Acting on a tip from someone much more knowledgeable than I on all things Gila, I decided to combine two local objectives 30 minutes from home. Getting dropped off by Tanya in North Hurley, I'd enter Geronimo's Stronghold, create a route to the ridge above the iconic Kneeling Nun, and out the east side of trespassed Freeport backcountry to hitch-hike back home. All told in Google Earth/Caltopo, the adventure would be roughly 20 miles. Admittedly short by ultramarathon standards, but big on adventurous unknowns due to zero online beta and scant local knowledge of the area. This trip did not disappoint on any level.
Hopping out of the car and waving goodbye to the family as the sun hung low on the west, a series of 5 barbed wire fences crossed the hills in front. Wearing dull colors, moving quickly, I tried quickly to escape the sparsely patrolled road corridor through private Freeport McMoran mine property. On the other side of the fences was a steep climb amidst massive boulders. Old oaks grew in the cracks between rock, and my pack was frequently jettisoned for crawling and gear dragging under the low branches. Half way up the climb I found some of the red pictographs that Jay had mentioned, and was happy that I happened to poke my head around in this obvious alcove. I'd come to this area hoping to find artifacts a century old, and this quick find felt like a positive omen for the rest of the trip.
Finally at the top of the large climb, I was at the base of the large cliffs visible from the highway. Towering over the view down the basin stood a massive thin slab. This place would be a climbing mecca if A) anyone knew about it and B) access was legal across Freeport land. Instead, only local hooligans get back here to spraypaint "Jack and Nancy" while leaving a couple of beer cans near the cliffs. As the sun dropped below the Big Burro Mountains, I threw out my bivy on the only patch of suitable land, and went back to the boulders to stare out at the landscape as it turned purple then black.
Stalked by either raccoon or coatimundi (?), I eventually had to hide as much food in my small titanium pot as I could, put the rest in a ziploc, and tried to bury it under boulders and smaller rocks. This mostly worked aside from allowing a few mouse bites into the ziploc, and allowed me to get decent shut-eye on uneven ground. I spent a few minutes before dozing laughing at the thought of Geronimo cursing rodents while sleeping in this same area 100 years before me. Visiting these historically relevant sites has made me become increasingly aware of those who walked here before me, giving me another connection to the landscape always lacking prior.
Packed up after the sun crests the eastern cliffs, I started to browse the area of Geronomimo's Stronghold. Not knowing much about the area, I'd assumed it would be easy to cross further southeast to see all of the interesting alcoves, caves, and boulders that held more Apache pictographs, matates, and manos. Instead, I was treated to incessant boulder hopping amidst tall grasses and more large oaks. The going was really slow, and I quickly realized that I'd have to either spend the full trip in this region, or complete the route and return here for a day trip. Being hellbent on seeing my created route through, I chose the latter. With a ton of regret and indecision, I stopped poking around after 30 minutes of fun scrambling and hugged the cliffs to the north to make my way down to the canyon floor below.
Prepared to fill up on water at infrequent Tinajas, I was shocked to find plentiful water of the crystal-clear variety flowing across the canyon bottom. Picking up a shiny pink balloon flown in from who knows where, I began hiking upstream, still surprised by the amount of water. Cliffs loomed high above still, making this area just as special as Geronimo's Stronghold up above. The going was quick and soon I found myself climbing a minor tributary to access a satellite-scouted jeep road above. While climbing up the slope I heard a "moo" and let out a handful of obscenities. While in the rugged stronghold away from cow pies and grass mowed by cows, I'd convinced myself I was in cattle-free wilderness. Climbing up to flatter ground above the canyon floor, I was sad that my delusion was so quickly slaughtered. Cow shit littered the flowing tributary, and the grass was mowed down to a typical southwestern rock-strewn moonscape. Any semblance of road for travel had nearly fully vanished, and all that remained was a decent cattle trail. I followed this through a barbed gate, quickly going off trail again with views of ever-increasing depth. Seeing Silver City from new vantage points never gets old:
The hiking was fun as the drainage narrowed, making the use of my hands necessary along the solid and rough rock. On top, the landscape was very badlandish.
Views to the south of peaks unknown were incredible, as I climbed up to the top of Black Hill with a large grin on face and clear cystalline chunks of flourite in my hands.
The route from here followed the ridge of Black Hill to drop into a new valley at an obvious saddle. It was starting to get hot out, and hitchiker grass seeds were constantly poking through the mesh of my trail runners. I'd mapped another jeep road, but in reality there was only a really faded track slightly better than going cross country though this grass. It was beautiful with big views across the wide draw of Lucky Bill Canyon and into my next objective of Martin Canyon. This area was probably the low point of the trip, a low that wasn't really all that low. There was water again in the bottom of Martin Canyon, and I filled up, unsure if I'd find any more along the route. As usual, I should have trusted intuition and known that I'd find more.
After finding even more water in an unnamed drainage, I started the longest stretch of tread on the trip, about 1 mile of jeep road to access the rim above Rustler Canyon. Dropping down to the bottom of Rustler's, I found my favorite canyon of the trip. The canyon seemed unaltered by cattle, and I dumped my previous unfiltered water in favor of this. Knowing that the Chino mine was just on the other side of this canyon didn't make me confident of the water's purity, and neither did the sight of testing wells dug by the mining company. Instead I took water from a tributary draining the opposite slopes.
Needing a reason to stop, I found the creek flowing across a shaded slab of rock and pulled out pot and alcohol stove. Sipping some green tea to shake off a heat-induced afternoon mental fog, I couldn't help smiling at my luck. The trip had so far gone off mostly without a hitch, with minimal cattle, and with plenty of surprises.
Patting myself on the back for picking a great route and following up with executing it, I packed up for what I figured would be the last climb of the trip to the rim above the Kneeling Nun.
Picking up small pieces of copper along the way, I had found my way to the start of the nose ridge that would lead to an overlook of the Kneeling Nun. At an isolated radio tower, I started into what looked like a thick jumble of trees. Again the oaks were too thick, but luckily not littered with too many prickly pear or cholla. Within 5 minutes, I was doubting my desire to see a sickly view of the mine and the slab that is the Kneeling Nun. Branches were constantly halting my progress, causing me to crawl beneath them. I removed everything from the side pockets of my pack so that nothing would get lost. Arms and hands became bloddied, and the GPS still showed that I was hundreds of feet away. When fully stopped in my tracks, I'd often think "is it physically possible to go any further?". Of course it was, but some unfortunately placed shindagger had me cursing my plight out here. It took over 30 minutes to hike one tenth of a mile along that ridge, but finally I'd made it to the ridge. Too far to the east. Christ. The view was mediocre and I was frustrated. Glancing at the GPS I realized my mistake but was unwilling to reroute through that mess again. Trying to find my way back, I inadvertantly went to the northwest, only to realize that I was close to the proper overlook. Dropping pack to scoot it under more braches, I realized that its front mesh pocket had been fully shredded, now only a gaping hole incapable of holding anything. But I'd made it, and the view was actually worth it.
The view was just as obnoxious as I'd imagined, watching earth movers doing an intricate dance all in the name of moving dirt. The ever deepening hole to the west was being carved out, dump trucks picking up the excess rock to cart it out of the crater, and over to a rising artificial mesa on the east side of the mine. I'd gotten the same feeling driving through the Morenci Mine a month previous, and it still seems silly. As is the case with most white boys complaining about the loss of wilderness, my complaints are just another case of NIMBY. Not in back yard shall they drill for copper,ruining our hills, all written from the copper-laden haven of my laptop. People complained about molybdenum mining outside of Crested Butte while riding steel framed mountain bikes, and we do the same thing about copper mining in the Gila. Although I'd been prepared for this destruction by looking at the mine from the Highway overlook many times before, I was not prepared for the view of the Hanover mine to the north. I've read that Freeport will begin mining heavier in Hanover starting next year, and I spent some time mulling this over while sitting on a warm boulder.
The sun was getting low, and I knew that this area was no place to sleep. Going back wasn't quite as miserable, and I was happy to get back into open country within 15 minutes. In order to drop down to Lampbright Draw, I had to follow an open ridge for 2 miles to a safe spot to descend to the cattle haven below. Hoping for a nice sunset and sunrise, I settled in below a large juniper for the night. Neither materialized, but I was happy that the noise of mining activity died down after 8pm.
The morning dawned clear and beautiful in that predictable southern New Mexico way. The ridge wasn't quite as narrow as I was expecting, but wide, craggy, and with plenty of vegetation to make it interesting. I took my time, knowing that these were the last far-reaching views of the route.
Constantly watching the cliffs on the edge as I traversed, I was beginning to doubt that I'd ever find a safe spot to descend like I thought I'd found on Google Earth. Luckily, the cliffs relented in the spot I thought they would, and I descended into ground spongy from a high-altitude spring. Again patting myself on the back for excellent recon and route-selection, I eyed my route to the flat land below. Within 100 feet of the bottom, the drainage started to pinch in, and soon enough I found myself downclimbing boulders that were turning into a waterfall. Sure enough, the crux move came and I found myself wondering if it was worth it. I took my pack off and nearly decided to throw it down and collect it at the bottom. Why hadn't I taken a haul rope like I'd done on the Hayduke Trail in UT? I've not put myself into situations like this with a loaded pack in a while, and couldn't decide what to do. The rock was overhanging and it looked like there was another awkward move below with highly significant exposure, making these class V moves. I tested the rock, and was surprised to see that it was a bit chossy. Seeing it flake away made the decision for me, and I climbed back to the top, refilling at the spring along the way.
Traversing little slivers of public land amidst larger slabs of private land, I'd been slightly paranoid that I'd be found by a Freeport employee or annoyed rancher. Now back on top of the rim, I came upon a guy with a gun. Big fancy GPS dangling from his neck, I saw his hunting dogs and we struck up a conversation. Shane was out from Silver City looking for a mountain lion. The rancher owning the land below had seen one while cutting firewood the afternoon before. Shane confirmed that his friend would be "angry as hell" if he'd found me, but he assured me he wouldn't bother telling his friend he'd seen anyone out here. His dogs had found a fresh deer kill dragged off the rim earlier in the morning, but no sight of the bobcat up on the rim. My new friend didn't think I'd be able to find safe passage off of the rim toward the end of the ridge, but I was trusting my Google Earth recon to not fail me a second time. Sure enough, it was fairly easy to descend at the Southern edge of the ridge. Topo maps indicate a cave where Rustler Canyon empties into Lampbright Draw. From up high, I saw where it could be, but couldn't justify the trip to check it out. Maybe next time.
I'd been dreading the final 5 miles of the route, assuming that they would be in wide open cow country. Surprised I was when I followed nice drainages, again flowing with water. My route hopped over and followed a few subtle ridgelines that gave views of the cliffs I had just negotiated as well as the last views of the mine.
Just before hopping onto Lampbright Draw Rd, I landed at some barbed wire with some houses across the street. Not wanting to get busted crawling under barbed wire, I went back into the woods, up the draw a ways, hoping I'd come back to the road where there were no homes. Again there was a trailer across the street, but at least there were loads of junipers in their front yard. Past the fence, I quickly and nonchalantly walked past their home, shredded backpack and dirty sunscreen stuck in the stubble on my face. Grinning when I hit Hwy 152 with armed stretched wide and thumbing pointing upward, I was quickly shoved into the backseat of some El Pasoans headed to Gila Hot Springs to soak. They blasted cumbia music, asked about my trip, and welcomed me to party with them in El Paso in the future.
Although it's always tempting to seek adventure in officially designated Wilderness, it's a bit more gratifying to find beauty and adventure elsewhere where few others have bothered to look.
