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.
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