Month: November 2017

First, a few vertebrae scattered at the edge of the sandy arroyo.

My husband and I climbed the bank. There, a jawbone, more scattered bones and, nearby, a pelvis with several vertebrae still attached.

It must have been an elk. It had to have been there a long time; its bones were bleached a pure, eternal white.

From the arroyo, a steep climb up old jeep trails to the base of Grand Central Mountain and a sweeping view of the Ortiz Mountains.

We didn’t see another soul on our hike, even though it took place at Cerrillos Hills State Park on the day of the “Stuffing Strut,” when the park welcomes folks to its trails to walk off some turkey on the day after Thanksgiving.

Admission to all state parks was free the day after Thanksgiving this year. The parking lot of Cerrillos Hills was full. While others flocked to the marked trails with interpretive signs, we dove into a hike from “60 Hikes Within 60 Miles of Albuquerque.” It uses a complex chain of arroyos, old roads and mining trails that weave between the state park and Bureau of Land Management property to build a killer hike.

It was warm when we did this hike 365 days earlier and warmer this time. The temperature climbed quickly to 70 degrees, and the only shade to be found is in the arroyo at certain times of day or if you tuck yourself carefully under a juniper.

After a rest, we tackled the problem of trying to follow the book’s directions to a “spectacular overlook.” We’d gotten so turned around at this point last year we gave up. My husband and I disagreed about the best way to get there. He’s been finding his way out of arroyos since he was a child. He was right this time, and he’d be right when we disagreed later about the best way to get back to the trailhead.

At the spectacular overlook, we’d be able to see the top of La Bajada, the massive volcanic escarpment, and the glint of sunlight off cars on I-25.

But first, as we navigated a faint, narrow, rocky path to the overlook: we rounded a bend and saw, ahead, the remains of another elk. Ribcage on one side of the trail, pelvis with a few attached vertebrae on the other.

Even a few months earlier, we would have probably have picked up one of the scattered vertebrae we saw Friday in a backpack to take home as a memory of the place.

I’ve walked out of a hike with many a rock, even a few bones. It was the one Leave No Trace practice I fudged. A rock or bone isn’t alive; I didn’t see how taking it with me changed anything, and I loved having a physical reminder of the incredible places I’d been.

But after reading 5280 Magazine’s comprehensive look at how Colorado’s wild places are being loved to death, I saw things differently. The logic I was using to carry home a rock was presumably the same logic people are using when they defecate in the Weminuche Wilderness without bothering to dig a cathole. I don’t condone doing that to the wild world, so I quit doing anything in the wild world that would change it, even in a small way.

What I was seeking by bringing home a rock couldn’t be found, anyway. The experience of being in nature becomes part of you, but as far as what you find there, you literally can’t take it with you. The rock’s meaning only truly exists in its place.

The bones are part of the story of Cerrillos Hills – what’s been and what is still unfolding. Both animals and humans play a role in its story, from the deer tracks at a small spring bubbling up in the arroyo to the capped and abandoned mines in the hills to the train whistle from a nearby railroad.

However those two elk met their end, their bones provide a message to the many other creatures traversing these hills and arroyos daily: Be watchful. Take nothing for granted.

I’m grateful for the chance to read that sentence of the story.

Hike length: 7 miles

Difficulty: moderate

Trail traffic: nope

Wildlife spotted: canyon wrens, crows, butterflies, chipmunk

 

There’s always that moment when what you fear becomes what you love.

Hey, don’t leave. I’m not psychoanalyzing you. I’m talking about hiking, man.

I’m talking about that moment – right around the time of the first freeze (anticipated tonight in Albuquerque) – when I go from avoiding the sun to seeking it.

There are some people (my husband included) who would do a full-sun high-desert hike 365 days a year. I am not one of them. From April to October, you will find me at as high elevation as possible, under tree cover.

But at some point in November, when Daylight Savings Time ends and the darkness descends and the cold finally arrives, and my cells crave light, everything changes.

This is the time to go to Three Gun Springs.

This trail tucked into the East Mountain foothills climbs from a residential neighborhood through steep, rugged rock to a saddle with views of a good five mountain ranges. It faces south, so it’s heavenly in the winter (and probably hellish all summer, save for dawn and dusk).

The rock formations – slabs piled high, some covered with lichen – hit me first. Then my eyes drank in the views.

The day was cloudless; the higher we climbed, the bluer the sky. At the saddle it was so intense I almost felt like I was doing something wrong by looking at it.

The sandy arroyo trail rises steadily, lined by cactus, juniper, deep blue berries underfoot. Chunks of Sandia granite glitter gray and pink beneath my feet.

The switchbacks begin. The temperature’s in the 40s, but the entire trail is in the sun. A single layer is plenty. I soak in the light my body’s craving. The grade steepens; my pace slows. I enter that zone where my body’s sole focus is moving legs and poles a little further, where my mind repeats, “If it’s not around the next bend, I’m done.”

This trail was the first long climb I did. The Forest Service measures Three Gun Spring as eight miles round-trip. The first time I did this hike I was so sore I was positive I’d done all eight. It was only recently that I realized there’s significantly more trail after the saddle.

We reached the saddle 90 minutes after leaving the trailhead, enjoyed snacks and views of mountain ranges.

We could feel that the sun’s heat was already ebbing, so we headed down, keeping a brisk pace, chasing the warmth. About 60 percent of the way down, the sun dropped behind canyon walls, outpacing us.

We moved even quicker to stay warm.

Jays and robins darted among the junipers. A man walked three dogs in the open space beyond the trail. The dogs engaged coyotes, which we couldn’t see, but their yips echoed through the canyon. We could hear the dogs’ owner warning them away. Finally, they trotted off, and they – and we – left the coyotes to enjoy their warm winter canyon.

Hike length: 5.5 miles

Difficulty: moderate

Trail traffic: moderate

Wildlife spotted: jays, robins, coyotes (heard only)

TIP! For maximum sunlight this time of year, if you’re going to the saddle, leave by 12:30. If you’re going further, leave earlier.

You’ve been hearing sandhill cranes fly over your house for three weeks, burbling all the way. All day they flew overhead in Vs.

You need to see them up close again.

You head straight for the Los Poblanos Open Space, near your old house. Your first year in New Mexico you were there every day at dawn and dusk, just to hear the cranes, see them springing up from the field into flight, see them extend to their full wingspan and glide in for a landing.

You remember waves of them launching and landing, their sound, their wings filling the sky.

When you arrive, there are dozens of geese in the field, occasionally squawking, rising and resettling. You count maybe 10 sandhill cranes.

Even with so few among so many, they stand out. They’re big, tall, a prehistoric-looking sand-gray. Something sets a few off, and they talk loudly to each other. The sound is like if a kid really got going on a porch swing whose chains hadn’t been oiled in a while. It’s a strangely comforting sound.

You never give up on a crane-photo fest somehow materializing, but with so few cranes, there are times on your walk when you notice other things instead.

You turn down a side path where you’ve had serious dusk cranespotting luck. The first thing you see: a fat roadrunner, feathers slightly disarrayed, hustling toward you, then realizing your presence and changing course.

You spot several kestrels, seeing the flash of their patterned underside and burnt orange back as they settle into trees high above you, hearing their insistent klee-klee-klee-klee-klee.

You wander until the sun sets, unable to let go of the 1 percent chance of crane liftoff. You see the Sandia Mountains turn the watermelon of their name, fade out, then turn watermelon again.

You see the golden cottonwoods glow when the light hits them just right, fade out, then glow again.

You see a flash of fading sunlight over the West Mesa that looks like it’s 10 seconds from becoming a rainbow, watch it till it fades.

You recall the bald eagle you saw there years ago, circling hundreds of feet overhead. And the spring day you walked out there after a soul-crushing two-week period of work, seeking a little respite that would help you continue. Two pheasants did a five-minute leaping faceoff in the field that you could only surmise was related to a lady pheasant.

Maybe the cranes aren’t all in Albuquerque for the winter yet. Maybe it will be another light year for cranes. Or maybe it just wasn’t your day to hang out with them.

But anytime you come here, you will be blessed by something you were not looking for, something that was also not looking for you.

Hike length: 2.5 miles

Difficulty: easy

Trail traffic: moderate

Wildlife spotted: sandhill cranes, geese, kestrels, roadrunner, crows, sparrows, flicker

I didn’t make it to Fourth of July Canyon for its spectacular fall foliage show this year.

I’d planned to hike in the golden aspens above Santa Fe in September, but that day was Day 5 of a record-setting cold and rainy spell.

Luckily, when I look up in November and realize I need an eyeful of fall color before it’s too late, my city provides.

Albuquerque’s amazing irrigation ditches are guarded by huge, stately cottonwoods whose leaves blaze yellow each October and November before meeting their end.

On Sunday, we drove south down Second Street to Valle de Oro, the first urban wildlife refuge in the Southwest. It’s just a few years old; our previous visits here had to be timed to the one day it was open per month. Now the gates are open daily.

Valle de Oro was a dairy farm before it was a wildlife refuge. Its green fields attract geese and sandhill cranes, while the ditches steering Rio Grande water through the property beckon ducks.

From the moment we stepped onto the ditch, the cottonwoods’ dancing yellow leaves filled our eyes. But we wanted to be among them, not just looking at them. So at the first opportunity to cross the ditch into the Rio Grande bosque, we peeled off.

A strong breeze blew through the cottonwoods, and they hummed in the wind. Golden light met golden leaves and multiplied.

A sandy jeep trail led us through waving marsh grasses and reeds to the river, then looped around the bosque.

A woman from San Antonio walking her dog could not believe her eyes. She asked us lots of questions about the ecosystem that produced this place, and the irrigation ditches. She was staying in Santa Fe, but Valle de Oro had made the biggest impression on her so far. Score one for Burque.

We walked around and over giant cottonwood limbs that still had living leaves on them, and must have crashed to the ground just weeks ago, maybe even days.

Crows swung overhead. Then geese began to wing across the river toward us, squawking like banshees. The burbles of sandhill cranes in the field drifted on the wind.

The sun fell lower, temporarily muting the vivid colors. The Sandia and Manzano mountains glowed in the distance as we walked back along the ditch.

As Robert Frost so aptly put it, nothing gold can stay. If you want to see this sight in 2017, you’d better hustle.

Or, if you’re still dragging your feet, Socorro probably has a couple more weeks of yellow in the bosque.

Hike length: 4.5 miles

Difficulty: easy

Trail traffic: moderate

Wildlife spotted: sandhill cranes, geese, hawk, duck, bluejay, sparrows, grasshoppers, butterflies, dragonflies

My butt had acquired the shape of my chair, and my hiking window was rapidly closing.

It was the last day of the conference, and the first meeting of the newly elected board was winding down in hour three. The other board members were rapidly dispersing.

“Anyone want to go for a short hike with me?” I blurted.

“YES,” two friends sitting nearby said without hesitation.

Whew.

This intrepid group of women journalists started as a gathering off the beaten path, so my odds were good, but you never know.

We didn’t have much time before the light faded and the evening activities started. Luckily for us, our hotel was right across the street from Hot Springs National Park.

The park is almost exclusively a network of short trails in the middle of downtown Hot Springs, Arkansas. We passed 147-degree hot springs bubbling from the ground, an angry squirrel barking, a couple getting engagement photos taken. A fellow conference attendee joined our group, then split off on her own path.

A steep paved trail through trees led us to a brick promenade. We climbed a set of steps to a gravel path, where an extremely steep but short section awaited.

Late-afternoon sunlight poured through the leaves. It had been many years since I’d been in the Deep South in fall. It’s not a riot of red and orange and yellow leaves, but a show of how many shades of green and brown there are.

A cloudless blue sky peeked through the trees. We came out of them at a gazebo with a great view across the valley. A couple on horseback preceded us. Below, the town of Hot Springs stretched before us, water tower standing tall, mountains on the horizon.

We walked into the Hot Springs Mountain Tower gift shop, but elected to skip the $8 fee to go to the top. We’d gotten our climb.

On the way down we talked about families, favorite hiking spots, board meetings and travel plans, mountains and springs.

This was my sixth time at this conference, which is held someplace different every year, always a place where there are amazing outdoor activities nearby.  Last year in Roanoke, I joined a group of attendees for an eight-mile hike on the Appalachian Trail to McAfee Knob.

Everyone in this group is devoted to their profession and the conference is always full of things to learn. But you can find that in many professional organizations. The reason I love this group goes beyond work. As women journalists, we automatically share a bond, and challenges, before we even open our mouths. When we do, the things we have in common only become more evident.

What I love about this group is the chance to share things beyond work with each other.

And the side of a mountain is a great place to do that.

Hike length: 2 miles

Difficulty: moderate

Trail traffic: moderate

Wildlife spotted: squirrel, chipmunk, jays