A Congress of Ravens

The first we knew of them, we heard the wind brush through wing feathers, a soft shushing over our heads.  Three ravens passed just above tree level. 

A little further down the trail, the calls of several ravens stopped us again. In a clearing between juniper and oak, we saw more ravens lifting from tree line. 

Why were these ravens gathering?  Normally, ravens travel in pairs or family groups.  That means 2 or 5 or 6 birds together. A pair of birds will soar and pirouette as dancers moving synchronously.  A family group will gather to chase off strange ravens, not members of their territory – and territory is claimed for years, not a season or two.

The wider our angle of view, the more ravens we saw, coming from the four directions. At first it was as a gathering of different clans, socially distancing: 10 there, 5 overhead, another 8 or so to the east, more arriving from the west.

We speculated, guessed and assumed reasons for so many ravens gathering. I’ve seen a ‘muster’ of crows grieving the death of a fellow.  Ravens have their own reasons to congress together. 

While we watched, the ravens kettled into a single large swirl. We watched them coalesce into a tighter and tighter circle and move upward. A rough count was 20 or more ravens. Looking above their kettle, we saw a large, single bird soaring, dipping, turning.  Sunlight flashed off its head and tail and my first thought was, “Red Tail,” but soon it became clear that the soaring bird was too large and too high for a hawk.

“Oh,” I said to myself, “I have my binoculars here!” So taken with the drama going on above me, I totally forgot I had means to observe.  Friend had become mesmerized and needed reminding that she, too, had her binocs hanging from on a halter around her neck.  We put glasses on that single bird and noted a light head, white tail and white patches underwing.  A juvenile baldie!  Or was it?  We watched the bird maneuver as the congress of ravens came close enough to harass.  But what is a baldie doing down here?  They are typically up near Lake Roberts.  Or at least Bill Evans.  Not down this far south over the high desert.  I remembered that juvenile Bald Eagles have varied markings and this bird seemed to evidence that. But enough doubt lingered.  What else could it be? 

I pulled out my phone and logged into iBird.  First opened the page for Bald Eagles to look at various juvenile years.  Not quite.  No large white patches underwing, only random white feathers.  Took a look at Golden Eagle.  This is the right territory, right habitat.  And there was the image on the screen that duplicated what we were seeing live, high above the desert and above a mob of ravens. We looked back up—and they were gone.  Every raven.  The eagle. Gone. The sky was empty.  While we were busy studying pixels, the real creatures flew their own sky-paths, taking them over a ridge and away.

In the days since, I find myself remembering a chapter from Craig Childs’ book, Animal Dialogues, about coming across a congress of ravens in a canyon in Utah.  Here is a relevant paragraph that reflects what we witnessed there on the CDTrail, but ours was a less lethal outcome.  The link (over Ravens are mobbers) will follow to the full reprinted story in Sun Magazine. 

Ravens are mobbers; that much I knew. They frequently gang up on invaders, generally the likes of hawks, eagles, or owls, pecking the backs of their heads, getting in their faces and screaming. They have a sense of appropriateness, attacking something that is out of place when the time is right…

Dogs With Wires

Rock and water, Deadman’s Canyon

Dog, Friend and I headed for Deadman’s Canyon one day last week.  We chose that particular canyon because it runs north/south and the wind, predicted to gust up to 30mph, was coming out of the west; we would be protected down in the canyon yet treated to the sound of the wind through the tops of the Ponderosas over our heads.

There was more snow and ice than we had anticipated, the days over the last week having reached 60°.  The warm temps and brilliant sun had left only a few residual patches of white around home or in town.  But snowy the trail was in long stretches, iced in the footsteps of humans and dogs passing through.  There were recent horse tracks, causing me to wonder how the horse got up the little rock fall that we scrambled over going in and out of the canyon. 

We were enjoying our hike, Dog racing here and there, pausing to stick her nose in the snow after some elusive evidence.

Light Patterns on Snow

Until, that is, two dogs bounded down the trail from up ahead, skidded to a stop a few feet away from Dog, lifted their noses to her scent then turned and dashed back up the trail.  But not before I noticed the heavy collars, small boxes attached under the chin and a foot of stiff wire sticking up in the air.

We hiked on, more observant of what might be ahead. In another quarter mile, I spied a horse tied to a tree a couple of hundred yards uptrail and a milling of dogs around the horse.  They dashed up the hill, down into the streambed, around the horse, too many dogs to count.  Then the dogs spied us.

By now, I had pulled my little canister of dog-strength mace (less toxic that human mace or bear spray) from my pack and had it ready in my hand.  Dog is always on leash; one dog leashed and others not leashed can be a dangerous mix, particularly for the tethered one.  The pack of dogs – eight in all – were down the trail and surrounding us.  While they were not acting aggressively, they were definitely making Dog uncomfortable by sheer numbers but I had no intention of pressing the button on the canister unless a confrontation developed.  Every one of those dogs was wired.  Every one, a hunting breed.

Finally, the hunters appeared uptrail where their horses were tied.  We hailed them and asked them to call off their dogs, which they did.  Fortunately, six of eight immediately obeyed; two continued to sniff around Dog and me.  Dog sat down to protect her tail, the object of all that attention. I stomped and commanded those last two to go away.

Many families in this part of the country hunt for subsistence.  Many others hunt for food because they enjoy a good elk steak. Hunters are sometimes employed in the Gila to reduce the plague of feral cattle. And I admire the effort a hunter on foot in the wildlands expends to get out and track or wait for that deer, elk, bear.

Wired dogs are used to run down prey until they are exhausted and cannot run further or defend themselves.  Or the dogs tree the cougar or bear and hold them up there until the hunter catches up.  The wires allow the dogs to range far beyond the actual control of the hunter, who tracks their location by radio transmission.  My values are that that is not a fair hunt, and typically, the hunter is not hunting to eat in any event. 

At home, I searched to find out what critters a wired pack of dogs might be employed to hunt, and the list included feral hogs, javalina (collard peccary), cougar or bear.  All but feral hogs are protected and require tags and permits during hunting season.  We don’t have feral hogs in the Gila. And we aren’t in hunting season for any of those species right now.  

Reporting these hunters in a non-hunting season would be an exercise in frustration.  After all, I took no pictures, and what would I shoot anyway – a bunch of brownandwhite dogs with wires standing behind an ear and two camo men and one visible horse some distance away.  Nothing else to tie to them after the fact, such as a vehicle parked at the trailhead.  Just left me feeling sad for whatever target they had in mind up a beautiful canyon on a mild winter day.

UPDATE: A friend who read this blog story has corrected me that javelina are in season for hunting this month. Wasn’t clear on the NM Game and Fish website.

Big Rock Candy Mountain

“I’m headed for a land that’s far away

Besides the crystal fountains

So come with me, we’ll go and see

The Big Rock Candy Mountains”

Quartzite Outcrop – southwest Grant County NM

If I were writing this song today, I have found the perfect inspiration.  There are one or two singular outcroppings of quartzite rock just off the Continental Divide Trail (CDT) — big ol’ white knobs of rock standing each one alone above the ridge just south of the Burro Mountains.  Those knobs remind me of a mountain of rock candy, shattered and spilling bite-sized bits down the sides of the ridge in river-flows.

A River of quartzite

There are old tracks that go up to the outcroppings if I wanted to venture up for a closer look. And actually, I have – had a closer look, that is.

Couple of years ago, when I was hiking pre-Covid days with the Tuesday Group, we ventured off the CDT up the old track to one of those quartzite outcrops.  The ground was scattered with chunks of quartzite, some of which were very pretty – some solidly snow white, some bits darkly-veined.  Taking our mid-hike snack break, we sat on the larger blocks of rock while some in the group rock-hounded, filling their pockets or packs with manageable chunks. I refrained from collecting only because of the added weight that I didn’t want to carry 2+ miles back to the trailhead.

Chunks of rock-candy quartzite

It wasn’t until we were packed and ready to start back to the CDT and our vehicles, that our resident historian-slash-geologist told us a bit more about this formation, its history and its mineral makeup.  “Did you know that this area was mined for uranium?” he asked us.  Umm…uranium?  Isn’t uranium radioactive? And we have pocketfulls of the stuff?? “Well,” he reassured us, “not very high level.”  I noticed a few of the group covertly emptied their pockets of the now-suspect rock, diligently brushed off their fannies where they had been sitting, and headed back down the track, quick-stepping to abandon the area.

This region is known for copper mining, along with silver and gold.  All the way back to the Apaches who ranged this area, copper was extracted.  But the fact of uranium is not as well know, probably because the metal was not found in enough quantities to warrant major investment.  Still, there were, and possibly still are, a number of mining claims in the area that proved out for limited uranium deposits.  I was curious and Google came through with a 1952 report by US Geological Survey on the geology, the formations, and the mine claims that is an interesting bit of history to read. And looking closely at my cell-phone picture, mining piles show evidence of abandoned hopes.

Enlarged to show mining piles bottom left of image

Now, I just admire the Big Rock Candy Mountains as I hike the CDT just below them.  I step past the flow of candy quartz and hum the tune remembered.

“I’ll see you all this coming fall

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains”

A wealth of quartzite — a hint of uranium

A Hike Interrupted — aka We Were Buzzed

Continental Divide Trail – Grant County NM

Dog, Friend and I, and one additional friend headed out this week to a section of the Continental Divide Trail (CDT) that we haven’t hiked before.  It’s a roughly 3-mile segment between C-Bar Rd and Knights Canyon Rd.  We struck off up a track pocked with wide-mouth tire treads and eroded from too-frequent atv-ing; the CDT often shares with such as this.  Wasn’t long, though, before we came to two huge cairns, one on the right side of the track and one off to the left appearing to direct us up a gully.  Fortunately, 20 feet or so up the gully, we spotted the CDT/Forest Service trail marker heading off to the right.  

Cairns are often an ecological problem,
but make a great Facebook post

A rabbit trail:  Friend and I have a now-ongoing joke about cairns.  Are they: navigational tools? spiritual exercise? or a Facebook post, as in “lookie, I was here!”  Well, yes to all but in context. They can do ecological damage; they can keep hikers on the right path; their construction goes against “Leave No Trace”; they are ego statements for a picture and a post. It’s all context.  I don’t pass one by without notice. Some I appreciate.  Some I kick down.  And I have repaired one or two.  In this case, the cairns were directional to keep us from plodding down this unlovely track that paralleled the highway 100 feet away.

Ridgeline — CDT

We hiked through three habitats: juniper/pinion/mahogany groves in the dry creek beds; trail that hugged the side of the ridge, offering long views; and rock outcrop.  The trail was expressed in two directions: steeply up and just as steeply down, with some modest sections modestly level.  There were two rocky crevices to descend into and to climb out.  One of them made me think of the Great Rift Valley in Tanzania. The trail through this area was accommodating with switchbacks to make breathing in transit a little easier.

Small Rift Valley on the CDT

While we were in the shelter of the groves, we commented that it felt like a rock garden planted by a large hand. We frequently stopped to bird-spot.  Up on the ridge-hugging trail, we took advantage of our 360° views of Mexico borderlands, the Floridas, Cookes Peak, Jacks Peak, and the rocky ridges above us. 

Florida Mountains in the Distance

On crossing the rock outcropping, I thought of a trail called Billy Goat at Great Falls, MD. While walking, I didn’t register beyond my feet, which demanded all my attention.  Stopping, I looked around at raw stone painted with several shades of lichens; the trail was etched across the face of the outcrop.  Each territory had its unique beauty. 

Dog perched on the rocky trail

Our turning-around point was just shy of 2 miles and was marked by Dog alerting on several cows with calves.  Dog sometimes forgets that she’s on a leash; she throws herself to the end of the line in wished-for pursuit.  Throws my shoulder out, too, if I’m not expecting it.

Coming back, we crossed the rock, hiked up then down the switchback through the small Rift, and started on the ridge-side trail. 

A roar became louder until it crashed over our heads, followed by a fighter jet cresting a few hundred feet over the ridge and starting to drop toward us.  Pilot may have seen 3 humans on the trail and pulled up slightly.  As the jet screamed overhead, banking slightly south, its buddy-jet howled just over the next ridge down and the pair headed east, low and fast.  Too fast for us to get out phone cameras.  Too fast to mentally record aircraft profile.  Too fast to see my middle finger waving.  Not 15 minutes later, jet-noise drew my eyes southward a few miles to two more jets pulsing across the landscape, safely higher in altitude, hot-dogging it across the Forest and private lands. Three friends standing stunned, one dog sitting low.  We marked our location on gps with the intention of reporting the overflights.  We believe that this is not a legal training MOA for any of the military bases in the region. 

Before we could move on too far, that roar came again.  Fumbled for my camera, thinking that the jet would appear in front of us where the last low-flyer did.  Suddenly, I realized that the roar was leading the aircraft from behind us; I turned quickly to see this jet coming at us, following us on the trail, so low my natural instinct was to duck.  I tried to get my phone up and aimed as the jet passed overhead. I may have hit the shutter button, I may not have.  I didn’t record anything with a jet in it, though.  We singed the leaves on the trees with our blue language for the next mile or so down the trail.  I was particularly incensed, having been similarly and dangerously buzzed by two fighter jets in the Gila Wilderness on a steep canyon rim trail on horseback. 

Top Gun may be the most viewed movie for wanna-be fliers, and Top Gun Maverick may break viewing records.  But hot-shot Top Guns are not welcome at minimum altitude and maximum speed over a wilderness area.

Beyond the Gate

I have my favorite hikes, each starting at a trailhead in the Gila National Forest. I mark multiple turn-around points on each trail, depending on my energy level and the anger of arthritis in my hips. A modest turn-around might be shy of one and half miles; on more energetic days, I might turn around at two-plus miles. Most of these trails are so familiar that I often don’t set my meter because I know just where I’ll turn back based on how far I want to hike.

The furthest endpoint of three of my favorite hikes is at a gate.  I guess I never thought about going through those gates to see what lay beyond.  Not that I’m not curious.  But I remember the advice of a long-ago friend: “Hike until you’re half-tired.”

The first gate breeched was on the Continental Divide Trail (CDT) near my home.  This is a section of the CDT I prefer when I’m hiking alone and want to just do a quick in-and-out. Dog needs her exercise and Sunday mornings are good opportunities to get her on this trail just long enough to work her nose, to wear off a little of that energy. Not long ago, my friend and I decided to hike this trail to the gate, just two miles from the trailhead.  Good weather and good conversation, plus a good pace, and we got to the gate before my hips had a chance to complain.  We decided to see what was on the other side. The CDT continued, of course; the gate simply marked the boundary of the rancher’s grazing lease.  On we walked for another, oh, maybe half a mile and then the trail began a switch-back down into a deep arroyo. We turned back, but not before I took a picture of the view.  This was one of those times when I kept thinking: just a little farther – just around that big juniper – just a little up that hill – and we’d get a great view of Bear Creek Canyon.  That hike, having gone beyond the gate, added up to just about five miles.

From the CDT, looking toward Bear Creek Canyon and Tadpole Ridge

The next gate was at the end of the trail in Pancho Canyon, on the Gila River. Another favorite hike, Dog, Friend and I retreat to this trail in the heat of summer, always ending up with our feet in the river watching the idling birds. This section of trail is not much more than a mile one-way but it’s shady, rife with Common Black Hawks and warblers and perfect on an early morning before the temps hit the 90s. A couple of weeks ago, we headed out there in cooler weather to leaf-peep at the golden Cottonwoods and white-barked Arizona Sycamores. 

Cottonwood – Pancho Canyon on the Gila River

Lower temps are conducive to longer walks so when we reached the gate at the far end of this stretch of river, we decided to keep going.  I knew what was on the other side; I have driven up and over the ridge and down to the river, ending at Ira Canyon at the far end.  I have never hiked from one end to the other.  This seemed like the day to try.  Once through the gate, we dropped down to the river on the only obvious trail – and came to a dead end.  Retracing our steps, we found another spur through the weeds.  That spur wandered through a small copse of Sycamore, Cottonwood and coyote willow, only to end at another point on the river.  We stood listening to the water moving over the rocks in riffles while Dog hopped around chest-deep in the river.  Filled with river-music, we turned back for that gate and Poncho Canyon.

A final gate marks the two-mile point on the CDT heading south from Gold Gulch Rd. This section of the CDT is not one for summer.  The trail is exposed to both sun and breeze, traversing the sides of a ridge, dropping into two meadows and climbing out before finally relaxing through a forest of waist-high bear grass. On this clear cool morning, Dog, Friend and I decided that a sunny trail was just the thing. We hiked until we reached the gate and contemplated returning to the road where we were parked.  But neither of us had been beyond this point and, having plenty of time and the best weather for hiking, we slipped the chain on the gate and went through, securing the gate behind us.  We had rather anticipated we might connect with Rt 90 and the cross-over to C-Bar and the CDT on the east side of 90. Or at least see 90 in the near distance.  Once up on a little hillock, we could see that Rt 90 was still a long distance to the southeast.  After hiking about three-quarter mile through an unchanging landscape, we decided to head back.  Back at Gold Gulch and the truck, we recorded almost five miles and one tuckered Dog.

Not all gates are made of metal. Not all gates demark grazing leases. Some are just there to mark the way and to bring a smile to the next to pass by.

Social Distancing on the Continental Divide Trail

New Mexico Blue on the CD Trail

New Mexico Blue on the CD Trail

This morning dawned New Mexico blue, offering an invitation to take Dog and go up to a favorite section of the CD Trail, a short 15 minute drive from home.  My hike on this portion of trail is usually about 3 miles round trip and takes Dog and I roughly two hours.  We frequently have this section of trail to ourselves.

As I pulled into the parking at the trailhead, a good friend pulled in behind me.  Meeting was totally random but welcome.  Up until this morning, we have seen each other through computer cameras and zoom.  Dog was thrilled; this is one of her most favorite persons who usually has a bit of doggy bacon in his pocket.  We visited for a few minutes at the distance of Dog’s 18 foot leash, then he went down-trail and I went up.

We didn’t get too far before meeting up with another hiker and her dog, Jack.  Jack and Dog know each other from the town’s dog park, so they shared a brief greeting and a sit-down while she and I caught up a bit.  Good to see folks I know, doing the same things I love in the places that make us smile and feel grounded.

Signs that this section of trail is loved and valued: someone left a painted rock on a tree trunk next to the trail.  Another someone carefully positioned a pine cone and a pebble on a lichen-covered rock. A little cactus, unusual to be found at this elevation and in this habitat, has been rocked off to protect it from mountain bikes.  These touches mean a lot in a time when human connection is more difficult to sustain.

Flowers are beginning to pop up.  And the oaks are turning golden, ready to drop their leaves in favor of new buds.  As an aside, when I first moved here and saw all the oaks turning yellow in April, I thought they were dying of some dread disease.  Coming from the East Coast where all the trees turn and drop leaves in the fall, I had no idea that here, this is the natural order of things.  Oaks drop their leaves in the spring so that the monsoons, when they come, can water the trees into full new leaf.

Another welcome sign on the trail: the rancher who had a lease to graze this section of forest must have moved the cows somewhere else.  For a full year, I found no tracks, no scat, no sign of the wild animals that inhabit the forest.  Only cow tracks breaking up the trail, crossing and tearing down the hillside, denuding the earth of its grasses. And piles of cow dung.  Now that the cows have been removed, sign is coming back.  The gray fox has been marking the rocks in the trail. Hawks or owls are sitting on overhanging branches, munching their lunch and leaving white stains of uric acid on the ground underneath them. And this morning, I heard a warbler calling in the trees nearby.  I could see it flitting through the branches, but not well enough without my binoculars to identify the little guy.  I pished at him for a couple of minutes but only succeeded in getting curious stares from Dog, while the warbler darted on off among the treetops.

By the time I got back to my truck, the day was growing hotter.  The Ponderosa pines were scenting vanilla and cinnamon on the breeze and the earth, in the sunny spots, was smelling flannel-warm.

During this time of social distancing, our Gila National Forest, like other parks, forests and wildlands, is getting heavily used.  Sadly, not everyone escaping to the forests or parks is treating their wildland of choice with respect, care and protection. Trash and worse are left along the trails and piled around the locked bathrooms and trashcans, creating health and safety risks for humans who have to clean it up as well as danger to animals. Graffiti mars petroglyphs. ATVs cut tracks where only deer should be leaving theirs.  So a plea from one who finds sanity and peace on our public lands: be careful-be responsible-be safe and keep it clean. Remember — Do No Harm.

Bear Mountain from the CD Trail

Bear Mountain from the CD Trail

Social Distancing down New Mexico way

Field of poppies.2.Portal.3-31-20

Social distancing requires us to stay at least six feet from each other. Six feet? That is awfully close!   Thus goes one of several New Mexico versions of this bit of coronavirus humor.

Another bit. Six feet is about the equivalent of: 6 Rio Grande Cutthroat Trout (or Gila Trout if you’re in my neighborhood); 2 mule deer bucks; 4 Roadrunners; or 2 Black Bears. This from NM Game and Fish recommendations for social distancing in the field. Of course, I’d rather be more than 2 black-bear lengths from any black bear, but that’s just me!

Down here in New Mexico, six feet of separation isn’t a problem for a large state, home to only about 2 million people, most of whom live in one of three cities.  Practicing social distancing can be as easy as getting out onto some little corner of our millions of acres of public land.

In 30 minutes or less, I can be on a trail in the Gila National Forest, hiking with my dog alone or with one, maybe two friends.  We have the choice of going low:  the Continental Divide Trail (CDT) starts down south in a desert environment at 6,000’ or less, wandering through pinion, juniper and boulders, as though through a carefully landscaped rock garden. Seen from the ridges, Big Hatchet and the Floridas stand stark against the border; Soldiers Return holds the near frame. The snaggletooth of Cookes Peak anchors the east.  The Peloncios, Chiricahuas and Mt Graham bound the south and west.  These days, Mt Graham and the tallest points of stone in the Chiricahuas are snow-topped.

Or I can go high, above 7,000’:  Signal Peak, Cherry Creek trail, the trail out of McMillan Campground, Meadow Creek trail are all favorites when Ponderosa and fir are preferred, and a shady path calls.  This time of year, the Redstarts and Red-faced Warblers are moving in and singing their territory.

We’ve had a wet late winter and early spring.  Rains have come with regularity.  The soft female rains – or farmer rains, depending on your argot – soaked into the land at just the right time and right temperature and the result is a golden explosion.

Field of poppies.3.Portal.3-31-20Poppies. Mexican Poppies glowing along the roadside, in painterly splashes on the hillsides.  And most spectacularly, spread across fields as quilts made of yellow, orange and gold, with love-knots of white. In New England, they go leaf-peeping in the fall.  This week, I have indulged in Poppy-peeping.

Poppies don’t bloom alone.  There are lupines, brittlebush, bladderpod, mustard and other yellow ground flowers whose names refuse to stick with me.  There’s a spot along AZ Rt 191 where for about 3 miles, the hillsides look as though Monet was trying to improve on his Garden at Giverny.

And, the other evidence of generous rains and snow-covered elevations is water.  Dead Man's Canyon.2.3-28-20

Water running in the most ephemeral of streams, bubbling down stony creek beds that rarely entertain a flow outside of a good monsoon.  Seeps become creeks, creeks become challenging crossings and waterfalls sing over rock.

The Gila River gorges on the melt and silt from the snows on the Mogollons, spreading beyond its banks and filling the acequias.

The happening-together of a glorious wildflower bloom set against the backdrop of snowy peaks, and water courses that live up to their names has made for a rapturous spring of hikes and drives, indulging in color and sound, and following Dog’s nose up the trails.  I hope and pray for the recovering health of my community, nation and the world.

Mogollons.3-2020

 

Here, though, is my refuge.  Social distancing at six feet?  That’s awfully close!

 

 

Continental Divide Trail in Two Acts

From the CDT.3-25-19.edAct 1

One of my favorite stretches of the CDT near home is a forested section of the trail, cutting just under a ridgeline at about 6400 feet elevation.  It’s my go-to place when the temperature encourages hiking in the shade.   The trail dips and rises – on the dips, it passes through pinion and juniper and crosses erosion streamlets, and on the rises, Ponderosa pines dominate.  A gentle place, a refuge from the busier sections on nearby Gomez Peak and 80 Mountain.  The dog and I walk a couple of miles each way at a leashed-dog pace.

Last week, I looked for Spring.  Little signs.  Tiny blooms and grass.  Signs were there, but not in abundance; not yet.  There was plenty to entertain a dog’s nose. And grab her ears’ attention, for that matter. Nothing that I ever saw, but she knew “they” were out there.

I noticed a White-breasted Nuthatch, an “ass-up” bird as my Ornithology Prof called it.  The Nuthatch was shopping up a pine tree trunk, gleaning among the crevices in the Ponderosa bark.  My eye followed the bird, past the bird, up the trunk and higher into the early Spring blue sky, where a Red-tailed Hawk was also shopping for dinner, soaring in circles, eyes down.  The dog was sniffing a chipmunk hole so I had a moment to watch the sun firing the red tail as the hawk moved between me and the light.

The clouds on this day were herringbone and cross-hatch.  They moved and morphed into jelly fish and mares’ tails.  A full sky and a good camera would have made this photographer happy.  As it was, it was lovely to check out the clouds at each break in the overstory.

I had plenty of incentive to look up and around.  Normally I would be watching the ground, noticing the tracks left by neighbors who passed recently: mule deer, fox, dog, bicycle, horse, once a mountain lion.  But now, the trail is crossed, edged, saddled with the destructive tracks of cattle.  This section has been pristine till now.  This is Forest Service land, and cattle leasing competes with recreational uses.  Now, there is a leaseholder who has moved cattle into this section.  Seeing the impact of those animals’ passing, even understanding the mission of multiple use, makes me sad and discouraged.  It’s hard to be poetic about cow tracks.

Act 2

Later in the week, and on a cooler, windy day, dog, husband and I went south to another section of CDT, off the appropriately named Gold Gulch Rd.  This is another favorite section, mostly thanks to the incredible views from the open trail at an elevation over 6300 feet.

Husband hikes at a different pace and with a different attention than me.  He’s not leashed to dog who waits for no human – except when smells dictate pauses.  He fell further behind than usual, so after waiting for a few minutes for his hat to top the rise, dog and I went back down the trail.  He was alternately bending over scratching in the dust of the trail, and standing up staring at his hand.  Caught up, he held out a bit of gold.  Not enough to start a gold rush, but enough to give us a little rush of discovery. Would have been nice if it were big enough to pay the mortgage.

The land is covered by mostly bear grass, scrub and pinion/juniper, it’s more exposed, and Spring is making more of an appearance.  locoweed.CDTrail and GoldGulch.3-28-19One of the many forms of locoweed is in bloom and tiny yellow sprigs are popping.  This is not an area where we get the glorious wildflowers that are stunning hikers across the Southwest, but at 25 miles from home, I’ll take what is offered.

The dog’s nose perked and dragged us both off trail about 50 feet.  I caught her just before she buried her teeth into the scavenged remains of a javalina, officially known as a collard peccary.  No bear here, no wolves, possibly a mountain lion kill shared afterward by coyotes.  More likely a hunter took this animal, stripped it of meat and dignity, and left its bones, hide and head to the sun and wind.  I know hardcore trackers might bag the head with incisors intact, take it home and clean it, saving the skull.  I was satisfied with a few pictures and an observation documented on iNaturalist.Javalina.1 on CDTrail and GoldGulch.3-28-19

Here, we are within 50 miles of the southernmost end of the CDT.  From the rises, we stare at Big Hatchet Mountain, the mountains of the borderlands, the Floridas.  To the east, the blue haze of the Organ Mountains;  Cookes Peak stands alone; to the west, glimpses of the Peloncillos. Years ago on a little mountain in my home state, I saw a family with a young son come up the trail to the edge of the rock and look over the farmland 900 feet or so below.  He turned in excitement to cry, “Hey mom hey dad.  We’re bigger than the world.”  Exactly the way I feel up here!

 

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