Gila Wilderness Area, New Mexico--Going Wild in America’s First Wilderness

((2,793 words, Adv. Travel; 3 cap))

Amber Borowski

Let’s get something straight: I do not speak Spanish. My linguistic capacities are limited to hola, taco and tamale.  As an immigrant from above the northern border, I am much better versed in phrases like sub-zero, cross-checking and crummy Canadian dollar. Even with this disclaimer, I was chagrinned that I slaughtered the pronunciation of Gila Wilderness when I pitched this story to my editor. How could I have known that ‘g’ in Gila is actually pronounced ‘h?’  Or that one of its mountain ranges, Mogollon, does not sound like Mongolia, but more like “Mug-yeeon.”

 Prior to setting out to the Gila Wilderness, I hooked up with three native Arizonans—Ray, Joseph and Karleen—in what I call the fiery furnace (most people just refer to it as “Phoenix in July”).  I was relieved when we left that sweltering city behind and ascended into New Mexico’s canyon-gutted, mesa-muscled and unpronounceable high country.

 Established in 1924 as the first forest wilderness preserve in the world, the Gila Wilderness Area comprises over half a million acres covering more than 1,000 square miles in southwestern New Mexico.  Created at the urging of the great conservation pioneer, Aldo Leopold, it is a part of the Gila National Forest which contains 3.3 million acres over four tree-covered mountain ranges: the Mogollons, Diablos, Tularosas and the Black Range.  Nearly one-fourth of that acreage consists of the Gila, Aldo Leopold and Blue Range Wildernesses.  More than 1,500 miles of hiking trails lace the forest, ranging from a base elevation of 4,500 feet in the high desert to peaks that almost touch 11,000 feet.  Biotic zones from desert to alpine are represented, and the Continental Divide snakes 170 miles across the spine of the national forest.

 This was my first time in New Mexico and I had great expectations for our four-day backpacking trip. I hoped to discover a place of wild silence that remained as unspoiled as the day it was designated; a land free from modern artifacts, where I could seek solitude on pure, star-bright nights.  I was not disappointed.

  We decided to conquer the Mogollons, which include the wilderness area’s highest peaks.  We would do a strenuous lollypop-shaped route through a variety of terrain, starting at Sandy Point Trailhead on Bursum Road and continue along the Crest Trail.  Stops along the way would include Hummingbird Saddle and side-trips to two of the range’s highest peaks: Whitewater Baldy, 10,895 feet and Mogollon Baldy, 10,770 feet.  We would then follow the Holt-Apache Trail, camp at the Spruce Creek Saddle and then continue down to Redstone Park.  Our final day, we planned to backpack out to the Redstone Park Trailhead and hitch a ride back to our car. We calculated the route to be approximately 30 miles, plus some minor side- trips.

 The drive to the Gila Wilderness along Highway 180 evolved from tough vegetation that seemed to cling to the arid land for dear life, to the verdant woods of the Gila National Forest. We passed through Glenwood, a quaint ranching community that hosts a few restaurants, a bar, and the Catwalk, a 2.5-mile walkway anchored to a rock wall above the rushing waters of Whitewater Creek. A few miles later, we turned and followed a steep road, winding sharply into the densely forested mountains past the ghost of once-booming Mogollon.  In 1890, Mogollon was a bustling mining camp that boasted 20 saloons and 2,000 residents.  Today, it squeaks out a gourd gallery, museum, and a series of dilapidated cars and houses.

Climbing Whitewater Baldy’s Rapids

I was relieved to see only a few cars at the Sandy Point Trailhead.  We were soon on the trail, climbing through the vitality of these green-cloaked mountains.  Our pace was brisk up the moderately sloped pitch.  Impenetrable vegetation quashed any hope of expansive views.  Besides three hikers from Texas, we were alone.

Less than an hour after we started, Ray wheezed that he felt he was going to black out.  We suspected he had food poisoning or the flu, and we stopped to rest. Joseph, who packed everything including the kitchen sink (or at least the medicine cabinet), produced some charcoal tablets that he assured would help Ray unclog his system. 

 We eventually continued up a steady pitch for 5.2 miles and stopped at Hummingbird Saddle, where we ate a late lunch amidst a patchwork of mellow greens.  The wilderness area’s highest peak, Whitewater Baldy, loomed behind us like a 10,892-foot monolithic sentry. After lunch, we did a side-trip up its steep, crudely etched trail. “Baldy” is a misnomer—there isn’t anything bald about this mountain and its thick woodlands blocked our view from the summit.  We found an altar of rocks that marked the highest point, and then hiked down a rock-strewn ledge.  Finally, we were afforded our first, clear view of the wilderness area as we were brought face to face with our own insignificance.

After descending, we filled our water in a spring 1,000 feet from Hummingbird Saddle, and then followed the trail around the east side of Whitewater Baldy through a dense spruce and fir forest.  A few miles later, we reached the Holt-Apache Trail junction, low on water and energy.  We debated continuing another mile down the trail toward Mogollon Baldy where our topographical map promised water at Hobo Spring.  Exhausted, we finally opted to stay just above the Holt-Apache trail junction and get water on the way to our Mogollon Baldy side-trip the next morning.   Ray still felt queasy, so Joseph prescribed garlic tablets. The mosquitoes weren’t the only ones who avoided poor Ray that night.

We ate dinner under an almost phony, deep-blue sky that looked like an acrylic pretension by some meticulous pop artist. Soon, the ebbing sun capitulated to an ebony sky. Karleen and Joseph started a fire as the full moon poked through the trees.  By moon and fire, we read to one another aloud and watched the flames slowly transform to blazing coals.  Occasionally, Joseph would lean over and breathe life into the embers, resurrecting the flames.  Karleen christened him Dragon Breath.  I gave Ray the same moniker, for different reasons.

Giving and Taking at Mogollon Baldy

It was a warm night for 9,000 feet.  I awoke around 6:30 a.m. and lounged around camp while Ray slept in.  I put in my contact lenses, but soon realized I was half-blind—one of my lenses had not made it to my eye.  Panicked, I searched the tent; wandering around the wilderness half-blind was not a promising prospect.  Just when I was about to give up, I found it—plastered to my tube of toothpaste.  It was a typical start to a day in the life of Amber Borowski: one of blindness and confusion.

After Ray awoke, we grabbed our daypacks and started for Mogollon Baldy, anticipating finding water along the trail.  We didn’t.  Hobo Springs is another misnomer in the Gila—Hobo Drip is more befitting.  We decided to try our luck at Little Hobo Spring, another mile down the trail, which proved more like Little Hobo Puddle—there was not even a drip to be found. 

We had only one purifier between us, and it was attached as an in-line filter to Ray’s CamelBak.  It quickly became clogged when we tried to draw water from Little Hobo’s murky puddle.  We had no choice but to continue up Mogollon Baldy with minimal hydration. GPS in hand, Ray assured us that the summit was only a few miles away, “give or take.”  With Ray, I have learned that the “give” could mean about one mile, and the “take” around 20.  Our side-trip turned out to be about 10 miles roundtrip (give or take, of course…)

Thankfully, the temperatures were cool and the pitch reasonable.  We hiked through a green coverlet of rich, dense riparian habitats--by far my favorite stretch of the entire trip. I felt more like I was on the coast of Washington than in the heart of southwestern New Mexico.  We wound through beautiful aspen and fern groves. Kaleidoscopic butterflies took wing along the path. Hummingbirds nestled in our sheltered aviary and I listened as woodpeckers befriended the cottonwoods.

  Our experience atop 10,770-foot Mogollon Baldy was much more rewarding than Whitewater Baldy.  Upon the summit, we found a historic guard cabin and lookout station where Forest Service personnel reside May - August. We received a tour of the tower from Sarah Irving, who has spent every summer here for 20 years. She has seen many tides of destruction, including a forest fire that burned over 15,000 acres in 1996.

 Following our tour, I settled on the grass near a geologic marker, not knowing exactly what to do or think or feel as I soaked up the thin air, smells and temperature.  I filed the expansive 360-degree view into my memory bank. At the crest of the desert, the southern horizon exploded into a mind-boggling display of mountains and ridgelines that drifted in and out of a powder-blue haze.  To the distant west, Arizona’s White Mountains cut across the sky as if drawn with a straightedge.  A plane scratched patterns in the cerulean sky above it all. The plane eventually disappeared; the celestial sketches remained.

Spruce Creek Saddle and the Bartering Backpacker

We reluctantly started the 5-mile trek back to base camp.  We were fortunate to find a father and son at Hobo Spring who graciously purified water for our parched packs.  Once back at camp, we packed our gear and followed the Apache-Holt trail until we reached a sign pointing us 1.75 miles to Spruce Creek Saddle.  We detoured 0.1 mile down the Windy Gap trail and explored the abandoned Apache Cabin. Call me crazy, but the lure of squeaky spring beds, a wood stove, empty whisky bottle and rodent droppings wasn’t much temptation to stay long.

We continued along the Holt-Apache Trail and soon reached Black Mountain Spring’s flowing cascade.  After replenishing our water supply we continued 0.7 mile down a trail that provided open views of upper Whitewater Baldy before our descent to Spruce Creek Saddle at 9,620 feet.  We pitched camp in this grassy aspen-ringed flat and all seemed perfect--until dinner.  While placing my ThermaRest outside I noticed an army of gnats everywhere. We combated them by lathering ourselves in Joseph’s bug spray.

As it turned out, water was not our only supply stress that day. At group confessional around the fire that night, Karleen, Ray and I realized our personal stashes of toilet paper were down to a bare minimum, and we still had two nights left on the trail.  We all turned to Medicine Man, and, sure enough, he was amply supplied.  Now, Joseph could have generously surrendered his coveted stash, but he instead seized the opportunity to do some backcountry bargaining. The deal:  one packet of tissue for a foot rub.  I obligingly gave in; desperate times call for desperate measures.

 Campfire discussions turned deep that night but my fatigued mind was about as focused as the nebulous clouds.  I fell asleep immediately after my head hit the pillow until a penetrating light woke me at 2:30 a.m.  Confused, I stumbled out of the tent and realized the luminescence of the full moon had set our meadow aflame. No longer tired, I explored. No wind blew, but the leaves of the cottonwoods were wavering on their boughs, and a mysterious, swollen atmospheric pressure popped them loose, as if by magic.

 Made almost dizzy by the atmosphere’s seductive passivity, I glanced around for evidence of a single invisible current.  I felt and heard nothing.  No crickets, no birds--only a deafening silence. I do not know how long I watched the surreal light dance across the meadow; I do know that the Gila Wilderness Area seeped into my soul that enchanted evening and made an everlasting imprint.

The “Cap”tivating Redstone Park

 Perhaps due to my late night out on the range, I started feeling nauseous and queasy after breakfast. When the nausea didn’t pass, Joseph graciously handed over the last of his charcoal tablets—without any kind of stipulation whatsoever.  I must have looked pretty pathetic. 

 I was grateful we were only 4 miles from Redstone Park, our destination for the day.  The route ascended sharply above Spruce Creek Saddle.  We crawled over a tree graveyard of umpteen fallen trees that blocked the path.  Once at the apex of the trail, we made a steep descent a couple of thousand feet before arriving at Redstone Park. 

 Redstone Park, with its churning and flirtatious Whitewater Creek, was the oasis of our trip.  I was the first to throw myself into its waters and the others quickly followed.  We explored and relaxed on sandstone rocks reminiscent of those in Zion National Park. We watched the water and sun pour through the chasm like silky syrup.  Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, Karleen generously offered me her soap and shampoo.  This had to be paradise.

 After a time, a dozen shades of gray appeared over our heads and a funny thunder, muttering inarticulately, puttered around in the sky.  The rain lasted only a few minutes, but was enough to motivate us to set up camp and nap in our tents.  We spent a few hours in the late afternoon hiking through the ribbon-like creek.  Joseph and Ray treated it like a giant obstacle course and leapt from shore-to-shore.  Karleen and I sloshed through it. I had spent two days craving water; why avoid it now?

 That night, my unsettled stomach rejected my bland soup and I dumped my dinner after a few slurps. I decided to purify my water for the hike out the next day so I grabbed Ray’s CamelBak and filter.  After filling my bottles, I went down to the creek to refill the bladder, after which I reached for the cap but it was nowhere to be found.  I scanned the rock and reasoned that I must have left it by the tree where Ray had hung the pack. I was wrong. And then the magnitude of my predicament set in--I had lost the sealant on our only reliable water source.  I then did what I do best in moments of crisis: I freaked out.

 I raced back down to the creek and did a mad, frenzied sweep along its banks. Joseph leisurely came down  and in great amusement, he called out to me, “Uhh, what do you think you’re doing?”  A valid question, considering this was my first sign of real animation since I became ill that morning.  I let him in on my quandary and he scoured the other side of the bank.  I eventually gave up but then Joseph called over to me, “Amber, look over here!”  And with that, we reached down and swooped up the cap from a shallow pool.  Gratitude followed shock as I jubilantly screeched out, “I OWE you!”  That was my second mistake (the first was, of course, losing the cap).  Mr. Backcountry Barterer devilishly smiled at me and said, “OK, lunch?”  First the charcoal tablets, then the toilet paper, and now lunch; I resigned myself to being forever indebted to him.

  A Final Glimpse into the Wild

  I arose early the next morning. I felt better after a good night’s sleep and wistfully realized I only had a few hours left in the Gila Wilderness.  I walked down to the creek.  A morning dew fog hung subtly above the ground; I was peering into a fairytale. The morning sun slowly kindled the upper canyon walls, reminding me of the high, bright opulence of a castle.

We were on the trail for our final parking lot push by 8:30 a.m.  Ray assured us the 4.7-mile hike out had an elevation gain of only 700 feet—a piece of cake.  What Mr. Give or Take’s GPS failed to note is this was the net elevation gain.  Most of the hike was actually a straight shot up, followed by a short yet steep drop to the parking area. 

 Despite the strenuous pitch, our final few hours in the Gila Wilderness Area were unforgettable.  Grouse Mountain towered over us.  We reverently watched an owl perched on a branch, mere feet away from the trail.  The silver-skinned aspen trees seemed to wave us toward the forest’s slanting sunlight.   We stopped periodically for pictures, hoping to record a glimpse of the Gila Wilderness’ magic.  But it evaded our attempts. Ultimately, I acknowledged that the world’s first wilderness area does not belong to the casual tourist in passing and in pictures.  It is for those who belong here; for those who truly lose themselves in the wild.