Monday, October 27th, 2025: Hikes, Holt, Mogollon Mountains, Southwest New Mexico.
Despite its apparent failure, I was still following our local doc’s treatment plan for my knee: gradually increasing the difficulty of my hikes, in two-week increments. Since the injury/condition didn’t seem to be healing, I just wanted to restore as much cardio capacity and lower-body strength as possible.
After almost two months of this I felt ready to try over a thousand feet of elevation gain, and the hike I’d been saving for this starts on the trail that first introduced me to our vast wilderness area. As such, that trail is more special to me than any other. It first enabled me to reach the crest of our high mountains and penetrate deep into the heart of the range.
The main trail starts at 6,400 feet, climbs through foothills, descends to the canyon bottom at 6,500 feet, follows the creek north for about three miles, then climbs steeply to the crest at 9,600 feet. Today’s hike would follow the creek for less than a mile, then take a branch trail that climbs over the right-hand wall of the canyon into the next canyon to the east, one of the biggest canyons in the range, which doesn’t have its own trail. Climbing to the saddle between canyons would give me a spectacular view and 1,500 feet of accumulated elevation gain in six miles out-and-back.
On the highway north, the first thing I noticed was the absence of southbound snowbird RVs and big pickups hauling UTVs – so thankfully, that phenomenon is seasonal. But our weather is still unseasonably warm, and the forecast today was for a high of 70, with thin clouds over the mountains.
I found a late-model city SUV and a big, generic pickup at the trailhead – fairly typical, although I often find it empty.
It had been a year and a half since I’d hiked this trail – all the way to the crest, where I’d found snow and a young German had joined me most of the way. It really did feel like coming home to the wilderness, especially after crossing the boundary a half mile in. My knee had been pain-free for a few days so I started without the brace – my constant companion for almost five months.
Since I’ve hiked this trail more than any other, everything was immediately familiar: the emerging views, the late-season annuals on the trail, the steep and rocky stretches, the fall colors. Past the wilderness sign I encountered two friendly guys in their 20s in camouflage outfits, wearing packs and carrying tripods.
“Scouting?” I asked, stepping off the trail to let them pass.
“Yeah, looking for deer. We’ll start hunting in a couple weeks.”
“Seen any?”
“We found some south of here, but nothing today.” They asked me if I hike here often, and see deer myself. I said yes, often see deer, whitetails, but not so many bucks.
We wished each other a good day. Shortly afterwards, beginning the descent into the canyon, I spotted a bright red stand of sumac far below.
In the canyon bottom, the combination of late-season rain, warm days and the first cold nights had resulted in a magical mixture of flowers, berries and colorful foliage. The initial stretch is burn scar, but after entering intact riparian forest I was watching for the maples – and although there aren’t many, I wasn’t disappointed.
My knee was less comfortable by the time I reached the branch trail, so I strapped on the brace for the climb.
I’ve only hiked the branch to the next canyon a couple of times – it drops 1,500 feet on the other side, dead-ending at an old miner’s cabin. I reached the canyon bottom once but was blocked by a riparian jungle before reaching the cabin.
The climb to the saddle involves many switchbacks, with great views northwest to the rocky walls of the canyon hiding the main trail. It was perfect hiking weather for my long pants and long-sleeve shirt.
From the saddle, treetops block the view into the big eastern canyon, so as usual, I continued about a quarter mile to the high point of the trail on a mostly exposed slope. The trail to the saddle had been overgrown but with good tread; past here it was almost invisible.
I gratefully realized I hadn’t seen cowshit anywhere on this trail, which up till a few years ago had provided cattle a direct route to the heart of the wilderness. Since then, the Forest Service had hired shooters to kill feral cattle from helicopters. Ranchers had stopped that eventually, but maybe it had some effect.
Meanwhile, I enjoyed identifying spots across the canyon that I had reached on past hikes.
Since my return took place in mid-afternoon, those remaining flowers were hosting swarms of late-season butterflies – mostly too small and skittish to photograph. The brace masked any pain in my knee, and this turned out to be the most enjoyable hike I’d had since being immobilized at the end of May.
In the coming week I would see a sports medicine specialist in Tucson for a second opinion…
Monday, October 20th, 2025: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Snowshed, Southeast Arizona.
I’d been in pain all night long, and was starting the day in pain. Meds hadn’t worked, which rarely but occasionally happens. I was determined to at least try to go hiking, but last Sunday’s hike had been both frustratingly short and difficult, and lunch had sucked. So today I wanted to do something longer and easier, with a more reliable midday meal. That left me only one choice – a trail so boring I’d avoided it while hiking every trail around it multiple times for the past seven years.
I mean, I would never complain about walking through beautiful, pristine Southwest habitat, with dramatic cliffs rising above the trees. But I do like variety and vistas, and this trail is a mostly level stroll through oak woodland that tends to block the views.
We’re still having unseasonably warm weather – apocalyptically so – and where I was going it was forecast to reach 80. Normal temps for this time of year would range from the 50s to the 60s.
Brunch – trout and eggs, with salad and sweet potato fries – was awesome as usual. If you wonder why I make a point of these weekly road trip meals, we lost our good restaurants during COVID – so since 2020, I only eat out while traveling.
I’ve actually done the first mile of this hike three or four times, on the way to the crest of the range. It starts in the canyon bottom and climbs past somebody’s luxury retreat and a series of gullies and ravines to an alluvial bench lined with the oak woodland.
Past the junction, the new trail hadn’t seen heavy use, but I was surprised to find a mountain bike track – the first I remember seeing anywhere in this canyon. It makes sense since this trail is the only one that’s easy enough for bikes.
The alluvial bench narrows as the trail trends westward, until you can glimpse the ravine through which the creek runs, and the gravel road on the other side that serves picnic areas and a campground. I’d been in denial of the fact that I would hear traffic, and kids yelling – more downsides of this hike.
At one point I could see kids down below playing in the creek, and as I turned back to face the trail ahead, a hawk flew past me through the trees, only about eight feet above the ground and a dozen feet from me. A little later I came upon a whitetail doe – the first whitetail I’d seen in a long time.
Approaching the trail junction where I would turn back, the trail got gnarlier, descending into and climbing steeply out of one deep ravine after another – finally, some variety!
Despite being in pain, I’d started the day, and the hike, without meds – hoping the hike would loosen up the joints and get some endorphins flowing. But after three hours of hiking, I was still hurting pretty bad when I returned to the Sidekick, and immediately popped some pills.
Afternoons, with low angle sunlight, are great times to discover new aspects of the landscape. On the way out of the mountains I noticed an area across the highway that would make for promising hiking – if it’s not blocked by private land.
Then, getting ready to pass – for the umpteenth time – the granite spire I’d tried to climb earlier this year, I noticed for the first time a gully up the southwest side that might actually be climbable. Doing 65 on the empty highway, I grabbed my camera and took a sloppy zoom photo of the spire out my side window.
I’ve scoured the internet unsuccessfully for info on this peak, and despite the fact that peakbaggers are competitive and anal about keeping and sharing records of their accomplishments, it appears that nobody has ever claimed an ascent. Examining the photo back home, it does look like that gully might be a route to the top – for somebody with functional knees.
Monday, October 13th, 2025: Hikes, Peloncillos, Southeast Arizona.
My entire region was under flash flood warnings, so I had an even harder time than usual deciding where to go for Sunday’s hike, which in turn delayed my departure.
Finally, I zoomed in on the topo map for a low desert area over in Arizona that I’ve only scratched the surface of and have been intending to explore more. It’s at the far north end of the very long, very narrow north-south mountain range – continuing into Mexico – that’s geologically diverse with a lot of cliffs, hoodoos, and rock outcrops. Suddenly I noticed the label “Indian Rocks” on a small outlying peak. What could that mean? Petroglyphs or pictographs? A cave with artifacts?
The peak itself didn’t offer me enough distance or elevation, but south of it was a cool-looking mesa – adding that to my hike should make it just right.
Due to my late start, it was lunchtime before I reached the turnoff, so I stopped for what turned out to be a mediocre burger in the Mormon village restaurant. I’ll stick to the enchiladas in future.
The map showed a couple different access roads, one with a solid line and one dashed. I tried the dashed one first, but it was clearly abandoned, deeply eroded, and way too slow. The next one turned out to be well-graded, obviously serving residences or working ranches.
The map showed this route crossing washes, and I knew a heavy rain could strand me temporarily. But eventually the flood would subside, and hopefully I wouldn’t have to wait too long. And hopefully I wouldn’t encounter any clay that would turn into deep, sticky mud.
It’s hunting season, and I passed a group parked on a side trail. I would hear their shots sporadically throughout the afternoon, about a mile and a half away in this open country.
To reach the “Indian Rocks” from this road I would need to take a powerline road over a pass, and those are notoriously rough. But with my lifted suspension and nearly new all-terrain tires I had no worries.
Beyond the pass, I could finally see the landscape between the powerline, Indian Rocks, and the mesa. A broad, low, creosote-lined ridge clearly led from the road to the base of Indian Rocks, and from there I could traverse around to the back to get to the mesa.
I now carry field glasses in the Sidekick, and although I couldn’t see any promising rock formations with the naked eye, the field glasses enabled me to see not only a rock formation, but a cave, just below the little peak, less than a mile away. Promising!
The habitat here is very similar to my California desert, and the creosote bushes were blooming all over – but not releasing their medicinal scent. I trust them more than the meteorologists, but my poncho and waterproof pants were in the pack, just in case.
The ground between the road and the peak was fine gravel, so I made good time. But bushwhacking is twice as hard as hiking on a trail, and my lung capacity is way down from 17 months of knee injury, so the 200 vertical feet to the rock outcrop went slowly.
The rock outcrop – facing north – was covered with an amazing thick layer of moss, more than I’ve ever seen anywhere in this region. But the cave turned out to be too small for a human to enter, and after scouring the ground below I found no artifacts. The only evidence of natives that I could find was desert tobacco, blooming around the foot of the outcrop – the first I’ve seen in this region.
To be sure this wasn’t the only outcrop, I climbed to the top of the peak, where amazingly, I found a summit log in a jar. It recorded only two visits, in 1995 and 2003.
The climb from the outcrop to the peak had been arduous, over the dreaded volcanic cobbles, and now I could see that the entire south slope – my route to the mesa – was lined with those.
I could also see that the slopes surrounding the mesa were striped vertically, alternating between grass and volcanic rock. My best approach would be on the far right, which looked to be grass, at between 15 and 20 degrees.
After slowly and carefully picking my way down that treacherous slope, I found that the valley below was mostly dirt and fine gravel. A low ridge rose across the valley – I would need to climb that and descend into some kind of gulch on the other side to reach the base of the mesa. From the valley, under those dark clouds, the mesa looked forbidding. I doubted I would end up climbing it.
As soon as I began climbing the low ridge, I encountered the cobbles again – so hard to walk over! But I made it to the top of the ridge. It’d taken me two hours and I knew I’d gone less than two miles. I wanted to get home before dark to avoid deer on the highway, so there would be no mesa today.
The top of the low ridge was dotted with volcanic boulders that had split into pieces, in place, like 3-dimensional puzzles. I assume this happened after they’d been ejected and landed, and while they were cooling. Interesting.
A recently-strung barbed-wire fence ran mostly west of my route, and halfway between the low ridge and the base of the Indian Rocks peak, a lone, yearling cow appeared, running frantically along this side of the fence. It had apparently ended up on this side by mistake and was separated from its range and its herd. It stopped to stare at me for a minute, then resumed running south toward the low ridge. A little later, it appeared running back north, and I watched it follow the fenceline out of sight. It would end up on the powerline road, and maybe get home that way.
As I approached the gully at the western foot of Indian Rocks, I found an old, narrow trail that was clearly man-made – possibly an Indian trail. I could see more promising rock outcrops below, so I detoured down there. There was a clearing that turned out to be a favored gathering spot for cattle on this side. There was a neat overhanging boulder, but I scanned in vain for petroglyphs.
Past the divide, on the north side of the little peak, walking was much easier. I hadn’t found clear evidence of the “Indian Rocks”, but I did find their tobacco, and I may have found their trail.
Beside a dry wash along the powerline road near where it meets the ranch road, somebody has set up a fairly elaborate camp, with a couple of trailers, several vehicles, and both the US and Arizona flags on a pole. The map shows this as public land, so it must be someone squatting on the grazing allotment with permission of the rancher.
I made it home without a drop of rain, and the streets looked dry. But we got some good rain yesterday – hopefully more will come tomorrow!
Monday, October 6th, 2025: Hikes, Red Hill, Southeast Arizona, Whites.
I started out planning to traverse the exposed slope of a spectacular rocky canyon not far from town. But I got a late start, and as I approached the turnoff, I realized doing that hike now would push my lunch back until mid-afternoon. So I decided to keep driving north and have lunch in the alpine village across the Arizona border, then do a hike from the volcanic plateau in the afternoon.
Once the highway entered the mountains, I began to pass big burly pickup trucks, hauling heavy-duty full-length trailers, each carrying a side-by-side 4-seater UTV. One after another after another, dozens of them heading south, to the point where I was laughing hysterically each time I met one on this road where I used to drive a half hour at a time without meeting another vehicle.
All the pickups were different makes and colors – it was no kind of organized convoy – what the hell are these guys doing moving all these UTVs south in the fall? It is hunting season – maybe they live in the south, and are returning from hunts in the north, all at once on Sunday.
But after my long drive north through those dark forested mountains, cresting one pass after another, the village grill turned out to be closed, with no explanation. I could turn back, to less interesting options a half hour down the road. Or I could drive 40 minutes farther up onto the plateau, to the lodge that claims to open at noon but rarely sticks to a schedule.
I decided on the latter – any excuse to visit that plateau. Reaching 9,000 feet, with some aspens flaming red, I began to pass road cyclists struggling through the thin air in their garish skin-tight nylon outfits. A sight I hadn’t seen here before.
More cyclists were waiting on the veranda and inside the lodge, where I was the first diner at 12:15. As usual, the laid-back staff was multi-tasking – taking orders, cooking, cleaning rooms, doing paperwork – but my burger, served a half hour later, met my needs. While waiting and eating, I watched and overheard the cyclists – half young and half my age or older. Some were from Minneapolis – rich doctors, as is common in this expensive pastime. The clacking sound of their cleated shoes on the wood floor preceded them, and when I looked up, the first thing I noticed was that they walked bent sharply forward at the waist like “dunking birds”, from riding bent over for hours on stiff old joints. Impressively, they were making a loop of almost 300 miles and god knows how many thousands of feet in elevation, beginning and ending in Safford, and crossing all those high mountain passes in between. Impressive if you call operating an expensive machine on paved highways an achievement.
The trails along this eastern rim of the plateau all head down into the “lost world” – the broad, wild canyon of a tiny river, a hard-to-reach area known to few outsiders. I’d hiked the upper half of a nearby trail last spring, and wanted to get another taste of this unique habitat.
The trailhead, accessed by a long, meandering track through parklike ponderosa pine forest, was only occupied by a quad bike when I arrived. The trailhead log was such a bizarre jumble of dates that I couldn’t even tell what year they referred to. Air temperature was in the mid-60s in the forest, but I found that walking kept me plenty warm even in shorts. The first half mile emerged into and led gradually upwards through burn scar to the western rim of the big valley at 8,300 feet.
My topo map showed the trail dropping a few hundred feet onto a long east-trending ridge, similar to my previous hike here. I’d previewed it without zooming in, and the landmark where I planned to turn back appeared as a sharp bend south.
As before, the trail started in forest and became rockier and more exposed as it descended onto the ridge. On an open saddle, I had spectacular views up and down the big, wild valley, but I could also see the massive die-off in progress in the ponderosa pine forest, similar to what I’ve seen elsewhere in my corner of the Southwest, new in the past season.
From here the trail followed the ridge top, like a gentle roller-coaster over thin soil and a lot of bare rock. The trail and the “meadows” around were choked with cosmos, my old nemesis – an annual with tiny daisy-like flowers that produces burs that stick to and are carried widely by clothes and animal fur. On my way up one of these gentle rises I suddenly faced a tall, slender man in garish, skin-tight nylon running down the trail toward me.
He stopped and asked me if I’d “seen anything”. I smiled and said I’d only gone a mile so far, and he exclaimed, “Wildlife! Have you seen any wildlife?”
I laughed and said it was mid-afternoon, so the animals were all sleeping. He said he was not familiar with this habitat, he lives in Durango, Colorado. I asked him what kind of wildlife he was expecting, and he said “Oles!”, the way Cockneys pronounce “Holes” without the “H”. There followed a long, frustrating exchange, which ended in him spelling “W – O – L – F” twice before I realized he had the remnants of, perhaps, a German accent, and had trouble with our consonant “W”.
I explained that people here hike all their lives without seeing a wolf, and described the megafauna he did have a chance of spotting – if he ever decided to live here year-round. He said he’d just arrived from the nearest county seat – a tiny village – over in New Mexico, where he’d explored a certain obscure, almost totally unknown creek it had taken me almost 20 years to find on maps, and which I was still only dreaming about exploring. We had an enthusiastic conversation, but it was only later that I regretted not questioning about his travels.
After the first mile the little-used trail mostly disappeared, and I found my route mainly by means of sporadic sawn logs and vague corridors through rocks, cosmos, and brush. Then I came upon an obvious switchback, which had not appeared on the map, where the trail clearly began a steep descent onto a lower ridge marked with a big cairn. I didn’t think I’d gone far enough, and the paper map I had didn’t show enough detail. I descended a few hundred yards, captured my position on GPS, and decided to head back.
Returning, I had all that pine mortality in my face. I’d never seen anything like it. But with my knee brace, hiking uphill was easier, especially on the hated volcanic cobbles.
The sun was setting rapidly – it’s October – and the final descent from the rim to the trailhead seemed to take forever, as I pondered what this solo Germanic trail runner from Colorado was doing, accessing this trail on a “redneck” quad bike. Even less likely, how had he learned about this obscure trail all the way from Colorado, when it had taken me almost 20 years to learn about it from 2-1/2 hours away? And strangest of all, how had he learned about that creek, that only runs a few miles from an extremely remote dirt ranch road, through a box canyon that few have heard of and no one can access without prior arrangement at a remote, obscure Buddhist retreat? Box canyon and creek show up on no guidebooks and virtually no information is available online. Was he confused, talking about something completely different? The bigger the data, the less we know…
Sunday, September 28th, 2025: Hikes, Little Dry, Mogollon Mountains, Nature, Plants, Southwest New Mexico.
Since I injured my knee in May 2024, I’ve been looking for hikes that don’t require me to climb very much. But one of the reasons I moved here is that we’re in the mountains.
Before the injury, elevation gain was my main goal, and the hikes I did most often went from canyon bottoms to the crest, with elevation gains ranging from 3,000 to 5,000 feet. So I’ve avoided all those familiar hikes for more than a year.
I’m currently trying to limit myself to roughly four miles out and back, and while reviewing options yesterday, I realized one of those hikes actually has minimal elevation change during the first three miles. Past the two-mile point it involves a lot of bushwhacking and rock-hopping, and the farthest I’ve ever been able to go is seven miles, with 4,200 feet of elevation gain.
The last time I’d done it was January 2024, when I was stopped by deep snow on a high saddle at the four-mile point. I was curious to learn how much rain that watershed had seen during this weak monsoon.
It turned out that the long gravel road to the trailhead had been washed out or buried under recent debris flows in dozens of places. It was barely passable in my 2wd pickup truck (the Sidekick needs a new engine).
Eventually the road climbs to the ridge. Considering the remoteness and the condition of the road, I was surprised to find another vehicle at the trailhead. I hoped to run into the other hiker(s) to find out how far they’d gone and what they’d seen in some of my favorite habitats.
The weather was perfect – in the low to mid seventies, with drifting cloud shadows. The trail starts out following the remains of an old road servicing long-abandoned mines. It doesn’t enter the wilderness until about a mile in, and I’ve run into cattle on that lower stretch. As I got closer to the creek I could hear it rustling over the rocks.
Past the first crossing, I remembered the lower part of this trail had been destroyed by a flash flood a few years ago, and finally rebuilt in late 2023. In this steep, narrow canyon a trail is virtually unmaintainable, and much of the upper trail consists of picking your way through debris flows and over logs.
I used to call this canyon “the jungle”, and it didn’t disappoint. My first landmark would be the old cabin, but I missed it in the dense vegetation. I was looking for the point where the canyon makes a 60 degree turn east – that would be my two-mile point. But with the dense riparian forest and overhanging cliffs, I actually missed the turn and went beyond it, to the major side canyon. I couldn’t remember whether this was before or after the turn in the main canyon, and my national forest map wasn’t detailed enough, but it had taken me an hour and a half to get there, so I figured I’d gone far enough.
The knee brace masks any pain, and I felt like going farther, but knew I shouldn’t. Returning was easier, and finding the cabin, I was surprised to see how much it had deteriorated inside in only a few years. Nothing has been removed, it’s just messier.
Past the first creek crossing, the old road climbs, and I got some nice views. I was sorry not to see the other hiker(s), and wondered if they were backpacking. I sure miss getting back into that wilderness, one of the wildest in the world.
On the road out, I passed two youngish women in a side-by-side – probably from the small group I’d seen camping near the highway. Americans are far, far too affluent – the hot thing among blue collar families now is to own a huge pickup truck, a massive fifth-wheel “camping” trailer, and a side-by-side or rock bouncer – almost as expensive as your house, all bought on credit. You drive the whole setup just off the highway and live in it while exploring the back country in the little utility vehicle.
I also got a better view of the mature ponderosa pines in the lower canyon, which have all died recently. I’m guessing a series of debris flows have suffocated their roots – I’ve seen that happen elsewhere in the aftermath of big wildfires.
