Old Lady on the Trail- Triple Crown at 76

by Mary E Davison

  When four riders leading four mules passed me heading south, one 72- year-old gentleman rider was impressed that I’d walked from the Mexican border. He said I was a better woman than he was man. To each his own; he was a better rider.

  Trees along the river were a mix of sycamore, ponderosa pine, juniper and cottonwood. Rock formations along the banks around every bend displayed colors ranging from brown to red to orange and yellow with a little purple thrown in for good measure.

  Since I didn’t reach Doc Campbell’s store in time to retrieve my resupply box, I took the access road to Wildwood Retreat. No one was there, and the hot spring pools were drained. I saw no information about price, but I was seduced by an empty, unlocked cabin overlooking the river. So I dumped my pack on the porch and took a shower while my dinner hydrated. When the retreat caretaker came by, I dickered for the price of three nights lodging and some transportation, staying an extra day to see the Cliff Dwellings.

  The campground host agreed to three nights at a 15% discount, a ride to the Visitor Center three days later and a ride to Doc Campbell’s for groceries and my food box, as well as a ride to the Cliff Dwellings. Major score. I hadn’t planned on that bed, but it surely felt good.

  After snarfing down two high-priced sandwiches at Doc Campbell’s, I toured the Gila Cliff Dwellings, tucked in cool caves in gorgeous rock. The caves had been used for centuries, the dwellings inside them constructed about 700 years ago. I walked in wonder through rooms where ancient people led their lives. Surprisingly, following others before them, the Tularosa Mogollon Indians probably only lived there a generation or so.

  As always, I liked knowing the names of the flowers, learning the bright yellow flower that carpeted the hills was golden corydalis, also called scrambled eggs. Prolific after burns, they were especially profuse after the Miller Fire cleared other vegetation. The Cliff Dwellings, including 700-year-old wood posts, were successfully defended against the fire, though the surrounding hills showed blackened tree trunks along with bright yellow flowers.

  Walking from Cliff Dwellings to the Visitor Center, I was hot, the pavement rough on my feet. After the Visitor Center, I walked at least another mile before being picked up by the sheriff, a good thing as he gave me a ride to Doc Campbell’s. Three thru hikers passed me as I rode with the sheriff, the first I’d seen in 200 miles. I never learned their names or talked to them since I was in the sheriff’s car, but it was always good to see hikers.

  Eating dinner that night on my cabin porch, I watched ducks on the river 25 feet away. I saw the new green of leafing trees and gazed at turkey vultures soaring between me and some hoodoos (columns of weathered rock) across the river. It had been a very enjoyable tourist sort of day.

  A new camper named Anna pulled into the Wildwood Retreat, and we got to know each other. She volunteered to send a package home for me when she went back home, and she gave me a ride to the Visitor Center again, so I could buy presents for my grandchildren now that I had a way to send them home.

  After walking back to Doc Campbell’s, I met hikers doing the Grand Enchantment Trail, Doc Campbell’s a resupply point for hikers walking either the CDT or the Grand Enchantment Trail. From the stack of hiker boxes, many would be coming through that year. Buying food for dinner and some ice cream, I walked back to the Wildwood Retreat.

  Anna took me to the trailhead in the morning and walked with me a short ways. Even on a cold morning the usual plethora of fords were necessary. I carried a pack heavy with eight days of food. Since I would always be along the river, I carried no more than one small bottle of water, helping lower the total pack weight. Since I wasn’t carrying much water, I could carry more food.

  The river once again cut between deep cliffs. My trips to the Visitor’s Center had informed me that the dark-brownish red/purplish layer of rock was an older basaltic/andesite layer, and the sand-colored rock above the andesite was a sandstone conglomerate. A number of caves were cut into the top layer, one looking substantial enough to have been an archeological site.

  Besides the interesting cliffs, the birds were singing and the sun was shining on my cool morning walk. Passing the first hot spring early in the day, I warmed my hands in the water. As I walked along, the cliffs changed from smoothly curved to blocky chunks with square spires and vertical fractures.

  After lunch the trail just got better, jaw-dropping awesomely incredibly beautiful. The rock cliffs and spires took off from the river-bottom and soared at least a 200-500 feet straight up beside the river, those on the Middle Gila the most awesome.

  At Jordan Hot Springs, I took a dip in perfectly clear warm water reminiscent of a Japanese outdoor spa. After dinner, I walked on between towering cliffs and spires. I could have gotten a crick in my neck, fallen on my face, or run into poison ivy while gazing upward in awe but I couldn’t stop looking.

  At 6:30 I suddenly felt tired. I’d traveled longer than planned, even though carrying eight days’ food. The next day my pack would be a little lighter.

  Fording in the morning was very cold on my feet, though fording the same river in the heat of afternoon, the cold water was something my feet enjoyed. A side pond in The Meadows had 6-to-8 four-inch catfish, almost eating size, which delighted me. After lunch the trail was rougher as it wound around the base of cliffs rising straight up. The thought of some shard deciding to fall straight down encouraged me not to tarry there.

  Walking the Gila was relaxed and enjoyable as I’d planned shorter miles to accommodate the heavier food carry. Since I passed my planned miles the first two days, I consequently passed my must make miles early the next day, walking farther a bonus. I could put in miles but feel no pressure to make my destinations. Stopping for dinner below cone-shaped spires, I went on after eating, not feeling too tired to hike even more.

  A turkey waddling up the hill on the opposite bank, a duck, turkey vultures, numerous birds, beetles, and the catfish were the wildlife I saw. As I prepared for bed that night, I listened to the river and the frogs.

  On a cold (38 degree) morning, the thought of putting on wet shoes and crossing rivers wasn’t appealing. Lounging in my bag, I had breakfast in bed before I could face the idea. A Father/Daughter duo of section hikers passed me as I was packing up, and we talked for half an hour as the morning warmed. Continuing up the Gila was still interesting, but the cliffs gradually reduced in size. Lacking spectacular cliffs and rock formations, the canyon became more like other pretty canyons with a rushing mountain stream.

  A cold wind met me at Snow Lake as I left the Gila, preventing a leisurely stop. Ominous clouds, wind, and a splatter of raindrops spurred me to pack up as soon as I finished lunch. The scenery changed on top of T-bar Ridge to miles of rolling grasslands at an 8,000-foot elevation, seeming to go on forever. Dark clouds went away, but the wind remained on that high, windswept prairie. There was no point in stopping early in the wind, but I finally reached shelter in pines after 7:00.

  Cold at 37 degrees encouraged me to stay in bed again. But since my tent faced open grasslands to the east, the rising sun quickly warmed the tent, finally motivating me to eat breakfast while listening to a pack of coyotes. The trail that day was a dirt road, eventually winding through pine forests, 2.5 miles of cross country thrown in to give the feet a change of tread. Of the few cars on the road, half stopped to ask if I was OK or needed anything. New Mexico receives pluses for the friendliness of local people.

  Ten antelope ran across the open country, stopping to look at me, running more, repeat, repeat, repeat. Antelope are very curious critters, but with their bounding leaps they quickly moved across open spaces leaving equally curious me behind. I also saw three elk. I had no bandana bath that night as there was no water, just enough left over wetness to clean my grimy feet with the bandana carried for two days in a plastic bag.

  Slow starts were becoming a habit. I was, after all, half a day ahead of schedule. A slow start meant getting up at 7:00. While I was still abed I heard four screeches and thought
“cougar.”

  I left the running water in Cox Creek with clean socks and bra and a load of H2O. At the top of the road, I discovered cell reception and saw I’d received 157 emails. It was nice to be in contact with the universe again and nice to know people wondered how things were going for me. The rest of the afternoon was spent putting one foot in front of the other, mostly descending. The trail was a little sketchy at times, steep and rocky, especially through a burn area. Even if roads were faster, it was nice to be on real trail tread.

  The trail was such a very daily affair. Day by day, each day unfolded with new sights to see, new experiences at which to marvel, hypnotizing me into a trail zombie. It was as if I had become addicted to anticipating new adventures on a two-foot-wide path or, in New Mexico, a dirt road, revealing the world one step at a time.

  Searching for water, I took the route through Govina Canyon and found the lower third running nicely with clear water. After a pleasant walk in relative green through surrounding dusty hills, I reached Lopez Tank (A tank is a large cow pond) and had a nice lunch break after a bandana bath. Feeling much better to be clean, I celebrated by putting on my clean bra.

  While at Lopez Tank, I heard a turkey on the opposite hill. A little later, a hunter came by and walked around the tank. After the hunter departed, I heard the turkey again. I wished the wily turkey luck in staying quiet when hunters were around.

  The views from Wagontongue Mountain were scant, blocked by trees, but farther down, a burn area revealed wonderful views north, west and east. I had cell reception that night to talk to TOB, (Tough Old Broad) my Oregon friend. She was happily looking forward to picking me up early the next day.

  Tough Old Broad

  I walked to a patch of sunlight for breakfast, searching warmth. Coming down from the high point, I passed two families of cows and four elk and found TOB at the trailhead. I’d walked 277.6 miles from the Mexican border. On the way to Albuquerque we stopped in Socorro for burgers, fries, and a milkshake to make my tummy happy.

  Jan, a friend of TOB, now my friend, too, fed us a gourmet dinner and once again, I and my clothes became clean. My zero day in Albuquerque marked a new month. April had rolled away with trail miles, and now it was May.

  I added a piece of gear. Regardless of having survived my night in the low 20s, many nights I felt cold. Down is an insulator, not a heat producer. I didn’t produce enough heat to fill the inside of the bag so I went to REI and found a Cocoon liner. In effect, it clung to me and made the space I needed to heat smaller, allowing the down to better insulate my conserved heat.

  TOB was now my trail partner. Her friend Jan drove us to the Lobo Road Trailhead north of Grants because that was where TOB wanted to hike. We had a late start, and we two old ladies didn’t walk fast. Tough Old Broad was indeed tough, but I was trail hardened, and she was just starting out. I was 70, and TOB was then 76. She was a runner, a grand dame of running from Eugene, Oregon. But running is different from hiking with a backpack. She was game and determined and had long trail experience, having also completed the PCT. But she couldn’t move very fast on the trail.

  Hiking along the Mesa, we had great views out over Grants and ahead to Mount Taylor. White flowers and brilliant red claret cactus added to the beauty. But our late start, slow pace, and rest stops kept us from completing our scheduled mileage, though we walked until nearly dark.

  I slept well, the new liner doing its job very nicely. TOB did not. Our campsite wasn’t ideal. I can be reasonably happy with less-than-perfect campsites, but my trail companions are usually more particular. TOB had only a foam pad and no air mattress. Failing to get a good night’s sleep didn’t help her. As the day wore on it became apparent to me and also to TOB that she wasn’t going to be able to keep to our hike plan.

  She was very disappointed in herself as she took pride in her physical condition. In the past she’d always had been able to go backpacking without a lot of preconditioning. I didn’t say anything, but about 4:30 she volunteered that she wasn’t going to be able to go on as scheduled.

  We checked the maps and decided the best option was to go back about a mile and a half to a good road, where she could get a hitch to the paved road. My Cibola National Forest map showed the roads needed for bailout, and she had the phone number for the trail angels in Grants. She didn't think I needed to go back with her, but I wasn’t willing to leave her until she was on the road, as she’d missed trail turns a number of times as we walked. I hoped we would get cell reception at the road.

  So, in the morning, we walked back to La Mosca Lookout Road. Being as independent a cuss as I, TOB was getting tired of my worrying about her, but I did worry. The road looked well-traveled, and we had seen a car there the day before. The gravel road would connect with the paved highway. But I still worried as I left her at the lookout shelter.

  Ojos and Water Lessons

  A few hundred feet after starting back, four elk ran across the trail, and I wished TOB had seen them. I dipped a liter of water from George Tank, scummy with algae, but after pushing the algae aside I found clear water underneath, which, of course, I treated. Reaching Ojo Piedres, (Eye of Stones) I found good water in abundance. I washed socks and bandanas and loaded 3 ½ liters of beautiful, clear water. When I left TOB, I had nine miles to make up. Stopping at 7:45, I was only 3.5 miles behind schedule.

  Up at 5:30 the next morning, I still needed to make up miles. Passing two brown water sources, hoping for something better and not wanting to add weight, I considered getting water at Del Dado when two hunters on three wheelers drove up. I asked if they had any extra water and one pulled out a dust-covered liter bottle and gave it to me. I said, “Thank you very much.” It wasn't until after they drove off and I tasted the water that I realized it was flavored with something cloyingly sweet. I had to force myself to drink it, but it kept me hydrated.

  Water lessons from New Mexico: 1) Brown cow water won't kill you if you double iodine it. 2) Put your treated brown cow water in the hydration bladder. Sucking brown water through a tube so you can't see it is best. 3) Algae-covered cow water is pretty good after pushing algae to the side and you treat it. 4) Any motorist is a possible source of water and usually happy to give it to you. 5) Check the bottle. It might be flavored, but it can keep you alive even if you don't like it.

  Road lessons: Road walking is faster than walking on trail tread. Dirt roads are easier on feet than pavement, but even dirt roads are harder on feet than trail tread.

  If the AT is sometimes known as the long green tunnel, New Mexico must be known as the wide open spaces, separated by belts of trees and gullies. There were a few sparse flowers, a few daisies, a rare paintbrush, a yellow trumpet shaped flower, a low, ground hugging, white daisy. Little nosegays of tightly clustered short daisies reminded me of wrist corsages worn with a low-cut formal dress.

  I reached Ojo de Los Indios by 5:30. (Ojo is Spanish for eye. Desert springs are often called Ojo with a descriptive word following, in this case Indios, Eye [or spring] of the Indians.) Ojo de los Indios, a wonderful cement circle overflowing with beautiful, clear water, was off trail and down a steep rocky path. It had no flat ground for camping. I had a bath, washed socks, undies, and bra, filled up containers with 3 ½ liters of water, ate dinner, and then trudged back up the steep and rocky trail to find a campsite. I’d caught up with mileage and was back on schedule.

  “Go away. It’s too cold to bite you today.”

  The trail to the edge of the Mesa was well marked with cairns, although actual trail was mostly absent. I did my small bit toward trail maintenance by rebuilding a few cairns that were falling apart. At the edge of the escarpment, the view was beyond vast. I saw no sign of humans in that wide expanse, but there was brief cellphone reception, long enough to get 43 emails before it disappeared. I was very relieved to discover TOB had made it out safe and sound, getting back to Albuquerque before lunch the same day she left the trail.

  The word mesa means table in Spanish and mountai
ns in New Mexico are often flat, tabletop sorts of mountains. At the edge of the Mesa, not only could I see out for miles and miles, I could see layers, layer after layer of mesas descending to Arroyo Chico then rising beyond to the next range of mountainous mesas, a vast uneven layer cake, out of which some giant had taken a few bites leaving canyons through the layers of mesas to the valley floor below. Cabezon Peak and the double top of Cerro Cuate rose from the desert floor. There was so much encompassed in that view over the Arroyo Chico it would have taken hours standing there to take it all in.

  Descending the layers of mesa cliffs, I took pictures of the views and the flowers: tiny yellow and white daisies, paintbrush, vervain, phacelia, penstemon, and my favorite, mariposa lilies. I also watched storm clouds all around me, clouds dropping rain, but it didn’t hit the desert floor. Falling sheets of rain dissipated in the dry desert air, never reaching the ground.

  Stepping carefully, I went down the sometimes very steep trail. A grandmotherly shaped rubber ball bouncing through the rocks and pointy things was an image I didn’t care to pursue. Hurting feet also slowed my pace. My big toe began to hurt. Favoring the big toe with a change of gait then made the outside of my foot hurt. It’s hard to limp correctly when both sides of the same foot hurt.

  I finally reached the road off trail to Ojo Frio. Frio means cold, and the water and the desert wind both lived up to the name. I put iodine tablets in the cloudy water instead of using my tiny Steripen, (The Steripen treats water by ultraviolet light) and stood in the cold wind washing socks, bandanas, and parts of me.

  With no possible sheltered campsites near the water, I once again loaded up and moved down the trail, finding a little spot tucked between two junipers. From my sheltered roost I had a fine view of Cabezon peak and much of that grand valley. Beautiful.