New Mexico

 

Shop in Taos Pueblo

 Rio Grande Gorge near Taos

Snow, sage and the Sangre de Cristos

Classic in Carson

Art and adobe in Arroyo Seco


 Enjoying the view from Wheeler Peak, 13161'

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

Canadian Rockies

A hoary marmot relaxes near Jasper

The marmot dreams reached a portentous peak in early August. After two months of brutal, unwavering desert heat, why shouldn't I have visions? I criss-crossed scorching sand and shimmering slickrock, with nary a juniper to hide behind. The southwestern summer fired me like clay in a kiln, polished by a blinding glaze of sweat, sunscreen and windblown sand. I stumbled across sandstone mesas like a mummy, back bent under a triple-digit blue dome. Ever-present, inescapable: The Heat.

Lying quietly amongst the sagebrush one night, I started dreaming of marmots. I was standing in a cool forest of spruce and fir, watching a boulder field below sharp, white peaks. Fat hoary marmots lounged in the sun and scampering pikas filled the fresh air with shrill peeps. A broad glacier crouched beneath the mountains, radiating an impossible blue from every crack and crevasse. A chalky stream bolted from somewhere beneath the ice, smashing down the mountainside to pool in a turquoise tarn, ringed by moss and flowers.

I woke the next morning beneath a sun already high, broiling the barrens of southern Utah. My brain felt like a poached egg, but I managed to write an email to my manager requesting a return to the north country.  . . Barely month later, I stood grinning ear-to-ear, staring up at 13,000' Mount Robson, shining crown of the Canadian Rockies. The following two weeks through Jasper, Banff and Yoho National Parks was a dream: a sublime succession of bluebird skies, glittering summits, bugling elk and plenty of marmots.

A bugling bull elk herds his harem

Classic Canadian Rockies vista near Lake Louise

A September sunset lights Mount Rundle near Banff

Moraine Lake

Mount Edith Cavell

Me, standing in front of Canada

I love Tim Hortons because Canadians love Tim Hortons, not because I'm crazy about the coffee (I'm not.) But the apple fritters, one of the original menu items dating back to the first shop in 1964, are awesome. I became fascinated by Tim Hortons as a symbol of Canada while living overseas in 2005. One of my roommates was from Ontario, and received regular shipments of Canadiana from home. One morning I woke to find a 1 kilo tin of ground coffee on the kitchen counter, bearing the now-familiar red logo. I noticed that Jon was more animated than usual, and pretty revved up. I was curious: What's Tim Hortons? Initially stunned into silence by my ignorance, Jon collected himself and introduced me to the brew that flows daily through the veins of Canada. Since then, I've eaten donuts at Tim Hortons from the Yukon to Quebec (mostly sour cream glazed, my personal favorite.) Started by a pro hockey player and dear to the hearts of that Great Northern Nation, it's a necessary stop on any Canadian road trip.

My Tim Hortons Top 5:

Apple Fritter
Sour Cream Glazed
Dutchie (a Tim Hortons original)
Canadian Maple
Bostom Cream

Black/Bristlecone/Fire

I was excited when I found out I'd have a few free days in Vegas, but after twenty trips in five years and a mild case of Sin City burnout, I didn't gamble, party or jump in a limo. I put on my backpack. Within an hour of The Strip are endless opportunities to explore southern Nevada's surreal geography. To the west of the city, the snow-crusted summit of Charleston Peak shimmers 10,000 feet above the valley floor, crowning a range dark with ponderosa, fir and bristlecone. Across the valley, beyond Boulder City, the Black Mountains rise in a chocolate-dark jumble, hiding Hoover Dam and the Colorado River in their depths. At the bottom of Black Canyon, the river races away from its squat, gray jailer and celebrates release with a splashy run past feathery green tamarisk and the nervous quack of mallards. Somewhere between these extremes is the Valley of Fire, a state park northeast of Las Vegas protecting a fantastic scarlet-orange gash of rock erupting from the muted browns of the Nevada desert. Colorful humps of sandstone stand squished together, eroded into caves and arches and smeared with dark streaks of desert varnish.
I kicked the whole expedition off on a Friday afternoon with a pint of IPA at the Boulder Dam Brewing Company. My goal was to hike down to the Colorado, check out a hot spring and sleep on the beach. Since it was 96 degrees and I still had four hours of daylight, I decided I might as well stop in downtown Boulder City for a cold beer. A few hours later, after a three-mile hike down a gravelly wash, a dip in the hot spring and an icy bath in the river, I was wishing I had another beer. I settled instead for a sublime sunset/moonrise in that dark canyon bottom, listening to the water and watching weird shadow patterns in the sandstone crags. In the morning I hiked back up to the Arizona Hot Springs, sandbagged into a slot canyon above a twenty-foot ladder. After loosening up in the warm water, I climbed back down and retraced my steps to the beach, surprising a heron as I dove into the river. After a handful of apricots and a Clif Bar, I started the tough slog back up White Rock Canyon, every step feeling like two in the soft gravel. I pulled my visor down and bowed my head to the heat, trudging past creosote bush, bursage and smooth white boulders.

Black Canyon, Colorado River

Tired but exhilarated from the fresh air and purity of the light and heat, I stopped in Boulder City for coffee and a block of ice. An hour later I was driving through miles of Joshua Trees, climbing steadily toward the Spring Mountains. A local had given me a tip on a remote, quiet overnight in the Mount Charleston Wilderness, so I headed up Lee Canyon. My ears popped and the scenery changed with elevation. The Joshua Trees gave way to huge shoots of cliffrose, covered in creamy yellow flowers, pinyon pine and juniper. Soon the low shrubs were dwarfed by towering ponderosa pines, thick orange bark cracked like plates on a dinosaur. Higher still were remnant groves of green-leafed aspen and white fir, while gnarled stands of bristlecone pine covered the high ridges over 9000 feet.

Charleston Peak 11,916'

Bristlecone Pines

Clifftop camp near Wood Spring, 9,000'

It was a perfect day for a hike, warm and dry under bluebird skies. From the parking lot at the Lower Bristlecone Loop trail head, it was 13 gorgeous miles out to Wood Spring. The undoubted highlights were the near views of big peaks and a miles-long ridge-top jaunt through ancient bristlecones. Considered the oldest trees on earth with an estimated 5000-year lifespan, these primeval evergreens survive only in a few high ranges in Utah, Nevada and California. After climbing the bowl across from the ski area, the trail crossed to the southwest side of the ridge, with views opening to a dozen desert ranges south of Death Valley.

I set up camp on a bluff near Wood Spring, the only water for miles, and made a cup of coffee. From my sleeping bag I could see Charleston and Bonanza Peaks and the town of Pahrump far below. As the sunset sky turned pink over the purple-shaded mountains, the lights of town came. Instead of ruining the feeling of wilderness, seeing that modest grid of civilization miles away created a sense of wildness. I felt very far removed from humanity, knowing nothing that happened in town could affect me on my clifftop. No sound reached me on the mountain.

The sun woke me early the next morning, and after a couple clifftop coffees and a little Grateful Dead I headed back across the ridge. It felt a lot longer than 13 miles, but I let my mind wander and took a the opportunity to add to my collection of tree photos. I realized it was Father's Day, and started thinking about my dad and my first camping trips in southern Vermont years ago. In honor of old Walt I played John Hiatt as I drove out of Lee Canyon with the windows down, singing along to Slow Turning and Buffalo River Home.

That night I camped in Valley of Fire State Park. My walk-in tent site included a picnic table tucked into an alcove between two sandstone fins. From this vantage point I watched the ground squirrels dart back and forth to their burrows beneath clumps of bursage. I listened to a little country and made a few notes. The sun sank and the colors softened. A large bird swooped overhead, then another, before I could get a good look. Owls? Hawks? Soon the bats appeared, dipping and diving in the twilight.

Desert vista in Valley of Fire

Los Angeles

Dusk from the Griffith Observatory

Desert Spring

Beavertail Prickly Pear

Claret Cup

Desert Prickly Pear

Cliffrose

Engelmann's Hedgehog

Grand Canyon, March