As you'd expect, paved roads don't often reach the places that are most off the beaten track. Getting to the backcountry therefore means using the right tool for the job, which will often be a four-wheel drive vehicle. This next set of blog entries is for those of you that have no experience with four-wheel driving on really lousy roads, but have a hankering to give it a try. I'll start with some advice on choosing the right chariot for your adventure.
Not so very long ago, that would have been very simple, in the sense that you'd know exactly what to look for. That's because there were only two choices: Jeeps (as in the registered trademark vehicle, not in the generic way the term is sometimes used) and pickup trucks. The former were built to go anywhere, with no compromises for comfort, and the latter were built to do heavy, high clearance work. Finding a place that rented a Jeep might not be easy, but at least everyone knew what you were talking about.
Today, however, there are many different types of cars that do some, most, or all of the same jobs. That's good, because the old Jeeps weren't built to carry much gear, and you don't always need a vehicle that can leap mountains in a single bound. But it's bad in that the choices become more complicated, and it's therefore easier to end up with the wrong tool for the job.
We need a refuge even though we may never need to go there. I may never in my life get to Alaska,...but I am grateful that it is there. We need the possibility of escape as surely as we need hope
Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire
This morning I decided to forego my usual breakfast banquet of a stale donut with coffee and head into town for a more substantial repast, an uplink to the Internet, and a chance to ask a question or two about things I'd seen.
On my way into town I heard part of a BBC broadcast focused on the perennial efforts of the current administration in Washington to open up the Alaskan Wildlife Refuge to oil exploration and production. The panel comprised the expected mix: a Sierra Club representative, an advocate of drilling, and a third party presumed to occupy the middle ground.
There wasn't anything particularly new about the interchange, which was civil, although vigorous on both sides. What struck me, as always, was the impassioned view of the industry advocate that we must begin exploitation in Alaska now because conservation efforts require too much time to take effect — an argument I have heard for so long that such efforts could easily have taken hold many times over ever since first this rationale was raised.
I was also struck by the fact that no one mentioned the amount of time it would take to explore, extract, and build transshipment facilities (pipelines? A port terminal with the capacity to store hundreds of millions of gallons of crude until ships can collect it during ice-out in summer?) Could actually bringing Alaskan Wildlife Refuge oil into the Lower Forty Eight conceivably take less than a decade?
When I was younger, backpacking seemed like the obvious way to go about seeing what was worth seeing in the out of doors. Back east, where I grew up, as a generality backpacking was a requirement as well, if you wanted to thin the ranks of the hordes of co-eco-religionists seeking the same Appalachian, Adirondack or White Mountain High. But beyond this sort of practicality, there has long seemed to be a sort of macho charisma that attaches to backpacking, a sense that there is something inherently righteous about disappearing into the bush with naught to sustain you but what you lug in under your own steam.
As I've grown older, though, I've realized that lugging fifty pounds of food and equipment (or more) on my back may sometimes be a necessary evil to reach certain objectives, but it is hardly to be considered an end in itself by any sane person. As a result, car camping has held increasing appeal to me, and my last backpacking excursion is now four years in the past. At the same time, my time spent hiking has increased rather than diminished. Better yet, my enjoyment has increased significantly, as has the variety of what I have seen while trekking about in a state of only lightly encumbered bliss.
Is car camping some sort of modern, comfort driven cop out? Not withstanding the cachet that backpacking still enjoys, I don't think so. After all, the west was hardly opened by pioneers with ultralight backpacks and high tech tents, but by settlers perfectly happy to sit in Conestoga wagons and let the oxen do the walking, and by prospectors with their donkeys and their mules to tote their gear. Similarly, the way to move your stock up into high meadows in the early summer and back in the fall was on horseback (and in some places, still is), with a packhorse for gear. In short, until recently no self-respecting westerner would dream of walking if s/he could ride — so why should we, even if packhorses have now become a less available option?
Although a dozen miles at most separate the Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument from the Kaibab National Forest to the south, the two environments are as different as can be imagined (my posts on the Kaibab can be found here , here and here). Several thousand feet lower and far dryer, the Escalante is a void of shattered rock, high mesas, endless canyons, and seemingly infinite aridity, but for the thunderstorms that hover motionless in the afternoons of summer over one part of the landscape or another for hours at a time. More often than not, these showy storms simply tease with thunder, lightning and a quick shower or a spattering of raindrops, but sometimes they unleash a deluge that leads (as yesterday) to flash floods.
This difference in climate makes accessing the Escalante a far different proposition for a visitor than the Kaibab. While the Kaibab Plateau supports an active lumbering and "wildlife management" economy for those that live around it, and therefore has hundreds of miles of well maintained dirt roads, the Escalante has no trees to harvest, and only marginal ranching opportunities through much of its range. Unlike almost all government land in the West (other than National Parks), there are large areas of the Escalante where there is no evidence (think hard what that might be) of any cattle at all.
As a result, no paved roads cross the sixty mile wide Monument, and huge areas of the Escalante have no dirt roads, or miracle of miracles, even jeep or ATV tracks at all. As I sit here typing today, I'm parked on a rock ledge next to one of the few rough dirt roads for many miles around, overlooking a dry canyon to the south, and overlooked in turn by a massive, unvegetated mesa to the north. The "road" I traveled for the last two hours simply follows the dry floor of a narrow wash for most of its length. I can know almost to a certainty that I will see neither another car nor a soul (bovine or human) for as long as I choose to stay somewhere along this road's length — or the next. For that matter, I am likely the only person within 10 to 25 miles in any direction. Only a single old ATV track is visible.
The following blog entry was submitted to the Arizona Daily Sun by the
National Forest Service with my permission. It ran about ten days later.
Yesterday, I described the impact of the Warm Fire in summary terms. If you read that post, you'll find a description that sounds rather worse than what I saw on the ground when I visited the scene. In order to see what the reality behind the statistics might be, I drove and walked many miles through the burn area, and was surprised at how varied and hopeful the landscape appeared. Areas of total destruction bordered others of modest, or even no impact, and in many areas the scene changed from one state to the other rapidly and repeatedly.
The principal reasons, I expect, are because the terrain is very varied (rolling, and often steep), and because some areas affected had previously been burned. For example, a slope fifty feet high might be utterly destroyed where the wind swept flames and burning embers uphill, and yet green grass and trees would have survived right up to the break of the slope on top. In other situations, groves of aspen bore witness to the fires of not long ago. In contrast, the Yellowstone National Park burn areas seemed vastly and uniformly devastated when I visited them several years after their destruction.
On the Kaibab, the result has been the creation of what is called a "mosaic" landscape: a desirable, natural state that comprises many patches of different types of growth simultaneously existing at various stages of maturity. How that state is achieved once fire offers the opportunity makes for an interesting story, and the tale of the aspen features prominently in that process.
In much of the west, forests exist in three states: burned, recovering from being burned, and waiting to be burned. Until recently, the time between burns in northern Arizona was two to ten years. But as logging became both feasible as well as profitable, fire suppression became an article of faith in the management of national forests. Only in the last few years has that policy been reversed, with the recognition that naturally occurring fires are a necessary and important part of maintaining forest health. The difficult question necessarily arises, however, of how to make the transition safely back to a state of nature.
The Warm Fire on the Kaibab plateau provides an interesting example of how this transition is being addressed in practice.
On June 8 of this year, a lightning strike ignited a fire in the interior of Kaibab National Forest, near Warm Springs Canyon (hence the name, the "Warm Fire"). Consistent with the new policy of the National Forest Service, it was decided to manage rather than extinguish the blaze, and to therefore classify it as a "wildland fire use fire, managed for resource benefits" (this and other details are taken from a National Forest Service report available at the National Forest visitor centers). What this means principally is that conditions were deemed appropriate to allow a naturally occurring fire to clear out the "fuel load" (i.e., dead logs, branches, needles and so on) that had accumulated through the decades during which the preceding fire suppression policy was in force.
If the peaks of tall mountains are "sky islands," then the Kaibab Plateau of northern Arizona is a sky continent. A vast, tilted shelf of ancient seafloor, it stands proud above the surrounding desert, rising 9,200 feet beyond sea level at its highest point. 1,600,000 acres of the Kaibab — the greatest part - are designated as a National Forest of the same name, guarding it from some, but not all of the depredations of civilization (on which more below).
Like a continent, the Kaibab has its own mountains and canyons, cliffs and [dry] coasts, various weather zones, and commensurately varied ecological communities. Its climate ranges from verdant to arid, its ecological zones from towering Ponderosa Pine forests to alpine meadows to desert scrub. Due to its isolation by elevation, it also has unique species — including in one of the rarest categories of categories of unique species - its own mammal. That animal is the charcoal-grey Kaibab squirrel, a prankster that sports not only tall, tasseled ears, but a pure white tail to boot. Its overall appearance leads one to think it would be more at home in a Tolkien wood than in an Arizona forest — and with a speaking part at that.
Winter nights in the desert are spectacular, but cold. To get a good night's sleep, you need Big Agnes.
One of the great joys of hiking in the desert is sleeping under the brilliant, ever-present stars and the even more prominent planets, accompanied by gentle breezes, the smells of the desert, and often, the serenade of coyotes. In the crystalline air far from the light of cities, the dazzle of the stars and planets is unparalleled, and the experience one to savor.
There are other sights and sounds as well, especially when camping near an air force bases (which is likely to be the case, given how many are spread around the Southwest, and the fact that the word "near," in this context, can mean pretty far away). Last night four jets streaked and wheeled overhead while I looked up at the sky, two almost wingtip to wingtip, and the second pair much farther apart, and farther ahead. Each had strobe lights that flashed in a manic syncopation reminiscent of a 1970's disco. Others flew silently at supersonic speeds at extreme altitude, seeming to travel more swiftly than could be possible.
As I've grown older I've come to dislike hiking trails -- one of the reasons I've grown to love the American Southwest. Here, you can find vast stretches of public land that extend to the horizon and beyond, so sparsely vegetated that you can strike out in any direction you wish. When one canyon or another piques your fancy, there is nothing to prevent you from simply parking your car and climbing in, taking as much gear and food as you need to explore for an hour, a day or a week.
What you find may disappoint as well as please, but the scenery is so compelling that "disappointment" is a relative term. For wherever you venture, the terrain will be challenging and interesting, and the worst that can happen is that the way becomes impassable sooner than planned, or the drama that unfolds is not quite as dramatic as hoped. When this happens (which it does when you're hiking off the beaten track), what you do encounter will still be fresh and unexpected. And you'll never see a soul along the way.
A trail, in contrast, provides the predictable – invariably with company. You probably know in advance how far you will walk (to the tenth of a mile), what the vertical rise will be, and even the degree of difficulty, presented on a helpful numerical scale. You can also assume that the rough places will have been made smoother, and that the steep places will have been tamed with switchbacks. And you'll also know what the "attractions" will be (e.g., a waterfall) along the way, as well as the reward you'll enjoy if you reach the end – perhaps a mountaintop view that will let you see four states (four!) at once, as if the transposition of political boundaries over geography will make natural wonders more wonderful. You'll also almost certainly see other hikers, unless you're hiking early in the morning (always a good idea for many reasons), or on a weekday in the off-season. The footprints of those that came before, of course, will still be everywhere.
At night, the animal life of the desert comes out of hiding. And along the Mexican border, so do the illegal immigrants and the drug runners. The result is a National Monument "under siege."
Organ Pipe National Monument is legally remote (on this unusual distinction, more below), which makes it the kind of place I like to visit -- big, empty, lightly visited and beautiful. It is 142 miles by two-lane road from Tucson and about the same distance from Phoenix, and is surrounded on all sides by areas that do not draw a crowd: the Tohono O'odham Indian reservation to the East, and the vast Barry Goldwater Air Force testing range to the North and West. To the South is the Sonora State of Mexico. And once you get there, it has nothing to offer besides a unique species of cactus, a few hiking trails, and average Arizona scenery (much of it gorgeous), making it one of the least frequented parts of the American Southwest.
When I arrived for a few days of hiking and camping to start my trip, I found that it was both more and less used than before, as well as even less easy to get around in than in the past.