Still Keeping Up at the Three-Quarters Mark

 

This first image is not where we began our hike on Saturday (my 75th birthday), and it was far, far below where Therese and I had begun last April (on her birthday). It wasn’t even last year’s beginning spot. No, this “beginning” is where three of us branched off on Saturday in a direction new to Kathy, Sunny, Yogi, and me, after we'd climbed already considerably.... But let’s backtrack a little.

You’re not seeing the 25-mile drive from Dos Cabezas to the Chiricahua Monument, nor the more than seven miles of very rutted road to the place we left our cars. Therese and I had parked higher up last year, but this year, with two cars, we decided to do more of the climb on foot – which turned out to be a fortuitous choice in more ways than one, as our last year’s “parking place” was flooded, providing our first encounter on foot that day with flowing water, which the dogs loved as much as the humans. (We had no idea then how many more watery thrills awaited us.) But I anticipate again, because before we got to that first flowing water, we had a long uphill climb, mostly in sun, along a boulder-lined – and sometimes boulder-strewn – road.

Therese and Kathy look down over the steep edge.

Is this mudstone? Are these fossils of ancient trees?

For Sunny, it's simply -- Big rock!!!

As I say, the road climbed. The sun was hot. As we went around the mountain, however, we were met with a cool, refreshing breeze. Ah, that was more like it....

Dog buddies on the trail

Old formations from prehistoric volcano

Below you see the water that had flooded an open pace, crossed the road, and taken water’s general downhill habit. Observe the happy dogs. Note the cool shade. And only a little way farther up the rocky road, back in the sun, we spied a congregation of spiny lizards, which I found very exciting.

A confusing sign, but we got the message.

Is it a mountain spiny lizard? That would be Sceloporus jarrovi.

The Chiricahua Monument itself is the official “wonderland of rocks,” but for me the entire mountain range is a wonderland of awe-inspiring formations. Therese was particularly captivated by manzanita in bloom, and look at the size of this single plant! I had her stand in front of it to illustrate the scale. 

Gigantic manzanita!

And now, water again. It never gets old. The sight and sound of it, the way it makes the colors of rocks sing, the way it calls to us --

Yogi (left) flees after being surprised by a deep pool.

Sunny is crossing cautiously, so as not to drop a bone she found, while Yogi hopes the bone will drop.

Oh, the heavenly scent of pine trees! And the towering majesty of the Ponderosa pines! After our usual diet of dusty desert walks, the tree-shaded creek canyon -- with water, too! -- feels and smells like paradise.

Along this minimally maintained mountain road were many boulders, deep ruts, and at one point it was clear that someone had very recently cleared away a fallen tree. 

No speeding here!

And now, at probably our fourth or fifth encounter with the creek (not counting walking a road that roughly paralleled the creek below most of the way), we decided it was time for our picnic. And the perfect place, despite the noise of rushing water. 

Maybe if you zoom in on the image of the (yet another) big rock below, you’ll be able to see the patterns that drew my eye and set me to dreaming of its distant past. 

The far side of the creek. We did not go across here.

What has this tree been through?!

What forces twisted these rocks? But life finds room to cling.

And it isn’t only rocks and trees that have history. The road itself speaks mutely of what it used to be. 

Here almost half the road has crumbled into the creek.

Bedrock exposed on the road

Now we have climbed up away from the creek and back into the sun. This might be close to our highest elevation of the day, 6,365 feet above sea level. Or maybe it wasn’t. I didn’t really keep track, but bear in mind that our ghost town is somewhat less than a mile high. 

This is close to our highest elevation of the day.

But even this high, snowmelt has sent flowing water across our road, on its way downhill to reach the creek. 

Ah, shade!

What do you see here? What can you imagine or speculate?

We had left our ghost town at 9 a.m., and when I got back it was 3:30, so I’ll say we hiked for about five hours. And it was a glorious way to celebrate reaching my three-quarters-of-a-century mark, 75 years of age! Congenial company, vigorous exercise, exciting vistas, the thrill of flowing water, and the always amusing antics of our canine companions – I couldn’t have asked for more. And yet there was more, because another neighbor had us over for dinner that evening! Can you believe it? In short, I had another birthday, am halfway through my eighth decade of life, and despite losses along the way I am surviving. 

 

Of all the photographs in this post, which one is your favorite? Or how about top three? I know at least two that would make the cut for me, but I’ve not scrimped in presenting our adventure, because three images would not have been nearly enough. I’ll close with a funny one, though – at least, funny if I give you the story that goes with it. At 9 a.m., Sunny and I were in the car at the bottom of the driveway, down by the highway, waiting for Therese and Kathy to drive by so we could convoy to Pinery Canyon, Sunny with her most alert expression…. And then their car went by, and Sunny knew it was Therese, and she knew Yogi was in that car, so she sat forward, eyes fixed on that vehicle for over 30 miles, not about to lose sight of her friends and miss any fun! And of course, as you have seen, she certainly did not. Happy ending!

Always up for adventure!

Mourning Is a Mountain Road

Don't say you weren't warned.

 

When Peter Pan, the little lost boy who wanted never to grow up, found himself on Marooner’s Rock with the tide rising all about him, he looked at the bright side and said stoically, “To die will be an awfully big adventure.” That was in part the view of the author of Meetings at the Edge, a book highlighted in my most recent post. Today I am thinking of adventures in a broader sense, those sought and unsought, adventures geographical and spiritual, with death only part of the picture.

 

I did not plan to go on a hair-raising expedition on Wednesday. I just had to get out of the house and go somewhere – anywhere – to recover from my most debilitating meltdown since losing the love of my life. Everything – and I mean everything! – seemed overwhelming and unbearable! But I had just bought new tires, mounted only that morning, and I had three-quarters of a tank of gas, so driving down the highway a few miles to Chiricahua National Monument didn’t seem an outlandish idea. Maybe, I thought, on my way down the road, I wouldn’t even go that far. Maybe I’d take the road to Fort Bowie but not even as far as the parking lot, maybe just pulling off at some scenic spot along the way. There was a car behind me as the turnoff got close, though, so instead of slowing down I kept going. 

This way to Pinery Canyon --

Then, should I take the road to the Monument or stay on the main road? I chose the Monument road, but at the T intersection, where turning left takes one into the Monument on a paved road and turning right on gravel and sand leads to Pinery Canyon, I turned right. Again, it was the impulse of the moment. The Artist and I had explored partway up Pinery Canyon once but had always “saved” the expedition over the mountains for another time and so had never together faced the terrors of Onion Saddle at the top of the range. Well, I had no plan to face those terrors on Wednesday, either. But the farther I went into the Coronado National Forest, the more committed I became. Accidentally, as it were. Because turning back seems ridiculous at a certain point, don’t you find? 

Camping spot along the dry creek bed

Once in a while I would see a campsite (a couple of small tents, a few clothes hung on a line strung between two trees, a fire circle made of rocks), and very occasionally (less than half a dozen times in what was finally 30 miles or so) another vehicle approached and the driver raised a hand laconically as we passed each other, but most of the time there was only me, the puppy, and maybe a deer off in the trees. I found myself driving well below the 20 mph speed limit. Once I pulled over to walk the puppy and saw that indeed the rocky creek bed was dry as a bone. We went on….

 

An unplanned adventure doesn’t have to fall from the sky like a tornado, all of a sudden. It can creep upon one gradually, and that was my experience of Pinery Canyon. At one primitive intersection I pulled off when three other cars appeared, two behind me and one ahead, relieved that no one was going my way!

 

…The road narrowed, and the canyon, now on my left, deepened. Loose rocks in the road presented occasional hazards. Basically, as one ascends the mountain, one is traveling a one-lane road with the potential for two-way traffic. 

 

A sign appeared: Portal, on the other side of the mountains, was still 20 miles off, twenty miles of narrow, winding, climbing mountain road! Going on from this point was a big commitment, as there might not be further opportunities to go back, whatever the road ahead presented. Still not completely sure I wanted to go all the way, I proceeded cautiously. Upon reaching a sign that announced Portal still 19 miles distant, I reflected on the length of a mountain mile. Nothing like a mile on flatlands! But I had hours of light, nowhere I had to be, so I might as well keep going.

 

You know that feeling at the top of a Ferris wheel when you pause for a nanosecond and then begin the downward plunge? A glance into the terrifying abyss off the side of my road turned my legs to jelly in just that way. Glancing over was irresistible, but I could not look for more than the briefest glance, even if I stopped stock-still. It was too frightening. My photo does not convey the terror of the vertiginous drop!

Edge feels all too close

At one point the road seemed to be leveling off and even descending, and I wondered, looking off to nearby peaks, if I had passed the highest point. Could it be? Hey! Easy-peasy! My relief was short-lived, as the road began to climb once more, twisting like a snake, making blind hairpin turns – and still it went on and on, as if it would never reach the saddle, much less arrive at Portal on the other side of the range. 

Sometimes I could see below me a portion of road just traveled. Other times the coming road appeared above, across a chasm, and I prayed there would be no other vehicles coming toward me around the turns.

Road to come

Road traveled 

 

At last! The highest hairpin! Onion Saddle! There was the Sulphur Springs Valley spread out below me, my Arizona home valley, a distant panorama – and around the turn the San Simon Valley appeared far below, with its long views into New Mexico. I had crossed Onion Saddle! “If we can do this, we can do anything!” I said aloud to Sunny, tears in my eyes.

Another hairpin

Sulphur Springs Valley

San Simon Valley

Miraculously finding a pull-off spot a couple of minutes later, I paused to catch my breath, get out of the car, and photograph some lupines in bloom. Another car went by, also going toward Portal, and I was glad to be off the road just then and not pressed to go faster by someone behind me. 

Water in the road? Wonderful surprise on the way down! I hadn't counted on seeing and hearing running water.

And a blooming tree! That too looked like some kind of miracle, surrounded by oaks, junipers and pines.

When another decision point appeared, I chose the nine miles to Portal, knowing that the last stretch would be paved and easy. And anyway, Paradise could hardly paradise for me without the Artist, could it?

There were the stunning rock faces that I remembered from a visit to Portal and the Southwest Research Station when the Artist and I had approached it with a visiting friend via I-10, down 80 through New Mexico, and by way of the Portal Road, a long, roundabout way (though they are all “roundabout,” in one way or the other) but much less hair-raising than going over the mountains. My road would be basically downhill from here on. Downhill in low gear, of course, careful not to slide on loose rock. 

The most extraordinary sight, however, appeared when I was a scant few miles from Portal, and it was one I did not capture with my camera. Imagine, if you will, seeing a turquoise swimming pool, like something out of a David Hockney painting, and a woman lazily stroking her way from one end to the other -- in a setting such as this!

 

Well, I shed many, many tears while crossing the mountains, thinking of how the Artist and I had talked of making this daring trip sometime and how he would have loved the long panoramic views and how precious it would have been to share the heart-stopping fears, as well as the soul-expanding thrills of the mountain road, with all its ups and downs and edges and startling sights. How can my own experiences ever again be fully real without him? 

And I thought as I wound my way up and down the mountains that grief is a mountain road: There is the abyss of utter loss, the chasms of loneliness, the heart-stopping fears of all that lies ahead. Will I be able to do this alone? For how long? There are also glimpses of beauty, both in memories and overflowing gratitude. But the road seems endless! And just when you think it’s leveling off, it becomes once again a narrow, rocky climb, and sometimes you need to stop and have a meltdown -- but then you must go forward again, because there is no turning back.

 

I don’t know if the mountain road of mourning has a destination, some spiritual version of Portal, with a welcoming café, cool beverages, and happy families on vacation. It would be lovely to think a reunion awaited at the end of the trail. Or maybe (and I think more likely) the spiritual road just keeps going as long as one lives but comes gradually down off the mountain and takes a gentler route, with only occasional blinding storms. Really, I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out. 

All I can say for certain is that I don’t envisage making the physical drive over the Chiricahua mountain range again, and it’s a foregone certitude that I will never again lose the love of my life. But my afternoon of despair did give way to a minor triumph of sorts. I crossed Onion Saddle and lived to tell the tale.

 

Taking paved roads home through New Mexico at sunset