Chiricahua

Curiosity and ambition are the two main motivating factors that drive my travels. I have a huge goal to visit every unit of the national park system, and that combined with a general lack of tight schedules while traveling leave me with ample opportunity to stop at roadside attractions on a whim. These same factors compel me to drive every scenic byway marked on a map (because I still use paper maps, especially due to my tendency to visit places with little to no cell service), which is why I found myself heading to Chiricahua National Monument in southeastern Arizona on my way home from a week in the desert.

I hadn't been quite ready to return home, though I wasn't actively looking for ways to stall, and once the little green square on the map caught my attention I knew I'd be checking it out. I'd never heard of Chiricauhua, though I suppose that's not too difficult to believe considering it's a ways away from basically every major transportation corridor in the area. I didn't mind the distraction, and turned off at the appropriate exit to make my way across rolling plains deep in a valley between rugged desert mountain ranges. This little national monument lies nestled at the foot of one of these mountain ranges, and my approach was overshadowed by a looming storm. At lower elevations the precipitation was rain, though as I climbed up into the mountains by way of the two-lane monument drive the rain turned to sleet. It was a mixture of sleet and snow by the time I reached the visitors center, and full on snowing when I left the building a few minutes later.

Chiricahua is a place where five of the seven "life zones" in the northern hemisphere are stacked on top of each other in the space of a few miles, defined by differences in elevation, moisture, soil, and sun exposure. Starting at the lowest elevations we see the Lower Sonoran Zone characterized by bare patches of earth sprinkled with thorny desert plants, followed by the Upper Sonoran, Transition, Canadian, and finally the Hudsonian Zone above 9000 feet, where spruce, fir, and aspens thrive. Microhabitats are everywhere, catering to a multitude of species that otherwise would never converge here. Mountain-dwelling bears share the area with desert tortoises, deer are everywhere, and there are more birds in this location than nearly anywhere else in the Sonoran Desert.

One species I didn't see as I made my way up the scenic drive was humans. I didn't see a single other person as I drove, winding through canyons and along mountainside cliffs to the road's end at the summit, though hindsight shows that was probably due to the storm that was intensifying in the higher elevations of the park. The snow was heavier at the top, several inches already laying in dripping sheets over the parking lot and picnic tables that supposedly showcased unrivaled views of the valley below. During my visit I could barely see the tops of the ponderosas next to me, let alone the valley bottom, and I didn't linger at the top for long. I had no desire to take a tumble down the mountainside on my way back down along the increasingly slick road, and threw my car into the lowest gear possible in order to keep it under control. I left none too soon - they closed the park road just after I left.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Tuff

In all my years of traveling, all my miles in the car and on foot, I have never been tired of saying "that's something I haven't seen before." The tuff cliffs comprising the Frijoles Canyon of Bandelier National Monument are certainly in this category. Tuff is compressed volcanic ash, deposited in this area by two enormous volcanic eruptions more than a million years ago. Over time erosion carved canyons and mesas into the land, exposing tuff in places like the cliffs picture above. It's density depends on how quickly it cooled, and tuff can range from very hard to incredibly crumbly. The cliffs of Bandelier National Monument err on the side of crumbly, which, in addition to the perennial water source, attracted ancient Pueblo people to populate the arid land. The bigger caves in the cliffs above aren't all natural - most of them have been enlarged by hand to provide living spaces for the ancient dwellers, and most of the post-holes pecked into the walls to provide roofs over the shelters still exist. Look closely at the picture and you can see masonry in the bottom third, leading up the slope to the cliff, as more evidence of ancient civilization. I truly hope I never get tired of seeing new things.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Marble Canyon

No, it's not really made of marble, but the canyon carved through rust-red sandstone by the Colorado River as it makes its way toward the Grand Canyon might as well be. Or, at least the water in the river might be made of green marble for all its swirls and eddies. I stopped at an overlook as I crossed the Colorado River for the last time during my trip to the Southwest in February, and couldn't help but stare down at the absolutely green waters of the river far below. I mean, I've seen blue rivers, red rivers, brown rivers, but this green was something new. With all the silt churning in it, the waters really kind of did look like marble. I would absolutely love to get the chance to raft that river someday; someday I'll make it happen. For now, I'll content myself with admiring from above.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: California Condors

I SAW CONDORS!! Do you have any idea how excited I was (and still am!) to have the chance to see these incredible, highly endangered birds? I mean, I'm a bird nerd, alright?? I had pulled over at an overlook right on the Colorado River south of the Utah/Arizona border, meaning to get out and look at the river. There happened to be a few Native Americans selling jewelry and trinkets set up in the lot, and I took the time to browse through their goods. I got to chatting with a couple ladies when one of them suddenly points over my head and said "oh look, condors" like it was no big deal. I got way too excited and ran back to my car to get my telephoto lens, but by the time I returned they had perched on a cliff just a little too far out of my lens range. I hung around for an hour (no, I'm not kidding) waiting to see if they would fly. They did, but in the wrong direction! I'd wanted them to fly over me, or at least a little closer, but they took off down canyon and I didn't get my shot. That's okay though, I'm already planning my return trip next year. Maybe I'll be in the right place at the right time to see these amazing birds again. And I walked away this year with a few pictures and and a pretty little kokopelli necklace, so I really can't complain.

Leave me a comment below and tell me if you've ever seen a California Condor!

Desert Castles and Cat Walks

Joyous. When chasing wintertime sun and heat, you head south. This was exactly what I was doing when I decided to take a side trip to Montezuma Castle National Monument as I drove south from Zion National Park (where I had spent the night tent camping with temperatures around 10 degrees). I had been cruising along pretty well on the interstate south of Flagstaff when I noticed signs for Montezuma Castle. Being me, I couldn't pass up a visit to a national parks unit so close to my route, so Hoodoo and I got off the interstate to make a stop. We weren't disappointed! While I always enjoy seeing Pueblo ruins, especially those built into alcoves like the one above, this little national monument gets extra points because I could bring Hoodoo on the short paved loop trail to the views!

Bringing a pet on national park/monument trails is almost unheard of, due to a number of factors including resource preservation, wildlife safety, public safety, and the pet's own safety. There are a few units where pets are allowed (looking at you, Great Sand Dunes!) but for the most part pets are restricted to the roads, parking lots, and established campgrounds of most parks. When I checked in at the visitor center I asked the rangers if pets were allowed. When they confirmed, I got probably a little too excited and told them about Hoodoo. Well, who doesn't love an adventure cat? The ladies at Montezuma Castle certainly did, and they came out to meet him. He was perfect, walking on his leash even in a group of other visitors as we made our collective way along the path. He paused to sniff everything (I swear he's more like a dog than a cat!) and took his time wandering down the trail, but we weren't in a hurry. The sun felt great, it was warm enough for only a light jacket, and we were close enough to our destination near Tucson that I didn't feel the need to rush. And the ruins of Montezuma Castle? Icing on the cake of a gorgeous walk.

Searching for Winter

Seeking. I went in search of Winter, and I found it waiting for me. This February right after leaving the Grandmaster Ultras in Littlefield, AZ I had initially thought I'd spend a few days chasing the sun in southern Arizona, soaking up as many rays as possible before returning to rainy East Texas. Instead of heading directly south, though, I went up to Zion National Park, right across the Arizona/Utah border and only an hour or so from the race location. I don't know quite what made me go there. Maybe it was because I had forgotten how freshly fallen snow glitters in the sun, like so many diamonds sparking in a jeweler's case. Maybe it was because I needed to feel the sting of frozen air on my cheeks to remember why I don't live in places where breathing hurts. Whatever it was, I got my fair share of freezing temperatures and snow-covered red rock canyons during my visit.

Winter is the only time of the year private vehicles are allowed to drive the scenic road into Zion Canyon. Visitation during the summer months is too high, which the park combats by utilizing a shuttle system to take visitors and hikers to various stops within the canyon. I took advantage of this allowance to drive the canyon road myself, stopping at nearly every pull-out to take in the snow-dusted canyon walls. The Virgin River, responsible for carving Zion out of sandstone, was a churning, chilly thread along the bottom of the canyon, rimmed with ice.

Zion is a whole new park in the winter. With the canyon bottom frozen, trees bare, and walls devoid of the famous hanging gardens, you can't help but be reminded that this is a desert. Sure, the canyon walls provide cool relief and abundant water during the summer months, allowing herds of mule deer and other wildlife a place to flourish, but while those animals are still around during winter the lack of greenery makes the canyon look stark in comparison.

I really, really enjoyed the lack of crowds during this visit. I had Hoodoo with me so didn't get a chance to hit the trails, but just from driving along the park roads and being able to find a parking space was a huge difference between summer and winter in Zion. And the fresh inches of snow covering the park when I woke up after spending the night? Perfection. Is there anything better than red rock covered in snow? I got my taste of winter for the year, and while I couldn't get enough of the views I could definitely do without the freezing temperatures. It was down to ten degrees overnight while I was (tent!!) camping. And once I left the canyon bottom for upper elevations it dropped to zero degrees. I made my way south as quickly as I could after that.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: A Cursed Place - or - The Second Time My Car Died (While Traveling)

I don't really believe in curses. Except that sometimes, maybe I do. I'm inclined to believe in bad vibes, at the very least, when it comes to being near Page, Arizona. The first time I was passing through Page I had to stay at a hotel where not one but two different rooms' bathrooms had plumbing issues. I was cold, exhausted, and recovering from the flu (sick while traveling, yuck) and in the end decided to say screw it and go without a shower. Okay, not so bad, right? First world problems and all that, nothing that would make me put Page on my black list of places I won't return to. The second time I was near Page I was travelling with my sister on our way to the Grand Canyon. We'd been sightseeing along the road and stopped at an overlook to get a view of the desert from a plateau. We weren't even out of the car for five minutes, and when we returned it wouldn't start. You can read about that whole issue here. This time around, I was passing through the area at sunset on a rather cold and windy February evening and decided I was finally going to make the trek to the Horseshoe Bend overlook, 3/4 of a mile round trip from a dusty parking lot brimming with other vehicles and a line-up of port-a-potties. I took Hoodoo with me as we made the short walk, saw the Colorado River far below, watched the sun set beyond the distant mountains, and walked back to the car. Which wouldn't start. Because of course it wouldn't. By the time I looked around I was the last one in the parking lot and felt panic constrict my chest as I considered that it was likely nobody would come by until morning. Fortunately by some miracle I had cell service (thank you, Verizon) and was able to call my husband, but what was he going to do to help me, so many hundreds of miles away? Then I noticed construction lights and all but ran to wave down a couple of guys for help. They jumped the car and pointed me in the direction of Page, two miles down the road. I barely held back tears of relief when my car started and I made it to the closest Walmart. Their auto department was closing but the gentleman was kind enough to stay late and help me determine the problem, then purchase and change out the battery while I shivered in the desert's winter night. By the way, this was a whole new car, different from the one whose battery had died last time. My car ordeal only delayed me by an hour or so (I was on my way to meet up with Torrey in Mesquite, NV), but it definitely has me thinking twice about traveling near Page again. I will anyway because that area is a hotbed of desert recreation and I'm a sucker for those red rock canyons, but the next time I go anywhere near Page I'll be sure to time my arrival in broad daylight with a full tank of gas, other emergency necessities, and might even wear a good luck charm or two. Just to be safe. Anybody got a talisman I could borrow?

Leave me a comment and tell me about any place where you seem to keep running into bad luck. It doesn't even need to be while traveling; is there a cafe you avoid, or a road you won't turn down?

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Wilderness

Wilderness. What do you think of when you read that word? Untouched forests or deserts, nobody around for miles? Elation? Fear? Animals and things that go bump in the dark? When I see wilderness, I see solitude and freedom, adventure and challenge. I see a place to test myself against myself, and hopefully come out stronger. Wilderness is a place where I recharge, where I go to get away from life and people and stress. It is a place that deserves to be cherished and protected, a place that brings different things to different people, but all the same "plans to protect air and water, wilderness and wildlife, are in fact plans to protect man." - Stewart Udall, the man who helped draft the Wilderness Act in 1964.

Wilderness is a place "where man himself is a visitor who does not remain."

For those of you who celebrate, Merry Christmas! For those of you who don't Happy Tuesday!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Bandelier

More dwelling ruins! This time around Alisha and I were wrapping up our Mountains to Desert adventures with a stop at Bandelier National Monument in New Mexico. Etched into volcanic cliffs are dozens of roughly rectangular rooms, fronted by even more adobe and stone ruins. The cliffs are made of stone called tuff, and is very soft and chalky, which apparently made it easy for the ancestors to carve their homes. You can even see the post holes picked into the rock, outlining each cubby! The cliffs are also prone to small natural caves which were also inhabited, and a few of them even had the soot stains from cooking fires along the ceilings. The dwellings line a canyon carved by the baby Rio Grande, which at that point is a permanent water source in the surrounding desert. Talk about a neat place to live!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Catching the Sunrise

Being in the right place at the right time to capture this view of the sunrise over the La Sal Mountains and Buck Canyon in Canyonlands National Park was not intentional. Alisha and I had camped on BLM land on top of the mesa near the entrance to Canyonlands and were up well before dawn with the intention of watching a sunrise through Mesa Arch. A popular photography spot, we knew it would be crowded but we were in no way prepared for the people who were straight up sitting under the arch itself, making it impossible to get a photo of the sunrise and the arch without some idiot's head in the shot. We were there for all of ten minutes or so before we got frustrated enough with the blatant rudeness and gave up. Instead, we hurried up the road a little ways to the overlook for Buck Canyon and ran (literally) to the viewpoint. We were in time to watch the sky light up and guild the clouds with the first rays of the day's sun, and saw the desert below us color with life. We had the view all to ourselves, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Those people didn't know what they were missing.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Schafer's Trail

Do you see the smooth white line that runs down the middle of the picture, and then trace the line coming out of the lower left corner along the edge of that thousand foot cliff? Yeah, that's Schafer's Trail, a dirt road that takes you from the top of Canyonlands National Park Island in the Sky District all the way down to the Colorado River near Moab, Utah. The road itself if bumpy and not one to take if you're afraid of heights, but it is one of the easiest ways to get into the belly of Canyonlands National Park. It joins up with the White Rim Road, a hundred mile route around the white rim (you can see it in  this picture, the road leads to it), which sits a thousand feet below the top of the mesa, yet also a thousand feet above the Colorado and Green Rivers. Never do I wish for a four-wheel drive vehicle as when I see this road! Some day!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Gila Cliff Dwellings

I will never, ever get tired of visiting cliff dwellings. Ancient Native American dwellings like those in Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument located in southwestern New Mexico dot the desert southwest, and though they share many similarities, each holds stories and a history unique to themselves. Most are built within sandstone alcoves, usually with a tiny little seep spring at the back that provides life-giving water, or else on a shelf above seasonal creeks that flood less often than they're dry. Occasionally though a series of alcoves and shelves are jammed full of stone and mud dwellings above a perennial stream, and it is there that you know the ancestors truly flourished. Time has erased their little farming plots, where they grew corn, squash, and beans, leaving only the grind stones and broken pottery behind to mark the passing of the years. The drier the area, the better preserved the ruins, and sometimes even the original timber support poles remain in place, though the roofs they supported are long gone. If you ever get the chance to check out cliff dwellings, don't pass up the opportunity!

The Gila Mishap: Saving Myself

Self-Reliant. I would be lying if I said I woke up refreshed. Every inch of  my body hurt, from my blistered toes to the top of my head, which I had apparently bumped at some point the day before judging from the egg-sized lump on the side of my head. Neither Callie nor Ghost so much as lifted their head as I struggled out of my sleeping bag, reluctant to start the day. I still hadn't made up my mind whether I was going to head upstream or climb out of the canyon, and pondered the decision as I went about breakfast and breaking camp. I had half a mind to stay with the stream, terrified to leave the promise of water, though I had pretty much given up hope that the trail I was looking for was just around the next corner. I turned to my map and puzzled over it, trying and failing to pinpoint where I was. I knew that the second stream should be anywhere from two to four miles straight east of me, and with any luck I should be able to reach it and find a way down into it's canyon by the end of the day. With that goal in mind, I made my decision: I would abandon this stream, climb out and strike east across country until I hit the next stream, where I would climb into the canyon and stay there for the night. Short, little steps, breaking down my ultimate goal of getting to the Gila River and the road into managable, attainable goals. Assuming I didn't get cliffed out or forced to circumvent hazards. Hopefully.

I loaded my pack, filtered water until every bottle was brimming, drank as much as I could, encouraged the dogs to do so as well, then tackled our first hurdle: climbing out. I'd chosen a camp site that I thought would offer a somewhat easy way to get out of the canyon in the case of a flash flood, and it was up a short gully that I now had to climb. Callie, of course, went easily, though I had to lift her in places where she was too small and the ledge too narrow for her to make the jump safely. Ghost, of course, was a problem. I all but carried his seventy-five pound butt up the gully while huffing and puffing myself, with my ribs protesting on every gasped breath. He was all stiff legs and scrambling paws, fighting me with every step. I was more than frustrated with him by the time we reached the top where Callie waited patiently for us, and I dumped him on the ground and growled at both of them to stay put as I went back to the bottom for my pack. I climbed that thing three times, and I have no desire to ever see it again. Eventually though, we were all out, and made our way to the top of the closest ridge to try to get a couple landmarks to navigate by. It was there that my heart leapt into my throat. A building! Far away, on the other side of multiple canyons and hills, but unmistakably a building. I let the relief flow through me, until I tempered it with the acknowledgement that I likely wasn't going to reach it that day. No, I knew better than to think I could make it across the canyons and hills in one day, even if I was at full health and had unlimited water. Distances in the desert are deceptive, and I knew enough to stick to my original goal of making it to the next creek. I still headed towards the building, because there was definite proof of civilization, people, a road, and everything else that would keep me from dying in the desert, but the building just so happened to be in the general direction I needed to go to hit the creek anyway, and that way was as good as any other. I stayed as high as I could, keeping to ridges and hill tops whenever possible. There were many times where I would come across something my brain tried to tell me was a trail, though it always ended up being a game trail or a small wash or just a patch of bare earth. I avoided going into the ravines that popped up on either side of me, wanting to keep the building and other landmarks in sight, but this approach presented a problem: cliffing out. At some point or another, there was every chance that I would come to a place where I could go no farther forward and would be forced down into a ravine, where if I was unlucky I would have to climb down a cliff. If I were really unlucky I would make a climb, find out I couldn't go any farther down, yet be unable to go back up. There has been more than one case of someone dying from thirst within sight of water, but being unable to reach it because they were stuck on a cliff. I was determined to not let that happen to me, so resolved to stay as high as I could for as long as possible, and if climbing down became necessary I wouldn't take a step bigger than a foot or two, theoretically ensuring I could climb back up.

It was slow going, with desert scrub catching at my legs and pack with every step and the sun beginning its merciless scorching of anything living or dead. Soon I was bleeding again, blood dripping down my legs and soaking into my socks, and my ribs throbbed with every breath and step. Ghost and Callie were both limping and trying their best to stay in any shady patches they could find. Often times I would look around and realize they weren't with me, but had stopped on their own some ways back in the shade of a juniper or pinyon, panting and trying to cool down. I was careful with the water, more careful than I was on the first day, but we all stopped and drank sips of water often. I wanted to make it to the creek before midday, but I didn't want us to go down with heat exhaustion on the way there. Plus, I figured we had all day, and even if it took us six hours to make it to the creek we'd be ok at the end. As I walked, I realized I was being funneled between two deepening ravines, and my options for climbing safely down into one of them were narrowing. I could always backtrack and get into one where it was more shallow, following the creek bed like I had the day before and hoping there wasn't a dryfall that would make my life (more) difficult, but I took my chances and kept going forward. If there was a way down into the ravines from the tip of the ridge I was on, I was going to try that way. Once at the edge I looked down. The climb down to bottom where the two ravines merged together was steep, but it was less a cliff and more of a slope, and I considered it managable. Then I looked out and for the second time that day my heart leapt: green! I was completely correct in my distance estimate, there was a stream within eyesight! I just had to get down to it. As I stared at the green strip indicating water, I heard a sound I honestly couldn't identify. Then, as I watched in astonishment, a car drove between the mouth of the ravine and the green strip of land I was staring at. 

The sight of the car, and I presumed the road it was driving on though I couldn't see the concrete, completely threw me. If the road was there, then the green strip sheltered the Gila River, and if that was the river and not the creek I thought I had been aiming for, then I was so far off on where I had guessed I was located that I may as well not have even been in the same state. To be honest, right then and there I didn't give a shit about how wrong I was regarding where I was, I just wanted to get off the damn ridge and onto that road. I didn't completely lose my head though, because cliffing out was still a real possiblility and I needed to get to the bottom of the ravine before anything else could happen. I went slow, picking a meandering, angling path down the slope, holding on to tree roots and branches as I eased myself, gear, and dogs downwards to safety. The last six or so feet were the hardest, with me unable to find a way down that didn't involve a drop of three or four feet. Even that little distance, in our state, could have ended in a broken bone and while I knew with the road so close that it wouldn't kill us, I still wanted to avoid it. I lowered Callie down first, holding on to her front legs while her back legs kicked until they made contact. I dropped my pack after her, no longer caring about being gentle with it now that I didn't have to rely on it to survive. Ghost came more willingly than before, though he put on the brakes when it came to actually dropping the last few feet. Eventually I kicked his back legs out from under him and he dropped, though he stopped flailing when he realized there was flat, solid ground under his feet. I came last, sliding down on my ass in an undignified heap. I didn't care. A few more feet, and our shoes and paws touched concrete.

I wanted to sit down and cry, but we weren't done yet. I had no idea where on the road we were, but the road dead ended at Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument, and I had parked about five miles from the visitor center. I picked the direction I hoped my car was in, and began walking. No cars passed me in either direction, and the sun was sweltering at midday, but there was plenty of shade along the road and we took it easy. I knew the pavement was burning the dog's paws so wrapped them as best I could, but I had to keep them moving. One way or another we were reaching my car that day. A couple of miles of road walking later, we limped onto the driveway of a small convenience store and sat in a heap on their porch. I poured the dogs a bowl of water and sat against a pole in the shade, thankful for a break. After a rest, I tied the dogs to the pole and headed inside, determined to get a cold bottle of water and figure out where I was. I ended up talking to the owner, and once he got a good look at me and asked why I looked so rough he offered a ride to my car. I was thrilled! He helped me get my pack and dogs into his truck and drove me the rest of the way (only another two miles) to my car, where we had to lift and carry both dogs from his back seat to my back seat as they both refused to leave his air conditioned cab. I thanked him profusely for his help, and he waved me off as I settled into the driver's seat, air conditioner blasting. I took a few minutes to decompress and allowed the realization that it was over to wash over me. I was safe, my dogs were safe, I was back among civilization, and I had never been so glad to see my vehicle. I still had to drive two hours through canyons, mountains, and forests before I could get enough cell service to call Jared, but just the thought of being able to hear his voice again made me start to cry. It was only three day since I had started out on my trip, but I had had more than enough. I wanted to go home.

Read about how I got lost at The Gila Mishap: Losing the Trail, and the decisions I made that led me to water at The Gila Mishap: Difficult Decisions.

Note: It took weeks for my bruised ribs to heal, and I still have the scars on my arms and legs from bushwacking sixteen miles through the desert. Ghost and Callie were placed on pain medications, and Ghost was put on antibiotics to combat infection in all four of his paws. We wrapped his paws for a week, and it took him as long as it took me to bounce back to normal. This whole situation shook my confidence quite a bit, and I lay on my couch, hiding in my house for days before feeling like facing anybody but Jared again. Callie still got excited when I pulled my gear out to pack for my latest trip, but I very much doubt Ghost will ever want to come with me again. I'm pretty sure I learned more from this trip than any other over the last four years, and they are lessons I'm unlikely to forget. I've never been so happy to be home.

The Gila Mishap: Difficult Decisions

Dismayed. Our second day in the Gila Wilderness started off optimistic. I was sure we'd hit the stock tank within an hour or two, before it got too hot, and once at the tank we would find the trail. We were off just after dawn, bushwacking our way through the desert scrub and scattered ponderosa pines while trying to stick to the top of ridges and high points for better vantage points. I thought for sure I had found the trail when we came across a compact track along the edge of a ridge, but my hopes were dashed as we reached the top of a small mountain and the track fizzled into scrub bush and prickly pear cacti. It was there, on the top of the mountain where there should have been the trail, that I finally had to admit to myself that I was lost. And our situation was borderline desperate. Although I had been careful, we were down to a couple of mouthfuls of water and the desert was quickly heating up, though it wasn't yet mid-morning. I thought I knew which way we had come from, but I began second-guessing myself and pretty soon I wasn't sure at all. I found myself a seat along a charred log, remnant of some long-dead fire, and took stock. We were alone, I couldn't see a trail or any movement beyond the flapping wings of birds, the day was promising to be brutally hot, and we were out of water. We were sitting on the top of a tall hill/small mountain, I thought the trail I needed should be just to the north of my current position, which meant we had come from the south, but I wasn't even sure of that. And we were out of water. Wandering around the desert in the direction I thought the trail might be, or going back in the direction the river we'd left behind the day before might be in, both options with no water, did not sound smart to me, though I knew I couldn't stay on the top of the hill forever. We'd die of thirst within three days if nobody came to look for us. No, staying put was not an option, going north toward the possibiltiy of a trail was stupid, and going back toward the river that was a minimum of eight miles south of us (possibly) would have left one or all of us with heat stroke. The way I saw it, we had one choice: down.

The hill we were sitting on was cut by a shallow ravine that snaked its way east, toward a couple of creeks that I knew from the map cut across the wilderness and emptied into the Gila River. I reasoned that if I could reach a creek, I could figure out where I was. And, most importantly, get water. Once I made my decision, I willingly gave up on my desire to find the trail at that moment and focused on the only thing that mattered: getting into the ravine. I led Ghost and Callie out from their shady spot under a juniper tree and headed down the steep slope of the hill, cutting at an angle that would take me down the gully while dropping in elevation. There was always a chance of finding water high up in the gully, but I wasn't that optimistic; I knew we'd have to follow it down until it reached the perennial creek before we were going to be able to get a drink. By my map, I guessed that we'd have about four or so miles to hike down the ravine before we hit the creek, and I estimated that it would take us a whole four hours to do so. Hiking off trail is not easy, and you're lucky if you can go as fast as a mile an hour. Creek beds, even dry creek beds like the one at the bottom of the ravine, are usually choked full of vegetation, flood debris, and are pitted with waterfalls (dryfalls when no water is present), boulders, and sink holes. Our approach dropped us into the ravine gradually, and it was as we were skirting around a boulder near the bottom that I noticed the track worn into the sandy soil. I'd been watching my feet instead of my surroundings, so got quite the suprise when I looked up and found us facing what was clearly a den. There were canine tracks all around the pile of dirt dug up from under an overhanging boulder, complete with the scattered bones of past meals, and a clear track that led downstream from the den site. I wasn't very keen on trying to stop a fight between my dogs and wild canines of some kind (whether coyote or the endangered Mexican Grey Wolf, I have no idea) so we hightailed it downstream and put as much distance as possible between us and the den. It hadn't looked like anybody was home, but May is smack dab in the middle of denning season, when the pups are just coming out to explore the world, and mothers are known to be fiercely protective. The canine track was clear, and followed the path of least resistance downstream, so Ghost, Callie, and I stuck to it. Not only was it the easiest path, but there was no way a den would be located too far away from a water source, and following the canine's trail would be the quickest way to find it. The only thing that could've been better would have been a man-made trail with a sign saying "water this way", but I took what I could get. It still wasn't an easy hike. The canines are shorter than humans, and I found myself crawling under or over downed logs or swatting aside branches more often than not, while Ghost and Callie breezed through like it was nothing. We moved along quickly at first, though after a time the ravine deepened into a canyon and narrowed, creating debris dams across the creek bed, and we began to come across more and more dry falls. The first few were easy, a step or two down a rock and we could move on, but it wasn't long before we had to stop and search for a way around or down the dryfall. The canine trail we were following always dispersed and disappeared in these areas, and it seemed as if each individual member of the pack found their own way downstream until they reconverged further on. We had down-climbed several shorter dry falls with relative ease, but I stopped short at the tallest one yet. The creek bed dropped away from under our feet for what may as well have been a mile, and it was around this time that I found out Ghost is afraid of heights.

While I searched for a somewhat safe down-climb that wouldn't leave me in a pile of broken bones at the bottom, Ghost absolutely refused to come within ten feet of the edge, insead retreating to a safe distance and laying on his belly while a low whine rumbled from his throat. I ignored him while I searched and eventually found a way I thought we could climb down, though there was no way I could do it while wearing my backpack. I always carry a length of rope with me (because I'm a good boyscout), but was concerned about it breaking under the weight of my pack. Instead, I tied the two dog leashes together and looped one end around my pack, then lay on my stomach right at the edge to slowly lower my gear over the falls. Both leashes are six feet long, and when my pack finally touched the creek bed below my arm was fully extended over the edge and barely holding on to my end of the leashes, but my gear was down without incident. Then it was our turn. I went first, coaxing Callie and Ghost along with me. Callie followed willingly enough, though she was cautious. I'd like to think the years of hiking with me has instilled some trust into her, to know that I'll always catch her, and that trust showed when she jumped to me over a particularly scary spot on our descent. Her and I reached the bottom with no issues, and she promptly lay down in the shade to rest. Ghost, on the other hand, was a problem. He had followed Callie to the edge, but stopped short when we went over it and stood back, crying in a way that I've never heard before. He was terrified, and I was leaving him behind. I scrambled back up the was I'd come after getting Callie safely down, and did everything in my power to calm Ghost down. I'd snagged one of the dog leashes on my way back up, and it was only by slipping it over his head and forcing him to follow me that I even got him to begin the descent. Then, halfway down, the idiot dog decided he wanted to be on flat ground that instant and before I could do anything, he jumped. And of course, landed poorly. I slid the rest of the way down to where he was crying again, frantic and terrified he'd broken a leg. He was shaking and crying, and practically flung himself at me for comfort as I skidded to a stop next to him. The three of us sat there for a long while, resting and recovering from our climb, but eventually I coaxed the dogs up again. Ghost didn't want to put any weight on his back right leg, but he would use it carefully once we got going. It wasn't broken, but it definitely didn't feel good either. I watched him carefully after that, especially as we climbed down a few more dryfalls, though nothing as bad as the twelve foot one.

It was at the base of the last dry fall that we finally found what we'd been looking for: water! A tiny seep spring oozed out from under a small rock, just enough to wet the ground under a bed of last winter's leaves. I dug with my hands until enough water filled the small bowl for the dogs to get a drink, though there wasn't enough for me. I didn't mind, because a spring there meant we weren't far from a real creek, and it wasn't long before the rushing sound of water over rocks reached our ears. Soon I could see sunlight reflected off a small creek, and once we stumbled out of the canyon we'd been trapped in for six hours it was all I could do to shed my pack, grab my filter, and throw myself into the water. Callie and Ghost hopped right in after me, and we all drank our fill as we lay in the clear, cool water. We stayed put for over an hour, resting, drinking, and filling up the bottles. I pulled my map out and identified where I thought we were, and guessed that we were a half-mile to a mile downstream from the trail I had meant to be on. I considered following the creek downstream, to the Gila River and the road that parallels it (the only road for miles in any direction) but the topographic map indicated a steep drop in the creek bed further down from where I was, and I wasn't dumb enough to think we could survive down-climbing an active waterfall, especially not with my pack, Ghost's injury, and a lack of climbing equipment. We'd gotten lucky already that Ghost hadn't broken anything, and I wasn't about to push that luck further than needed. So, we headed upstream.

The stream and surrounding canyon were vibrant and gorgeous, shaded and cool and a perfect mix of pale, rusty rocks with bright green vegetation. Springs seeped down rocky walls and hanging gardens crowded the damp ledges, while little fish flitted around our feet as we walked through the knee-deep water. At every curve in the creek I looked for a way in or out of the canyon, keeping a sharp eye out for something that looked like a trail. In places the clear creek was wide and shallow, no deeper than my ankles or knees, while in some places the canyon walls closed in and the water deepened to a dark, clear green with murky depths. In most places where this happened the water level rose to my waist and I had to hoist my pack higher to keep my gear dry. It was there that Callie transformed into her graceful, lithe, water-loving self and swam circles around me as I slogged through the sandy creek bed. Ghost, on the other hand, would stand where the water could touch his chest and whine until he realized I wasn't coming back for him, at which point he would launch himself as far as he could towards me then attempt to walk on top of the water, splashing and carrying on until all three of us were drenched. It was only by walking backwards, facing Ghost, that I kept my gear dry; wet clothes and sleeping bag would spell hypothermia within hours at night, and I really, really didn't want to have to deal with that on top of everything else. Our biggest challenge of the day, even bigger than bushwacking without water and down-climbing dryfalls, came when I tried to cross another pool that turned out to be deeper than I anticipated. Fortunately I was going slow so when the bottom dropped out from under one foot I was able to back up quickly enough to keep my pack dry. I backed up to a sand bar and dropped my pack, going forward alone to find a way across the pool. As I went, the water only got deeper until it was up to my shoulders, though that was as deep as it got. At the far side was a ledge at chest height where the pool ended, and a dry place I could put my pack once I got it across. I headed back to the sand bar and the dogs, who had been watching me with various degrees of anxiety (none, in Callie's case, overwhelming, in Ghost's), and grabbed my pack. With some effort I hoisted it over my head and held it up, feeling with my feet as I crossed the pool. Once I secured my pack above the water on the other side, I kicked off the rock and swam back, gliding on my back while letting the sun warm my face. The water felt marvelously cool, and for a moment I pretended that I was just taking a break before continuing on a long trail, that I wasn't lost, alone, in the desert, and that I would be able to call Jared and tell him about the amazing swimming hole I had found. The spell ended when I straightened up and walked the rest of the way back to the dogs. Callie was ready to follow me, but once again I had to leash Ghost and force him to get in the water. He tried to cling to me as we went across the pool, and if I hadn't already been completely soaked from my swim I would have been from Ghost's splashing. I lifted Callie out of the water and onto the rock ledge next to my pack, and it was as I was trying to shove Ghost out of the water that it happened: a rock I'd been standing on shifted and I slipped, coming down hard on my right arm and ribs, knocking the wind out of me. The next thing I knew I had slipped under, and it was a reflexive kick that jerked me back to the surface before I could open my mouth and inhale a lungful of water. I scrambled onto the dry ledge as best I could, gasping and coughing and just trying to breathe. My ribs screamed in agony and I was staining my clothes red from the blood on my elbow, but I didn't move as I tried to breathe again. I have no idea how long passed, thirty seconds or thirty minutes, before I finally gathered myself and sat up. Every movement sent a stab of pain through my right side, and I knew then and there that I wasn't going much farther that day. I had already fallen into the trap of thinking the trail had to be right around the next corner, it was right around the next curve, it had to be. I was fooling myself. The trail wasn't there, I wasn't where I thought I was, the day was growing old, I was soaking wet, I was now injured, and I was facing another night lost in the desert. At least this time I had water. It was torture to put my pack on again, but there was nowhere big enough for me to pitch my tent where we were at, and I knew we had to go on a little bit more. We went a whole lot more slowly, little steps with frequent rests from then on, stopping whenever it hurt too much to breathe. I was bleeding all over my clothes and pack, but I hardly cared. All I wanted was to find a place to stop for the night, change into dry clothes, and sleep away the horrible second day.

I finally found a place above the creek on a sand bar just big enough to squeeze my tent, and set about making camp. Thankfully all of my gear was dry, and I spread my wet clothes out to dry overnight as I worked on set up. I tended to the gash on my arm and the various cuts and scrapes on my legs, then worked on the dogs. Callie was limping slightly, and her paws were a little rough but she wasn't bleeding and seemed like she was just sore. Ghost was worse off, with his paw pads raw and his own cuts and scrapes up his legs and onto his underside. I field dressed his and my injuries as best I could with my little first aid kit, and set a makeshift splint on his right leg as a percaution and for support. Neither he nor Callie moved much from where they laid down when I set up my tent, and I brought their dinner to them as I prepared my own. Evening settled around us slowly, and now I wish I had taken pictures of where we camped that night. It was beautiful, surrounded by bright red wildflowers that attracted hummingbirds, the creek a short distance from the tent flap, bubbling away. At the time I wasn't thinking about pictures, instead worrying about how the hell we would get out of the canyon if a thunderstorm were to pop up. I know better than to camp next to a stream, especially in a canyon, but our injuries, the encroaching evening, and my fear of leaving the water kept us in place. I planned a way we could climb above a flash flood if we had to, but I didn't need to worry. That night the sky was clear and the full moon was so bright I could see inside my tent without the use of a flashlight. It was that night, though, that was the worst of the trip. I broke down and allowed myself to think horrible things, things that I'd been battling since the night before when I'd still had hope of finding the trail. I had failed to find the trail, I was alone, and I began to wonder if I would ever see Jared or my family again. I defaulted to planning, my defense against unpleasant thoughts, and began to figure out how to survive for seven days. Nobody knew I was lost, it was the second day of a seven day trip, and nobody would know something was wrong until I didn't make contact on the following Sunday when I should have been on my way home. Strangely enough, it was realizing that I still had six days to get myself out of the desert that gave me comfort. Sure, I wasn't quite sure where I was, and yes, I had begun to question which direction north was even though I was looking right at a compass that clearly pointed north (which tells you my state of mind right there, because I never lose my sense of direction), but I could do this. I had decisions to make in the morning, needing to decide whether I would stay with the creek and continue following it upstream, hoping to stumble across a trail, or if I would climb out of the canyon and strike out across the desert, heading east to the second of two streams that should cut north-south across the Gila Wilderness. I stopped at those options, telling myself to sleep on it and make my decision in the morning. Ghost and Callie had long since passed out, huddled close (Callie in the bag with me, Ghost practically on top of me), and as I settled back I focused on the sounds of the creek to help me drift off to sleep. I could handle everything else in the light of a new day.

How did I end up lost in the Gila Wilderness? Read The Gila Mishap: Losing the Trail to find out.

The Gila Mishap: Losing the Trail

Disquieted. I've never been more nervous before an adventure. Sure, there were the normal stresses associated with trip logistics such as route planning, securing permits, and finding a place to leave my car, but for some reason I had a knot of anxiety regarding the whole trip sitting low in my stomach for weeks before I actually headed out. Despite my bravado whenever I talked to someone about what I could expect from seven days alone with my dogs in the New Mexican desert wilderness, I was undeniably on-edge. It became a sort of joke, me telling someone that I was heading into wolf/bear/cougar country alone. In the desert. With a limited water supply. For a whole week. Of course, being me, I laughed off everyone's concerns, including my own. I was prepared with the proper gear, know the desert very well (I live for the desert), and have more than enough skills and experience to do exactly what I had planned. Also being me, I left an itinerary with my husband and my dad, detailing where I expected to be each day, identified where I thought I'd camp, and spotted bail-out options if needed. A little note at the end mentioned that if they heard from me before a full seven days were up, then something was wrong. I did not have to mention that if they didn't hear from me on the seventh day, they needed to send a search party. That part was understood.

My drive to the Gila Wilderness in western New Mexico was perfect. Just me, Callie, Ghost, and the road. I visited Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument when I arrived in the area, because duh, then found the area to park my car, and got my gear together. My pack wasn't light; I had seven days worth of food, five liters of water, a bear canister, a change of clothes, water filter, navigation gear, camera equipment, and the end result of a twenty minute argument with my husband that I lost: a gun. I've carried all of it (aside from the gun, that was a first for me) before, but not so much at once, so my normally thirty-five pound pack was closer to forty-five pounds. And that was without any of the dogs' stuff. Fortunately, Ghost has a backpack of his own, and he carried all of the dog food and other necessities for him and Callie. Once loaded up, we were off!

The trail immediately put us into the Gila River. Did I mention Ghost hates water? I had to all but drag him into the river right from the start, but once he was actually in it, he picked up his feet and carried on. Callie, of course, was perfect and dove right in, though I am happy I kept the leash on her because she would have been swept downstream with the current if I hadn't. A couple of turns of the river and we were out of sight of the parking lot, and alone. We followed a meandering trail that crossed the river more times than I kept track of, and sometimes the river was the trail. We walked along a lush riparian zone, through grasses taller than my head, around bowing cottonwoods and slender willows. Less than a mile from the car we were deep within a broad canyon whose slopes climbed above the river to arid, sun-baked heights. Somewhere among those heights was our first campsite for the night, near a stock tank that was hopefully full of rain water.

Three miles from the parking lot, our trail turned us away from the river and headed up. We left the cool breeze that flowed just above the current, and it wasn't long before all three of us were panting and chugging water. The trail up was sandy and exposed, and we stopped often in the hot shade of juniper trees to pluck cactus needles out of shins and paws. Ghost seemed to have perfected the art of walking straight into the biggest patch of prickly pears on either side of the trail, and his blood was the first to smear the Gila dirt. Callie was a little bit better, perhaps because she's done this a time or two before, and avoided most of the cacti with practiced ease. Even I couldn't avoid them all, and soon the stinging needles were driving us all mad. The sun wasn't helping, with its blinding glare and headache-inducing heat. I began to question the wisdom of my planned trip, though I always do on the first day. First day is the worst, but by the end of the first night I remember why I love doing what I do. I just reminded myself of that fact as I followed the carins marking our trail up the sloping hills, winding deeper into the desert wilderness.

Somewhere between water breaks, around the time we topped a ridge and confronted sweeping views of the desert laid out around us, I realized it had been a while since I'd last seen a carin. Carins are piles of rocks, deliberately placed in pyramid-shaped configurations to attract attention, or else stacked rocks with larger ones at the base and smaller ones at the top. Either way, they are made to be hard to miss. This method of trail-marking is common in a lot of the western parks I've hiked, especially among rocky areas where a track can't be worn down to show the trail. The Gila had proven to be no different, up until the point where I could no longer find a carin. I wasn't too worried; I had my map out and had been following our trail as we snaked to the top of the ridge, and so headed in the direction I knew the trail should go, expecting to hit the stock tank within a mile or so where we would stop for the night. Except that after a mile and a half, there was no stock tank full of rain water. And we still hadn't struck the trail. We had less than an hour before sunset. Oh, and we had a half-liter of water left. I gave up, found a relatively flat place that wasn't really flat at all, and pitched my tent. There was no use in blundering around the desert at night, not when temperatures drop to the fortys and predators come out to play. Dinner was half a granola bar and a bit of jerky for me, and a proper meal for the dogs, but only a sip of water each, while I resolved to find the trail again in the morning, fill up our bottles at the stock tank, and put the worst day behind us for the rest of the trip. I couldn't help but wonder to myself as I tried to fall asleep, lying on too much of a slope that had the dogs and I crammed tightly against the wall of my tent, how it had all gone wrong on just the first day. Damn that gut feeling.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: McBride Canyon

Have you ever started something and realized pretty quickly that it maybe wasn't the best idea? That happened to me when I visited McBride Canyon at Lake Meredith National Recreation Area. I descended down into the canyon and saw the pavement change into dirt. Cool, right? Then more dirt roads started branching off of mine, until I realized I would likely end up lost on those roads without a map, or else I would spend a lot more time in the wide canyon than I wanted to when I was on my way to Colorado already. I turned around the first chance I got, but I would love to go back someday when I do have more time to go exploring. I would love to camp down there!

Leave me a comment and tell me about a time you realized something wasn't smart. I know I'm not the only one!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Farming the Desert

Getting anything to grow in a place with very little rainfall is hard enough, but getting enough to grow to feed a village must have been even more difficult. Somehow the ancient Native America cultures who lived in the arid southwest managed to do it, utilizing dry land farming techniques to grow enough to live. These techniques used the land they had, including slopes, rock dams, and occasional rains to cultivate corn, squash, beans, and other foods native to the region. Don't think of farming in the big scale that we use now; think small plots, no bigger than the size of a modern bathroom, carefully laid out in the best place possible to collect rain and to protect it from animals. The lengths people go to survive is amazing!

Leave me a comment below and tell me if you've seen dry land farming techniques like this before. Where?

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Walnut Canyon

Cliff dwellings! Cliff dwellings by the dozens! This small national monument just outside of Flagstaff, AZ has a huge collection of cliff dwellings, all located within the three arms of the semi-arid but high-altitude Walnut Canyon. The canyon used to flood often, bringing life-giving water to the ancient people who lived here, but dams upstream have reduced the flow of water to only seasonal bouts of trickling streams except after heavy rains. Now nothing but the remnants of an ancient way of life remain, visible by a short but steep hike into the canyon from the visitors center on the rim. Alisha and I were still healing after our epic Grand Canyon hike and could hardly put one foot in front of the other, let alone hike a steep canyon trail, so we skipped out on getting into the canyon proper. We view some of the dwellings from the rim with a promise to come back and see them up close next time we were in the area!

Leave me a comment below and tell me if you've ever heard of Walnut Canyon. History nerds only?

A Snapshot and The Scoop: A Grand Sunset

Our final view of the Grand Canyon came right at sunset. Alisha and I had finished up our forty mile backpacking adventure across the Grand Canyon that very day, and had stuck around to get in a few more views of the Big Ditch before we began our journey home. We, along with a hoard of other tourists, hung out at one of the canyon overlooks as the sun began to set, each one of us determined to see the canyon glow as the light died from the sky. The evening seemed to linger at first, but time seemed to speed up as the sun neared the horizon. In a few short minutes, it was over. The sun had diped below the distant canyon rim, the light faded quickly from the sky, and it was time for my sister and I to leave the Grand Canyon and all of its adventures behind. We'll be back, though, ready to take on another epic journey. Maybe next time we'll see the canyon from the river.

Leave me a comment below and tell me about an epic sunset you've witnessed. Where was it?

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Duck Rock

Do you see the duck perched at the top of this rock? There are some weird and amazing rocks in the Grand Canyon, and adults and children alike see shapes of familiar objects in them just as they would see shapes in the clouds. My sister and I were on our last day at the Grand Canyon, trying to soak in as many sights as we could while also trying to avoid walking or standing as much as possible, so we drove around the South Rim and made our way to the overlooks near sunset, including Duck Rock. Now, can anybody tell me the function of a rubber duck?

Leave me a comment and tell me that you got the Harry Potter reference. Please. I swear I'm not a nerd...