After
an all-night plane ride to Albuquerque and an equally long van ride to
Cimarron, we found ourselves planning the details of our trek. Here
Brian
and John set up their crews' agenda. We spent a busy day "being
processed."
These guys need an express line. After years of Fifty-Milers where we
step
out of the cars and onto the trail, "processing" was a trip unto
itself.
In this room, we made our first, and perhaps only, serious mistake: we
scheduled burros from Ponil to Pueblano. When you go to
Philmont,
consider this option carefully, and then just say no to burros.
They are sweet, friendly, loveable, and have lots of other positive
attributes.
They are also lazy, willful, stubborn, and strong enough.
The trek up Anasazi Canyon was our first glimpse of the true
backcountry.
The canyon was still verdant: lots of water running in the creek, wild
turkey, beaver, profuse wildflowers. The petroglyphs were amazing. We
participated
in an archeological dig, heard about the Anasazi Indians, and had some
great campfires. Then up and out, over Hart Peak for our first lunch
over
eight thousand feet, and down into Ponil for a horseback ride, and cold
root beer at the cantina. A little roping, some boot branding, and two
great chuck wagon meals, and we were on our way to Pueblano, burros and
all.
Burros? Love 'em or leave 'em.
The
hike to
Pueblano was straightforward and serene, except for our four-footed
chums. Even they were not too bad on the first day. However, the next
morning,
they refused to leave the corral. Could it have something to do with
breakfast?
Anyway, we abandoned them to the tender mercies of the Pueblano staff,
who the night before said, "If they won't walk, we can't make you carry
'em." And we couldn't and didn't. This shot is from Harlan Camp, days
later.
Along with loading and unloading (on skeet traps) shotgun shells, we
also
raced burros, a wild and exhilarating kinda thing. (These burros are
not
members of the same species that were issued at Ponil, by the way.)
After blacksmithing, panning for gold, exploring a tin mine, including
walking out in total darkness, Baldy Mountain was a literal as well as
figurative high point in the trip. At 12,441 feet, breathing is different.
Five of us got up at 3:00 a.m. to scale the summit for the dawn. Then
part
of the first contingent and the rest of the troop climbed later in the
morning. A commanding view with cold brisk winds, the wind chill was
worth
at least twenty degrees, and it wasn't warm to start with. The
complementary
view from the Ewells Park meadow was softer and warmer. We sat for
hours
lunching, taking pictures, and just sitting in awe. Then on to Baldy
Camp
and down Dean Canyon.
Glissade anyone?
After
exploring the top of Baldy with its bleak rock, colorful succulent
flora, and old copper mine, a relatively warm glissade down a snow bank
put a refreshing spin on the rest of the day. While not in the league
with
the thousand footers (vertical and linear), these hundred to three
hundred
foot runs are a hoot. What a trip! We're hooked and planning to go
back.