I thought, those deer look odd.

They're not deer, I realized. They're bighorn sheep, including one really majestic ram.

 
It was a scene of great peace and dignity. I felt like I was being rewarded for being out there; I felt like I was winning. Snow, summit, bighorn, I wondered what else was going to happen today. It seemed like one of those days I have every few years in the mountains, days with so many events packed into one revolution of the earth that it stretches credulity. I had a day like that in 2011, on the CDT, when I herded elk down a valley, saw grizzly bears mating, and then almost got swept away during a river crossing. What's next?

Next, it turned out, was the thunderstorm that had been flirting with me for the better part of the day. To my relief, it hit when I was under forest cover. To my dismay, that forest cover held 100% snow cover as well. To my further dismay, the storm dumped hail on me for a full hour. Much of my afternoon was spent slogging my way through a trackless forest, hail in my face, deafening thunder and pee-your-pants lightning in the air above. 

The storm passed as I approached a pass into the next drainage. What, my goodness, what will be next?

Next was a super-steep sketchy descent into the Goose Creek drainage. The trail, which I am sure was nicely switchbacked, was hidden under a snowfield too steep for me to safely navigate. I took a few minutes to plan a route down, during which time a coyote came out of some bushes in the basin below. He looked up at me with a pretty clear "what the hell do you think you are doing?" pose and then trotted off down the drainage. Hey, Mr. Coyotr, I really don't know. At this point, I am just along for the ride.

I plunge-stepped down through some scree until I judged the snowslope to be safe enough to glissade (read: slide on my butt) down. Down in the basin, I looked for a trail and found none. Maybe there's a trail in the upper Goose Creek basin, but damned if I could find it.

The descent down the drainage was more cross-country through the snow. I was now bone-tired, and every deadfall and brushy obstacle seemed to sap another pint of my reserves. Below 10,000 feet, the snow started to clear, but I still couldn't find the trail. I'd find trail, but it would rapidly become clear that it had been abandoned, perhaps some remnant of earlier days. I eventually just roughed it out cross-country next to the creek, or even by walking down the creek itself. Heck, my feet weren't going to get any wetter.

And then, finally, a gloriously clear tread appeared. My mind released a hold of stress I hadn't even known it was carrying: I was going to make it down. The land became deeply fragrant with the smell of spring, of wet earth and fresh wood.

The trail bottomed out on the road into Red River, a little ski town. I walked into town, ate a steak, and got a room. Only 23 miles. Or, you know, a lifetime's worth of work and memories.

Real snow

May 31

There's nowhere to get a good hearty breakfast in Questa, but there is a gas station where a surly old man will give you a guilt trip for taking the last breakfast burrito in the warmer, and isn't that just as good? I sat at a veteran's memorial and munched my burrito, pondering all the men from Questa who'd died in Vietnam. It was a very good place, Questa, but it was nota large or affluent-seeming village. Many of the houses were falling down, and there were cattle grazing in several fields within the town. What a cost it must have been, I thought, to lose those members of the community.

The route out of town was the road out of town, Highway 38. I pounded down the pavement through a light drizzle. The weather just wouldn't cooperate. This is supposed to be a dry time of year, but I'd either gotten or been threatened by moisture pretty much every day. I stopped at a campground and had a cup of coffee, using supplies sent to me by Liz "Snorkel" Thomas, a long-distance hiker, writer, and friend. (She's doing a piece on coffee while camping, and I'm her field reviewer.) After making coffee, drinking it, and writing a fiercely negative review, I moved down the road.

It took a long, long time. I passed several signs of the closed molybdenum mine, including a creepy tower perched on the side of the canyon.

 

Haunted castle, anyone?

I finally reached the trailhead for the Columbine trail, and started up a beautiful canyon. 

Different ranges have different feels, a different sense of what for lack of a better term I guess I would call terroir. Yes, that sounds really stuck up. But the mix of air temperature, soil, vegetation and elevation I creates a distinct feeling in every mountain range I have ever been in. This range felt like the Trinity Alpa, my all-time favorite range. Couldn't tell you just why. But it was beautiful. The creek rushed by, the aspen's fresh leaves, and little pocket meadows brightened the forest. 

Then the snow started. First isolated snow banks, the snow coverage on most of the ground, then I was just walking in snow. It was slow going, and steep. I got out my crampons and strapped them on; half an hour later, I had to use my ice axe during a sketchy traverse. 

Huh, this is real snow, I thought. I tried not to think about what that meant for the rest of my hike, which will frequently get above 12,000 feet.It took me forever, but I finally topped out on a pass between the Columbine and Gavilan drainages. Downhill was easier, as I could plunge-step my way down the banks. Still, it was twilight when I finally landed back on the road. I hiked down the road into the Taos Ski Village, and realized that my whole day of hiking had only gotten me around 15 miles. That's not so auspicious, I thought.

But the Loco Moco at the ski village was great, and I got an absurdly nice room for what seemed an absurdly low rate in a hotel at the village. Like there's-a-candleholder-in-the-jacuzzi-bathtub nice. It was all kind of lost on me, though, as I passed out to a dead exhausted sleep.

Rio Redux

May 30

I was thoroughly refreshed after a good night's  sleep among the juniper. The morning took me along the base of big hills. Ahead, I could see the Sangre de Cristos looming. I could see sunlight reflecting off the roofs of Questa, the town I'd be resupllying in that evening. 

What I could not see was the Rio Grande, as it was hidden deep within its canyon. Today I'd cross the Rio for the second time, and the prospect had me pretty nervous. The first crossing had been challenging but doable, but it had been further downstream, where the river is wide and deep. My concern was that it would be rapids here. If I couldn't cross, I'd have to hike an extra 17 miles to get to a bridge, and then 17 miles back to the trail.At the rim, past a confusing sign ordering me to read my special trout-water proclamation, I peered down. Some rapids, yes. A stretch of pretty flat water too. Hmm. I polled my inner danger barometer, and found that today, adventure was a winner. Let's do this!

 

I picked my way down to the river, avoiding some poison oak along the banks. There was a nice fifty-foot stretch of fast but flat water; that would have to be enough to get me across. I found a nice sunny spot, assembled my paddle, inflated my raft, and tossed my pack inside. A couple deep breaths and then Inwas out into the current.

Getting out into the middle of the river was easy, as the current drew me in. Getting to the other side took a bit longer, but it worked. By gum, it worked! I kind of can't believe my crazy packraft plan actually panned out.

 

I started to pick my way downstream, as my map showed a trail up out of the canyon in less than a mile. But the travel along the canyon bottom was rough, very brushy, so I just climbed up to the rim. 

Quick political aside: This canyon and the surrounding land is all a National Monument. The Rio Grande del Norte Monument is, in fact, one of the monuments that our current minority-rule junta has said they want to open to development. If you are reading this, please go and comment that you'd like this natural gem to retain its protection! The danger is real with this administration. They have made it abundantly clear that they do not give a rats ass about conserving our natural heritage. They may not care about public comment, either, but we can at least try. Opening this to development would not bring lots of jobs; there's abundant grazing all around it, and with the closing of a nearby molybdenum mine, the resource extraction industry has just given up on this land. It's just a sop to the paramilitary Bundy dickheads.

Ahem, where were we? Right, up on the eastern rim of the canyon. I followed the rim for a mile or so, then picked up a dirt road into the hills. I tried the door of an odd little brick building at the side of the road, and it opened. Inside was a water spigot. I felt a little like a cat burglar, except I was not at all sneaky and I was just stealing water. 

The road turned into a trail, and the trail took me up over a ridge and down into Questa. I rolled into town, nabbed a mean green chile burger at the Wildcat's Den, and got a room. Laundry, shower, grocery resupply and feeding took up the rest of the day. After dark, I walked over to the Stop n Go, a convenience store-cum-bar, and played a couple racks of pool by myself. In case you're ever there: The copy of Fleetwood Mac's Tusk in the jukebox doesn't work.

A day in the wasteland

May 29

I woke after a bad night's sleep. There had been a rock right there where my hipbone met the ground, which is the biggest pea for this little princess. I ate, packed up, and dragged my ass along the route.

I followed the canyon for another few miles, walking along the rim or occasionally dropping g down into it for a quarter mile. A huge solo mountain, also named San Antonio, loomed ahead of me. At its base, I tacked right and started a pretty vigorous cross-country climb right up it's side. A couple thousand feet higher, I crested a saddle on the summit ridge and dropped down the other side, stopping to collect water from a spring bubbling out of the ground. A dirt road appeared and I took it, all the way down into the plains on the other side of the mountain. As I approached the bottom, I passed several signs telling me I had just been trespassing. My map showed it all as public property...

Once down on the plains, I started a long hike through a flat, almost featureless sagebrush plain. My landmarks, usually a solar well or stock trough water source, were few and far between. So were stretches of two-track road. I gave up trying to follow the map's route and just took bearings toward the next checkpoint.

In the middle of the day, and seemingly in the middle of nowhere, I came across thirty cows at a trough.

 

I kept going. The hours dribbled into the past, and I began to wonder if I was going to camp in this wasteland place. Pretty windy, and I wouldn't want to be stuck there in a thunderstorm, I thought. I picked up the pace.

Slowly, a couple hills began to appear in the distance. The sun was setting behind me as I got close to them. They had trees, and trees meant some shelter from the wind. It was with immense gratitude that I found a copse of junipers in the last light of the day. They formed a little hollow, carpeted with their needles and fragrant with their berries. I put out my ground cloth, made dinner, and passed out.