A Mysterious Place: Reservation Lake

 

Camping. Even for old geezers such as ourselves, camping can hardly be described as an adventure. A whole industry has developed around the sole objective to make every aspect of camping comfortable and luxurious. Not only that, but every time I go online, I'm barraged by a sea of “influencers” who are there to tell me what to do, where to go and how to maximize my experience.

Bah. The only thing I watch the influencers for is to find out where NOT to go. And the only luxury item I need out there is a cooler full of beer. Case in point, I had a week off last month with nothing particular to do so I told the old lady we we going somewhere cool to camp for a few days. In the middle of monsoon season. In the middle of Nowhere, Indian Reservation. With tent and all our luxurious 30 year old camping gear.

Friends said we were crazy. They were predicting violent thunderstorms that week. It was all unknown dirt roads back in there, no cell service and the reservation has a reputation of being, well, let's say ambivalent about the safety of visitors. Whatever. The few times in my life I've canceled plans because of weather, I've mostly regretted it. And it's camping. What could go wrong?

So using Google Earth (the one piece of tech I wholly embrace) I picked a spot way back in. It was a little lake called Reservation Lake. There wasn't much information on it other than it held the state record for brown trout. That was all I needed to know. After researching the unusual permit system for the White Mountain Apache rez ( $120 dollars for two nights including camping, fishing and watercraft (kayaks), and a little spousal arm twisting, we were off.

It was a long five and a half hour drive, but a pretty one along the Mogollon Rim. We were in the pines by the first hour and stayed in them the rest of the way. Strawberry, Pine, Payson, Heber, Show Low, Pinetop... The little towns finally gave way to wilderness. When we stopped in Hon-Dah to pay for permits, the sky was already lowering, distant thunder was rumbling and soon we were driving through rain. The 105 temps we left at home had suddenly turned to 70. Soon after the turnoff to Sunrise, the cell signal died away and would never be seen again. Thank God.

The forest at that elevation was thick with spruce, fir and giant aspens. We stopped and looked at looked at the carvings on some of the bigger aspens. I don't know if they were genuine or not but we found one date of 1914 and couple more dated 1938. Despite the rain, the road was not all terrible and the truck hardly got muddy on the twenty or so miles of back roads to the lake. Sigh. You can't have everything.

The lake itself was beautiful. Sitting just over 9,000 feet, it is Arizona's second highest lake. Tall trees, green meadows and swooping mountain tops made the view magnificent. Ospreys, Great Blue Herons, Bald Eagles and a rookery of Cormorants patrolled the shores. Elk (and cattle) could be heard in the distance. For three days it was our little slice of heaven. Yes, in the afternoons, we sat in our camp chairs and watched the storms build around us. Finally we'd have to dash to the tent, where we holed up through the brief downpours while playing cards. At dawn and dusk I was was out on the glassy waters fishing. Beautiful.

The campground, however, was a curious place. An old wooden sign saying “Knob Hill” led to a hilltop clearing of... Well, there was no designated sites, just old wooden picnic tables scattered here and there, primitive rock fire pits and a couple very old, falling down outhouses. There was a newer pit toilet located near the “store and marina.” Which, it turned out, was boarded up. The deck was falling in. The floating dock had been hauled up on shore years ago and the cracked and broken concrete boat ramp ended abruptly short of the water in a rather dramatic drop-off. Along the lake sat a couple of waterfront cabins, also apparently boarded up for years.

There was nobody there. Nobody in the main campground. Nobody at the dock. There was an encampment of RVs, tents, tarps and gazebos at the very end of the campground –which was maybe the seasonal camp host? Even though there was a couple vehicles there, we never saw anyone moving around. There were a couple people camped in the woods across the lake. Daily there were a few small boats and kayaks launched from a meadow at the far end of the lake. Other than that... It was us.

As the “campground” was on top of hill and little ways from the lake, we decided just to put the truck in 4X4 and drive down to the shore of the lake. There was no signs or no supervision saying we couldn't. We parked the truck and our lawn chairs on the concrete slab of a long disappeared building and pitched the tent in a grassy lawn area next to it. From there it was twenty yards or so to the lake. Ideal.

The lake shore itself was crazy too. Like walking back into time. Remember the old pull-tab beer cans? I'm pretty sure they were phased out in the early 70s. Here, the shore was littered with old pulls tabs and even a few cans. Do you remember when Powerbait came in glass jars? Me neither. But Debi picked up a couple dozen of them along the shore. What the heck? Has this trash been sitting there since 1975?

There were mysteries here. We had so many questions. Apparently this was quite the place fifty years ago. A marina, store, cabins... At one time the tribe had big plans for this place. Why did they abandon them? Why was there nobody here? Internet research at a later date provided no answers either. Most listings still included the store, marina and cabins as “amenities” even though it was obvious that none had been used in decades.

I like a good mystery and I like out of the way places. I'd go back in a heartbeat except for the biggest mystery of all.

Why wasn't there any fish?

Scenes from a Desert Road Trip

 

Treasure Hunting

 

“Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting/ So much as just finding the gold”--Robert Service

A few months ago, Debi had a yard sale and, while we got rid of precious little junk, we did get to meet a lot of our neighbors. One of them was a young man who had just moved into his father's house diagonally across the street from us. Immediately he was taken by the amount of rocks scattered all over our yard. It turns out he was a serious rock hound and, after asking to walk around the yard, started asking silly questions like “Where did you find this one?” Our answer was invariably a shrug and the reply, “In the desert somewhere.” He found this lackadaisical attitude towards prospecting maddening.

But it did start off a relationship and he has visited us several times since to talk about our explorations. We have compared notes about what we know about the local area and it soon became apparent that there was one major mystery in the area. We had all heard of Camp Verde blue agate but no one had ever found any or even knew where to find it. Our neighbor said the only reference he could find was the phrase, “in a wash east of Squaw Peak”—a very large area to be to sure. Invariably, our visits would end in the promise we'd go out and look for it some day.

A couple weeks ago, some day arrived and we made arrangements to go out for the day. But first a little research was necessary. Snooping around the forums and reddits, I found multiple mentions of rock hounding in the Camp Verde area. They were all maddeningly vague—even to what they were finding. Rock hounds are cagey when it comes to their “spots”--even going so far as to deliberately mislead and leave red herrings. For good reason. Especially on the internet. How many times have I witnessed a favorite scenic outdoor place overrun and destroyed by YouTube/Twitter/Facebook fame? Who wants their favorite rock area picked clean?

But still there were clues. In the Camp Verde mentions, there seemed to be three predominant geographical references: Brown Springs, Rodeo Flats and the Squaw Peak mine. All three areas are located are located off the same forest service road east of Camp Verde—though all are miles apart. The next clue was a YouTube video of rock hounders finding all sort of groovy blue gate pieces. There as absolutely no mention of the location except for the “Camp Verde area.” For most of the video the camera is pointed directly at the ground so there was little or no geographical landmarks visible. Still, watching it with the neighbor and stopping it quite often—we found one brief glimpse of the background scenery. There we were able to freeze the frame and take a screen shot for reference in the field.

After poring over a topographical map of the area and identifying some likely jeep roads and interesting areas, we were off. It was a beautiful Arizona winter day. Not a cloud in the sky and temps in the 60s. After the gray short days of December and January, it felt great to be headed outside and on an adventure. It had been a long time since I had been out that way. Some of the area I remembered fairly well and others not so much. The drive itself was fun—with the “crew” telling stories of other expeditions and adventures. Finally the road crossed a flat, cow-covered plain which we all agreed had to be Rodeo Flats. Here we found a nasty, overgrown two track that headed up towards the mountains. I felt this was the most likely trail—and since I was driving—we “agreed” this was the best route.

Admittedly, it didn't look promising. The terrain was nothing but gnarly black basalt and catclaw that a huge herd of cattle was grazing down to nothing. The only shiny things on the ground were the fresh glistening cow pies. Still, we had a ways to go to get up into the mountains. It had been a while since we'd been out doing some serious off-roading. I've never really understood the folk that do this strictly for fun. The slow crawl over giant rocks, the bouncing and lurching, and the often treacherous drop offs are a challenge, but I wouldn't exactly call it fun. Usually, I am impatient to get to where I'm going, but on this day, I kind of enjoyed the drive. It was good to know that, where outdoor adventure was concerned, I hadn't lost my nerve.

“Do you have any idea where you're going?” Debi asked.

“Of course not.”

A little later the road narrowed and the drop-offs got higher.

“You're going to get all all killed.”

“She always says that,” I told our passenger.

The road got even rougher.

“I hate this. I'm never going out with you again.”

“She always says that, too.”

I think our neighbor was pretty impressed. Or was wondering what the hell he had gotten into...

As we gained altitude, the views started to look more like the picture we took. Still the rock did not look promising-- still that gray, nasty basalt-- although ridges of it began to emerge from the mountain instead of just the scatted boulders. We came over a pass and alongside the road was a stake signifying a mining claim. Aha! Another clue. We must be close! We drove on past the claim a suitable distance and I found a spot big enough to park the truck. We all tumbled out and, after establishing that we were very, very close to where the video was shot, scattered in different directions.

At first there didn't seem to be much. Some glimmers of quartz here and there but nothing unusual. I took the dog and hiked up the road. It was a lovely day and if we didn't find anything at least I'd get a little exercise. The trail climbed pretty hard and finally dead-ended in a small canyon. I hadn't found anything. On the way back I reasoned that I obviously wasn't going to find anything by staying on the road, so I cut off and climbed a nearby hill. Right away I started finding all sorts of interesting rocks. Grape bubble rock, quartz clusters, and even a few thin layers of, yes, blue agate.

In the end, we all had discovered or own little pockets of treasure and when we met back at the truck we had fun comparing our discoveries. After much ooh and aahing, we piled the rocks in a bucket and stowed them in the truck for the drive home. Of course, the rocks themselves have no monetary value. And we have no idea what to do with them (they will undoubtedly be dumped in the desert yard with countless other remnants of rock hounding adventures), but I think we all knew it wasn't the treasure so much as the challenging game of finding the treasure that was the real prize. Everybody needs adventure and some sort of treasure hunting in their lives whether it's finding Indian ruins, rock hounding, gold prospecting, thrift store browsing, used book store exploring, eBay surfing, mushroom hunting or whatever.

What's yours?

Beware the Bucket List

 

I've always liked cycling. At least I thought I did. I mean, I've always owned a bike. And I rode sporadically all my life. In later years this has meant a mostly mellow cruise down a forest service road alone on my mountain bike. Though I've always considered myself a hiker first, a quick hour ride on the bike was a good way throughout the years to get a fast effective workout along with some sunshine and fresh air.

And I've always really enjoyed my rides. I've always returned feeling rejuvenated. More than once, I found myself thinking, “If something makes you feel this good, you should probably do more of it.” In the back of my mind, I always thought I could have been a pretty good cyclist if I took it seriously and have even daydreamed about someday, somewhere doing on of those multi-day bicycle tours perhaps through the wine country in Napa Valley, or a rail trail across Idaho, or even the annual Ride Across Iowa.

Like a lot of things, it was a nice daydream. Something to put on one's “bucket list” with no real plan or urgency. Some day. Maybe. It'd be fun, wouldn't it?

Then the pandemic hit. Work became my entire life for a while. Not only was it exhausting, mentally and physically, but it drained something out of me. I realized quite suddenly that I did not like my job. I mean everybody says that, right? But for me, I realized it went deeper than that. I really didn't like my job. I was completely living for the sporadic day off. Furthermore, I decided I was living a spiritually poor life.

Now in the movies, when the hero comes to this profound realization, he does something dramatic. He quits his job. He goes on a quest. He joins the Peace Corps. He starts a soup kitchen.

I bought a bicycle.

I'd been looking for a while causally out of curiosity. I kind of knew what bike I wanted. Something that could handle both roads and dirt. Gravel bikes they were being called. And suddenly they were a very hot segment of the cycling industry. Of course being the new darling on the block, they were all rather pricey and, during the pandemic, forget about buying anything used. Bicycles, kayaks, backpacks, tents-- everybody suddenly wanted them. I had been toying with the idea of buying a cheap old steel-framed ten speed and converting it to a gravel bike, but, due to my limited mechanical skills, it'd have to be the right bike. I was surfing Craig's List one day, marveling yet again how people could spend car money on bicycles, when the perfect bike fell into my lap. It was a 6-year-old cyclocross bike, hardly ridden, in my size, with disc brakes for under $500 dollars. And it was in Flagstaff. To make a long story short, I dropped everything and drove to Flag..

It's hard to describe how excited I was. I was giddy. Suddenly all these doors seemed to be open. Yes, I could ride across Iowa. Yes, I could ride cross country. Yes, I could join a club. In fact, somewhat serendipitously, the day after I picked up the bike, a Facebook post hit my news feed. They were accepting registration for the Chino Grinder—a 60 mile gravel race not far from my house. And, get this, it was the day before my 60^th birthday. It seemed perfect. It's give me all summer to train and then I could ride 60 miles on my 60^th birthday. I signed up without giving it any other consideration.

And then I started riding. Soon, very soon, like the first mile, reality booted me in the butt.

Riding was hard. Hills were hard. Riding long distances hurt. Wind sucks. Those were all the obvious things. But I also discovered there was a real learning curve from transitioning from causal mountain biking to gravel riding. Skinny tires just felt unsafe and rough terrain seemed to throw this new bike for a loop. My first few rides found me in deep trouble. I was blowing tires left and right. One day I went through all my spares out in the middle of nowhere and had to call my brother to rescue me. I was riding alone and learning by trial and error. Or maybe that was trail and error.

Slowly I started to learn the bike. And I was also beginning to learn how much harder gravel riding was than road. 6O miles is a decent but doable distance on a paved road. On gravel, on the mountain grades this race was going to be run on, it would be hell. Some of the riders, I was learning were insanely fit—like ultra-marathon fit. There would be pro teams at this race. Unwittingly, I'd signed up for one of the hardest events in the state. Not one to back down from a challenge or admit that I was wrong, however, I vowed to just train harder. Shame and embarrassment were things I was used to anyway.

About the same time I was seeing a glimmer of hope, I cut the end of my finger off at work. I won't dwell on the whole subject except to say that it set my training back and highlighted, in a major way, my main obstacle in getting fit. Work. Being a 59-year-old man and working a physical, fast-paced, stressful job 40-48 hours a week was bad enough. Add some hard, physical athletic training on top of that and the result was not always pretty. I vowed to ride every single day off—but sometimes I would work 10-11 day stretches in a row. There were days when I got on that bike and wanted to cry. I went to bed with Charley-horses. And Charley-cows. I developed a strange twitch in my thigh.

I joined a bike club. I'd seen these geezers rolling around town, so one day when I felt particularly low energy, I showed up to ride with them. A bunch of 70-year-olds. It'd be like a rest day. Well, I found out there's a term for old cyclists—GODS. Gnarly Old Dudes. These guys are retired and ride every day rain or shine. They proceeded to kick my ass all over the town. As I struggled to keep up with them, I felt completely overwhelmed again and wondered, not for the first time, what the hell I was doing. How had I managed to sign up for a long distance endurance race when I couldn't even keep up with the local townies? For their part, they were very encouraging. They ignored my cheap bike, my non-cycling clothes and told me, “You really hung in there.”

I was hanging in there. But it was a struggle. Summer came on hot and strong. With temps in the 100s on a daily basis, rides had to be at the crack of dawn or required a drive to Flagstaff. The forest was completely shut down and off limit for weeks. So it was only highway rides for a while. But for every grim, I-don't-want-to-be-here ride, there were breakthrough rides. I rode the fifty mile Lake Mary Loop in Flagstaff. It was something I'd seen other cyclists do, had heard about it for years, always wistfully thought about doing it one day, and now, suddenly, I was doing it. And it wasn't horribly difficult. When the forest opened up, I did another long loop through the forest near Flagstaff; up through Fry Park to Woody Mountain Road past Roger's Lake, back to Flagstaff and down 89-A to my truck. It was a wondrous morning riding through forest and mountain all alone in the woods...

I was getting better. But the improvement was slow and hard won. The facts were, I just couldn't do it with just a sporadic day off. August rolled along, seven weeks to the race and I knew I had to up my game. I set up a trainer in my office, hung my mountain bike from it and started wailing away on it after work. I set it up in front of the TV in my office and turned on some YouTube videos of biking Switzerland, Spain and Italy. Indoors with no AC (that's a whole other blog), I was soon dripping sweat everywhere and getting Charley-horses in places I never knew existed. It was a new form of hell, but, as it turned out, it was the missing piece. Almost immediately I began to see results. Less than two weeks after I started my new regimen, I shattered my personal best on my training run to Sedona. I averaged almost 16 mph on my cheap gravel bike on the pavement.

Damn if I wasn't getting fit. But I was also feeling guilty. The monsoon rains came and with it a flood of yard work. Mowing, weed-whacking, and weeding. The rain gutters I'd put up slap-dash were a disaster. There were all kinds of home improvement projects that I'd either ignored, postponed or butchered. My brother needed some help but I mostly ignored him for the summer. I'd gone six months without doing a damn thing around the house. My wife was supportive and showing a lot patience with my new found obsession but... There is a real dark side to personal goals and self-improvement that bloggers and social media influencers aren't going to tell you about. Fact is: bucket list goals are often very self-centered and there is a very real price to pay for that.

Still, I kept at it. Thus far I had done a good job of pacing myself. I was slowly ramping my rides up but hadn't bitten off anything I couldn't chew. As the date of race approached, however, I found myself burning out. I was working a lot and was, frankly, getting sick of the bike. I decided I would spend the week before the race off the bike. My plan was to take a little backpack the weekend before, relax and enjoy nature, and spend the rest of the week resting. That was the plan. The hike to West Clear Creek's Maiden Falls, however, turned out to be a real ass-kicker. I assumed that the year spent cycling would leave me in awesome hiking shape. Turns out they use very different muscles. The hike was grueling-- up and down, swimming, boulder-hopping, tree-crawling. When I returned from the hike I was so sore I could hardly move the next day. Or the next day. The third and fourth day were somewhat better, but certain movements of my legs still caused bolts of pain.

Today, I am sitting at my desk finishing this story. Earlier this morning I went for a short ride and... it wasn't pleasant. As I sit here slathered in Icy-Hot painkiller balm, I am wondering if I just blew six months of training on a bad decision or will everything feel better tomorrow? Doesn't matter I guess. Tomorrow is the race and I am going to give it my best—whatever that means at this point. No matter how it turns out, I have learned some important lessons.

Beware of what you wish for. Beware of the god-damn bucket list.

Paria Canyon: A Visual Poem

 

I awake in the night and utter a small grunt of discomfort. The echo booms in a dark amphitheater of incredible silence. Strange. I open my eyes and, through the screen of my tent, I see the full moon has set the looming canyon walls alight. Oh, right. Stiffly, clumsily, noisily, I rustle out of my bag, unzip the tent and stand naked in the darkness. Layer after layer of rock face jut around me, some bathed in moonlight, some caped in shadow, like some mad MC Escher sketch come to 3D life. The silence thrums in my ears. Damn. A year shy of sixty and still doing this.

A crack in the Earth. What started as a simple sandy wash turns into a fissure. Deeper and deeper into the rock it twists. Contours of smooth, glistening stone looks not unlike folds of flesh and the entrance feels sexual, forbidden, arousing. But this is primordial love. Cool, dark, hard. The stone looks smooth but is rough as sandpaper. The way is choked with hazards. Choke stones, jammed logs, rockfall, pour offs, quicksand, mud. This is love made real. This is passion to last a thousand lifetimes.

A canyon walk is a simple walk in that there are not a lot of decisions to be made. Like the water, I am just flowing downhill, taking the path of least resistance, clamoring over rocks, ducking around boulders, wading through streams. And if there is a pool of vile, disgusting, sewer slime mud before you, you anoint yourself. And everything you carry. Don't think. Just move. You'll get there. You are there. Meditation in motion.

The colors. They set your eyes on fire. In 1992 I bought a new Jeep Wrangler. The color was marketed as “Canyon Blue.” Most people didn't get it. How can a canyon be blue? But have you ever seen the clear, blue sky from the bottom of a dry, desert canyon? It is a special blue. A blue that will stop you in your tracks. A blue that can make you cry. Contrasted with the rusts and reds and desert varnishes of the rock, it makes you appreciate the artistry of nature. Around every other corner the sunlight catches the leaves of a cottonwood just right and against that background, your eyes explode. I take a thousands pictures. But none of them quite suit. “I think God make most of the world for man,” my hiking companion muses during a snack break, “Farmlands and valleys and harbors and coasts. But some places, I think, He made just for himself. Just for fun.”

Little bluish birds hop down the canyon in front of us. They wait for us to catch up then fly away a few yards ahead. I can't decide if they are somehow picking up tiny insects disturbed by the vibrations of our approaching feet, or acting as our guides. The more I ponder them, the more I'm convinced they are greeting us. Trying to communicate. Come along ! Hurry! See this! You'll be amazed!

No one who hasn't hiked extensively in the desert knows the pure magic of a fresh spring. Tucked in a rock crevice or dripping from a clump of moss, the water tastes better than anything ever. The coldest beer, the finest wine, a chocolate shake never tasted so good. I've often thought that the hardships of hike were worth it just to taste spring water straight from the rock.

Memory falters. I've done this hike before. But nothing is the same. I am not the same. We hike for miles looking for a landmark I remembered from years ago. We walk and walk. Setting a goal only to realize, at the end of the day, we have far surpassed it. The rhythm of moving forward, of passing quietly through beauty is additive. And comforting. It's healing something in our souls.

Wading down the stream. a movement ahead catches my attention. I stop and peer ahead. Suddenly a band of Bighorn sheep explode out of the creek bed where they were drinking and in a few short bounds are standing on a rock face above us. They stop and peer back at us. The expression is clear. Indignation. Annoyance. We apologize and move on. Later, in the shade of a cottonwood, a coatamundi climbs down out of the tree and, in no hurry, starts walking down the trail. He stops, turns briefly and withers me with a look. It's the same expression the bighorn had. I get it. I'm a visitor. I don't belong here. But I should. I want to.

The human mind has a hard time with silence. The modern mind--conditioned with constant buzz and distraction-- even more so. In the quiet of the canyon, snippets of songs fall into the void. And grow. And grow into monsters. The same song line over and over builds from a simple mantra to a sonic obsession. Lying awake for hours in the sleeping bag, the music screams its objections to the Void. When I wake up in the morning, love/And the sunlight hurts my eyes/And something without warning, love/Bears heavy on my mind.../ Lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day/Lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day/A lovely day/Lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day/Lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day...

Slowly deadened senses come alive. The flap of a raven overheard is as loud as a jet. The buzz of bees in the dusty scented tamerisk. In the quiet evenings, not only can you actually hear the click of a bat's sonar but you tell by the frequency whether it's actively hunting or just passing by. The feel of the lunch boulder beneath your butt. The sandstone walls along your fingertips. The taste, the actual taste of water. Walking through thickets of sage. The rustle of movement—there. And there... A collared lizard bathing in the sun. This is what it means to be alive. Really alive. In the moment. Aware of details. Mind relaxed and senses frolicking with joy. Even as I realize this, I know it is all temporary. Soon I will be back in the modern world and this feeling will fade. The memory of the feeling will fade. And all that will be left is a vague longing, an ache to get back here. Somehow. Someplace.

Up and Over: a backyard bike adventure.

When one thinks of adventure, one usually conjures up visions of alpine daring, whitewater adrenalin, or maybe deep jungle exploration. But there are many kinds of adventure, some large, some small. For those of us with common jobs, ordinary responsibilities and limited resources, we usually, out of necessity, opt for the small.

Nothing wrong with that. I personally define adventure as any endeavor in which the outcome is unknown. Depending on your level of security, physical condition and financial health, this could mean anything from walking around the block to making your rent at the end of the month. In fact, stress and adventure are two sides of the same coin. Heads: I'm freaking out. Tails: what a great adventure!

I'm being a little glib, but I still believe that everyone needs a little uncertainty in their life. There is nothing worse than a completely predictable, completely safe, routine life. Not everybody has the money or the body to climb Everest, but everyone can dream and explore. Push their own boundaries. Even in their own neighborhood.

Over the years, I've come to perfect the art of the mini backyard adventure. These are little “projects”-- usually in the near vicinity-- that I can dabble with on my infrequent days off. One year, I heard a rumor they were scouting a trail from Sedona to Cottonwood. Using Google Maps and a half dozen day hikes to scout, I pieced together the route for myself and hiked the 16 miles before it officially became the Lime Kiln rail. Another year I put together clues from the internet to find the route of the old wagon road down Grief Hill. It took me three months and a dozen hikes, but I finally found the route. Last year, I again used Google Maps to piece together several trails that would take me from the bottom of the Verde Valley to the top of Mingus Mountain. I'd never heard of anyone who'd done it, but I worked it up for myself, set a date and did it. To real adventurers, these would be considered pretty pedestrian feats. To couch potatoes, they might seem like bold feats of daring-do. I don't know, but I do know I need these little infrequent challenges to stay alive.

This year, I got a new scratch I had to itch. I wanted to ride my bike all the way down Mingus Mountain. Top to bottom. I got the idea a couple years ago when the local bike shop advertised a group ride down the mountain. It was rated expert only. I'm definitely nowhere close to being an expert rider and the singletrack route they had selected looked really extreme. Still I knew that the mountain was covered in old jeep roads and I wondered if I'd be able to piece together a less extreme route. Again consulting Google Maps, I thought I could. So one morning last month, I drove to the top of the mountain where the highway crests the pass and, with my bike and a full Camelbak. started pedaling.

The first pull up the mountain was very familiar. I often park at the pass and rode the rest of way up the mountain on the gravel road. It's a steep, but fairly short pull with a huge payoff –parking your bike on the lip of the hang-glider launch ramp! Today, though, I turned off before the summit and onto a road that paralleled the top of the mountain range. To my surprise, it was downhill –much faster than I anticipated. It was so steep in some parts, I was leaning back and riding the disc brakes. Soon I was at my next turn—Allen Springs Road, which I knew was going to be downhill most of way, but it started out mild enough so I relaxed a little and enjoyed the early morning cruise through the pine forest. At one point I startled a couple mule deer who gave me a curious look before disappearing into the woods.

There was one canyon descent into Gaddes Canyon (the route I used to hike to the top), and other than the steep rocky climb on the other side, I thoroughly enjoyed the scenery on this portion of the ride. As I experienced on my hike, this is the hidden part of the mountain, Thousands live in the foothills, many visit the summit, but this area in between is kind of no man's land with varied micro-climates, running streams, pockets of pines and manzanita groves that drip with solitude that very few ever see.

Shortly after the pull out of Gaddes Canyon, I rounded the shoulder of the mountain and came upon the first expansive view of the Verde Valley. Often times I've sat in my backyard at dusk and seen the headlights of four wheel vehicles appear high on the mountain this spot. Now I was there and, it was at this place, the trail started getting dicey. The descent was steep but, worse, rocky--the kind of loose rocky marble alley that despises bicycles. Those big loose rocks—hit one just right on a bike and it careens you sideways. Almost impossible to roll over them at low speed ,but dangerous as hell any faster. In a couple places I unclipped from my pedals and dragged my feet on the ground while riding the brakes. Rock slalom skiing takes utmost concentration and, though true mountain bikers love this shit, it was the least favorite part of the ride for me.

After the drop from the shoulder of the mountain, the road becomes a shelf road and follows the contours of the mountain at pretty much the same elevation for miles. This was the most enjoyable part of the ride. Without the steep descent or dangerous obstacles (just ignore that huge plummet to the valley on the one side of the road), I was free to enjoy the scenery of the day. I serenely pedaled in and out of little oak groves. Springs appeared on the mountainside and funneled under the road in pipes and then disappeared into the vastness of the other side. The morning was still cool and the trees shaded most of the ride. The whole valley lay spread out below me to the right. I told myself if I ever did this ride again, I would ride this road all the way back to Jerome.

Instead my goal that morning was Cottonwood and my turnoff appeared to my right. I described the ride to a bike group as a long, beautiful gravel ride spaced intermittently with rocky horror death plunges. This was the worse of the death plunges. I didn't even try and ride this one. Riding alone in this remote area, this would be a terrible place to fall. Even an adventure sometimes calls for common sense so I unclipped and walked the bike clumsily down the rocky trail in my steel-cleated bike shoes. Clink, clink, clink. Then, back on the bike, I rode past the huge Copper Chief and Iron King mine fields, forcing myself not to stop and rockhound. Then another steep descent towards Cottonwood. It was at this point, leaning back on the bike and squeezing the brakes, that my wrists just started screaming. I could barely squeeze the brakes hard enough to keep from flying down the hill. Even as I started to curse “meat-cutter wrists,” I realized quite sheepishly, that due to the sustained free fall and my subsequent death grip on the handlebars, they had slowly rotated out of position. The bars were almost upside down and I had been trying to squeeze the brakes from a very odd over/under position. I do carry a small tool kit on the bike, so once I figured out the problem, it was a quick fix.

Once correctly aligned, it was a smooth sail. As I got closer to the foothill subdivisions of Cottonwood, the road gradually improved and I relaxed and let the bike take on some additional speed. By the time I passed the first people I'd seen all morning, I was a blue streak of joy.

It was a great ride. Once in town, I took a short-cut through a new subdivision to my brother's house. Pedaling slowly and savoring my survival, I relaxed and and contemplated the fine morning. People were busy waking up and going about their nine to five day. Construction crews were showing up on the jobsite. Garage trucks were starting their daily prowl. Through the ordinary I rode, a man with a smile, a secret, and another small victory that would fill my heart for a few more weeks.

 

Blood, Sweat and Bad Water.

There is something wonderful and awful about the last swallow of water in the canteen. Chances are you have been saving it, hoarding it away until you just can't stand it any longer. By the time you finally commit to drink, you're not only good and thirsty but maybe a little fearful for the future.

Never-the less, you savor the water all the way down from the tip of your tongue, to the back of your throat and all the way down the esophagus. Wonderful. And then it's gone and the hand is dealt.

This happened to us the very first day of backpacking in Grand Gulch. A veteran of many canyon hikes, I had gone into the excursion with a cavalier attitude and was carrying only my standard liter and half day hike ration. It had never been a problem. The bottom of a steep deep narrow wilderness canyon is filled with springs and potholes and rocks and rivulets. There's always water to be found. Except today. Besides a few pot holes in the side canyon we entered first thing in the morning, this canyon was sandy, brushy and very, very dry. Earlier we had passed a pair of well-heeled hikers who were struggling mightily (despite their top-of-the-line equipment) under a load of 40 liters of water! We had laughed at them heartily, but now were wondering if they knew something we didn't.

 Nothing we could do about it now. Ari and I were well past the point of no return. At the last side canyon we'd spent an entire hour bushwhacking around looking for a spring that the BLM rangers had assured us was there. Along with another guy we met on the trail, we looked high and low. Found one vaguely swampy area underneath some more ruins, but no standing water of any kind. We were all concerned that the canyon bottom was very dry—drier than we expected—and seemingly getting drier as we headed down canyon. Our new friend made his choice early. If he didn't find water in this side canyon he was aborting his trip—and retracing his steps back to the trailhead.

Neither Ari nor I are known for our patience and after fruitlessly searching for an hour, we returned to the confluence of the side canyon and weighed our options. It was early afternoon, we were very low on water, and it was only getting warmer. Consulting the map, we decided to press on—putting our hopes on a vaguely defined feature on the map called “The Pour-off.” If we couldn't find water anywhere else, I assured Ari, there should be some kind of water at the bottom of a dry falls. Falls, after all, denote rock. Rock holds water.

As we trudged down the canyon, however, the sand only got deeper. Our last swallows of water had come and gone. As the day wore on, the packs got heavier and the legs more sluggish. In many ways the first day of a multi-day backpack is the worst. The pack is at its heaviest, the legs and body are at their softest and the body is just not trail hardened. The day was growing to be a long one and we were putting in miles we hadn't counted on. I was beginning to regret not training harder for this hike—a universal feeling of backpackers everywhere.

We came to a muddy patch of wet ground and I seriously considered digging for water—something I've never had to do anywhere and was frankly skeptical it could be successfully done. Ari offered, however, to take off his pack and scout ahead. He came back a half hour later saying he hadn't found water but there was another muddy spot on the ground ahead and a better campsite so we shrugged into our packs once again and headed down the canyon. It was a beautiful site on high ground just off the main channel and as we were trudging up to it, I glanced down canyon and saw where the riverbed just ended. We dropped our packs and grabbed out water jugs.

“Cross your fingers.”

The Pour Off was there, a hundred yards from camp. And, as I'd assumed, the canyon bottom slowly turned to rock. When we arrived, not only did we discover a large brackish water hole at the base of the falls but, even better, a series of rock pot holes on top—the largest of which still contained water. We were saved. But our work was not over. The water was still so silty that it was impossible to pump more than a liter of water at a time before the filter clogged up. So it was pump a liter, disassemble the water filter, scrape it down, wash it, reassemble and then pump another liter. Repeat. It took us an hour and twenty minutes to filter enough water for the night. And this was the scenario that would play out over several days. This canyon, it turned out, was a very dry place.

It was easy for us then to imagine why this canyon, once home to one of the largest Anasazi populations in the Southwest, was abandoned. Some of the best preserved ruins in the world dot the Grand Gulch—a 58 mile long snaking tributary of the San Juan river. Many look as if the occupants walked away a few months ago. Metates and scraping tools lay next to boulder work areas. Corn cobs still fill many of the granaries. In places the pottery shards are like litter on the ground. Large panels of pictographs cover the canyon walls like graffiti. Some in very rare colors of green and blue and orange. Some of the ruins still have their floors and roofs intact. There is an actual kiva you can still enter.

The mysterious "Green Mask."

A sexy tomb raider. Somebody should make a video game!

Beyond the prehistoric ruins, the canyon itself was lovely. There were many cool rock formations, alcoves splashed with fall colors and a sky that was so blue it hurt the eyes. We did great slick rock climbs to granaries that seemed impossible to reach from the canyon floor. We watched the moon rise over the canyon walls and the star-blown skies after it set. On the second day we found a fantastic camp above a cool clear stream with pictographs visible across the canyon from our sleeping bags.

The place was the Garden of Eden except for:

Water. A couple days after finding a clear stream in a side canyon, we spend another wasted day (and all our remaining good water) fruitlessly searching for another spring. As we ventured deeper into the canyon and off the beaten track, the bushwhacking was brutal. Continuing down the main dry channel meant fighting overhanging branches, climbing over dead fall and trudging through sticky muck. Trying to fight a path over the banks meant face slapping, leg ripping brush and steep ascents and descents in and out of the main channel. We even tried to climb up the canyon sides and stay near the slick rock walls, but the prickly pear were so thick there was no where to step. And the trail always went cold at a steep side gully that was dead drop.

That's backpacking. For every beautiful sunset, there's the moment you wake up and realize a rat is crawling across the top of your tent. For every clear stream, there's a vile, brackish puddle of ooze that might keep you alive for another day. For every unexpected Indian discovery there's a pair of shorts ripped from waist to cuff from a razor thorn. For every pretty picture, a cactus needle imbedded into your calf. And for every shot of tequila carefully hoarded, there the point in the hike when you realize that you absolutely cannot eat another gram of trail mix.

To the hundreds of people who lived here in America's recent stone age, I'm sure it was the Garden of Eden. They had everything they wanted: food, water, beauty, room to roam and time to create beautiful art and pottery. But even a garden has limits, boundaries and needs balance. When something tips the scales—overpopulation, a prolonged drought, warfare—then even paradise will fail. It's a lesson for all of us. Appreciate what we have, do all we can to protect it and strive for balance.

Watch the sunset, ignore the rats.

Bottom's up, y'all!

And drink plenty of water.