Curtis Ridge - Mount Rainier National Park August 25-27, 2014

 Curtis Ridge was once a long hard day hike out of Ipsut Creek Campground, and the permanent closure of the Carbon River Road to motor vehicles put it decisively out of my one day reach. Since the prospect of lugging a backpack up the 4000' or so feet elevation gain had little appeal, I assumed I'd never make it back there. Then one day I was standing on Burroughs Mountain studying the landscape and it occurred to me that a backpack in from Sunrise would be relatively modest. So I put it on my list of potential hikes, and this year the opportunity presented itself: a forecast for three straight beautiful days (and nights) in late August. I went for my wilderness permit as a walk-in and took what I could get - no chance for Mystic Lake, so I booked one night at Granite Creek, five miles or so out of Sunrise, and then an alpine zone permit for the following night on Curtis Ridge.

I spent a sweet, quiet afternoon at White River Campground. I seem able to relax more at White River than at other campgrounds. There’s the ambient noise of White River. There's rangers around; I like rangers. Plus people don’t typically come to Mount Rainier to “go camping”. They camp there in order to see the park, and don't sit around the fire drinking beer all day.

The fine forecast did not include this first night. As predicted, the sky darkened and soon we were getting pummeled by a hail storm. I rode it out in my car, wondering whether hail is effective in suppressing fire. It does seem to turn to water quickly enough. Then it was pouring and it kept pouring, very sustained for such a hard rain. My hope was that the lightning was not starting any new fires, and that the heavy rain that followed would suppress anything that ignited.

An alpine zone permit was new to me, and I didn't know quite what I was getting into by proposing to camp on Curtis Ridge. I suppose that’s the fun part. My two previous cross-country excursions on Mount Rainier had been to more out of the way places. Here I’d be near Mystic Lake with the back country ranger nearby, perhaps some serious climbers camping up on the ridge with me.  Any gaffes could prove embarrassing. Such are my dumb concerns.

Since I was only hiking 4 or 5 miles the first day I delayed setting off as long as I could. No sense rushing to spend the afternoon in a camp in the woods. I was hoping for glorious late afternoon light out of Sunrise and didn't quite get it, though it was certainly pleasant. It was another one of those partly cloudy/partly sunny days. It was also nearly deserted, this on a fine August afternoon. Of hikers that is. Some three dozen mountain goats turned out to graze high above the trail to Skyscraper Pass.

At Skyscraper Pass I got my first unimpeded look at the mountain since the parking lot. The trail was about to drop into the woods and I had no desire for deep shade on such a pleasant evening so I climbed up to Skyscraper Peak and had my dinner, with just enough room to manipulate my cookery. The sky was still half and half except over Rainier where thick gray clouds prevailed, making for a tumultuous scene. Fremont Mountain was looking good in the sun. Even the scree wall of First Burroughs was looking good. I heard and finally spotted a helicopter running treetops above Grand Park. At first I took it for some scofflaw, but its persistence in flying low in and out of trees, then moving on to a close look at an the lower cliffs of Fremont Mountain led me to conclude it was probing for fires from the previous day's lightning.

tumult on Mount Rainier

Mount Fremont

Burroughs Mountain

West Fork White River

Grand Park

I had pretty much exhausted the possible photographic scenes and sat down to eat when a small sun break threw a picturesque patch of light and I grudgingly hauled myself up for one more shot. It turned out to be one of my favorite pictures ever.

Little Tahoma Peak

Dems the facts, by and large. The emotions, the insights, the observations? That's about it on them too. I was skipping coffee in hopes of early sleep, which might account for my lack of cerebral activity. I was feeling pretty good except this new dehydrated soup was taking my breath away, rather literally. Niles Soups did not do that but Niles Soups seems to have disappeared. I had begun an investigation.

Descending the other side of the pass I found the mountain goats had drifted to encompass the trail, and my approach seemed to mean nothing to them. I wasn't about to walk right through this horned mass, so I picked up a downed branch and slowly waved it back and forth as I came closer. Remarkably they reacted as if they had some genetic predisposition to being herded, collecting themselves a safe distance up slope from the trail.

mountain goats

Granite Creek backcountry camp has three sites, plus a group site. One party was already bedded down in site one, so I took site two. Site three was so far up slope I never even saw it. It would be isolated up there, though would  also require walking by the toilet. The night went decently, maybe decently minus as I never did feel like I slept, though the night passed quickly enough so I must have. Dragging myself from my sleeping bag was hard but once I did I felt well enough..

The ensuing descent was steeper and quicker than I anticipated, and soon I was rounding the enormous rocky snout of Winthrop Glacier. As I crossed a narrow log bridge over the muddy and roaring West Fork White River I was breaking new ground for myself. I had once day hiked to the snout of the Winthrop Glacier, but the next stretch to Mystic Lake was one of the small pieces of the  Wonderland Trail I'd yet to travel. Up several textbook morainal layers, back into old forest, then back down to a heavily morainal creek I didn’t know existed and which carried little water. An old river channel? Then up again steeper than I anticipated past the Mystic Lake camps and finally to Mystic Lake, on a bright blue day.

Winthrop Glacier

Winthrop Glacier under its rock insulation

Winthrop Glacier

Mystic Lake and Russell Glacier

I had to address a minor water dilemma common in cross-country travel. I figured there would be no water up on Curtis Ridge where I planned to spend the night, an assumption that proved accurate. So I needed to eat my lunch, get fully hydrated, then refill my bottles before heading up for the evening. Mystic Lake would be my last water source, but I wasn’t ready for lunch and I didn't much feel like sitting around for a couple of hours waiting for lunch. I’m not all that crazy about Mystic Lake. It’s nice, in a nice location, but is surrounded by foliage and lacks much real beach. It strikes me as more something to look at than experience. My only other option as far as I could see was to climb the steep bench above the lake and then drop down into Moraine Park for lunch and replenishment. While it would entail a lot of extra hiking that is what I decided to do. I always liked Moraine Park. I hadn’t been there in many years, and with the closing of the Carbon River Road I wouldn’t be getting another chance very soon.

The sound of water flowing down the hillsides above Moraine Park was encouraging, but all I could see were muddy trickles. Moraine Park itself was discouragingly dry, the deep creeklets reduced to barely moving mud puddles. I forged on, increasingly anxious that I had miscalculated and would have to retreat to Mystic Lake for water. I knew a creek ran out of Moraine Park, at least I hoped I knew - I’d seen it; I have pictures! - but I was doubting myself. I’d been holding off on eating or drinking until I found new water, and that wasn't helping my clarity of thought. It was sunny and not too hot but midday and hot enough. Finally there it was, coming in from the east, a creeklet, not lush but sufficient. Lovely too. I found good rocks to sit on in the shade, surrounded by rich foliage and monkey flowers. A small victory.

Moraine Park lunch spot

Alas I was now sitting right on the Wonderland Trail, more conspicuous than I'd like, and while I hadn't seen another hiker in hours, three parties come through as I prepared and ate lunch. They were all backpackers heading up to Mystic Camp, except for one day hiker descending from Moraine Park. Day hikers are a diminishing species up here with the demise of the Carbon River Road and he had done it about the only way you can, riding his bike the five miles into Ipsut Camp. Still, it makes for a physically demanding day and so this area of the park, like the west side, is left mostly to backpackers. Most of them are hiking the Wonderland Trail, but I also came upon some Northern Loop hikers, a more common species than I would have guessed.

Fortified, I sallied back up to Moraine Park. Just as I was setting off I heard singing from down the trail and spotted two more hikers heading my way, one of them singing. They passed me by soon afterward and we exchanged brief pleasantries. But not much further along they were stopped dead in their tracks. They’d gotten to where Mount Rainier first appears to those heading into Moraine Park. It is one of the great appearances anywhere and they were practically melting. I vividly remember the first time I reached this spot, and it was kind of a kick to witness theirs.  I learned this was not simply their first take from this viewpoint. It was the first time they’d really seen Rainier.

I moved along while they lingered, figuring they’d catch me on the ascent to the saddle between Moraine Park and Mystic Lake. They didn’t catch me, so when I got to the saddle I sidled over to the famous tarn reflecting Rainier’s north face, comparatively sub-par this day as the tarn was partly dried out and the reflection was not so great. Still. Coming out I saw they’d arrived at the top and I coaxed them to come in and take a look. They seemed to appreciate it. We had a little chat. They were in from Minnesota, doing the Wonderland Trail in its entirety. This was only their second day out. I was excited for them and they intuited that I had once done it. No, I have hiked almost all of it but never at one time. That would be just too much for me. They were from far away they explained, and so had to “go big”.

Somehow I came to mention the snack bar at Sunrise, a mere nine miles away, where they could have a cheeseburger. I was leery of offending vegetarian sensibilities but the one I identified as the navigator responded as if I spoke of Oz. “Does such a place exist?” I was endeared. Yes, I said. It’s barely out of your way and has a great view you’d miss if you just stuck to the Wonderland Trail. I think I made a sale. I’d have hung with them all day but I’ve learned to take my leave, I wished them them well and headed off to Curtis Ridge, leaving them to descend to Mystic Camp.

Destination Curtis Ridge

I made my way up a social trail toward my destination for the night. I hadn't made this ascent in at least ten years and I was struck by how much further away it was, how much harder a climb, than I remembered. Either the mountain had laid down an additional ridge or two or I had slowed down quite a bit in 10-15 years. I reflected on what a strong hiker I once was, and ruefully regretted that when I had the strength I would never have dreamed of camping out alone on Curtis Ridge, while now that I had the gumption the climb was killing me. Anxious to get up there before the sun dropped behind Ptarmigan Ridge, I even tried to hurry a bit, resulting in a trip and fall on a marmot hole. Soft ground, no harm done. I made it to the top in time.

The scene from Curtis Ridge is something else entirely, the kind of place we simple hikers rarely experience: a front and almost center view of the north face of Mount Rainier. This is less a mountain slope than 4000 feet of seemingly vertical wall, two walls actually - Willis and Liberty - separated by a steep cleaver called Liberty Ridge, all enclosed in an enormous amphitheater by Curtis and Ptarmigan Ridges descending along either side of the wall from the mountain summit to some 8000' feet below. I was approximately 6500', a few hundred feet below the spot where mountain climbers start their journey. I had reached the end of mine.

At the base of this amphitheater is the head of the magnificent Carbon Glacier, Rainier's third largest glacier by area and it's longest and largest in ice volume. While Emmons and Winthrop, the two glaciers larger in area, sweep down conspicuously from the mountain's summit, Carbon is tucked away nearly out of sight and extends down valley far beyond site, nearly six miles, terminating at 3300 feet, the lowest altitude glacier in the lower 48 states. Its unique aspect makes it one of the more secure glaciers in Washington. It is the beneficiary both of a steady stream of avalanches falling from the summit and from the constant rockfall from Willis and Liberty walls, rockfall that provides an insulating blanket for the ice as it conveys the rocks downstream.

Carbon Glacier

Curtis Ridge

Mystic Lake

Downstream Carbon Glacier

The main reason I was so keen on spending the night on Curtis Ridge, and getting there while the sun was still on the mountain, was that although I'd been there three previous times, I had no decent pictures of this fantastic north face. Day hikers face an inherent handicap of arriving at the pinnacle destination in midday summer glare. This glare is exacerbated when the destination lies to the north -  in the northern hemisphere that is - as the midday sun shines nearly directly above the mountain. For my previous visit I had the bright idea of coming in late September thinking that the sun would be lower in the sky. Well it was, lower to the south, and by the time I arrived it had already dropped so far south the wall and much of the glacier was already in dark shadow. This was a useful illustration of why north slopes can be so snowy, but I got no kind of picture that day.

Adorning the ridge across from Curtis Ridge is Russell Glacier, a plateau glacier mostly gleaming white. One great waterfall and several lesser ones spilled from Russell down to Carbon. I had views back down over Mystic Lake and the route I’d hiked in from. I had a long view out over the rock- insulated Carbon Glacier to the portal peaks, turning shadowy in the lowering sun. Soon it would slip beneath Russell Glacier and I would spend the next hour or two looking at these views in gradually changing light. I’m not enough of a photographer to have done anything meaningful with them. I just juggled between landscape and portrait and took my chances.

Eventually I settled down and addressed the issue of where to camp. There were plenty of places available, the main question being whether to stay on top of the ridge or slip down into a meadow for better wind protection. I assumed the wind would pick up after sunset but in fact only a slight breeze arose and the temperature was quite pleasant. While pondering where to pitch my tent I had a bit of an epiphany: I didn’t really need to pitch my tent. I could just set down my sleeping bag. No chance of rain, little risk of animals, no people around. If the wind did pick up my tent would be more susceptible than I would be on the ground in the bag. So I laid down my stuff on a patch of sand, white bark krummholz at my back, rolled my tent into a pillow, propped my head up on my backpack and watched Willis Wall hold then lose the last rays of the sun, grow grayer and dim, and finally give it up to the stars, Milky Way included. Powerful. Glorious. I donned a headnet in the event of mosquitoes and the night went better than I’d imagined.

I was up at dawn, all by myself on Curtis Ridge. The sun long presaged its actual appearance, but finally there was red on the mountain, red on Russell Glacier, and gradually the glaciers again glowed white.

 

I had a 10 mile trek to my car, a long hike for me with a pack on, but I had all day to do it. I spotted a familiar meadow that pointed me back to the trail. The famous tarn was looking better in the morning light. I came upon a ranger on my descent to Mystic Lake and he dutifully inspected my permit. I expected Mystic Lake camp to be empty so late in the morning but one party remained, the two Minnesota hikers I’d met the day before. I filled a water bottle at the creek and had some breakfast and leapfrogged up the trail with them. Lunch at Granite Creek and up to my car at Sunrise for dinner in the dark and the drive back home.

Down with the Cactus and the Border Patrol

Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, January/February 2018

Driving south from Phoenix toward Organ Pipe National Monument I heard on the news that a man had been arrested in southern Arizona for harboring two migrants who had illegally entered the US from Mexico. The man was active in No More Deaths, a group seeking to save the lives of migrants who were so frequently dying from exposure and dehydration while crossing the Sonoran Desert. Mostly the activists were placing food and water along migrant routes, not a crime but apparently an affront to Border Patrol agents who frequently responded by destroying these survival supplies. Border Patrol claims it does not sanction or promote this practice, but the arrest occurred the very day No More Deaths had posted a video of Border Agents destroying food and water caches. The agency's claim that the timing was pure coincidence seemed to stretch credulity.

The news report struck me surprisingly hard. I had read about No More Deaths in A Great Aridness by William deBuys and I felt support for their radical humanitarian efforts. And the arrest took place in the town of Ajo, the nearest real town to Organ Pipe Monument, exactly where I was heading. I would be stopping in Ajo for gas and a few groceries in an hour or two, maybe even driving right past the safe house where the arrest occurred - Ajo is a small place. I would be also be passing the Ajo Border Patrol Station, a harshly militarist-looking gated compound, and would be driving back into Ajo at least once a week for resupplies and mail, going through a Border Patrol checkpoint each time. In short, I would be camping smack in the middle of one of the premier moral issues of our time and doing exactly nothing but living the leisured life of a retiree, however bare bones.

I felt a wave of deep, I would say existential, shame. Cowardice? Impotence? Resignation? Complacency? All of these are true. Complicity? That one really worried me. Down in the desert to dodge the cold, conveniently setting my values and convictions off to the side as I hiked about taking pictures, attending ranger programs, reading in whatever shade I could find. I had no answers to any of this, no epiphany. I knew I would not be giving up what little I had to challenge Border Patrol down in the desert, self-knowledge that did not make me feel any better. I would go about my way, hopefully more attuned to the fact that the life I was leading was not meeting a deeper need I had discounted, apparently unconsciously.

II

The organ pipe is a lovely and distinct columnar cactus, its multiple columns curving upward and somewhat outward from a common base, resembling, when neatly arranged, a pipe organ, at least someone thought. To me they look more like a loosely banded bunch of enormous asparagus stalks. Life is not always easy for the cactus and sometimes the arms appear to flail about in what some see as a kraken-like organism.

organ pipe cactus

pipe organ style

kraken-style

The organ pipe can grow up to 25 feet tall with as many as 100 arms though I've never seen such a beast. The biggest I've seen have been maybe twelve-to-fifteen feet high with thirty or so arms. Usually they're much smaller, as they are extremely slow-growing plants. An organ pipe cactus can take eighty years to grow to four inches in height. An organ pipe three feet tall could be twenty years old, and attaining its full height can take half a century.

Organ Pipe National Monument was established in 1937 to protect the only significant expanse of organ pipe cactus in the United States. Widespread throughout the Sonoran desert in Mexico, the organ pipe reaches its northernmost habitat in southern Arizona. It can tolerate just about any kind of heat but cannot stand frost for more than a few hours. Temperatures on the Organ Pipe desert floor rarely dip below freezing for more than a few hours, allowing both organ pipe to thrive there and me to camp comfortably there in winter.

Despite its top billing, the organ pipe does not dominate the monument's desert floor. Visually it is the saguaro, the signature cactus of the Sonoran desert, that prevails. (The saguaro has its own namesake national park outside Tucson, a couple hours to the east.) The organ pipe is just one of an array of Sonoran Desert flora lightly covering these alluvial plains. Palo Verde, a small tree with green branches and stick leaves; Ocotillo, a tall stringy whip-like plant, not a cactus but spiky all the same; a variety of cholla - teddy bear and chain-fruit the most evident to my eye; barrel cactus; the familiar prickly pear; creosote of course. Two small trees, the mesquite and the ironwood, grow thick in the washes. Trails from the campground wind through this landscape, flat rocky terrain good for a walk best saved for the cooler morning and evening hours even in mid-winter.

ocotillo

ocotillo

palo verde

A number of hills punctuate the Organ Pipe landscape, and there the organ pipe reigns. It is particularly prolific on southeast facing slopes where sun-baked rocks hold daytime heat into the cooling evening and early morning sun strikes first following one of those rare freezing nights. Joining the organ pipe on these hills are thick clusters of teddy bear cholla, which can reproduce through cloning. Small ground-hugging cactus called hedgehog cactus also wedge themselves into these sunny, rocky hillsides.

awww!

Twin Peaks Campground has a lovely nature trail that winds up through a couple of these thickly-vegetated hills, providing vistas out to the mountains of Mexico as well as opportunities to learn the ways of the teddy bear cholla. Not only are they not to be hugged, they are to be given a wide berth. Seasoned desert hikers carry pliers to remove the barbed spines they receive from this cute and innocent-looking menace.

author (January 2009)

Organ Pipe Monument shares a 33-mile border with Mexico, for most of its history a quiet one. The 1990s saw a dramatic increase in illegal immigration and drug trafficking across the monument, apparently a result of crackdowns in the more populated stretches of the border. The National Park Service reports that over 200,000 undocumented immigrants crossed monument lands in 2000, though how they got that number I don't know. The remote park became a scene of border havoc, cars crashing through the simple fence and racing pell-mell across the desert. After a park ranger was killed pursuing traffickers in 2002 the park service closed over half the monument's 330,000 acres in order to address security concerns.

Over the next several years the federal government installed a 30-mile vehicle barrier and a 5.2-mile pedestrian fence; increased the number of law enforcement rangers from 5 to 20; upped the Ajo District's border patrol from 25 agents to over 500; increased the agents at the Lukeville Port of Entry from 12 to 32; and installed towers with radio imaging technology to help track and apprehend illegal smugglers and other potential evil-doers.


In September 2014 the park service reopened the entire monument to visitors, declaring that Organ Pipe was as safe as any other park its size and that the previously closed parts were no less safe than the open parts. The new policy would be to inform visitors of the risks and let them decide where they were comfortable traveling. Signs now warn hikers of drug-smuggling activity and advise against straying off established trails. The park newspaper requests that visitors not hike or drive the back roads after dark. Border Patrol agents provide weekly talks at the Visitor Center to address questions the public might have.

pedestrian fence

pedestrian fence, vehicle fence, Mexican neighborhood

Twin Peaks, the monument's main campground, sits five empty desert miles from the border. Its a big campground – 208 sites –  largely the domain of RVs. The southernmost row of sites is restricted to tents and small campers so there I was, my chair turned away from the RVs, gazing out over the beautiful desert, the city lights of Soyinto glowing after dark. I joke about being the first line of defense against the bad hombres Mexico was supposedly sending our way, but I've never heard of migrants or drug traffickers approaching the campground. Their primary goal is to avoid being detected.

The campground isn't a total bubble. In January 2017 I saw a helicopter swerving in and out of the cactus barely above ground level, presumably chasing someone (unless the pilot was just practicing). This January I watched as one helicopter probed the summit of Twin Peaks, the prominent peak that gives the campground its name. The pilot was checking each nook and cranny apparently looking for someone, though I couldn't understand whether the agents had tracked someone up there or were just conducting a random inspection. I'd learn a little bit more about the likely motives later in my visit.

On one ranger-led nature hike I saw two park law enforcement rangers go racing into the desert in pursuit of a couple of unwanted intruders. An ironic benefit for hikers is the presence of hundreds of federal agents prepared for rugged mountain rescue. Plus water/rescue stations are placed throughout the monument's back country.

IV - The Hike

Organ Pipe Monument occupies a typical Basin and Range landscape, a number of small mountain ranges rising to envelop the desert floor and the cactus-decked hills. The Ajo Mountain Range is the area's largest, running north-south along the eastern border of the monument several miles from the campground. At 4808 feet, Mount Ajo is the highest point of the range (the campground sits at 1700 feet). It is my favorite desert mountain hike, though I haven't hiked that many.

It's a tough hike, much tougher than its dimensions. The terrain is rugged, made up almost entirely of sharp volcanic rock and dangerously spiked plants. It demands concentration with nearly every step; if you stumble there is nothing to grab hold of and nearly nowhere to fall that won't cut you. The trail isn't always evident, the way marked by cairns that require a certain amount of route-finding and hopping about. There is very little shade, particularly toward the middle of the day.

agave

ocotillo

juvenile organ pipe

cholla

barrel cactus

agave

A good portion of the day's elevation gains comes when scrambling up steep chutes of loose rock slippery as ball bearings. In addition to the ubiquitous trail side hazards, one of these slopes has an overgrown prickly pear cactus perched right at the bottom, seemingly placed by a sadistic trail builder. Sliding down into this cactus is a frightening possibility and without immediate medical assistance could very well be a death sentence.

Overall I did well avoiding the spiked plants, only once forgetting myself and doing a northwest-style breast stroke through some shoulder high foliage to the brief dismay of my underarms. The two minor wounds I did sustain came from the sharp volcanic rocks. The first one came when I stumbled and caught my balance with my hand, taking a cut on the base of my left pinkie, a hard place to keep a band-aid. The second was to the sole of my right foot. I got a small stone in my boot and did what I usually do which is try to walk it into a place where it doesn't bother me. But it kept getting worse and when I finally sat to remove it I saw that a tiny volcanic pebble had been plowing the skin off my foot the whole time I moved it around. More antiseptic, a band-aid, clean socks.

I enjoy the challenges of the trail but I'm not out there just to take a beating. The terrain is fantastic. The Ajo Range is almost entirely volcanic in origin, though that doesn't get to the essence of its attraction. I've hiked plenty of volcanic landscapes and have never seen anything like this range of palette, structure, shape, and even texture.

Mount Ajo

Ajo Range

Ajo Range

Geologists say that a series of eruptions extending from 22 to 14 million years ago deposited layer upon layer of lava flows – mostly andesite and rhyolite – leaving behind broad bands of light and dark-colored rock, subsequently contorted or folded by Basin and Range faulting. Ash from the volcanoes fell and compacted into welded tuff, exposed now in colors of buff, yellow-orange, light-yellow, greenish-yellow and white. The flows are riven by rhyolite dikes up to 230 ft wide (but usually much more narrow) dipping steeply to the west. Volcanic mudflows (lahars) are laden with pebble-to-boulder-to-block-size rocks - conglomerates and fanglomerates “moderately to poorly cemented, crudely bedded, and poorly sorted”, meaning among other things that it falls apart easily. Massive nearly vertical cliffs of red-brown rhyolite provide most of the elevation. Steep slopes, flat benches, and ledges abound.*

The language is wonderfully suggestive, though as a geologic summary mine is largely meaningless. No one would confuse me with John McPhee. It could be that such a mish-mash is common to volcanic fields, and that this scene is distinguished mostly by its nakedness. No snow, little soil, and only sparse foliage leave it all just sitting out there, ready to study. I understand some of the terms but could only tentatively correlate them with the mountains in front of me. Welded tuff I think I know. Loosely cemented conglomerate I would come to know intimately. I missed the northwest-trending dyke altogether but a geologist friend pointed it out to me in my photo.

Poorly cemented conglomerate>

welded tuff?

In addition to the natural wonders, this hike provided some unexpected social drama. I had negotiated the steep rocky slopes and was working my way along a gentler incline when I heard and then saw a helicopter coming up along the ridge I had just ascended. Almost as soon as I spotted it the occupants apparently spotted me as the helicopter turned sharply and accelerated directly down toward me - I wouldn't say buzzing but pretty darn low. This was a scene in which I did not know my part. How was I to indicate I was not a migrant or a trafficker but just a hiker in a national park? More importantly, how does a Border Patrol agent make this distinction? Is it simply racial profiling? My face was largely in the shade of my hat and fairly weathered, not that an Irish American might look like a Mexican or Central American. I was basically REI'd up, though in a worn and torn way, and it later occurred to me that wearing outdoor recreation clothing might be a good migrant strategy.

What I did was pull out my camera to take a picture of the helicopter as it flew directly over me. After all it was quite an unusual sight, seemingly worthy of documentation. Plus I thought it might signal to the pilot that I was a hiker, as a migrant would probably not be carrying a camera. The sun was in my eyes and my fingers couldn't find the right button so I missed the close up shot as the helicopter roared over my head. I guess the agents saw what they needed to see as the helicopter pulled up and away toward Mount Ajo. I got a couple of shots of that, not nearly as impressive but here you go.

The incident raised for me the question of whether anyone hiking in the park is subject to suspicion and it fed my growing concern that the Border Patrol was an army out looking for an enemy. I was also curious what they would have done if they decided I was an unwanted person. The terrain was too tough for a landing. Would an agent climb down a ladder or even risk some wild jump? Maybe buzz me into submission like the helicopter I had seen buzzing the cactus? In all I'd think a hardened trafficker might be able to evade agents in a helicopter. But this was all speculation on what for me was an alien situation.

As I resumed my hike I began to question the wisdom of my camera tactic. I sure wouldn't do such a thing on a city street, where my odds for survival might be better than someone with darker skin but would still not be good enough. I didn't think Border Patrol would gun me down from a helicopter but I realized I might have pissed them off, thinking I was documenting their activity rather than documenting a rare phenomenon. The fact is I assumed the pilot was acting legitimately according to his or her mandate, and it never occurred to me I would be capturing much less revealing anything amiss.

But I started to worry about my car. It was the only one at the trailhead so agents could easily link it to me. I imagined them radioing down to their colleagues to give my car a hard time and teach me a lesson. This could border on paranoia, but it more reflected the totally unknown relationship these forces have with the civilian population. Maybe animosities were running higher than I knew. In any case my car was intact when I eventually returned to it.

Later in the week I approached a Border Patrol agent as he was wrapping up his Visitor Center talk and I told him what happened. Do you check out anyone hiking in the park? We can. Why would someone entering the country be climbing a mountain? That's where they go. They want to cross onto the adjacent T'ohono Oodham reservation because there we can only pursue on foot. I told him about my taking a picture and he said no I didn't want to do that. You don't want to go over to the other team is how he put it. I assumed he was referring to his fellow citizens who were monitoring Border Patrol actions. At least he didn't say other side, but I still found it off-putting. I wasn't about to pursue that with him.

Anyway, the helicopter disappeared over the ridge and I resumed my assault on Mount Ajo. The peak kept receding higher up and further away, a familiar trick of mountain summits, but I was in a wonderful place. Views from atop the highest ridge were spectacular. Basin and Range mountains are both isolated and narrow, so views open in all directions. Views back over the monument were great.

But the views to the east out over T'ohono Oodham Nation - a map-like perspective of dirt roads, intersecting washes, and sharp eroded hills - were my favorite part of the hike. Endless miles of Sonoran desert stretch down to Mexico - no border in sight - raising for me the question if the migrants want to get to the reservation why don't they just cross the border down there. 

The flora at this elevation was far more lush and closer to spring, indicative of sky-island ecology. Several plants were new to the hike; juniper and jojobe were two I recognized. I passed through the gauntlet of ocotillo I recalled from the first and only summit of Ajo, in January 2009. Some rock scrambling was required to reach the summit. The peak itself is composed of this strange yellow surface pitted with large multi-colored rock. Communications equipment of unknown function sat on top.

Sky Island Flora

Ocotillo gauntlet

poorly cemented conglomerate?

Mount Ajo Summit

As I sat and rested on the peak I found myself finishing off my water, not a good thing, particularly since I still felt parched. I had drank water before I started and brought two liters with me but it was not enough. It was a hot day but not that hot, peaking maybe at 80 degrees, the heat mitigated by a light mountain breeze though there was no cloud cover and nearly no shade.

I figured it was all downhill from there so I should be all right. I was not, and I got into trouble pretty quickly. After working to capture a wonderfully minimalist rock garden display, I headed out onto a broad rock bench extending from the steep mountain wall. It didn't seem familiar but it was the only way to go as far as I could tell. I immediately encountered a confounding sea of ocotillo and concluded it was the ocotillo gauntlet I had passed on the way up, though I didn't remember them being so closely bunched or on such steeply slanted ground, covered with loose volcanic pebbles. Avoiding puncture while not slipping and falling down hill entailed tricky balance and some intense concentration which I managed if barely.

wonderfully minimalist rock garden display

Next came a drop down about five feet - do I remember climbing up a five foot bench on the way up? I sat down on the ledge in order to scoot down and I gave a tug at a small boulder protruding from the bench to see if it would provide any support. Instead it came ripping out of the ground and crashed to the floor below, bringing large amounts of rock and dirt down with it. OK, loose rock (poorly cemented conglomerate) - good to know. The drop was easy enough so I followed the ledge to its end and saw that it went nowhere. There was no sign of any trail anywhere on the ground below. I must have missed something. I'd have to go back the way I just came.

First came the five foot ledge. Normally I would have lifted myself up the rocks that appeared to be entrenched in the adjacent wall but I had just determined their weakness. Still I gave a small boulder a tug and once again it ripped out of the wall taking half the hillside down with it. I could have spent the rest of the day just pulling this twenty million-year old mountain apart. Once up the bench I had to re-face the treacherous ocotillo maze and this time the concentration it demanded was more than I could muster. For a few endless moments I just stood there nearly paralyzed. It was challenging but not extraordinary; I just lacked the wherewithal to take it on. It was only then that I realized something was wrong with me. My brain was not functioning properly. I was suffering from dehydration.

Somehow this realization gave me the fortitude to negotiate the ocotillo and I was back to the minimalist rock display, where I'd last known I was on the trail. I immediately spotted a small ground cairn indicating the trail cut rather sneakily down a narrow slope to my left. The cairn was too small and too low for such a significant turn but I had only myself to blame. I was on an unmarked trail that required route finding and I just blew it. The important thing was I was now aware that I was mentally compromised and could not trust my own judgement. No more of my “it's gotta be this way” instincts, which are generally pretty good, or at least do no lasting harm. I would have to take each turn very carefully, stop and consider my options, and stop taking so many damn pictures.

Sometimes when I'm hiking and things get a little difficult I start playing a little game in my head, or rather it starts playing itself in my head regardless of what I think. It is some sort of sub-conscious focusing device and I've been doing it for a long time. I am a participant in some kind of hiking competition in which I am being scored for length and difficulty of hike, plus style and panache. Somehow I am being observed by sportscasters, one of whom happens to be Lou Piniella for reasons I can't begin to imagine. Lou is my coach. He is addressing my progress, health, safety, judgement and so forth. “He's moving carefully. His ankle is a little sore but he's been through this before.” Like that. I am far from a first-tier performer in this competition but I am dogged and occasionally capable of posting some scores that can help the team, whatever the team is. Lou has stuck with me even as age slows me down.

On this hike a second commentator was on hand, a woman – I have no idea who she might have been. She was more of a physical therapist, evaluating my condition diagnostically and reporting with candor: this guy is very tired, dehydrated, not thinking clearly. With a guarded optimism she thought my chances of making it back were only good. (They've got me physically monitored but are unable to actually intervene.) I took her prognosis to heart and proceeded carefully, resting often. I started feeling a little better as the day cooled and the mountains began casting more shade. I even resumed my shutterbugging ways.

It was dark by the time I got back to the trailhead. The final stretch through the thick bottom washes were the most tense. If anyone was going to pop out on me this would have been the time and place. Migrants lingering near the trailhead? (I had food and water there; I could actually help them). Traffickers looking to hijack my car? Pretty unlikely; they need to stay off the roads. A couple of Border Agents bursting out of the brush demanding I drop? None of this happened.

Normally I'd have had dinner at the trailhead picnic table but this was far from a normal situation. I still had a good ten miles of dark dirt road to drive. I couldn't see the road surface very well and I sure didn't need a flat tire so I stuck to my prudent 10 MPH and it took an hour. Toward the end of the drive a Border Patrol vehicle came racing up from behind. It did not flash its lights so I just kept going while it cooled its heels behind me. At some point it lost interest and fell back into the dark.

V

With every visit to Organ Pipe (this was my third) I have been taken by the long view of the Ajo Range from the campground. The sea of saguaro, the intervening hills, and the line of jagged peaks make for a very attractive scene, particularly in the early morning and late afternoon. It is too far away for a good picture though, so I finally decided to go in for a closeup. I could spend two hours driving the one-way Ajo Mountain Road, or I could just walk a few miles directly across the desert. It was a lovely day for a walk so I set out on foot in mid-afternoon, with the goal of finding a good location near sunset.

Walking cross-country on national park land is usually a liberating experience but at Organ Pipe it is fraught with issues. I wondered if Border Patrol had me in its sights. I hadn't yet learned about the ground sensors they use and even now wonder if they deploy them on national park ground. I wondered if they did spot activity would they come out and get me. Do they really track down anyone they detect walking through the national monument? I also wondered if I'd come upon a migrant or two and how that might go. I had no food and not that much water so I wouldn't have been much help to them. And of course I wondered about the drug traffickers, if maybe they had me in their sights. I figured that both migrants and traffickers were trying not to be seen and being sharper-eyed than I would likely avoid me. In fact the only unusual thing I saw was an abandoned backpack badly weathered and I certainly wondered what happened to its owner. It was indeed a wondrous walk.

The terrain itself wasn't all that different from the trails radiating from the campground except the flora was thicker this much closer to the mountain drainage. Some of the washes were so thick with vegetation I had to pick a spot to crash through, choosing the sharp branches of the ironwood or palo verde over their spiny cactus neighbors. There was no trail to follow but I was heading straight toward some easily identifiable peaks so navigation wasn't a problem. The further I got the more the perimeter hills blocked my views of the mountains, diminishing the panorama I sought. I always forget about that. I thought the rocky hills might be loose alluvial fans but this did not seem to be the case. One in particular was clearly a volcanic deposit.

My intention was to intersect the Ajo Mountain Scenic Drive and I did, right near Exhibit 17. I was too early for good light so I proceeded up the narrow dirt road further toward the mountains. It was a lovely Sunday afternoon and a half dozen or so cars drove down the road in my direction. I stepped up and out of the narrow entrenched road but kept myself conspicuous and everyone waved, satisfied I guess that I was not a social menace, just some addled old guy out for a hike where nobody else hikes.

I wanted to make it to a viewpoint I knew that provided great views out to Diaz Peak - Exhibit 16 maybe - but my geography was a little off. After a mile or so of flat road walking I got to Exhibit 16 and it was nothing at all. I did enjoy some good flora along the way. The saguaro in particular can take on some strange shapes and I found a couple of good ones, including one strangling an ocotillo. I was denied my envisioned photo, though, as sunset was approaching and I had to start heading back.

I knew all along I was not going to try to find my way back through the open desert at dusk. I would have to return along the road, a roundabout way adding an extra couple of miles to my hike, the hard dirt surface much tougher on my feet than the soft desert floor. But I had the feeling I would not have to walk for long. I wasn't absolutely counting on it but I was willing to bet that once dusk set in a Border Patrol vehicle would check me out and probably give me a ride.

The first two cars that passed me in the dimming light were noticeably less friendly than the ones I encountered in full daylight: no waves, averted eyes. The third was a red pickup with an ORV in the bed and that driver did take a look at me though he did not wave. The fourth vehicle was Border Patrol. The agent stopped alongside me and asked me how my hike was. I said it was maybe a mile or two longer than I'd have liked. Would I like a ride? I would, thanks.

He went to some trouble to make space for me in the front seat and offered me water though I still had some of my own and we had a friendly little chat along the way. He asked about my hike and I mentioned my sore feet from the hardened road. He said it was good I didn't return cross country because the drug traffickers were out there. I laughed and said “C'mon, you guys have this place covered like ants.” This animated him. “They know where we are”, he said. “They're watching us. We listen to them talking about us on the radio.”

This was the first time I'd heard what I've heard several times since: the traffickers place sentries up in the mountains to monitor and report on Border Patrol movements. The sentries might be up in a mountain for weeks, traffickers sending in resupplies, a more sophisticated and also more brazen operation than I'd envisioned. So that was what that helicopter was up to that morning at the campground trying to poke a hole through Twin Peaks. Looking for sentries. And I could have been one going up the Ajo Peak trail, though I still don't know how they might conclude that I wasn't.

He took me to the Visitors Center and asked me if that was ok. The campground was still over a mile away but he seemed relieved when I told him I was good. I think all parties prefer that Border Patrol yield the campground area to the park rangers. As I walked away from his truck I saw the red pickup that passed me wave him down and presumably report me, as I heard the agent say “I just dropped him off. He's right over there.” The pickup drove by me on the road and asked if I wanted a ride. “I'd rather die here on the ground” is what I'd like to have said but I just shook my head no.

Shameless sunset

Totally Shameless Sunset

* Interpretive Geologic Map of Mt Ajo Quadrangle, Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, Arizona
by Janet L. Brown (USGS Open-File Report 92-23, 1992)