Nov 14, 2011
Nov 9, 2011
White Sands
San Andres Mountains above White Sands
After leaving the Gila Wilderness I drove south, through the mountains to the old mining town of Silver City. I'd met a friendly guy camping up in the wilderness and agreed to give him a lift. Johnny was an interesting guy, a student of religion and alternative healing, who had given himself to wandering the land. He told me stories of working on a trail crew in Idaho, about how he was headed back to a farm in Missouri, and how he was trying meet up with a friend of his in Silver City. Apparently this friend sold kettle corn out at Woody's Flea Market east of town, but we never found him. He entertained and engaged me with stories and religious philosophies for hours. I ended up dropping him at the Greyhound station in the storied desert town of Las Cruces. I stopped long enough for a taco salad and a coffee, then got back on the highway. I was headed to sleep out in White Sands.
In south-central New Mexico, bound by the Sacremento and San Andres Mountains, lies the Tularosa Basin. It's an ancient lake bed with no outlet, where gypsum washed from the encircling ranges has collected for millions of years. Here, in White Sands National Monument, is the world's largest gypsum dune field. Unlike silica sand, this rare gypsum sand is a pure, blinding white that absorbs none of the sun's energy. On a triple-digit summer day the sand stays cool to the touch. Most visits involve driving out into the dunes for some photos and a short walk. Sledding some of the steeper, higher dunes is a lot of fun too, but for me nothing beats a night in the dunes. A limited number of backcountry permits are available on a first-come, first-served basis, allowing people stay after the monument closes for some peace and quiet under the stars.
I got to White Sands just in time to get my permit, top up my water and drive a few miles out into the dunes. I'd done this three years previous and always dreamed of coming back, the dreams full of the most brilliant and subtle sunset colors on the planet. I parked in the backcountry lot and hiked the trail out to my site, guided by plastic stakes stuck in the ever-shifting, wavelike dunes. The sun was already sliding behind the San Andres in the west, and in the soft evening light the sunset colors deepened and flooded the sky with pink, purple and peach. Everywhere I looked were soft pastels, broken by bright brown clumps of dry grass and spiky green soaptree yucca. The silence in that ivory sandscape rang in my ears as I walked the dunes. A bright, chalky moon waxed nearly full in the eastern sky. The sun finally sank and left the west to Venus, sparkling above the darkening purple peaks. Shadows slid between the dunes and I climbed into my sleeping bag.
Sometime after midnight I woke to a cold, clear sky. The moon had sunk low in the west, and a huge constellation stood out high above me: Orion, hunter of the winter night. I stayed awake for a few minutes, gazing up at the milky way, amazed by the November sky. Later, the surprisingly heavy dew turned into an icy frost that crackled on my sleeping bag when I woke at dawn. I shivered and checked my watch - 30 degrees! I packed up and snapped a few more photos as the sun exploded above the Sacramentos, flooding the sky with a blast-furnace yellow.
My camp in the dunes
White Sands sunrise
Soaptree yucca
The Alamogordo breakfast spot
As I traversed the dunes to the parking lot, I decided to drive north to Taos in one shot. A 300-mile drive requires a good breakfast, and as I drove through nearby Alamogordo I spotted the Pancake and Waffle Shoppe (add chicken-fried steak and gravy to any order for $3.10!) A massive meal, three cups of coffee, the El Paso paper and a day on the New Mexico highways. Carrizozo, Corona, Estancia, Santa Fe: I watched the towns roll by. Cattle, pick-ups and cowboy hats. Diners advertising green chile stew. Distant, snowy mountains. Tamales and a beer at the Mineshaft Tavern. The canyon of the Rio Grande and the pretty adobes of Taos. A long day's travel ended in the ski valley with good friends, grilled salmon and an early winter storm dropping two feet of powder.
Gila Wilderness
West Fork Gila River
I really dig New Mexico. I have for years, ever since my first trip to Santa Fe. There's a unique vibe I can't put my finger on. It's a special blend of green chile, kaleidoscopic deserts, huge mountains, red chile, hot springs, canyons, adobe and the Rio Grande. On my latest trip I wanted to hit the road and explore. Check out a new mountain range, do some backcountry camping and enjoy a few hot soaks before heading up to Taos for a week with my buddy Ben. GPS will never take the place of paper, and one of my great pleasures in contemplating movement is spreading out the map and letting my fingers run. This time I scanned the southern half of the state and zeroed in on a huge area of wilderness - all mountains, canyons, mesas and parks: the Gila National Forest.
Just getting to the Gila is trip. After a very sustaining breakfast of eggs, tortillas, beans and green chile I grabbed some supplies at REI and turned my back on Albuquerque. I gunned my little rental south on I-25 and blasted across the legendary Rio Grande - a clear, cold stream swathed in cottonwoods quaking gold. A long, narrow oasis running from Colorado to the Tex-Mex border. One of the most beautiful features of the New Mexican landscape and a rich corridor of life in a parched land. Standing on the mesa-top flats near Taos, covered in dry grass, sage and rabbit brush, you can look down into the Rio Grande Gorge and find lush oases of cottonwood, oak and boxelder.
As I drove across flats and gullies of eroded grays and browns, I admired the river and the Manzano Mountains beyond. After a quick stop in the hot springs town of Truth or Consequences, I headed west and into the southernmost folds of the imposing Black Range. The plant communities act as a living, leafy altimeter, changing constantly to reflect the great variety of elevations and micro-climates found in the Southwest. I drove across wide-open flats of rabbit brush, up into foothills studded with shrubby juniper and pinyon pine and over Emory Pass, cloaked in ponderosa pine and fir.
A slow, winding drive through the pretty Mimbres Valley and up NM 15 took me into the heart of the forest, to the tiny community of Gila Hot Springs. I spent the night beside the river, at a laid-back campground where five bucks buys you a place to pitch, as much firewood as you can carry, and three rocky pools of steaming relaxation. A good naked soak under the western stars does wonders. I splashed off in the river and counted myself lucky.
The next morning I bought a topographic map at the visitor center, double-checked my gear and hit the trail. I hiked west along an old pack trail, into the Gila Wilderness. Barely a mile down the trail I spooked a little herd of elk, a bull with six or seven cows. A few footsteps later I spotted a black, bristly javelina (wild pig of the Southwest.) The trail crossed a high burnt area with good views of the wilderness - mountains interspersed with open parkland and small river valleys. I turned into the Little Creek drainage and hiked several miles through a 'park,' a beautiful woodland of mature, widely-spaced ponderosas towering over an understory of dry, golden grass. Some these giants, centuries old and clad in cracked, orange bark, rose to over a hundred feet. The weather was sublime that first day of hiking, almost 70 degrees under a boundless blue dome.
Twelve miles out I reached Little Spring, at a trail junction next Little Creek, where a thin trickle of water wound down the gravel stream bed through a spacious glade of pine, fir and oak. Horse packers of days past had built a sturdy fireplace and dragged a few logs close for seats. As sunset faded to an alpenglow behind the high ridges ringing camp, the temperature plunged and I hurried to start a fire. The quiet of the deep woods, a crackling fire and another fantastic star show.
Friday morning
Saturday morning
I'd decided to camp at Little Spring for a couple nights before moving on. I had a water source, a fireplace and the site all to myself. I woke up on Friday morning and had a nice slow start. Filter water, make coffee, eat breakfast, relax. I threw a few things in a small bag and set off to explore. I hiked around a some of the surrounding valleys and enjoyed the forest vibe, although it was breezy and cooler than the day before. I followed an old trail up Granite Peak, climbing up a steep bowl and through a stand of slender gray aspens. The last dead leaves rattled in the wind while a fat Abert's squirrel scolded me from a tall fir: whup-whup! From the 8,700-foot summit, the mountains and forest stretched out to the horizon, uninterrupted by road or ranch. Three ranges (Black, Diablo and Mogollon) reposed under a blue sky streaked with racing white clouds, separated by cutting valleys and expansive parks. As much as love the vistas of my native Vermont, it's a special feeling to hike a mountain and not be able to see your neighbor's house. In fact, on that afternoon very little moved. Not even the raven, dependable companion of wanderers everywhere. The stillness was soothing and sobering.
Gila Wilderness from Granite Peak
I made my way slowly down the mountain and back to camp. The wind started to blow harder and I retreated to my tent early that night. I lay in my sleeping bag, listening to a Dead show and writing in my notebook. Thundering gusts rolled down the valley and shook my little tent all night long. I lay awake listening to the wind build up miles away and come blasting down the valley like a train, the huge pines groaning and swaying all around. I fell asleep eventually and woke to a surprise: winterworld. Snow was blowing in sideways, with an inch or two already on the ground. Gray skies and biting wind. I had a hot breakfast and a cup of coffee in my tent, waiting and watching. In the end I packed up and left. I was alone, 12 miles out, in a snow squall. I decided that retreating out a rail I knew was better than going further into the unknown with no idea what the weather was doing. So I beat it.
A few miles down the trail, tiny patches of blue started opening, only to be closed seconds later in a white whorl of flakes. Eventually the snow lightened, then stopped. Further down the valley the clouds started to break and only the north-facing slopes held snow. I saw another squirrel and a dozen western bluebirds. A flock of quail exploded from their brushy hideout and scattered up a hillside. Startled, I froze for a moment, then started to hum Johnny Cash songs as a walked back through the sunny forest.
Retreat
Ponderosa parkland along Little Creek
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