We “walk inside a mountain” near Flagstaff.
We spent Memorial Day weekend — or what was left of it after my Biltmore Apple Store gig — at our place on Howard Mesa. We bought 40 acres up there, fenced it in a few years ago, and added a septic system two years ago. This year, we’re adding a small, one-room cabin.
Howard Mesa was beautiful. Or maybe I should say that it was more beautiful than usual. The grass was knee-high and green and the seed tops swayed with the wind. The San Francisco Peaks were still snow-covered, off in the distance. Best of all, we seemed to have the whole place to ourselves — as usual.
We spent Sunday doing odd jobs and relaxing around the camper. We went out for dinner that night in a restaurant in Parks, about 35 miles from our place. The place, called Rack and Bull, had probably been set up as a moderate-to-high priced dining experience that featured wild game, lamb, and ribs. It had since succumbed to the need to attract a wider range of clientele. The menu wasn’t anything special and they offered pizza. But the decor was very nice, the service was excellent, the food was good, and the value for the dollar was right on target. Why can’t we have a few places like that in Wickenburg? Heck, Parks must have a fraction of the population. But let’s not go there.
On Sunday, after a nice long walk, we decided to hop in the truck and take 180 toward Flagstaff. The idea was to take the aerial tram at the Snowbowl to the top of the peak. But I had a booklet called 99 Things to Do in Northern Arizona and it suggested a few more interesting things (as well as many far less interesting things). The one I was thinking about was headed “Walk Into a Mountain.” It appeared that northwest of Flag was a mountain that had collapsed long ago, forming a natural amphitheater filled with interesting rock formations, trees, and not much else. The booklet compared its formations to the hoodoos at Bryce Canyon. Sounded interesting to me.
We saw the place on the right side of the road before we saw the promised signs for it. I’ve been up and down that road over 20 times and various times of the day and night and I can’t recall ever seeing that mountain. But there it was, red mountain, looking exactly as the description promised.
We pulled into a parking lot that had about six other vehicles in it. Jack the dog was with us, but there weren’t any NO DOGS or DOGS ON LEASH signs, so I stuck his leash in my pocket and let him run loose. He’s very well behaved on the trail — better than Spot ever was — and he absolutely loves hiking with us. He runs ahead, chases rabbits, then comes tearing back to us, only to take off in another direction. He probably runs four times the distrance we walk, but that’s okay. He’s younger and in better shape. Mike took a bottle of water, which he hung on his belt loop with a bungee cord. (How’s that for high-tech hiking equipment?) Then we started the 1-1/2 mile hike to the opening in the mountain.
The trail, which was wide enough for hikers, bikers (the pedal kind, that is), or horseback riders, was smooth and covered with crushed red cinders. In places, it was heavily eroded, but not enough to make walking a problem. That was a good thing, because I hadn’t brought hiking shoes. I was wearing my red Keds and that’s probably the only kind of surface I could have walked 3 miles on. The trail climbed gently most of the way. It wound through the trees, then dropped into a smooth-bottomed wash and climbed toward the mountain in that. Soon, we were in a canyon with slopes of dark grey volcanic gravel on either side of us. It was fine stuff, like the red cinders we walked on. There were a few interesting formations right at the mountain’s entrance. Beyond them, we could see the red hoodoos inside the mountain.
It appears to me that Red Mountain had once been a plain old mountain. Volcanic activity on one side had caused black lava to spew out of the ground. This undermined the mountain, causing a slide that took out about 1/3 of the mountain side. The result was the amphitheater the booklet told us about. Of course, this is all conjecture based on what it looked like. There was no interpretive sign in the parking area or elsewhere and no ranger to explain what we were seeing. I could have it completely wrong.
There are two ways into the mountain, both of which were described in the book. At the head of the wash we’d been following, someone had built a neat rock dam. A ladder climbed the six or eight feet up to the top of the dam where silt had backed up, raising the ground to the top of the dam. That’s how we went. Jack took the ladder like a champ. The other way was to climb up over a gray cinders covered slope. That’s probably the only way you could get in with a horse. (I know my horse doesn’t climb ladders.) Our way was easier. Inside the mountain’s amphitheater was exactly as the booklet had described. Lots of rock formations made of red sandstone carved by wind and water, with a bunch of dark gray formations just to make things interesting. We walked up to the head of the canyon, passing a family having lunch with their dogs. One dog, a Corgi, came yapping out after us, followed by a dog that looked like a mix of every dog breed in the world. Jack had some sniffing with them, then followed us.
We rested in the shade for a while, taking in the view. I took a few photos. The sun was high and the light was harsh. But it certainly did remind me of Bryce Canyon. After exploring the area for a while, we headed back out the way we’d come. Jack was unbelievable on the ladder, taking it just like one of the Lassie actors. The return hike seemed longer, but it was almost all downhill. There was enough shade to make it a comfortable walk, even in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Back in Wickenburg, it was in the 90s; up in the mountains near Flag, it was in the 70s. It was the same, strong sun — some people argue that it’s stronger at altitude because you’re closer to it (I can’t make this stuff up) — but the cool mountain air made it pleasant.
I took this photo of Jack as we neared the parking area. It’s the new desktop picture on my laptop. That’s the San Francisco Peaks in the background; you can see Jack running on the trail, tongue hanging out, on the left.
From here, we headed over to the Snowbowl, where we took the 7-mile road up to the lift. We had lunch at the restaurant there while Jack the Dog rested in the car. We didn’t take the lift because 1) it was open-air, 2) it was windy, and 3) it was 25°F with the wind chill at the top. Instead, we sat and enjoyed lunch on the outdoor patio, watching people climb aboard the lift and watching other people climb off, shedding blankets and rubbing the warmth back into their bodies. We’ll return in the hottest part of the summer, take the lift up, and hike back down. It’s an elevation change of 2,000 feet (9,500 to 11,500) and I’m sure it’ll get my blood flowing.
As for Red Mountain, I’d like to return one day with my good camera and a picnic lunch. It’s the kind of place where a photographer can spend the day, moving from place to place to capture the formations with just the right light.
It was all familiar terrain; I’d flown the route before. It passes just north of Aguila, slips through Cunningham Pass in the Harcuvar Mountains, cuts across the barren desert, and crosses the Colorado River just south of Parker. Then it’s more barren desert, marked up by the tread tracks of World War II tanks. The area was used extensively for tank training and the two-track marks are still clearly visible from the air for mile after mile. I crossed over the town of Rice, which is no more than a deserted landmark. The flying was smooth and I listened to tunes on my iPod as I flew. It’s a good thing I had the iPod for entertainment, because there was very little beneath me worth noting. I skirted along the northern boundary of Joshua Tree National Park (or is it still a monument?) toward Twentynine Palms. There were signs of civilization beneath me. Small square houses scattered on the north side of the road. All of the homes were abandoned and there wasn’t much around them to indicate why they’d been built in the first place.
I paid for my breakfast and fuel, did a walk-around of Zero-Mike-Lima, and climbed on board. When I took off, it was just after noon. The first waypoint was Southern California Logistics (Victorville), the only towered airport I transitioned. It was about 10 miles from Apple Valley, so I reached it quickly. The controller cleared me across at 2800 feet and gave me the altimeter setting. Victorville is an airliner graveyard. The last two times I’d crossed over it, I’d noticed a lot of Tower Air planes. A friend of mine, Alta, used to fly for Tower. This time, there were lots of United planes. The Tower planes were in the process of being chopped up. It was a very sad thing to see.
My flight path took me over even more empty desert with even more deserted homes in the middle of nowhere. To the north, I could see the huge dry lake bed of Edwards Airforce Base. But it wasn’t all dry. The heavy rains in the southwest seems to have filled the southwest corner of the lake bed with water, making a shallow lake. Rosamond’s lake was full or overflowing, too. I flew over the airport at Rosamond, exchanging calls with a southbound airplane pilot who passed about a half mile to my left about 200 feet up. Then I headed north, toward Tehachapi, where I planned to cross into the central valley.
The terrain here was gently rolling hills of greenish grass with scattered trees. Pretty but not outstanding. Not much in the way of civilization, although I did cross over a few remote ranches. By the time I got to Porterville, I was down in farmland. There had been some mild turbulence as the wind over the hills tossed me about. But then even that subsided. I was flying at about 500 feet above the ground with a white haze above me and limited visibility in all directions except down. Welcome to California’s Central Valley. I could see the ground perfectly well. The radio, which I tuned into the proper frequencies for radio calls throughout my flight, was quiet. No one was interested in flying in this white muck.
I passed over Sequoia and Reedley on my way to my next fuel stop at Mariposa. Somewhere along the way, I left the farmland and started climbing back into the foothills. By the time I reached Mariposa, I was in rolling mountains full of thick green grass and flowers, dotted with tall trees and cows. I crossed over a small herd of cattle on a hilltop, scattering what looked like javelina, before landing on the taxiway. Two airplanes were at the self-serve fuel pumps. One had already fueled and its door was open but its pilot was nowhere in sight. The other was being fueled. A few men were chatting nearby. I hovered for a moment, then set down on the ramp about 50 yards away to wait. Spinning. Burning fuel. You think these airplane pilots would get the hint, but they were either being very dense or very rude. After about 10 minutes, I picked up and moved over to the other side of them, making it clear that I was waiting to get at the pumps. By this time they were both done fueling and they were just bullshitting. Seeing my helicopter a bit closer (and feeling its rotorwash) woke them up. They climbed on board and moved so I could get at the pumps.
The airport was beautiful. Well, the airport wasn’t beautiful. The area around the airport was beautiful. To the northeast was a high hill covered with grass and trees. As I fueled my helicopter, a cow and calf walked by on the other side of the fence. I could hear cows calling to each other. I took a photo, but it doesn’t do the place justice.
I took off on my final leg to Rod’s place, passing over Columbia and Placerville on the way to the coordinates Rod had given me. I passed over many canyons filled with rushing water. It was really beautiful — so different from the barren desert I’d been flying over earlier in the day. I zeroed in on the coordinates without much trouble, but beneath me were just trees and houses. On my third circle, I saw Rod down below, waving at me. I recognized his house from the pictures. I set up for an approach and started in. But the landing zone was surrounded by tall pines and I had to fly right over his neighbor’s house to land. I was about even with the treetops when I decided that I didn’t like the LZ. I added power and pulled out. I circled around, waved to Rod, and headed for the airport at Georgetown, only 2-1/2 miles away.
On Wednesday, he showed me Georgetown, Placerville, Sutter’s Mill at Colona, and a bunch of other small towns along the American River. He also took me up to a place called Swansboro, which is an airpark on a mountain top that is accessible by just two roads. One road is narrow and windy and rather scary and features a one-lane bridge over a creek between the mountains. The other road is longer, but wider and more comforting for those who are afraid of heights or get carsick.
On Friday, I flew Rod from Georgetown to Placerville where Liz was waiting with her niece and nephew. I gave them a ride. Here’s a photo Rod took of me, Liz, and the kids.
Then, after dropping the kids off at school, Liz treated me and Rod to breakfast and the three of us went to Nevada City for the afternoon. I got this great shot of Rod in the ice cream place.
I flew over route 99 at about 500 feet AGL. Movement to my right caught my eye. It was a crop duster, painted bright red, yellow, and green, coming toward me on the west side of the road. It let a bit of smoke loose and rocked its wings as I diverted to the east a bit to give him room. He was flying about 200 feet below me. That’s something I’m not accustomed to: a plane flying below me. When I hit I-5, I started climbing. The road climbed up the mountains and I climbed with it. The clouds closed in, but always remained above me. At the highest point, when I was about 4500 feet MSL, the clouds were still at least a few hundred feet above me. I managed to snap a photo of the pass. (Please don’t mind the bugs on the windscreen.) I saw the flat area the briefer had told me about — it was the same spot I’d decided to make my turn to the east. I turned, crossed the area, and began my descent.
It was a perfectly clear day on the south side of the Tehachapi Mountains. The clouds were stuck, but were trying to overflow down into the valley. I snapped a photo to document the sight. I realized that there was no way I’d ever be able to get through the mess sitting on top of that pass.
We’d done it before, perhaps ten years ago. It had been a Christmas present for Mike. A two-night mule trip to Phantom Ranch at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. This time, we did it with John and Lorna, two friends of ours from Maine. The Grand Canyon’s mule operators have, during the high season, 160 mules on hand to take riders or supplies into and out of the canyon. In late February, there are several dozen. We turned up at the “round corral” at 8 AM as instructed, wearing our outfitter-supplied yellow rain slickers. The temperature was in the 20s (F, of course) and we were shivering as we waited. There were about 12 of us going down that day, but eight were doing the day trip to Plateau Point, which looks out over the Inner Gorge not far from Indian Gardens. That’s about a 3-hour ride (each way). Our ride would be 4-1/2 hours, taking the Bright Angel Trail all the way down to the river.
All the time, we were heading down into the canyon, on a trail that was about six feet wide in most places. Near the top — perhaps the first 30 minutes of the ride — there was ice on the trail and you had to just hope your mule was surefooted enough to cross it safely. It turns out that the mules wear special winter shoes that help grip that ice. Further down into the canyon, the ice was melting and running off from the top, making tiny streams and waterfalls. Everything was wet and alive. And the view was great. Mules are not afraid of heights and they seem to like to prove this. They often walk on the outside edge of the trail, sometimes only inches from a sheer cliff. This did not bother me much on the way down, but, for some reason, freaked me out a bit on the way back up. (Go figure.) My mule’s name was Bumpy because he was. But his name could also have been Muddy, Dirty, or Filthy. He obviously liked rolling in the mud of the mule enclosure and the wranglers didn’t think it was worth brushing all that mud off his neck, legs, and lower body. His saddle was quite uncomfortable and seemed to have seams running right under my butt. Of course, those could have been the seams of my underwear against a rock-hard seat as I bumped down the trail.
We rode for another hour or so after that, finally reaching the pair of bridges that cross the Colorado to Bright Angel Canyon. The first bridge, a silver-colored suspension bridge, was for foot traffic only, so we added an extra 20 minutes to our ride getting to the black bridge of the Kaibab Trail, about a half-mile upriver. We had to ride through a low tunnel in the rock wall to get to the bridge. From there, it was only 20 minutes more to Phantom Ranch. By the time we reached the ranch, I was in serious pain. My stirrups were too short and my knees were aching. It felt good to get out of the saddle. Although I didn’t think I’d ever recover, I was feeling much better just a half hour later.
Dave, the ranch manager, met us at the corral and took us to our cabins. There were only two cabins with queen sized beds at Phantom Ranch and we’d reserved them both — eight months ago. The cabins, which were designed by Mary Colter and built in the 1920s, were one-room buildings built primarily of stone. Very quaint. Each one had a closet with a toilet in it and a sink that ran cold water. Hot water and showers were available in a building a few hundred yards away. The main lodge building was where you could buy supplies and have your meals. We stopped in for a lemonade not long after we arrived.
We went for a short hike back down to the river before dinner, checking out the confluence of the river with the clear waters of Bright Angel Creek. Then a good, hot shower. Then back to the lodge. Dinner was served family style with two seatings. We were in the first seating, at 5 PM, the first night. The meal featured steak, which was surprisingly tender (although not cooked quite enough for my taste), baked potatoes, corn, peas, salad, and cornbread. It was all you could eat and I ate a ton. I think I expected all the exercise I’d get during our stay to burn off calories. Sadly, it didn’t.
After a hearty (too hearty!) breakfast in the lodge, we headed out for a hike on the Clear Creek Trail. This trail climbs about 1,000 feet in its first mile, passes a lookout point where you can see all of Phantom Ranch below you, then offers stunning views of the Colorado River, Inner Gorge, and canyon walls. The first mile was a killer for me — I don’t do up very well. But it was worth it. The views were great and the trail leveled out for a pleasant walk.
We did about two miles, stopping for lunch on a point that looked down the river. The trail kept going, lined with yellow flowers as it climbed a bit more to the top of the inner gorge. But we’d had enough. We turned around and went back. Mike and John headed up Bright Angel Creek while Lorna and I went back to the ranch to relax. We got there just before 3 PM.
The next day, after yet another hearty breakfast, we headed over to the mule corral where Bumpy, Charlie, BB, and Darth Vader were waiting. Frank, a different wrangler, had come down the day before to take us out. There was a female wrangler there, too. She was in charge of the eight or so riders that had come down the previous day for a one-night trip. They left before us and we mounted up and followed Frank out. Fortunately, I’d had the foresight to have my stirrups lengthened, so I wasn’t in as much pain on the way out as I’d been in on the way down. Now if only I’d brought a cushion for the seat!The ride out of the canyon was considerably longer, primarily because we had to stop often to rest the mules. I figure it took about five hours. We stopped at Indian Gardens for a snack and a bathroom break on the way out. We saw some more bighorn sheep and a condor. And lots of photo opportunities along the way. Finally, we were back on the rim and the trip was over.
We overflew the site and I set up to land, coming up the canyon from downstream. There were two big, apparently flat areas to choose from. The first choice was not a good one; the landing zone wasn’t flat enough and the helicopter rocked a bit on its skids when I set down. I don’t like that, so I tried another spot. It wasn’t until I set down the fifth time, in another big, clear area that I was satisfied. I shut it down and we got out to explore.
There isn’t much at the site in the way of ruins. There are some nicely preserved rock foundations and a weird metal shed. There are also hundreds — if not thousands — of core samples that were once neatly piled in wooden boxes alongside a big rock formation. The wood has rotted considerably and the boxes, in some places, have fallen over.
The river was beautiful, flowing swiftly over rocks and sand. There were a number of very nice beaches (if that’s the right word) that would have been wonderful for sunning yourself or even swimming. And the sand just below the water’s surface absolutely sparkled with mica — or was that gold? I think I’ll have to bring a gold pan the next time I fly out.
The waitress remembered me from the last time I’d been in. “That’s a different helicopter from last time,” she said.
We were about four miles out of Wickenburg when the Low Fuel light started to flicker. It went on, then off, then on, then off. Then on. According to my gauges, I still had about 1/8 left in the main. But I remembered what they’d taught us in the Robinson Factory Safety Course: trust the light, not your gauges. To me, the light meant “Land Now.” So I landed. On a dirt road. In the desert. At least a mile from pavement.
Ray landed in a nice grassy area not long after Mike returned. We got the two fuel cans out of the back of his helicopter — he still doesn’t have seats back there — and he took off. Then Mike and John poured the 10.7 gallons of fuel into the helicopter. When I started up and looked at my gauges, I saw that we now had more fuel than when we’d left the Wayside Inn.