A Snapshot and The Scoop: The Vanishing Creek

There is a place, deep in the heart of Colorado where towering sand dunes are surrounded by rugged mountain ranges, where water flows above ground only during certain times of the year. Medano Creek borders the dune field at Great Sand Dunes National Park, flowing only when the snow is melting from the slopes of the mountains upstream. Once the snow is gone the creek stops flowing above ground, instead sinking the moisture into the sand while still travelling downstream, surfacing beyond the park in lush wetlands that play host to migrating birds, elk, deer, moose, and bears. Sometimes, during spring and early summer, the creek is cold and deep and fast-moving, stretching all the way from the dunes parking lot to the dunes themselves. During our visit last year Torrey and I followed all that was left of the stream, a little trickle of water, all they way to its end, when it gives up on the surface and soaks into the sand below. In all my visits to the park I've never actually seen the end of the creek - I've only ever seen it full and flowing or completely dry - so this was a fun little sight to see, there at the end of summer.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Towpath Trail, An East Coast Epic Story

No longer in use as a towpath along the Ohio & Erie Canal in Cuyahoga Valley National Park, this  crushed limestone biking and walking trail through the center of the park offered an excellent way for me to spend a few hours exploring the heart of this park, located surprisingly close to Cleveland, Ohio. Although it was fairly busy, I still managed to find some solitude along the path, allowing me to take in the green tunnel of the trail, the grasses growing from the now-defunct canal threading parallel to the towpath, and, if I listened closely, the quiet rush of the little crooked river hidden beyond the trees.

East Coast Epic: Niagara Falls

Satisfied. I centered this trip around seven units of the national park system, none of which are located in New York. A secondary goal, however, was to hit as many states along the east coast as possible in the time I had, and really, New York wasn't that much farther than Pennsylvania, plus could I really pass up a visit to the quintessential tourist trap that is Niagara Falls? I also had a friend living in Toronto, which pretty much solidified my plans to go to the state; cross another one off my list, visit another Great Lake, see the falls, and catch up with a friend.

Niagara Falls isn't technically on a lake but instead rests on the Niagara River connecting Lake Ontario to Lake Erie. I'd stopped at a little state park on the shores of Lake Erie on my way to New York, and meandered up to Lake Ontario while killing time waiting for my friend to be available, meaning I approached Niagara Falls from the north. If you ever get a chance, I highly recommend a drive along the Niagara Scenic Parkway, taking the time to stop at all the little state parks that dot the road. There's just something about looking across a canyon and knowing another country sits right there, right across the deep canyon and startling blue-green river.

Now, none of the giant, iconic falls sheltered by Niagara Falls State Park are actually called Niagara Falls. No, that's the name of the city that sprawls on both sides of the US-Canadian border. Goat Island splits the north-flowing Niagara River into three falls, named Bridal Veil Falls, American Falls, and the more famous Horseshoe Falls. Both the Bridal Veil Falls and American Falls sit on the American side of the border, while Horseshoe Falls spans the width of the river between countries. I had done the bare minimum amount of research when looking into this stop along my way, just enough to get me there and tell me there was no camping in the area, so I had no idea the river flowed north, that there were actually three falls, and that none of them were called Niagara. I felt like I'd been lied to my entire life, but looking back I have no idea where I got my preconceptions.

I spent the entire evening at the park, wandering its paved trails, taking countless photos, and generally letting myself get swept away in the flow of tourist traffic. I had no real desire to get tickets to the river, where I could either get wet by walking to the base of Bridal Veil Falls or take a boat to the churning pool of Horseshoe Falls, but instead stuck to the overlooks including the glass observation deck which was as close as one could get to an aerial view of the falls without actually leaving solid ground. After a frankly ridiculous wait at the United States border my friend finally made it through and met me at the park, where we retraced my steps and revisited all the views before it got dark.

She and I headed into the city on foot to find some dinner, and would it really be a visit to New York without pizza? We found a vendor and grabbed a table, chatting the whole time. The fireworks began as we were eating, and we made our way back to the falls to catch the show. We wandered back to the observation deck and watched as the falls were lit up in a cycle of red, white, and blue from floodlights on the Canadian side of the river. Again, I had no idea they lit up the falls, and I am still so happy we decided to stay in the area until late. The longer I spent there the happier I became, pleased with myself for being in that spot on what was basically a whim. I should probably open my future travels up a little more to allow for memories like these.

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!

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?

Buffalo River Trail: Erbie to Pruitt

Concluded. The last day of hiking the Buffalo River Trail started out wet. It had rained in the night, and though we expected it we were a little disappointed to see the rain clouds lingering as we broke camp. We hopped in the car and went to get the other one parked at Steel Creek, debating the whole time whether or not to finish the BRT with the risk of rain or to save it for next year. In the end, we decided to go for it, figuring even if we got wet we'd end up in a dry car no matter how the day went. After dropping a car at Pruitt, the final trailhead on the BRT, we went back to Erbie and began.

The hike between Erbie and Pruitt was a gentle one. Sure, there were ups and downs, but for the most part we stayed right along the mist-shrouded Buffalo River. I couldn't have been more thankful for gentle terrain; my hotspots from the day before had developed into full fledged blisters, and pretty much every step was pain. I guess that's where my stubborn streak came in, as I all but refused to slow down or stop. I wanted to finish the trail, and nothing was going to keep me from it!

The trail took us through a little more open land than we'd seen so far, winding through a pine forest in places and along clear creek beds in others. The rain we worried about set in within a couple miles, forcing us to pull out our rain gear as we plodded along. It only rained hard for a bit, though it never really went away, sometimes misting, sometimes drizzling, sometimes with enough persistence to wet our jackets. A little bit of moisture on the carpet of leaves meant our trail became a little more treacherous, and we had to watch our footing more carefully as the leaves slipped under our shoes.

Torrey and I didn't talk much, prefering instead to listen to the crunch of leaves and whisper of wind. I withdrew into my own head, letting my imagination run wild in an attempt to take my mind off my wet feet and hot blisters. The littlest details caught my attention and more than once I stopped to poke at a mushroom peeking through the leaves, or to run my hand over the furry moss covering a tree trunk. I fell behind as the day wore on, and found myself walking alone through the autumn woods.

Almost at the end of the trail Torrey waited for me on a fallen log. As we rested we watched the river and glimpsed a bald eagle soaring over the bluffs around us. The final approach to Pruitt was slow and, on my part, painful. My feet hurt, and it was with a sense of relief and accomplishment that I approached my car. We ditched our packs and headed to the river, determined to touch it just once on our hike before calling it a day. Exhaustion melted away as we stood on the banks of the Buffalo River, gazing from its teal waters to the blue-gray bluffs towering above it, then on to the forest hugging the cliffs around us. We'd done it, we hiked the entire Buffalo River Trail from start to finish. With last year's trek from Boxley to Steel Creek added to this year's Steel Creek to Pruitt, we finished the 30+ mile BRT! We'll be back next year, but we aren't quite sure where we'll hike quite yet. Maybe the day hikes in the area, maybe explore other remote areas of the wilderness. Some day we'll float the river, but that'll be a summer adventure. Until next time, BRT! We'll be back.

Buffalo River Trail: Kyle's Landing to Erbie

Spent. Our first full day back on the Buffalo River Trail was going almost exactly as we'd planned, with the minor hiccup of missing the spur to hit the toilets and a picnic table at lunchtime. We just found a flat rock in a sunny place for lunch instead, and continued our hike along the thru trail. Our views along the trail continued to impress, with glimpses of the river through the trees and a few high spots that allowed us to overlook swaths of the Ozarks.

One thing we did miss out on, however, was the chance to fill up our water bottles. We'd planned on filling up at Kyle's Landing, if not from the taps that were likely closed for the season then at least from the river using our filter. We missed our turn, though, and walked several more miles before we found a small pool set in the shade of an alcove where we sat for a few minutes and drank our fill. It was around this time that I realized I hadn't been taking proper care of my feet, and I was beginnning to fill the hotspots that hearlded a comming blister. I took a few extra minutes to remove my shoes and cool my feet, changing my socks and hoping the damage wasn't too bad.

Of course, as we continued hiking it became pretty apparent that I hadn't acted quickly enough. My feet hurt, concentrated on my right heel, and I found myself compensating by walking with a pronounced limp. We still had several miles to go before we called it quits for the night, planning on reaching Erbie Campground and one of our cars at the trailhead. Torrey offered to slow down several times, but there was no point. We still had the same amount of ground to cover, and in my head hurrying through them was preferable to prolonging my discomfort.

We took what shortcuts we could, following a forest service road instead of the trail itself until it spit us out at Erbie Historic Site. After poking around the homestead a bit we hopped on the road, knowing it would take us up to the campground and the luxury of our car. As is my usual, I began to second guess myself if we were heading in the right direction, if our car really was only a mile or so up the road and not three miles up like I suddenly began to fear. It was close to dark, and night falls quickly in the mountains. A mile we could handle, three miles would mean we'd be walking in a dark forest, alone, with only our headlamps and night noises for company. I confessed my fear to Torrey, convincing myself with every step that I'd somehow messed up and parked further away than we really needed to, prolonging my already intolerable foot pain into something that surely counted as self-torture.

You can't imagine the tidal wave of relief that crashed over me when we saw the sign for the campground after only a mile on the road. I grinned like an idiot, ridiculously pleased with myself that I hadn't managed to screw up this year. As I limped up to the car and dumped my pack I could have cried. As it was, we really didn't have all that long before we lost the light so we hurried to pick a site where we set up the tent and began dinner. We stayed out at the picnic table far longer that we would have hung around if we were in the backcountry, watching the stars come out above us as we listened to the river rushing past, contemplating the next day and the end of our trail. Then, of course, we hit the bathroom before bed and Torrey decided to take us on a joy ride to the creepy abandoned farmstead just down the road. And I really did cry. Read about the night we confirmed I'm a wimp here.

Buffalo River Trail: Steel Creek to Kyle's Landing

Steady. Although we missed the leaf peak by two weeks, autumn in the Ozarks couldn't be passed up. Torrey and I were back in northern Arkansas, planning on finishing twenty-five miles of the Buffalo River Trail over four days in the middle of November. We arrived in the tiny town of Ponca at midday on Friday and spent a few hours getting ourselves oriented and settled before dropping a car off at each trailhead. We only had an hour and a half or so of light left, and spent about forty-five minutes hiking at a quick pace along Steel Creek until we made camp for the first night, settling in a hollow next to the creek just off trail.

I did mention it was autumn, right? It got cold that night, cold enough that I regretted not placing my pocket warmers somewhere I could find them when I inevitably woke up in the wee hours of the morning, freezing my toes off. I didn't really get back to sleep after that, shivering too much to relax in my bag, so I was up with the sun as I tried to bring feeling back into my fingers and toes. We ate a hot oatmeal breakfast as we waited for the forest to warm up around us, watching droplets of water fall like rain as the sun melted frost from the upper branches of the trees.

Soon enough we were on our way, gaining elevation as we rose above the creek to come out on a bluff high above the Buffalo River. Fading leaves carpeted the forest floor, crunching under our shoes as we waded through ankle deep piles blown around by the wind. Frozen trickles of water laced dry creek beds, echos of springtime rains and gushing falls, and we passed more than one overhang that surely boasted water pouring over its edge during summer storms. Not for the first time I wondered what the trail would be like to hike in a different season, perhaps late spring or early summer, when water was abundant and a green canopy obscured the sky. Maybe one year I'll find out, but for now I'll stick with the oranges and yellows and whitish blues that come with autumn leaves and open skies.

Even with our packs on the trail was relatively easy and we ate up miles. Several times I commented to Torrey that our hike this year seemed easier than the section we hiked last year. The views certainly were better, with the trail more closely parallelling the river and affording views of its greenish-blue waters more frequently. We planned to hike from Steel Creek all the way to the BRT's end point at Pruitt, though our short-term goal was Kyle's Landing where we planned on breaking for lunch.

At least, stopping at Kyle's Landing was the plan. We did great on the approach, making miles and time as we estimated we would. We knew we were getting close when we began losing elevation, leveling out at river level and hearing voices of day trippers. We even saw a few other hikers, presumably enjoying a short walk from the parking lot. Somehow or another, though, we missed our turn. Instead of taking the spur and heading to the parking lot and river, we kept going on the BRT, and it took us asking each other if that last tenth-mile felt like a lot further than it should have before we realized we'd missed our turn. It wasn't really a huge setback, though. Sure, I'd been looking forward to dumping some trash and using the pit toilets, but we had the forest to ourselves and we could empty trash at our next stop, where we planned on making camp that night. So, as the sun shone directly overhead Torrey and I found ourselves a couple of nice rocks and ate a cold lunch, resting up for the next leg of our hike.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Fairy Land

Apparently I have an overly active imagination. The last Snapshot I wrote I described zombies popping out of the ground and chasing Torrey and I through the backwoods of Arkansas all because I stepped on a rock that moved, and now I'm about to spout off about how much the Buffalo River Trail made me think of what I envision the mystical land of fairies to look like. The little spring pictured above, bubbling from between the mossy shelves of Ozark rocks, fed a little forest pool that Torrey and I circumvented while hiking the final leg of the BRT this autumn. Maybe we'd been on the trail too long and maybe I had nothing better to do than make up stories in my head instead of thinking about how much my feet hurt, but I couldn't help but think the forest we passed through would be the perfect setting for a story about fairies, practically seeing the woodland creatures playing around the little spring in real life. With the last vestiges of autumn drifting to the forest floor around us and winter settling in, a cool drizzle soaking our outer clothes but not enough to chill us, the setting for a fantasy story seemed ripe for the taking. And maybe I just wanted to be out of my head for a bit, and making up silly little things helped. Who knows. Do you believe in fairies?

A Snapshot and The Scoop: A Bouquet of Mushrooms

I think I have a fungus problem. Seriously, I just love mushrooms so much! So many colors and shapes and they grow in every forest I've ever been in. This beautiful collection of fungi caught Torrey's and my attention while hiking the Buffalo River Trail in northern Arkansas a few weeks ago, and I couldn't get over how pretty it is! All credit to Torrey for naming it a bouquet, and doesn't that name just fit it? I mean, with the colored leaves and the whites and browns of mushroom, the dark tree stump, just all of it. Don't like mushrooms? I'll just take my obsession over here, don't judge me!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone

Alisha and I managed to visit two Grand Canyons in two years! Last year it was the Grand Canyon in Arizona, this year it was the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone in Wyoming. Located in Yellowstone National Park, the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone was carved by the Yellowstone River, downstream of Yellowstone Falls. Enough "Yellowstone" for you? It's easy to see how the canyon gets its name - sandstone colored by mineral deposits, smelling slighly like eggs, provide a backdrop for churning white water and roaring falls who's echos thunder down canyon to the viewpoint where I stood to take this picture. Though not a mile deep or a mile across, this canyon is still Grand in all the right ways.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Firehole River

A river of hot springs. That's right, the Firehole River that flows through Yellowstone National Park is a river made up of hot springs, geysers, and other geothermal activity. How cool is that!!! What starts out as a little stream quickly swells into a good sized river as the runoff from every hot spring and geyser in its watershed joins its waters, creating a river that is an attraction in and of itself among the vistas offered by Yellowstone. Not only does the river accept the runoff, but sometimes a geyser or hot spring are located in the river itself, though of course it is never recommended that you get close to such a phenomenon. Unstable crust and boiling waters and all that jazz. For real though, how many other places do you know where a river is created and sustained by geothermal activity? Gotta love Yellowstone!

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.