A mile's walk along "handful-of-vehicles-per-hour" Pomerene Road led to the bustling metropolis of Redington, actually not even much of a community, but a few sprawling ranches along the San Pedro River, wedged between Redington and Pomerene roads, all private property and offering no public services.
The private ranch lands of Redington, with the Rincon Mountains and Redington Pass area. I'd opted to avoid a somewhat shorter route across the San Pedro at Redington, as the connecting road seemed like it too may have been private, perhaps gated, although I never did manage to confirm this.
A 4WD road left Pomerene Rd about a half mile before a crossing of Redfield Canyon's wash and I turned left onto it, soon greeted by a locked gate and no trespassing sign compliments of a utility company. Instead I turned south here - as had been the plan - following an ungated 2-track road along the utility line itself to its crossing of Redfield's wash.
Redfield Canyon was my chosen route into the Galiuro Mountains, the next Sky Island on my quest. Joining what I assumed would be a dry wash in Redfield's lower reaches near Redington, I headed up-canyon, sun astern and scorching on this warmest day yet of the trip, hearing the plaintive hoo-hoo-hoo of mourning doves nearby but finding no water even after two hours of trudging, my supplies nearly empty now. "If only this hiker could know what a dove knows, or go where it so easily goes."
Near sundown a road finally emerged from the wash cobbles and made a beeline toward an area of prominent cliffs just up ahead, the entrance to Redfield Canyon proper, the promised land. Just here, as the wash became bounded by cliffs, a small creek emerged from up-canyon, slinking along the sands to run underground just beyond. The area was a riot of bird and insect life, this first or final watering hole for perhaps considerable miles. Although I didn't know what would lay ahead along my route, posssibly considerable challenges in this cross-country canyon, I at least knew that I would be free of concerns over drinking water from here on in, and was relieved at the timing, end of day now and water bottles empty.
I was immediately struck by the colorful volcanic strata of Redfield Canyon...
... also, by the uniqueness of cliff formations here, at once severely eroded and yet enduring, huge blocks of stone shorn from the main cliff masses still standing firm.
I splashed across the placid creek, excited yet cautious at the sight of a dwelling of some sort up ahead, just alongside the rugged 4WD track.
A large cabin lurked from the riparian shadows, clearly an old homestead, now refurbished in the piecemeal fashion of a hobbyist's weekend labor. Hand-carved Adirondack chairs sat unoccupied on a sprawling stone veranda, and I peeked inside just briefly to find a row of made beds, a kitchen with appliances, even a bathroom with plumbing, although all appeared to be well off-the-grid, if functional at all. A guest register on a table indicated that the cabin received occasional use by a private landowner and his guests, with much ado about sumptuous dinners enjoyed in fine company. I decided against logging my passage, unsure how it might later be received, but glad for the serendipity of the moment, and I ducked away back to the woods.
The 4WD road ended by the cabin, where the canyon became a different animal entirely, narrow now and hemmed in further by thick creekside vegetation, trailless and often lacking an obvious, efficient route. Wading more than waist-deep through a short narrows (shown here), I sensed I was now committing to something adventurous, a place where no vehicles could go, whether legally or not, and even fewer a visitor on foot would know about, certainly from this obscure point of approach.
Not far beyond the narrows, I entered Redfield Canyon Wilderness, or so indicated my map - there were no welcome signs here, no permit stations or interpretive brochures, nor was I expecting any of that. I didn't know quite what to expect, really, having gleaned all that I could about this BLM Wilderness area online - which is to say, not a whole lot - but purposefully not following up with a phone call. I wanted an element of surprise, of mystery, adventure, that could only have been tempered to my disadvantage by words of discouragement.
Surely Redfield would not be as accommodating as celebrated Aravaipa Canyon, likewise incising the Galiuro Mountains farther north. Access was more difficult down this way, but that alone would not have been an obstacle to Redfield Canyon's "success" as a recreation area had other, more immutable obstacles not been present.
Rugged beauty is certainly abundant here - no obstacle to Redfield gaining popularity, that. These canyon walls do not rise quite so high as Aravaipa's, it's true. Yet one could make a case that Redfield's are more intriguing, more intricate and imposing, almost funereal at times, like castles blown apart in the course of battle, now half-standing wrecks.
A frequently dense creekside tree canopy ensures that one doesn't get to see the entirety of this canyon in the course of navigating its depths, either. In this respect Redfield Canyon is what Aravaipa had been before the devastating flood of 2006, when more than a foot of rain over 2 days forced a torrent down-canyon powerful enough to uproot the majority of Aravaipa's cottonwoods, ashes, alders, walnuts and willows, flushing them clean out of the canyon. In the wake of that event, Aravaipa is now one, long unimpeded view of geology, but Redfield still retains its forest, and with it, its secrets.
Not that Redfield Canyon didn't show evidence of past flooding - far from it. Tangles of dead trees lay perpendicular to the creek channel, having come to rest wherever the current had lacked sufficient power to propel them further, trapped among the living vegetation here, marooned along the creekside strands there. This canyon and its network of feeder canyons are large enough to flood, but not so large as to sweep the canyons clean with any frequency. And so the debris keeps piling up, forcing the hiker to continually maneuver about, ever vigilant to finding the path of least resistance.
Sometimes I was able to find a clean line up along low-angle slopes above the flood plain...
... but such stretches of obstacle-free terrain were the exception. Usually I was forced along the creek, either directly in the water, immediately along the banks (watching for frequent poison ivy), or scrambling among boulders at the edge of the riparian zone (watching for rattlesnakes). At least the walking wasn't technical in any sense, but simply tedious, slow, demanding an eye toward every wet / rocky / brushy step. Yet the reward for my efforts was all around me, this verdant oasis - so secluded, little-known - inspiration I could draw upon to see me along if only I could remain in the moment, separate from the physical monotony of the walking, and truly appreciate it.
A large natural alcove in the base of a cliff offered an opportunity to get out of the weather, had the need arisen, and to make a palatial, open-air camp, had the day not still been young. Thoughts turned to the ancient ones - the Anasazi, Salado, Mogollon, even the far more recent Apache most likely had past this way and found utility in the landscape, any obstacles subordinate to the necessities of life. (Photo: An optical illusion? The image was taken from within the alcove (in shadow) looking out at the opposite side of the canyon, but my eyes want to fool me into seeing the alcove as a backdrop to the illuminated area, which wants to become a little flat-topped hill.)
Something unnatural looking caught the corner of my eye, and I bent down to examine it: a cluster of tiny blue spheres lay on the ground just above the creek in a wide, smooth, camp-friendly area. Birdshot, most likely. A modern day hunter had recently passed this improbable way.
I looked up from my little find and couldn't believe my eyes. There, just ahead, a short distance up along the south-facing cliff of the canyon, reposed a modern day cliff dwelling. Several rough use trails afforded access to the site, and I was immediately struck by the incredible architecture on display here, by the sheer scale of engineering, this impossible tribute to a hermit's eden come to life and ultimately left to the elements to reclaim. This was Redfield Canyon Cliff House, I later learned, built by an area cowboy and his young wife in the 1930's, occupied for a time - they raised a child here, it is said - then abandoned as the BLM came to own these lands, phasing out horse grazing and to an extent cattle grazing. But the dwelling endured in all its romantic pioneer-era glory.
The Cliff House is true to its name, having employed a huge overhanging panel of rock as the structure's rear wall and main living area roof. A few satellite rooms, smaller, featured flat wooden ceilings, of a standard height and made of non-native materials, cedar perhaps, laid in the manner of a well-crafted hardwood floor. A guest register in the "great room" revealed perhaps monthly visitation in the cooler months, all guests similarly in awe it seemed. This magical find demanded nothing less.
The dwelling's original inhabitants would have enjoyed this view from their front door, out across a tiled courtyard, turrets and hoodoos standing sentinel beyond the perennial creek. These homesteaders, like most visitors today I imagine, accessed this site not from the canyon bottom as I had, but from the tablelands above. My map indicated a trail, unavoidably steep and rough, descending into the canyon from the north, down from a plateau and off a 4WD road - in fact the same road with a locked gate I had encountered back at Redington. This would have been the only way for pack animals to access the canyon bottom, the only means of transporting materials and supplies to the cliff house. (For a humorous take on the Cliff House by a couple of hunters, and a view of the access trail, see the following video (part 1 of 3): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FxArntQRDzE Caution - anti-hunter types may want to fast-forward to 2:47 in the vid )
Three miles and several hours into the challenging part of my cross-country canyon hike, and with four miles to go until an intersection with named trail in the Galiuros, the Redfield Canyon Cliff House lay at the center of this little-known universe. Clearly this was a must-see destination, but how best to see it, I wondered. I could have remained on the 4WD road from Redington, ignoring the gate, then descended along the access trail to the Cliff House. This would have avoided 3 of 7 miles along the canyon bottom, but implied the need to endure the remaining 4, short of a backtrack to the mesa and an unknown overland route, likely impractical or at least impossible to decipher from any map, to an intersection with the canyon bottom farther ahead.
Beyond the Cliff House I found improving conditions along the canyon bottom for about a mile - fewer obstacles, the strands smoother and more negotiable on foot. By the time Swamp Springs Canyon converged with Redfield Canyon, the terrain was up to its old tricks again. No rest for the weary in this landscape. I turned north, still with Redfield, noting occasional human tracks in the sand (as I had since Cliff House), and then the disembodied remains of a bighorn ram. No telling how long it had been lying there, perhaps less than a year as it didn't appear to have been subjected to flooding. I lifted it from its place of repose, anticipating the heft supplied by its curls, an unlikely opportunity to answer a lurking question. Fifteen pounds was my best guess; these animals really do have quite the head on their shoulders to carry around all day.
The canyon soon constricted to its tightest proportions yet, huge alcoves on the outbends of the creek channel in places, more beautiful camping opportunities to behold but ultimately to pass up. I felt anxious to get through the cross-country terrain and onward to some semblance of a trail network that the USFS lands ahead were promising.
The urge to escape may have come simply from being here, an environment that so dictated where and how I must move. Yet I hadn't really considered the possibility that this flat-floored hallway of a canyon might also dictate that I turn around in retreat, that my urge to escape might have been a fear of entrapment, a subconscious feeling that had been building the more I'd committed myself with each hard-won hour of walking and clambering.
I was dumbfounded by what the canyon now showed me, a maze of truly massive boulders fallen from the surrounding cliffs. The creek had been forced over and under these rocks, splitting into channels that disappeared as if into a subterranean world, only to re-emerge and rejoin down-canyon. I was in awe, or perhaps shock at this point.
Waves of these boulder-obstacles appeared in turn, with only the briefest respite between challenges. Each obstacle required careful routefinding, testing the various creek channels, retreating wherever the water moved in ways that a human body could not, finding a workable route, getting wet (never wading per se), or avoiding the water out of necessity, throwing myself and my pack over rocks at the edges of the channel.
The landscape was now testing my resolve. My exit from this beautiful trap would be a gift that the canyon gods would either offer or deny. Would I be rewarded for my perseverance in the face of exhaustion and frustration? Was this a simple game of attrition now, or would my worst fear come true in the form of some impassible pour-off, an unbridgeable span between boulders, a pool too deep and roiling to wade? Most importantly, would I remain clear-headed in the face of a stern rebuke, or push beyond my limits by refusing to confront the need to turn back?
Ultimately the canyon several times came within inches of forcing my retreat, points of full body contact with the rock, brief sections of class 3, hail-mary stretches from one shelf to the next, my backpack an awful burden, a thing to shove, tug, and dread. Certainly this place would have spat me out the way I'd entered but for the modest flow of water I confronted here. In times of high water, or in a concerning rainstorm, Redfield Canyon most certainly becomes an insurmountable barrier, even a deathtrap. There was simply no position of safety in this upper portion of the canyon; mine was a world of stone and water. Even in the best of times, few in their right mind should attempt a thru-hike of this canyon. Perhaps Swamp Springs Canyon would have offered a better route out, to Jackson Cabin Road, but looking at my map I strongly doubted it.
The boulder fields finally relented - equilibrium restored - once the canyon bottom reached a steady elevation, and my way was comparatively smooth sailing as I exited BLM Wilderness and reached a rendezvous with West Divide Trail. I was in the right spot to intersect the trail, this much I could tell from my map. I didn't actually locate it until the next morning, however, a vague but discernable path by an old corral at a junction of canyons. I found no signs here, nor any trail markings; perhaps those reassurances were reserved for the trailhead, up by historic Jackson Cabin, a planned detour but one I ultimately declined given my recent strains. Photo: This uncanny human-like form, festooned atop a hoodoo by my junction with foot trail, was rich with symbolism for me. "This way, not the other way!" the rock man gestured, and indeed his arm was pointing up canyon, away from the tribulations of Redfield Wilderness, as if warning hikers coming down from the trailhead.
In hindsight my best guess at a thru route incorporating Redfield Wilderness on a Sky Islands Traverse would follow Redfield Canyon eastbound from the San Pedro River as far as Cliff House, then climb out northbound via use trail to 4WD, follow roads north to a dam on the map - road's end - then continue x-c generally as follows: N to ~32 27.981 110 20.664; E to 32 27.893 110 20.214; E to 32 27.752 110 19.221. Undoubtedly the x-c would be very challenging, but at least options would exist as to an exact line chosen over the high terrain here, en route back down to Redfield in its friendlier reaches near the West Divide Trail. Another theoretical possibility - albeit ~10 mi. longer - would leave Redfield Canyon at ~32 25.931 110 20.308, reportedly on another use trail, this one on the S side of the canyon, up to 4WD at 32 25.570 110 20.315. This is the so-called Bradberry Cabin 4WD loop road; hikers could walk E from the cabin, x-c in Cherry Spring Canyon, then N on Jackson Cabin Rd to the West Divide TH.
West Divide Trail #289 entered the USFS Galiuro Wilderness, continuing along the bottom of a now much wider and more accommodating Redfield Canyon. The trail itself would have been a disappointment to most - vague, brushy, with catclaw thickets - but I was simply ecstatic to be making a bit of forward progress. It was a beautiful Saturday morning, a vehicle trailhead was only a couple of miles away, and despite the profound remoteness here I had the sense that other hikers might be about, although ultimately I encountered not a soul - Day 3 of desert solitaire for me.
The trail meandered back and forth across the wide, flowing wash, although often it was easier to walk in the wash than on the trail. The Galiuros offer an extensive trail network, roughly split between the "West Divide" and "East Divide," as delineated by the north-south orientation of the main ridges. I'd elected to follow the West Divide - arguably more remote, less traveled - as this side made for a more practical connection from the Catalina Mountains and Redfield Canyon Wilderness. (Photo: The view from upper Redfield Canyon, a balanced rock jutting out from the nose of a cliff "face.")
Too, the West Divide Trail offered access to several historical cabins, remnants of early mining camps, the haunts of homesteaders and itinerants in search of the region's gold and silver deposits. Hooker Cabin was the first of these to appear along my tour, now converted for impromptu use by hikers and horsepackers. Inside were several cots, a wood-burning stove, a table and shelves with various sundries divested from backpacks and food bags over the years, and a trail register, the last of which revealed a strong affinity for the area by NOLS (National Outdoor Leadership School), their recurring entries entertaining for their offbeat humor mixed with a military sense of regimentation.
Soon beyond Hooker Cabin the trail departed Redfield Canyon (far center in photo). Actually my map indicated a continuation of trail in the canyon bottom, but my named West Divide Trail split away here, climbing along ridges above the drainage for a couple of miles, presumably for good reason. The trail changed character here, frequently a cairn to cairn hike now, with unmaintained foot trail among the high-desert grasses receiving but the lightest of use over the years, it appeared. My pace slowed as I switched gears, no longer seeking the advantage of the terrain itself but the wisdom of those ancient trailbuilders, my eyes ever scanning for the next pile of rocks, another bend in the track, my map-derived sense of where the trail should go up against my momentary sense of where it was.
Along these viewful, chaparral-cloaked ridges my perspective was no longer limited to canyon walls rising above me, and it was here that my first impressions of the Galiuros were made. I was struck by the comparative subtlety of the landscape, certainly when compared with the gaudy grandeur of Redfield Canyon Wilderness. And yet like Redfield this region was also a world unto its own. The views, though unencumbered, did not extend beyond this very range; I saw no desert basins nor distant ranges ahead or behind along my route, but only the broad extent of an inner kingdom, modest in elevation yet grand in scope.
The view north toward peak after unnamed peak, oak and juniper dotted grasslands rising toward modest heights of pinyon and ponderosa, gave the region a certain "southern California feel," reminding me of the Pacific Crest Trail in that neck of the woods, albeit without the PCT's manicured travel corridor! The Galiuros, at least here, seemed very out-of-character for this part of Arizona; perhaps this was part of their allure, bordering on indescribable yet leaving an indelible impression.
Returning to the canyon bottom, West Divide Trail crossed Cedar Flat, a vague grassy affair with more cairn hunting and a few moments of x-c routefinding. The trail then headed easily down into so-named Gold Gulch, where it followed the forested drainage northward. Several springs in this area, as shown on the map, were flowing, as were the surrounding drainages themselves, although it wasn't hard to visualize a much drier reality, which apparently is often the case; the Galiuros simply lack the vertical relief and large watersheds to provide for easily-obtainable year-round water, at least away from a few surefire locations.
I spent an unfriendly hour or so around Echols Spring, where a conspiracy of both map and terrain had me walking in circles. A cairn at left implied where the trail must leave the drainage, but an extensive catclaw thicket soon blocked the trail, as close to impenetrable as any I'd seen. With no sign of anyone having detoured around it - no use trail or beaten track - I concluded that the cairn was mistaken and returned to the drainage...
... But the drainage soon became fairly impassable itself. What to do? I began to backtrack, but then thought better of it and opted to scramble up the eroded wall of the canyon in hopes of intercepting the trail beyond Catclaw Hell. The plan ultimately worked, but the x-c challenges probably weren't worth it. Better to come prepared with loppers next time, and never to assume ANY trail showing tread, however brush-choked at walking level, to be a dead end in these parts. "The tread shows the way."
There were further moments of doubt. The trail beyond Catclaw Hell climbed steeply, vaguely, small cairns on large trailside boulders. And it didn't climb as the map implied it should. Could this instead have been a peakbagger's route to Kielberg Peak? It sure seemed I was headed that way, investing far more effort and gaining more altitude than I should. Ultimately my dreaded perception was assuaged, as more facefulls of brush heralded a northward turn into the head of a side drainage, a correction back toward a northward tack, and I arrived tired but in good stead at a viewful pass (unnamed - by benchmark 5889 on the topo - the trail doesn't climb straight up the drainage to reach it, but switchbacks on a bearing more toward Kielberg Peak).
"3-3-92. Joel stopped in. (Muleshoe Ranch Backcountry Ranger.)" Soon beyond my hard-won little pass, the trail dipped into another side drainage and surprised me with another ramshackle cabin - Long Tom Cabin, I supposed, based on the nearby mining claim of the same name. Little evidence of mining activity remained, other than the cabin - unfit for occupation - and another outbuilding - both bleaching beneath an ageless sun and forgotten. Forgotten but for the rare graffiti artist; a private urge to humanize the wilderness is sometimes irresistible, even to those who should know better.
Outbuilding at Long Tom Cabin.
The staccato bleating of canyon tree frogs foretold of my near arrival at Kielberg Tank, a cement impoundment at an opportune constriction in the drainage. A small amount of water lay in pools above the dam, with larger pools below accessible from a side trail. A park-like flat, ringed with mature alligator juniper, was conveniently close by, and even sported a trash can, clear evidence that I'd found the ultimate campsite for the evening. In wandering above the dam again, I experimented with throwing rocks down in the direction of those froggy utterances - heard but unseen - to see whether or not they'd quit calling. Indeed these critters are well known for going silent at the first hint of human intrusion, but in fact the rock-throwing had no effect whatsoever, interpreted as just another threatless act of inhuman nature in their perceptive amphibian brains.
Beyond Kielberg Canyon the trail was much improved, actually an old road here that climbed to much-anticipated Powers Cabin. A right turn at a t-junction led downhill, close by the canyon bottom, where the hardscrabble remains of the cabin lay in a sort of standing ruin. Perhaps the history of this place had gone to work on my mind, but the cabin exuded a very unwelcoming air, amplified by its rudimentary workmanship - even in its heyday this would hardly have been a place to call home, earthen floor and unchinked walls about a meager living space, its only remaining occupant a shot spring bedframe in a drafty corner.
No tale of the Galiuros is complete without much ado about the Powers family, and Powers Cabin in particular. This story has been told many times before, and I won't do it any justice here, other than to stress a significant fact, often overlooked. For it was here, at Powers Cabin - nearby a gold claim the family was working - that old John Powers met his demise in the infamous shootout with law officers. Better known, more often-visited Powers Garden, 5 miles to the north, harbors no such ghosts. The subsequent search for Powers' sons who escaped the melee - largest manhunt in Arizona history - began here at the cabin.
Two days into the Galiuro Wilderness I finally came across a trail sign - first official trail junction - where my West Divide Trail #289 forked left to remain above the canyon bottoms for virtually the rest of its existence. In fact my plan had been to stay with this trail for several miles more, enjoying the comparative novelty of a ridgeline traverse, then descending into South Field Canyon. From the looks of it, though, the trail became brushy again, perhaps manageably so, but still...
... I couldn't resist staying on the road less traveled, or in this case the former road that appeared to be more traveled. I'd reach Powers Garden along either route - just a few miles ahead - and the former roadbed used by the Powers family was the ultimate travel corridor through the Wilderness. And so it was that I now joined Powers Garden Trail #96, the low route across the northern part of the range.
Powers Garden Trail offered up intriguing vistas on its way down to Rattlesnake Canyon, broken cliffs of volcanic origin now rusting emphatically away, the mineral hematite to blame, probably, producing the most vivid orange cliffs I'd seen.
Rattlesnake Canyon seemed an immediately welcoming place, densely shaded by ponderosa and Douglas fir in its upper reaches, wide and accommodating, and water-blessed to boot. All this, in spite of the bitter reminders of pioneering hardships, the almost too-strange-to-be-true reality of a roadway through the heart of this once-more wild landscape, of further artifacts littering the canyon - small shacks, old junk. The rusting wheel from an old truck, shown here, would have been left for dead long after the turn-of-the-century reign of the Powers family, who would have built and used their road by the labor of pack animals. The boundary of the Galiuro Wilderness was originally drawn to exclude this canyon and road, which probably continued to receive use throughout the early days of the motor vehicle. The Wilderness is now a totality again, in name and deed.
"the gnats were terrible" The presence of water, riparian plants, and warm spring weather was to blame for that. But the canyon continued on its merry way, and I followed, now able to keep up a good pace on an incredibly well manicured (read: wide roadbed) trail corridor. Back and forth across the drainage the trail wandered, encountering flowing water here, a dry wash there, before reaching another junction, this time with signed Corral Canyon Trail #291 and an option to head over to the East Divide, should one be so inclined.
Rattlesnake Canyon seemed unique, not just for the high quality of the trail in terrain this remote, but also for how the big trees kept up for mile after mile in country this comparatively low in elevation, for the lack of burned terrain in spite of this (*knock on wood*). Also, for the canyon's great length and gentle gradient, obviously a fault-driven phenomenon. All of these aspects lent special appeal to this canyon, and I was glad for my impulsive choice of routes. Perhaps next time I'd try the ridgeline traverse, which would still allow time to savor Rattlesnake Canyon in its lower reaches, but arguably one couldn't go wrong either way.
At length the canyon widened yet further and the forest opened to reveal an expansive meadow ringed by a corral, a cabin, and several pioneer-era storage buildings. I'd arrived at Powers Garden, a pleasant setting indeed. A permanent spring just up-canyon allowed the Power family to farm and ranch here, eking out their day-to-day livelihood in rugged isolation.
Taking a lunch break inside the main cabin, I enjoyed the familiar respite, thumbing through the log book while surrounded by the comforts of home. I'd started to lose track of how many cabins I'd visited in recent days, so uniquely commonplace to the Galiuro backcountry as they are. Not surprisingly, Powers Cabin is by far the most popular, with register entries recorded every week or so in favorable seasons, sometimes several parties per day passing through on weekends. Some were backpackers, often in from Rattlesnake Road toward which I was now heading, but a majority were horsepackers, including Forest Service folks who appear to informally maintain this site, even though it's in designated Wilderness...
... In other parts of the country, such a thing would be verboten, agencies actively removing structures from Wilderness for the sake of compliance with federal law. Out here, not so much, and while on a gut level this bothered me, intellectually I felt full of understanding. With so much untamed territory still remaining, such wild-erness in name or deed, such a cabin as this, the upkeep of pioneer-era artifacts, these ancient comforts, could never diminish this wild heart. And there is less pretension out here than in, say, New England, that the letter of the law holds meaning, like the removal of a cabin could ever bring Wilderness (capital "W") to a land without the room to support it.
From inside the cabin I heard voices approaching, then glanced out the window the see a pack train just arriving. Rather than waiting to be found, I stepped outside to greet my first human company in several days, a young family from Safford it turned out. The father was of Hispanic descent, a soft-spoken and elegant cowboy type, the mother a pretty blonde, perhaps Mormon. Each had kids of their own from previous relationships it appeared, a heartening real-life Brady Bunch story. They spent some time searching out the source of Powers Spring as I prepared to leave, our paths crossing again in time for a few more pleasantries; they'd headed in from Deer Creek that morning, 8 miles away, and admitted feeling bushed at the prospects for the return ride. Also, by my planned itinerary, always so hard to convey to those who don't do long hikes.
I remained with the drainage bottom beyond Powers Garden, where Rattlesnake Creek continued to ebb and flow.
I'd passed a junction with Field Canyon Trail 296, just before reaching Powers Garden, and then with Tortilla Trail 254 - the route my equestrian friends had taken en route from the trailhead at Deer Creek. A respectable trail network in this part of the range, but I was perfectly content to maintain my one-track mindset along Rattlesnake Creek and continue to enjoy its leisurely offerings.
At length the pine forests began to wane and white-barked Arizona sycamores came to dominant the riparian corridor, now at an elevation below 5000 feet. Tellingly, I'd lost a mere 600 feet of altitude in nearly 7 miles along the creek, an almost imperceptible gradient genuinely ideal for building a road through the heart of a wild mountain range, a fact not lost on the Powers clan all those years ago. Likewise, it seemed a miracle that Rattlesnake Creek flowed at all, rather than being consumed by its own sediment, relegated to a subterranean world only, though I suspect this may be the case for much of the year.
Powers Garden Trail reached a junction with Pipestem Canyon Trail 271, which appeared little used, a makeshift sign here for travelers heading the other direction pointing the way toward the Garden only. Farther up Pipestem lay a junction with the West Divide Trail at its northern terminus, reportedly a hard-to-find route near Rhodes Peak, likely inadvisable as a thru-route given the overall difficulty of even best laid plans in the Galiuros. Instead I continued with Rattlesnake Creek, Powers Garden Trail now somewhat overgrown in its lowest reaches, where volcanic cliffs line its banks.
A few final creekside camps appeared before the trail at last abandoned its watery course, climbing out of the drainage to reveal a markedly different landscape here in the northern extent of the Galiuros.
This final portion of Powers Garden Trail 96 follows a remarkably steep and eroded portion of the old roadbed, the notorious climb known as Powers Hill. The manpower invested to construct and maintain this section of the old Powers route would have been extraordinary considering the limited resources at hand.
Beyond the Wilderness boundary the historic route continued as FR 96 - Rattlesnake Road, a little-used jeep trail in its upper reaches, similar in character to the so-called Rug Road between Mammoth and Klondyke.
The road was little more than a dozer swath, a hard won line of least resistance across the rugged volcanic ridgeline. I found no evidence of recent vehicle use, despite it being high spring and the Galiuro Wilderness in fine form. Apparently most users park below the worst portion of the road and earn their keep on foot.
A rich carpet of wildflowers wasn't the only sign pointing to the recent season of abundant moisture. Many of the agaves in this area had waited their whole lives for this year, gathering enough energy from winter rains to push forth their fruiting stalks - giant asparaguses by every measure - before tipping to the drying winds of death.
Rattlesnake Road doubled back to the canyon's lip, revealing a stunning defile, layer upon layer of volcanic deposits exposed over eons by Rattlesnake Creek as it gathers energy on its final hurdle out of the range, down to the desert.
Rattlesnake Road offered unencumbered views of the Santa Teresa Mountains, the next objective on the Sky Islands Traverse. Yet the foreground continued to hold my attention with its fascinating topography, geology, and vegetation zones, a conspiracy of chance that no map of this area adequately reveals.
High atop the next flat-topped ridge to my south lay the shiny domed form of the mysterious China Peak Observatory, which was reportedly used for geomagnetic research rather than astronomical work. (Photo: Pinaleno Mountains beyond... and farther ahead on the traverse.)
A couple of mares had the viewful ridge all to their lonesome, yet seemed to prefer some sort of chlorophyll-rich goodness the rancher had left inside an ungated corral.
For the moment, one of the mares took an interest in me, until realizing that I had nothing consumable to offer. My food bag was nearly empty now, stark proof of the passage of days and calories burned in my efforts to reach Klondyke from Summerhaven, such a glorious beast of a route as it was.
The east face of the Galiuros still held a token amount of snow in its highest reaches, actually something of an omen given that this was the third week of April among elevations that did not exceed 8000 feet. Remnant snowpack aside, this was a landscape made for contemplation, its obscurity despite its impossible beauty factoring heavily in any meditation of the sort.
I played tortoise-and-hare style games with a contingent of bovine along the road (visible at left mid-ground in photo). Of course the cattle drive went on for far too long, or until the path of least resistance ceased to be the road I was following, no small feat.
Pinalenos beyond Aravaipa Valley
A gila monster skulked away through the roadside cobbles and grasses, his awkward two left feet moving in concerted unison, then his right. I wanted to believe he'd anticipated my paparazzi antics and was demonstrating a natural disinclination to engage with annoying, camera-toting bipedal types, an urge recently built into the collective gila monster DNA. I opted to leave him be, forfeiting a better shot at tabloid fame.
Rattlesnake Road never ceased to be "cool" and "awesome." Even in its lowest reaches, with Klondyke Road looming close in the valley just below, this road continued to pass through a gorgeous badland dreamscape, and doing its level best to find a way through.
Desert chicory finding a home among the rocks
A final descent off Rattlesnake Mesa, and a brief interlude among private lands - replete with the usual Fish and Game sign-in station for those arriving by vehicle ("Access is granted but can be revoked at any time") - led to the wide dusty track of Klondyke Road and the prospects of encountering vehicle traffic... perhaps. Surely it hadn't happened yet, not up on Rattlesnake Mesa, only one party on horseback in the Galiuros Wilderness, a pair of metal ghosts back on Redington Road, windows up, rooster tails flying. Virtually no one since Summerhaven. Incredible. (Photo: Up on Rattlesnake Road, a fire dog you can actually ride to the fire.)
