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