AdventureTaco - turbodb's build and adventures

I'd be curious to know what QC they do on the returns. It would sure suck to get a whole new housing with damage to the ends.

 

Sigh. Use the same interior door handles and headlight/wiper stalks on every vehicle for a decade and then do something like that.

 

1. Those skies were unreal... epic photos--this one in particular. If I didn't know better, I'd roll my eyes and proclaim this to be fake AI stuff.

2. I do know better, but I still sometimes fuck with the Cholla... Everywhere else, no problem, but that stupid garden has the sign telling me not to touch them.

3. Hopefully you chose correctly.

 

Easy Peasy.

 

That is absolutely what I'm naming my new thrash metal band

 

Mountains of Blue and Lakes of Green | Missing Death Valley #1
Part of the I've Missed Death Valley (Mar 2024) trip.

Driving Forever

I don't know how we ever did it. Or why. Time after time, for five full years, we would spend nearly 24 hours in the Tacoma, making our way south - in a single shot - to the desert. At the behest of @mrs.turbodb, and following in the footsteps of Ken @DVexile - my Death Valley archetype - I wised up at the beginning of 2023 and haven't looked back.

Still, every now and then the Tacoma has to come home for one reason or another. This time, it was to do some work on my rear leaf springs and rear axle housing with Zane @Speedytech7. That work complete, I needed to get the Tacoma back down to Las Vegas. So, setting my alarm for midnight, I headed to bed early - even for me - before setting off for one of my favorite places on earth.

Passing through Austin, Nevada, the combination of snow, storm, and sun conspired to illuminate the mountains of the Toiyabe Range.​

I arrived just east of Furnace Creek a little after 9:00pm, ready to never make the long drive again; knowing - as I climbed into the tent - that it was only a matter of time.​

Is there a Lake in Death Valley or is it Fake News?

The rains of the last couple of winters have wreaked havoc on the man-made features of Death Valley National Park. Roads washed out, rebuilt, and washed out again. Buildings flooded. Water everywhere. As always, the National Park Service (NPS) and other associated governmental agencies have worked their patukis' off getting as much opened - and as quickly - as possible, but even today, many of my favorite places are still officially closed.

But the water hasn't been all bad. One fantastical side effect was the reemergence of Lake Manley, a shallow body of water that covers the floor of Death Valley on only the rarest of occasions. In fact, the last time Lake Manley made an appearance was in 2005, so it was no wonder that - as the lake depth reached a full 10 inches - millions of people would want to see it for themselves. Or perhaps, discover that it was just another example of Fake News.

Hoping to catch the valley in that brief window before sunrise when the colors are soft and shadows do not stretch across the land, I'd set my alarm for 4:30am, giving me plenty of time to pack up the tent and wind my way up - more than a mile above the valley floor - to Dante's View.

I wasn't the only one with a dumb idea. This guy probably hadn't driven for 22 hours straight though.​

Telescope Peak was looking chilly in a blanket of snow in the soft morning light.​

From here, it looks like there's water in Lake Manley. But, what if it's an elaborate illusion from those climate change conspiracy folks trying to convince us that we need to care for the planet we call home.​

Looking south along the Black Mountains, the Owlshead and Panamint Mountains rising to the west.​

And north, streaks of color spreading across the sky. Surely, the remnants of contrails that are brainwashing us for the next conspiracy.​

Through the Badlands to Mountains of Blue and Borax BM

Reasonably sure that there was water in Lake Manley, my next order of business was to find a rumored "Blue Mountain" buried somewhere in the depths of the Black Mountains - the range that runs along the east side of Death Valley, essentially from Furnace Creek and CA-190 to Jubilee Pass and CA-178. To get there, I'd need to wind my way through a series of sinuous badlands to a barren ridge and ultimately to the summit of Borax BM.

Easier said than done.

As is the case with every hike, this one started with gathering my things and then abandoning my American Hiking Machine along the side of the road.​

The hike started easily enough. A broad wash extended up the alluvial fan, the glow of yellow wildflowers beckoning me into an out-of-this-world terrain.

Nothing tricky about this...​

The first Desert Gold...​

...of many I'd see on this trip. (Geraea canescens)​

A stroll through lunar badlands.​

Even down here, they were colorful.​

Working my way into the lower badlands, I was immediately confronted with a combination of crumbling walls that towered high above and soft-soiled canyons quickly climbed hundreds of feet, high into the sky. The scale of this place - as with the park in which it sits - was deceptive. And amazing.

Man vs. Wall.​

The tricky part of this hike was the terrain. The soft soils that make up these badlands - much like those found at Zabriskie Point - are easily eroded and form a series of serpentine canyons. Too high to see over, but too low to be indicated on topo maps, picking a route through - that ultimately leads to the exact spot you want to end up, more than a mile away - is a challenge. Similar, I'd say, to plugging in a USB connector: you look at both sides, make an educated guess, have a 50-50 chance, and get it wrong 75% of the time.

This was not the way.​

This route looks promising.​

To aid in my success rate, I'd attempted to map out the "perfect route" using satellite imagery, but even as I dutifully followed the line on my pocket computer, I still found myself off track from time-to-time, forcing me to turn back and admire the way from which I'd come.

Turning back had its upsides, the Funeral Mountains contrasting nicely against the golden yellows of my immediate environment.​

Along the way, I stopped to inspect interesting artifacts uncovered by erosion.​

Narrows sunstar. (left) | Loose dry fall (right).​

Texture and light.​

Ultimately, I think I ventured up four channels that petered out or boxed me in - a reasonably high success rate, given the dozens of decisions I made - before climbing out of the badlands an onto the barren ridge that would lead me to the summit I was after.

At an important saddle, I took a few minutes to admire the way I'd come.​

Gaining the ridge, I caught my first glimpse of what lay beyond. (Telescope Peak)​

While I'd admired the ridge from afar - dust puffing up around each foot fall as I plodded through the badlands - the dark brown surface was covered in a rocky loose material that made picking my path more important than I'd envisioned.

Don't get too distracted by the views. One wrong step here, and things could end poorly.​

Hey man, get off my "lawn." (Zebra tailed lizard?)​

Admiring Mr. Lizard's garden. (desert chicory - Rafinesquia neomexicana)​

As I climbed, the northern end of Lake Manley crept into view.​

It was seconds after 11:00am when I reached the summit. The two-mile trek had taken more than two hours, a combination of route finding, photography, and frequent stops in the warm morning sun conspiring against me.

As I glanced out to the west, there was no question it was worth it.

Yes, it really is that blue. Or is that green?​

Anyone familiar with the park will likely recognize colorful pallete of this alluvial fan, though not many see it from this angle. Here, iron salts produce the reds, pinks and yellows, decomposing mica causes the green, and manganese supplies the purple.

I found a tiny bit of what was apparently mica and manganese on my predominantly red summit.​

A sleeper mountain - larger, but still mostly covered from the valley-facing side, will be dramatic once the darker western face erodes onto the fan.​

Buried under a small pile of stones, I spotted the peak log. Not the peak log exactly, but a Tostitos jar that I could only assume wasn't left for the less-than-tasty contents it once contained. Setting the rocks aside, I eagerly pulled out the small pad, wondering if I'd recognize any of the names it contained.

Look who I found! (left) | I never really know how to add myself to the list. (right)​

I spent a good half hour - on my backside - enjoying myself at the top. There's no reason to rush a view like this, especially when fewer than 20 people have visited in the preceding three years. Eventually though, I tore myself away and set off down the ridge. The way back would be easier - both because there were now footprints to follow and because if worse came to worse, I could simply fall downhill.

This small shrub was so green. I still have no idea what it is, and to my knowledge, haven't seen anything like it on my previous visits.​

Somewhere, my path would work it' way through this wonderland.​

I was back at the Tacoma a little just before 1:00pm. Facing a 50-mile drive through Badwater Basin, I had just enough time to get up close and personal with that fake news lake I'd viewed at sunrise and - hopefully - work my way up one more canyon before the sun set for day.

I had no idea at the time, but I'd nearly bite off more than I could chew, leaving myself in one of the more precarious situations I've encountered in my adventures.







.

 

Missed opportunity to mention the visible lake in the Tostitos jar, everyone else visiting will probably only see a mirage

 

Awesome photos!

 

Those badlands look oddly familiar. Glad you got to see the lake. Here's hoping it returns again... and that I get a chance to boat on it next time!

 

I missed the lake in the Tostitos jar?

Thanks!

Familiar, ehh? Sounds like you've been hiking on some private land. This route, luckily, avoids all that!

 

In Over My Head | Missing Death Valley #2
Part of the I've Missed Death Valley (Mar 2024) trip.

Making my way south from Furnace Creek, I wasn't in any rush as I putzed along Badwater Road. With tourists swinging into the other lane to pass me by, I soaked in the ever-changing western face of the Black Mountains.

Is it just me, or does it look like that guy is fishing in Lake Manley? No fish out there buddy!​

After passing the parking lot at Badwater, traffic thinned out significantly. Sure, there was still a bit - heading to or from Sidewinder Canyon or south towards Jubilee Pass and Las Vegas - but by and large I was no longer "in the way," and was thankful to have the desert to myself.

I really liked this little salt finger that stretched out into the lake below Telescope Peak, so I wandered out to the point for a picture.​

When Lake Manley's around, it's like getting twice the beauty from the Black Mountains.​

OK, I didn't quite have the desert to myself.​

Eventually, I reached Ashford Junction. For 99% of folks, the destination here is a thousand feet into the valley at the site of the old Ashford Mill. So I headed the opposite direction - up the alluvial fan and towards the mouth of Ashford Canyon - through a field of flowers, and a windshield full of whimsy.

Even more colorful than usual, with large swaths of the hillsides covered in green.​

Sometimes I couldn't even see the sky.​

Desert gold and sand verbena were doing their part on the valley floor.​

I wasn't sure what to expect as far as road conditions were concerned. Most of the time this road is easily passable my nearly any vehicle, but I'd heard that there might have been some storm damage from Hillary the previous fall. My planned hike was going to be a lot longer if that turned out to be the case, so I was glad as I found myself pulling into the parking area at the wilderness boundary, the road seemingly in perfect condition the entire way!

Up the alluvial fan.​

Through the blooming creosote.​

No surer way to yell spring in Death Valley than with a mountain of green.​

Perhaps the most exciting thing for me - as I neared the end of the road - was a large lizard I noticed scurrying from one side to the other. It wasn't a scurry I was accustomed to - and boy, did that lizard seem larger than normal - so I popped out of the Tacoma to get a closer look.

My first chuckwalla!​

My encounter with the chuckwalla wasn't quite as peaceful as my initial popping out of the Tacoma might make it seem. Having scurried across the road, he'd - I'll call him a "he" so my actions don't seem quite so rude - run into the bottom of a small drainage and hidden in a small clump of football-sized stones.

Hoping to move a stone or two in order to snap a quick shot and be on my way, you can imagine my surprise when I lifted the rock where he'd taken cover, and rather than run away from me, he jumped onto my foot! I'm not usually jumpy around lizards - I've been known to catch a thousand or two in my days roaming this rock - but oh my goodness, this thing was heavy.

Probably just as surprised as I was, Mr. Chuckwalla wasted no time in getting off my foot and wedged under another nearby rock. This time however, he made a mistake: he'd followed the advice of his ostrich friend and left his tail sticking out in the sun. It was a massive tail by the way.

Unsure if Chuckwalla shed their tails like some other lizards - and not knowing whether I was in for a nibble if I tried to pick him up - I tentatively reached down and grabbed his tail as close to the back legs as I could muster and hoped for the best. A little tugging and pretty soon I was holding the largest lizard I've ever caught. And by holding, I mean hoping to keep all my fingers.

Anyway, I got him back up to the largest open space I could find - the roadway - before setting him on the ground in the hopes that he'd take pity on my and allow a photo of two before he ran away again. No dice on that though - it seems my pulling-him-out-from-under-a-rock-by-his-tail wasn't something he was real happy about, and he immediately scurried to the nearest shelter available - under the Tacoma, and then up into one of the front wheels!

Shit.

Less than 15 seconds earlier I'd wanted to photograph a mini dinosaur, but I certainly had no intent of killing one as I drove away; my photo shoot quickly transformed into a rescue effort.

Luckily, Chucky didn't really love being in a wheel, either, and after a bit of rude stick poking on my part, he jumped down onto the ground. Still in the shade under the Tacoma, I could see through his little lizard eyes that his prehistoric brain was figuring out how to eat me.

​

Fear my tiny teeth. I am dinosaur. I shall eat you one bitty bite at a time!​

Not wanting to be eaten, I snapped a couple quick photos, reminded him that he needed to watch his weight if he was going to win that Lovely Lizard of the Year award, and watched as he wiggled himself away and under a third nearby rock just off the road.

I'd survived.

​

By the time I got the Tacoma leveled out and ready for camp, my heart rate was finally returning to normal. For now.​

It was two minutes before 4:00pm when I closed the door on the Tacoma and headed up the wash into Ashford Canyon. An old mine road wove its way in-and-out of the wash, but I figured that - as I had when @mrs.turbodb and I visited the Keane Wonder Mine - I'd hike up the wash and then return via the road. Or, if I encountered an obstacle in the wash that I couldn't overcome, that I would simply retrace my path to the nearest braid of the road and follow it from there.

With daylight savings time pushing sunset later by an hour ( ), I figured I'd probably get back just after sunset, as dusk was settling in.​

A half mile into the canyon, things started to get interesting.​

Entering the narrows and rounding the first tight bend, I wasn't surprised to see a dry fall. And, while it was single, reasonably smooth surface 20 feet tall, I thought I saw a path up. That path turned out to be slightly tougher than I'd envisioned, with a couple bracing sections in a polished chute that would be extremely difficult (for me) to downclimb.

Not to worry, I told myself as I chimneyed my way up the chute, I'll just take the road down.

Then, around the next bend, I hit the second dry fall. This one - only about 10-feet tall - looked easy to scale, and I figured I'd be out of the narrows in no time.

Still not worried at this point.​

It was as I rounded the two more twists in the narrows that I realized my mistake. Here, a third dry fall towered 25 feet above the ground. Like the first I'd encountered, it was obvious to me that without a rope, I'd not be climbing down this one. The problem this time was that I also had difficulty finding a route up.

Things got tense, fast. Glancing around, there was no way to escape the narrows - the walls easily rising more than 50 feet in all directions - besides figuring a way up or down the dry falls. I kicked myself for assuming I'd have access to the mining road after the first dry fall, and for not following my own rule when it comes to climbing these types of things:

Up is significantly easier than down. In making climbs like this, I have found that climbing up and then down, then up a bit further, and down again, and repeating the process helps to ensure that I never reach a point where I can't get down. It takes longer, but many times, slower is faster, and it's certainly safer.
​

The worst part was - I realized - that I had no idea as to the total number of these falls that I would encounter. I pondered my options for a good 10 minutes as I fired up my inReach. I didn't think I'd need to use it, but I wanted to get it searching for satellites in the off chance it was necessary.

And then I started searching for routes up the third dry fall. My first route - up an unpolished face - seemed to work well until I reached the top, at which point a car-sized boulder blocked my path, requiring me to traverse sideways, over a large ridge and into a polished chute. With no way to keep myself stuck to the wall with opposing pressures, this route wasn't going to work and I picked my way back down.

With no other choice, I considered the polished chute. I'm not a fan of these chutes because the only way to climb them is to brace myself between the walls and hope that I can apply enough sideways pressure with my hands and feet to keep from falling. Any misstep and there's nothing to grab onto; however far it might be, I'm ending up at the bottom of what is essentially a rock waterslide.

Up I went. Slowly. After what was probably less than a tense two minutes, I exited the top of the dry fall. There - to my relief - I could see the old mining road re-enter the wash. I was lucky; I'd gotten in over my head, but I was going to be OK. This time.

How this happened. A bad excuse.

It was the (too) tiny bit of research I'd done prior to this hike that got me into trouble. I'd watched a video of Tom and Julie - a couple of mine explorers who are braver than I and visit some amazing places - where they hiked up "the wash" to the Ashford Mine. In doing so, Tom mentioned hiking up the canyon and down the road, and there was a dry fall they had to climb, but it didn't seem all that bad, so I figured I'd follow in their footsteps as it were.

What I didn't realize when I was watching the video - probably because I was only partly paying attention as I tried to wrap up other details for the trip - was that they'd taken an entirely different route, through an entirely different fork of the wash, up to the mine. Of course, this fact was obvious when I fired up the video on my return and was a good reminder that no matter how much we try to convince ourselves otherwise, humans are terrible at multitasking.
​

At the top of the series of dry falls, this tiger rock caught my eye.​

In the shadows of a nearby side-canyon, this little purple flower was ready for spring.​

The side canyon.​

Knowing that I'd spent more time in the narrows than I'd planned - and having gotten a late start to the hike - I funneled the adrenaline pumping through my veins into a speedier pace up the remaining mile-and-a-half of canyon to the mine. I had 90 minutes until sunset, and I wanted to make the best of it!

I arrived at the camp with an hour of light, and figured that I'd have enough time to poke around the cabins and a working or two before the sun dropped below the horizon, my signal to head back down the hillsides - this time following the much-less-treacherous mining road!

Three reasonably nice structures.​

The two smaller cabins seemed like they were probably sleeping quarters.​

These types of biscuit boxes seem common in old mines - likely used for both the eating and then for helping to seal up drafty walls. I thought the five locations were interesting.​

The largest cabin had the nicest view. and contained most of the artifacts.​

All the bed frames had been moved into the living room.​

Lost and found.​

A clean kitchen.​

A decade-old log book, less than a quarter full. Visitation seemed consistent, but reasonably light.​

Hey, look who I found! ​

After poking around in the cabins - and spending more time than I should have with the log book given the speed that the sun was hurtling toward the horizon - I took a quick survey of the surroundings and decided on the direction I'd take to investigate some of the workings.

The remains of the ore bin which aggregated the ore from the adjacent main shaft and the aerial tramway.​

In January 1907, Harold Ashford wandered into the Death Valley region and, attracted by the gold strikes at the Desert Hound Mine, prospected in that vicinity. Within a few months, he discovered that the Keys Gold Mining Company - owners of the Desert Hound - had failed to do the necessary assessment work on several of its claims, and Ashford started to work them on his own. It took the Keys two years to discover that someone else was working their claims but after taking Ashford to court, the judge found in favor of Ashford In January 1910. He might have been better off if he had lost.

Ashford and his brothers, Henry and Lewis, worked the mine off and on between 1910 and 1914, without good results. In November 1914, they leased the mine to B. W. McCausland and his son, Ross.

The McCauslands started to work on a large scale, and within a year, had driven a tunnel 180 feet into the side of the mountain. At the height of their operation, the McCauslands employed 28 men, had invested over $125,000, and had completed 2,000 feet of total workings.

However, despite taking out an estimated $100,000 worth of ore, the McCauslands soon discovered that the ores from the mine were not rich enough to justify their capital expenditures, and they ceased operations in September 1915.

Leased again in 1935 - to Golden Treasure Mines, Inc. - the new company looked to improve profits by taking out only the highest grade ore. This continued until 1938, when - having only shipped $18,000 of ore over three years - they gave up.

By 1938, the Ashfords were once again working the mine themselves. Now comprised of twenty-six claims, they worked a 320-foot shaft with a crosscut, a 215-foot tunnel, and a 200-foot drift. Shortly, the Ashford’s leased it again, this time to the Bernard Granville and Associates of Los Angeles. Though the new company would install a short aerial tramway to facilitate the task of consolidating the ore from the scattered shafts and tunnels to one central point for trucking down the mountain. no record of any shipments are available, and the mine shut down for good in 1941.

Legends of America​

An old bucket from the aerial tramway.​

With just enough time to explore a single adit, I picked a promising looking one with shovel head on the ground outside the portal and quickly realized I'd left my flashlight back at the Tacoma. Luckily, a combination of my phone and the small LED puck lights I'd brought along would be enough for the few hundred feet that this adit extended into the mountain, and soon I found myself wandering into the pleasantly cool air of this century old mine.

I've always found it hard to dig pure rock with a shovel. Maybe that's why Ashford wasn't successful.​

As daylight faded - both inside and outside the tunnel - I could see where rail once lined the floor. Pulled out to be used elsewhere, it gave me hope that I'd picked a winner, a feeling that was reinforced as my faint phone light picked up an old ladder in the distance.

And then, confusion.

A ladder to nowhere.​

I have no idea what the deal was with the ladder, but I'd had a fun time nonetheless. There were many more workings to be explored - along with the towers of the lightweight aerial tramway that once shuttled ore here - but those would need to wait for another visit. For now, it was time to head back down to camp, lest I be forced to navigate the wash in complete darkness.

As the last of the light faded away, I re-entered the wash and started the two-and-a-half-mile trek back to camp.​

Winding through the upper narrows, relieved to know that I could follow the mining road past the dry falls.​

Nearly 8:00pm when I pulled off my pack and started prepping for dinner, it'd been a day I wouldn't soon forget. Nearly eaten by a dinosaur, then in over my head as I climbed a canyon I believed to be reasonably easy. And, as I thought about my plan for the following morning - to hike a nearby canyon with a climb considered impossible without ropes - I wondered if the same thing would happen all over again.





.

 

I meant you should have mentioned that the lake was visible during your visit when you left the note in the jar

 

Searching for the Scallywag | Missing Death Valley #3

I slept soundly at the head of Ashford Canyon, two days of driving and hiking finally catching up to my aging body. Knowing that I'd have another long hike - and steep climb - ahead of me for the day, I spent a few minutes around camp, soaking in the sunrise and enjoying the shade that I knew I'd long for as the day went on.

With the Tacoma still cool in the shade, a little glow on the Owlsheads, just as the sun is cresting the horizon.​

As I was eating my breakfast, I spotted this little guy near camp.​

Eleven minutes after first-light-on-the-mountains, the sky had changed, and Telescope Peak was gleaming.​

Even so, it was just before 7:00am when I started down the alluvial fan, past the spot where I'd fought a tiny dinosaur for my life the previous afternoon. My hope was to reach the location where I'd leave the Tacoma on the side of Badwater Road and head back up into the Black Mountains before it was bathed in sun, but I could tell even as I descended the fan that I was going to be too late!

Morning light on the Owlsheads.​

I hadn't gone far before I was breaking out the solar panels - more as a windshield shade than power generator - and getting set to head back into the hills.​

I'd considered beginning my hike from a location along the road to Ashford Canyon - which had a point-to-point distance that was shorter than my chosen trailhead - but if I've learned one lesson in Death Valley, it's that hiking across an alluvial fan is so much harder than hiking up, that I'll happily walk several miles further in order to avoid the constant undulations of a cross-fan route. Never again do I want to repeat the hiking part of our exploration of Military Canyon, coincidentally, not far from my current location.

It doesn't look far, but if I've learned one lesson in Death Valley, it's that distances are deceiving.​

Technically I suppose, I've learned a few lessons in Death Valley - or at least been exposed to them - and I'd have a chance to put my don't-climb-dry-falls-you-can't-climb-down lesson from the previous afternoon in a few short hours.

Twenty minutes later, it must be getting closer. Right?​

Walking up the fan, I startled a few lizards, one of them so eager to put distance between the two of us - was my body odor really so terrible? - that he performed what could only be described as a gymnastics tumbling pass in his effort to get away.

​

I've always loved catching lizards, and after following this one to an easily moved rock, I soon convinced him that he was "my friend." (zebra tailed)​

Like the lizard I'd seen as I hiked Borax BM, this one also had a flowery garden. (sand verbena)​

I noticed that the stripes wrapped all the way around his tail, which I thought was pretty cool.​

Surprised at how docile it was in my hand, I probably ended up with a few dozen photos of the lizard before I set him back down and realized that he was just going to sit there - poised on a rock - for me to keep snapping away. Maybe he really was my friend. At some point though, even I had to move on.

An hour after I started, I had to be getting closer. Right?​

Definitely closer. I think.​

I finally reached the mouth of the unnamed canyon - which I'll call Tramway Canyon, since that's the name that it was given by a long-time hiker of Death Valley - an hour-and-a-half after setting off. That might seem like a long time to hike up an alluvial fan to the start of the interesting part of a hike, but I assure you that it was significantly faster than trying to make my way across the alluvial fan.

Along the way, I'd seen - as is common in these parts - tons of mining junk that had washed out of the canyon over the years, and as I entered the mouth of the canyon I got my answer to where several 4x16" by 30-foot-long boards originated.

As the large planks are washed away, this parking platform won't be around forever.​

Also a the mouth of the canyon, the lower end of an aerial tramway - one of several tramways that helped name this place - also clung to the side of the lower canyon wall.

Knowing that - pending the dry fall situation further up the canyon - this might be the only real mining paraphernalia I be able to see up close, I wandered over to take a closer look.

Notice the rust stain from years of water dripping down off the cable.​

Anchored to the rocky base of the platform, the 1-inch cable stretched high over the wash.​

The wheels from an old tram cart.​

Anyone need a good old USA-made jerry can? Minor surface rust only.​

After poking around a bit, I worked my way off the platform via a rather rickety set of stairs that led to the wash and turned my attention to the canyon. Here, I knew I'd either be turned around in slightly under half a mile, or I'd find myself scrambling up a 45° scree field towards mine workings, a mile up the canyon.

A few minutes later, I entered the first narrows.

Here we go!​

I always love the variation in color between rocks that are so close together.​

I reached the first dry fall after only a few minutes. A quick glance and I knew this one would be no problem to scale in either direction. Still, knowing that I might not make it past the second, larger fall, a little further on, I was in no rush to leave this one behind, especially given the warm light radiating from above and graceful shape of the canyon.

The first fall.​

OK man, that's a little dramatic don'tcha think?​

Beyond the first fall, texture and light were once again on full display.​

The second - and much larger - dry fall was 200 feet further up the wash, but not visible from the first. I'd heard reports of this fall from two fellow explorers, the first of whom was forced to turn around when they couldn't find any safe way up the fall. That was in 2016, but I'd heard that by 2019 a thin rope had been draped over the sharp rock. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make the climb - and exploration of the upper canyon - possible.

Now, I'll be the first to admit that I wasn't sure I'd want to use a thin rope that I hadn't personally secured after more than 5 years in the Death Valley sun, but I figured I'd cross that bridge when I got to it - which was nearly immediately. As I rounded a corner in the narrows and was presented with a tall wall of rusty-orange quartz.

To my surprise - and delight - I saw a "rope" hanging down that was not the rope from 2019. In fact, I couldn't quite tell when I saw it initially, but it appeared to be a steel cable - a fact I quickly confirmed - which I thought would be a fantastic assist, assuming it was well anchored.

Hope this thing holds.​

Only as I got about three-quarters of the way to the top did I realize that even the steel cable was on borrowed time.

Hmm, that's not reassuring.​

I probably didn't have anything at all to worry about - what was left of the cable could likely hold ten times my weight or more - but I was still glad once I'd reached the top, and even happier to successfully downclimb the fall on my return!

The view down-canyon from the top of the dry fall.​

There'd be no more obstacles as I continued through the upper narrows, allowing my anticipation to grow as I neared the Scallywag Mine.

I found this baseball-sized rock - a white core wrapped in red - in a small alcove above the fall.​

A colorful ascent.​

High above me, clinging precariously to the canyon wall, an old ore bin and tram terminal. How the heck was I going to get up there?​

After a few more turns, a lower ore bin came into view. This, it turned out, wasn't the end of the aerial tram but rather a bin for a chute that started several hundred feet above. On it, the "Scallywag Mine" road sign blazed a brilliant green and I approached with a smile on my face.

Ore bin.​

Scallywag Mine.​

Technically, the Scallywag Mine - so called these days for obvious reasons - was worked as the Jubilee Lead Mine, and as with the vast majority of mines, was unprofitable. What's most surprising to me was all the work that went into this place for what must have been, "a little bit of lead." Hauling up all the materials alone would have been a crazy amount of work, but stringing the cables - which must weight tens of thousands of pounds - that is a level of effort I simply can't imagine.

Across the wash from the lower ore bin, a work room had been blasted into the canyon wall.​

Gasket rack.​

From this angle, the pipeline that carried ore from the workings above is more clearly visible.​

Before trying to find a way up to the workings, I wanted to check out a few more rusty bits of machinery I saw laying on the ground a little further up the wash. Then, having scoped out the hillside, it seemed to me that the best way to reach the infrastructure above was to follow the old water pipeline, using it as necessary for stabilization over the extremely steep, loose terrain.

If I'd had more time, I'd have wandered even further up this wonderful wash.​

The trucks from an old ore cart. Too bad they weren't on a length of track so I could push them along!​

It was neat to see an old aerial tram cart sitting on the ground next to the lower tram terminal.​

By the time I completed my scramble up the face of what seemed to be a near-vertical cliff - thankful for the water pipeline that gave me something reasonably solid to haul myself up - I found myself 50-feet or so above the first working, with views that could only be described as "wow."

Up canyon.​

Down canyon, and down to the first - precarious - working.​

Intriguing!​

Picking my way down a drainage to the platform of the first working, I found myself wondering how the guys who worked this mine on a regular basis got around. There must have been so much up and down, down and up. Death-defying feats, even on the best of days. And remember, they weren't even after gold, they were after lead!

​

On the platform, the final few feet to dump an ore cart seemed a little dangerous.​

These guys were obviously not plumbers.​

This time, I'd remembered to bring my flashlight!​

Wandering into the working, I was curious if the difficulty of getting to this mine would mean that were more artifacts than in some others I'd explored. In the end, I suppose there were a few more, but I wasn't lucky enough to find - for instance - an ore cart to push along the rails!

I could make a joke about Trojan and Explosive, but I'll leave that to the reader.​

At the end of the adit, a shaft - and strange cylindrical metal chute - ascended to the upper levels, a cool breeze constantly flowing from one level to the next.​

I couldn't help but bust out the LEDs for a little light show.​

Eventually, it was time to head back. Not only had I gotten to explore the upper canyon - something I was fully prepared to not do if I couldn't make it beyond the second dry fall - but reaching the workings was a cool bonus. As such, my spirits were high as I retraced my steps through the narrows, worked my way down the dry fall one final time, and popped out the mouth of the canyon and headed down the alluvial fan towards the Tacoma.

The light on my return trip through the narrows might have been even nicer than on my way up.​

I have no idea what this little white flower is, but the plant that produces it is aweful. Every leaf sticks to anything it touches, and breaks into a million pieces if you try to remove it.​

As I descended toward the Tacoma, an F-18 screamed by - much too high - overhead.​

Looking back at what had been a great adventure.​

And with that, my first trip to Death Valley in more than a year was complete. It'd been warmer than I expected, but as always I'd enjoyed myself every minute of the way. Well, except for the incident with the dry falls, and my near-consumption by a chuckwalla!

And if all that wasn't enough, I wasn't headed home quite yet. Rather, I was headed south to meet a semi-random guy I'd met on the internet. For he'd promised that it would be The Perfect Day for Something Stupid, and there was no way I was going to pass up a sales pitch like that!

 

Always a good trip

 

Ewww….. human feces? Despite that, spectacular photos as usual.

 

Benson to Globe - Kinda Boring | AZBDR Stage 2
Part of the Arizona Backcountry Discovery Route (Apr 2024) trip.

Having wrapped up Stage 1 of the Arizona Backcountry Discovery Route (BDR) more quickly than we'd anticipated, it was early afternoon as we headed north out of Benson, toward Globe.

Having just gorged ourselves on Wendy's, we weren't in any position to stop at the shop directly below this tantalizing sign as we left town.​

While unexpected, we were both glad that things were working out this way. We've found it much more pleasant to end a day halfway through a stage - rather than at the end/beginning of one - in order to find somewhere to setup camp and enjoy a view unobstructed by civilization ...at least to the extent possible.

We appreciated the fact that we weren't going to be camping near town, but boy - there sure was a lot of pavement, so far!​

With the final 30 miles of Stage 1 being paved, you can imagine our surprise as Stage 2 began with another 30 miles of pavement to Cascabel, followed by 35 miles of a four-lane, might-as-well-have-been-paved, gravel road to Mammoth, AZ. Those 65 miles flew by in no time, and suddenly - at 4:45pm - we were halfway through Stage 2 and worried that we might find ourselves rolling into the end of the stage at Globe when the sun set a few minutes before 7:00pm!

I suppose that this is technically dirt, but it sure didn't feel like it as we zoomed along at 50+ miles per hour.​

This was a new level of non-technicality for us on a BDR, and reminded each of us of our least favorite aspect of the New Mexico BDR - there was just too much of it that didn't feel "backcountry." Still, the smooth trails gave @mrs.turbodb a chance to catch up on her afternoon nap, and I did my best to slow the Tacoma every now and then in order to capture a bit of the environment that was otherwise racing past us along the side of the road.

We hadn't seen any Saguaro Cactus on the first stage, but there were plenty on the second!​

A couple Saguaro were even fruiting. Or something?!​

Saguaro Sentinels.​

A Desert Dandelion (Malacothrix glabrata) (left), and Desert Chicory (right) growing at the base of the Saguaro.​

It was at Mammoth - where we crossed to the western bank of the San Pedro River - that the road finally tightened up around us. Nothing technical on the ground, it was the woody vegetation - impinging on the trail - that slowed us down as I worked the steering wheel one way and then the other in order to avoid what could easily ended up being more-than-just-pinstriping along the sides of my green machine.

I suppose it doesn't look too bad here, but anything wider than a 1st gen Tacoma was going to have battle scars after winding through this woody path.​

It was also in Mammoth that my copilot related this tidbit she'd discovered prior to our departure:

Founded in 1872, it was in November 2014 that the town of Mammoth was the subject of a fictional horror tale on the Reddit subreddit "/r/nosleep", wherein a contagious disease infected - and then wiped out - the population, while the government tried to contain and deny the entire situation.

Naïve reddit users believed and spread the story, somewhat akin to the 1938 War of the Worlds panic. The town was inundated with phone calls from people trying to ascertain what was happening, and insistence by local authorities that there was nothing going on only added to the theory that a coverup was underway.

​

After getting a good chuckle out of the story, and doing my best to avoid any branches that could punch a hole in the rubber over of the tent as we sped through the undergrowth, it 6:30pm as we pulled into Winkelman, some 85 miles into the 127-mile-long stage.

The towers of the Winkelman Copper Smelter easily caught our attention as we rolled into town.​

We were in no danger of making it to Globe, but boy, we were still way - nearly a full day - ahead of schedule! And so, as the road widened and crossed the San Pedro River, we decided it was time for a bit of high-speed fun in the reasonably shallow water.

First one way...​

...then the other!​

After several passes through the lake - the undercarriage and sliders getting a good wash - we headed up Dripping Springs Rd before turning onto Pioneer Basin Rd as the sun dropped down below the horizon.

​

We ran the final few miles with our own mini suns - Diode Dynamics SS5s - lighting the way.​

It was time to find camp and call it a night. Reasonably sure that there wasn't going to be anyone else headed this direction after nightfall, we only briefly looked for spur roads before finding a wide spot along the side of the road where we could setup the tent and wind down with a little reading and photo processing before calling it a night.

We'd covered more than 225 miles in a single day - nearly a full third of the entire route. It felt good - taking some of the pressure to "stay on schedule" off - but also worrisome, that the entire route might be a total bore.

The following morning...

In no rush given how far we'd made it on day 1, sunrise came and went before we lazily donned our clothes and climbed down out of the tent a little after 7:00am. We'd easily wrap up this stage before lunch, and then - we figured - we'd probably wrap up the next one as well!

This nice little spot along a ridge made for a fantastic camp site on our way to Pioneer Pass.​

After putting away the tent, we traced the ridgeline as we climbed toward Pioneer Pass.​

Gaining elevation - and nearly 300 miles into the 750-mile BDR - we hit the first section of trail that wasn't totally smooth. That's not to say there was anything all that technical about it - on the contrary, we'd generally view this type of terrain as "easy going" on any other trip - but this time it was a change to the otherwise pavement-like surfaces we'd endured so far.

Look, (small) rocks in the road!​

Getting a wee bit flexy with the new-to-me Chevy 63 leaf springs.​

Just before 8:00am, @mrs.turbodb spotted a bit of disturbed dirt on the side of the canyon, remarking that it looked like a tailings pile. We weren't expecting a mine at this point along the trail - or at least, I'd not had one marked prior to our departure - but a few seconds later I spotted a chimney climbing above the tree line. Turns out that we'd stumbled what appeared to have originally been an old mining cabin, later converted into a ranch house. Perhaps - given some of the nearby mines - a failed Uranium prospect.

Whatever it was, it was the perfect place to eat breakfast!

The outside of the cabin looked to be in reasonably good shape, so I was excited to check out the interior.​

Less intriguing than I'd hoped!​

As @mrs.turbodb set about assembling bowls, cereal, milk, and the various other bits we'd need for breakfast, I wandered around the site trying to piece together the history. A few roads wandered their way up the sides of the canyon - and there were a few places where it appeared that some minor surface extraction took place - but I couldn't see any major waste piles that indicated possible adits or major diggings. Still, I figured it'd be a good time to break out the drone, so after enjoying a nice cold bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats with Almonds, I fired up the flying camera for a better look around.

This old stone structure behind the main house - guarded by a very loud, I'm-gonna-murder-you squirrel - was one of the more visually interesting things I found as I walked around.​

The old mill foundation had been converted into a stepped series of small corrals once the property transitioned to ranching activities.​

Looking down-canyon to the south, Arizona was looking very green in the morning sun!​

The view up-canyon towards Pioneer Pass was even nicer, but didn't reveal any major workings along the maze of roads that lined both sides of the canyon.​

After putzing around for a few minutes to remind myself how poor a pilot I really am with the aerial picture machine, I pressed the button that automatically brings it home and lands it exactly where it lifted into the sky, and we climbed back into our four-wheeled hike-assist vehicle that would take us up and over Pioneer Pass and then down to the end of Stage 2 in the once-metropolis of Globe.

Wrapping our way around Pioneer Pass at what seemed like the top of the world, but was really only 6,114 feet.​

The Old Dominion Mining Company was incorporated in Globe in 1880, and ran "on a financial roller-coaster" for the next twenty years.

In 1894, the mine was sold to the Lewisohn Brothers of New York. The arrival of the railroad in 1898 dramatically lowered shipping costs. In 1904, the mine was acquired by Phelps-Dodge, who appointed Louis D. Ricketts as general manager. From 1904 to 1908, Phelps-Dodge spent $2.5 million on expanding and modernizing the mine and plant. As the mine grew, so did Globe.

World War 1 brought increased copper demand; the mine and town both prospered. A strike on the Globe mines was called on July 1, 1917 and federal troops were called in to restore order. By October, miners returned to work, and the mine was back to normal production.

Specimen of malachite from the Old Dominion mine (left); photo by Rob Lavinsky.
Unusual azurite specimen from the Blue Ball mine near Globe (right); photo by Rob Lavinsky.​

In the postwar years, the Old Dominion never returned to its former glory. Neglected maintenance, declining ore grades, and flooding underground all took their toll. The mine closed during the recession of 1921 - 1922, and closed permanently in 1931.

In its half-century of operation, the mine produced some 800 million pounds of copper, and returned gross earnings of $134 million to shareholders. It was the economic mainstay for the Globe community for most of this half-century.

The property was sold to the Miami Copper Company as a water supply in 1941, and continues to supply both industrial and domestic water to the area.

wikipedia​

We really liked this Arizona-themed welcome sign to Globe.​

It was 9:40am when we pulled rolled through Globe and fueled the Tacoma for the coming stage. With two stages complete after just more than a single day of travel, I was starting to worry that we'd complete the entire route in the next couple of days, leaving us with several days to fill before our flight home. Luckily, I'd mapped out a couple of longer hikes, and with the first of those coming up on the next stage, I hoped that our time "on foot" would slow us down enough to extend the trip to the originally-planned six-day adventure.






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Globe to Young - Take a Hike | AZBDR Stage 3
Part of the Arizona Backcountry Discovery Route (Apr 2024) trip.

Globe definitely won the "best marketing" award of all the towns we passed through on this trip. It was fantastic to photograph.​

Rolling out of Globe early on our second day of running the Arizona Backcountry Discovery Route (BDR), we were once again on - you guessed it - pavement! This was quickly getting old - as we sped north at speeds we rarely encounter on our adventures - and by now we were pretty sure that the AZBDR wouldn't be climbing to the top of our "favorite BDR" list unless something changed dramatically, and quickly.

AZ-288 (the Globe-Young Highway) was beautiful, but it's hard to describe it as "backcountry."​

Crossing over the mouth of the Salt River as it entered Roosevelt Lake.​

Pavement wouldn't last forever, but even as we transitioned off of the Globe-Young Highway to dirt, there wasn't any question that we were going to continue running at speeds way above those to which we were accustomed. Still, it was fun to be in forests of Saguaro, a sight that's still novel to those of us who don't spend much time in the Sonoran Desert.

Arizona is so green!


There's always that one weird relative, even when you're a cactus.​

How long - we wondered - does it take for a Saguaro forest like this to grow?​

The saguaro (Carnegiea gigantea) is a tree-like cactus species that can grow to be over 40 feet tall. It is native to the Sonoran Desert in Arizona, the Mexican state of Sonora, and the Whipple Mountains and Imperial County areas of California. The saguaro blossom is the state wildflower of Arizona.

Saguaros are the largest cactus in the United States and have a relatively long lifespan, often exceeding 150 to 200 years. They may grow their first side arm around 75–100 years of age, but some never grow any arms. Arms are developed to increase the plant's reproductive capacity, as more apices lead to more flowers and fruit.

The growth rate is strongly dependent on precipitation and Safuaroes can hold large amounts of water; when rain is plentiful and a fully grown specimen is fully hydrated, it can weigh between 3,200 and 4,800 lb.

​

After a couple more hours of working our way north - alongside Cherry Creek, just south of the Sierra Ancha Wilderness - we departed the official AZBDR route for a nearby hike that was one of the things I was most looking forward to on this entire adventure.

A three-mile round trip, I'd discovered a place called Devil's Chasm as I mapped out the route. Here, a 1.5-mile trek - 2000 vertical feet up a narrow canyon - would deliver us to the Sierra Ancha Cliff Dwellings, a 20-room structure clinging to the side of towering red vertical walls. It was going to be magical. If we could make it!

I always think of Arizona as being a land of buttes, but we hadn't seen any before working our way up Cherry Creek.​

Approaching Devil's Chasm, the road got a little rougher and the views a little more dramatic.​

As we rounded a bend in the road, we got our first good look at what 2000 feet of elevation looked like: amazing!​

I love signs like this.​

It was 12:15pm when we arrived at the trailhead. To our surprise, another truck was already parked there, its occupants - presumably - tackling the same trail we were about to undertake. And so, we set about gathering our things, eating a lunch of trail mix and mandarins, and otherwise completely underpreparing ourselves for what lay ahead.

The hike started off - along a shady forested path - easily enough.​

Almost immediately we found ourselves alongside a stream.​

For the first mile - and 1,000 vertical feet - our steep-but-still-pleasant trek through the forest continued.​

Forty-five minutes after leaving the Tacoma at the trailhead, we broke through the trees to soaring cliffs that we'd caught only glimpses of as we'd snaked our way alongside the creek. The view here was dramatic, each of us finding our mouths agape at the landscape that unfolded above us.

We were both captivated by the beauty and concerned as to what it implied for the remainder of the hike. After all, these were cliff dwellings, and we had just over 1,000 feet of up in the final half-mile of trail. There was going to be a lot of up.

The views of the Sierra Ancha were fantastic, and we hadn't even reached the narrows!​

Reflected light radiated down the vertical walls,​

A few minutes later, things started to get interesting. And by interesting, I mean more dangerous. This wasn't something I mentioned to @mrs.turbodb - who was already nervous as we took advantage of left-behind-ropes to scale various rock falls - but with water rushing by over slippery smooth granite, one misstep, or a slippery shoe sole, were all that was needed to turn a beautiful situation into one that was much more serious.

As the canyon narrowed, the wow factor increased by many orders of magnitude, and we were suddenly making much slower progress.​

Surely, this hike would have been easier without all the water impeding our progress, but it added such a wonderful soundtrack that I'm glad we did this hike at the time of year we did.​

At the second - and much sketchier - roped ascent of a fall, it was clear to both of us that this hike was more than we'd expected. Here, @mrs.turbodb was content to stay behind - to enjoy a podcast in the shade of a nearby cottonwood - while I continued onward and upward, to see if I could get a sense for the remainder of the trail.

Even with a rope, the slick wet rock made this a situation that required a careful climb.​

Looking back down the canyon, after making my way - solo - another quarter mile.​

The cliff dwelling here is truly amazing. Nestled into the rock, it was almost invisible. Clinging to the canyon wall, a combination of excitement and questions rushed through my head. Most of all I found myself wondering: Who would go through all the work to build a place like this - so difficult to reach even after construction - as their place to call home? Was this normal for them, and if so, were they just way more of a badass than I can ever hope to be?

Clearly, the answer to that last question - as whoever lived here built the dwelling in the first place - was yes.

Easy to miss, even when you know where to look.​

Amazing rockwork.​

Side view.​

Making my way back to @mrs.turbodb, it'd taken nearly three hours to make the trek - one we agreed was one of the most beautiful we've accomplished in quite some time - up the canyon. Down - as usual - would be much quicker, with only a few stops to capture the wildflowers that lined the trail.

Blue Dick (Dichelostemma capitatum) left. | Western Wallflower (Erysimum capitatum) right.​

Back at the Tacoma, we'd not seen the occupant(s) of the Ford Ranger at all. Unsure where they might be, I left them a note on one of my business cards - asking that they shoot me an email so we could chat a bit about the trail. I've still never heard back - hopefully because they'd rather not chat, and not due to some tragedy that occurred in Devil's Chasm!

For us, it was time to move on. First, we'd retrace our steps to FR-202 and the AZBDR, then we'd point ourselves north, toward the next town on our journey: Young.

Initially, the clouds were looking nice in the sky.​

The sun was still out as we drew nearer to Sombrero Butte, but we could tell that change was in the air as the clouds were getting significantly darker.​

An hour later - as we worked our way into Kacey Forks Canyon and towards Asbestos Spring (what ?!), we started to wonder if we were going to run into rain.​

To this point, we'd seen all the usual - for us - four legged creatures. Pronghorn and coyote, wild horses, rabbits of all sizes, and plenty of beefs. Even a wild turkey had crossed our path. And then, hustling across the road, a family of four: javelina! (which, at the time, we thought were wild pigs)

Now we've got all the food groups, @mrs.turbodb exclaimed, as I tumbled out of the truck to try and sneak up on the bacon babies for a photo or two.

Oink oink.​

Stand off.​

As temperatures dropped and westerly winds picked up, our glances to the storm clouds approaching on the horizon became more frequent. @mrs.turbodb mentioned seeing that there was a 25% chance of rain in Young - now only a handful of miles from our current location as the crows could fly - and we made the decision to pull over to the side of the road to prep an early dinner, just to avoid any chance of being caught in a wet situation should it start raining once we reached camp.

Cresting Middleton Mesa, we initially thought we were driving out of the clouds we'd been racing in the south, the landscape in front of us a little brighter than it'd been a few minutes earlier.​

Unfortunately, the situation to our west was looking like a bit wetter than the predicted 25% chance of precipitation.​

As we made dinner, it started to snow. Just a light smattering at this point - nothing that caused us to abandon preparation and assembly of our chicken-finger-wraps - but enough that we knew that we'd made the right call. That, and it was getting colder by the minute. Yay!

Dinner consumed and the kitchen stowed in the bed of the Tacoma, it was as though we'd angered the rain gods by robbing them of their ability to soak us as we ate, and almost immediately upon getting underway again, a rain-snow-hail combination began to pelt the landscape.

Still a few miles from Young, it was time to find camp and then decide if we wanted to wait out the storm in the cab or get a good night sleep and resign ourselves to a wet - and likely frozen - tent in the morning.

It wasn't a question, really, and by 8:30pm - as temperatures dropped to 34°F and there was a breif lull in the storm - we quickly deployed our shelter, brushed our teeth, and climbed into bed.

The following morning...

We awoke to mostly-blue skies ...at least, immediately over our camp site!​

We slept reasonably well through the night, the temperature dropping from 34°F when we climbed into the tent to 28°F by the time we climbed out in the morning. That meant - unfortunately - that what had initially fallen (or melted) on the tent as water, froze by the time we wanted to put everything away, making it impractical for us to even attempt drying off the tent before stuffing it into its cover.

A definite problem for future us.

It'd snowed about an inch, but there wasn't much snow around by the time we woke up.​

It was just after 7:15am when we rolled out of camp unsure of what would unfold for the remainder of the day. We had but a few miles till the end of Stage 3, and those passed quickly as we traversed the rolling hills and valleys of Graveyard and Deadman Canyons, on our way to the eastern edge of Young.

Snow on the red rock mesas was looking smart in the early morning sun.​

To our north, the last of the storm seemed to be blowing itself out.​

With the generally-well-graded roads now a bit muddier from all the rain, it was nice to find an undercarriage wash just before we hit pavement in the outskirts of Young.​

As the tires hit pavement, it was time to start thinking about Stage 4. Climbing - and then traversing - the Mogollon Rim, this was where satellite imagery - which I'd been watching on a daily basis for several weeks prior to our departure - suggested that 5-19" of snow still blanketed the ground.

Still, my copilot - having spent the last half hour looking through the road conditions page for the Coconino National Forest - thought we stood a chance, at least in part. About half of the route, she said, was paved - something we suddenly found ourselves thankful for - so we might be able to at least "do that part, and then backtrack and re-route around the remainder of the stage."

And so, we set about airing up for what we figured would be a day full of pavement. We weren't wrong, mostly.

It's not often we air up in the middle of a BDR, but that's exactly what we did at the end of Stage 3.​

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Young to Winona - The Mogollon Rim is Closed | AZBDR Stage 4
Part of the Arizona Backcountry Discovery Route (Apr 2024) trip.

As our tires hit pavement in the outskirts of Young, it was time to start thinking about Stage 4. Climbing - and then traversing the Mogollon Rim - this was where satellite imagery, which I'd been watching on a daily basis for several weeks prior to our departure, suggested that 5-19" of snow still blanketed the ground.

This didn't look promising.​

Still, my copilot - having spent the last half hour looking through the road conditions page for the Coconino National Forest - thought we stood a chance, at least in part. Though she confirmed closure of the Forest Service Road 82 leading off the rim to Winona, she noted that "about half the route is paved" - something we suddenly found ourselves thankful for. Something that might allow us to at least do part of the route as an out-and-back, and then re-route around the remainder of the stage.

Or at least, that was the idea as we skirted the four blocks of downtown Young and headed north on AZ-288.

A sign promptly informed us - less than a mile out of town - that we'd reached the end of AZ-288. From here, the 100% dirt Chamberlain Trail would lead us up to an elevation of 6,762 feet - some 1,800 feet higher than we'd been snowed on throughout the night - to AZ-260, where the pavement would pick up again for our climb to the top of the Mogollon Rim.

​

Whoops. Guess we shouldn't have aired up! And maybe we won't be completing half of the stage before re-routing around!

I have to admit, the snow on the trees - and thankfully not on the road at this point - was quite beautiful, even if it wasn't what we'd hoped for.​

Two miles from pavement, and at an elevation of 5,640 feet - a full 1,100 feet below where we were headed - things were looking a lot whiter than we'd hoped.​

Undeterred, we pushed on. While the road was wet - and in some places a little sloppy - we could see that we weren't the first to travel it since the storm had come through. One other vehicle - a full-size truck on highway tires - had navigated this stretch in one way or another, so if for no other reason than to save my ego, we weren't giving up yet! We continued to climb.

Even the beaver tailed cactus were wearing little white hats.​

The higher we went, the more snow we encountered. It really was a beautiful sight, and one that I'm sure many AZBDR riders would prefer to the normally hot temperatures.​

This snow-filled agave caught our attention on the side of the road.​

Ultimately, with some careful driving and a little luck, we reached the highest point in the road before descending down the north side toward highway 260. Things were looking up, and for a quick minute, the diabolical plan to run half the stage as an out-and-back was once again on the table as we climbed up the southern face of the Mogollon Rim toward the visitor center.

We probably should have taken it as a bad sign when the visitor center was closed, but with a newfound sense of hope from our previous success, we simply ignored the obvious and turned our American Hiking Machine toward the entrance to the Mogollon Rim Road.

Well, that didn't last long.​

Less than a quarter mile up the road, we ran into a bit of a situation. While the road surface appeared to be clear, a steel gate and two big stripped barriers warned us that the rim remained closed for the winter and that anyone caught suggesting it was spring by driving around would be subject to a $5,000 fine and a minimum of 9 months in prison. A small price to pay in my opinion, but my better half was having none of it. The stage was over, and it was time to find a way around.

​

The way around - it seemed - was to backtrack along AZ-260 to Payson, and then make our way to Pine, where we could follow AZ-87 to the end of Stage 4 at Winona. It'd be a few hours on pavement, putting us even further ahead of schedule, but there wasn't much we could do, so we headed to Payson.

Payson turned out to be larger than either of us expected, and with the sun out and our elevation now low enough that it was no longer below freezing, it seemed like a great place to fuel up the Tacoma and then dry out the tent while we made chicken-tender-wraps for lunch.

We always get a good number of looks when we have to deploy the tent in civilization, but no matter - with a light breeze and plenty of sun, the whole thing was dry in less than 20 minutes!​

Headed north on AZ-87, at least the scenery was nice and the clouds were cooperating.​

Across Mormon Lake, the San Fransisco Mountains sparkled in the distance.​

As we neared Winona, it was still only a little after 1:00pm in the afternoon - so as we noted signs for Walnut Canyon National Monument, we knew it was the perfect opportunity to check it out!

There were a lot more people here than we expected.​

Walnut Canyon was inhabited by the Sinagua people - a pre-Columbian cultural group - from about 1100 to 1250 AD.

Spanish for "without water", the Sinagua were able to live in such a dry region by becoming experts at water conservation and dealing with droughts. They were also believed to have been active traders whose activities and influence stretched to the Gulf of Mexico and even as far as Central America.

The Sinagua built their homes under limestone ledges, deep within the canyon, sometime between 1125 and 1250 – taking advantage of the natural recesses in the limestone cliff walls which were eroded over millions of years by flowing water. The dwellings themselves were small, but large enough for the inhabitants to cook and sleep. A typical room - a dwelling for a single family - generally measured approximately 6-7 feet high by 18-20 feet long by 10 feet deep.

Because of the area's dry climate, the water present in the canyon was essential for its inhabitants over 700 years ago as it is for animal and plant life today. The plant life is very diverse in Walnut Canyon, with more than 387 different plant species, including the Prickly Pear cactus and the Arizona Black Walnut. The biodiversity of the area includes high concentrations of sensitive plant species that probably contributed to the decision made by prehistoric people to settle in the area.

It is thought that the Sinagua left around 1250 AD out of fear of neighboring tribes, but it is not certain.

wikipedia​

A beautiful canyon, and in a rare blanket of snow.​

Descending along the main loop trail, inaccessible ruins - on the opposing walls of the canyon - were visible everywhere.​

I'd have loved to check out some of these ruins, but any exploration off the main trail is prohibited.​

Along the main trail, all of the ruins have been rebuilt, stabilized, or both in order to preserve them as educational tools for the hundreds or thousands of people who visit each day. Information boards describe each ruin - the original purpose, construction, and techniques used to preserve them over time - a great introduction to those who've never seen or given much thought to those who came before us.

Most of the ruins weren't in very good shape, but this long house was reconstructed into a reasonably complete representation of the original structure.​

Sometimes, the "restoration" wasn't done with much thought to the materials being utilized.​

Inside many of the structures, small serial numbers marked what I imagine were archeological artifacts that have since been removed.​

The one mile hike along The Island trail, even with the 736 steps that shuttled us down - and then up - the 185-foot path, only took us 90 minutes to complete and with little fanfare we climbed back into the Tacoma to finish out the stage.

Or, rather, our route around the stage. It was a bummer to miss the Mogollon Rim - a place that seemed to hold a lot of promise - but I'm sure it'll only be a matter of time before we return for views that must stretch into eternity. For now, though, it was time to get lost in a field of volcanoes!

 

One of my earliest memories of camping was along the Mogollon Rim. It was always with the Fam in the old station wagon, somewhere between Payson and Showlow.

 

Winona to Cameron - Volcanoes, Pueblos, and a Grand Canyon | AZBDR Stage 5
Part of the Arizona Backcountry Discovery Route (Apr 2024) trip.

Having "wrapped up" (and by that I mean, essentially, skipped) Stage 4 of the AZBDR in a little under six hours, it was just after 3:30pm when we set out from Winona in search of open roads. The elevations here were nearly as high as those on the Mogollon Rim, so I was a little worried that we'd soon find ourselves blocked by snow, but @mrs.turbodb was reasonably confident that we'd be just fine.

As usual, she was right.

The snowy San Fransisco Mountains would provide a familiar - and beautiful - backdrop for much of this stage.​

For the remainder of the day, we'd find ourselves driving through the San Francisco volcanic field - an area of volcanoes that covers 1,800 square miles of the southern boundary of the Colorado Plateau. Containing more than 600 volcanoes - ranging in age from nearly 6 million years old to less than 1,000 years - Sunset Crater is the youngest and is now protected as part of Sunset Crater National Monument.

This volcanic field formed from a geological hotspot as the North American Plate moved over the hotspot, new volcanoes appeared. With the plate moving westward, this puts the newest volcanoes - most of which are basalt cinder cones - at the east side of the field, through which we'd be travelling!

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This view really reminded me of travelling through the cinder cones in Mojave Preserve.​

The approach to Merriam Crater.​

Knowing that we needed - and by we needed, I mean I needed - to get to the top of one of the cinder cones, we poked around on our digital maps a bit to find one that met all the relevant criteria. Specifically, a road to the top, and a top that was on public - rather than private - land.

Moon Crater seemed to fit the bill, and soon we were slightly off the BDR - not an issue given that we were a full day ahead of schedule at this point - and I was shifting the Tacoma into low gear for the first time on the entire trip as we followed a steep trail up the rim.

Do you see the Tacoma? It's there, really, it is.​

A little closer, it helps to find the road ​

After spending a bit of time hopelessly trying to improve my droning skills - one of the few things in life that I seem entirely unable to master - I landed the drone by telling it to land itself, and we continued on toward a hike we hoped to do up and around the rim of Sunset Crater.

In 1928, a Hollywood film company - the Famous Players - Lasky Corporation, planned to detonate large quantities of explosives on the side of Sunset Crater in order to create an avalanche for Zane Grey's motion picture Avalanche. Public outcry over this plan led to the proclamation of Sunset Crater Volcano National Monument by President Herbert Hoover in 1930.

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Perhaps the strangest National Monument we've visited. I mean, the monument doesn't include any of the surrounding cinder cones, so why not just blow up one of them?​

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Turns out, however, that the Sunset Crater hike has been closed since 1973 due to excessive erosion caused by hikers, there was little more to do in the monument than snap a quick photo of the entrance sign and head off the opposite direction in search of an early camp.

The landscape here was dramatic. Black Mountain (a cinder cone) certainly lived up to its name.​

I loved how the trees grew on the ridge line, and the side of the mountain eroded in waves.​

It was early - before 6:00pm - that we found camp. Nestled between a rocky outcropping, pine trees, and on a surface of small, black, volcanic pellets, we were camped in the shadow of Darton Dome and O’leary Peak.

As we ate our dinner - an antipasti salad for me and a Spanish tortilla for @mrs.turbodb - we watched as the sky changed colors and the outside temperatures dipped to near freezing. It'd been another strange day on in Arizona, presenting us with sight after sight that we'd never expected to see. Still way ahead of where we thought we'd be, we wondered if the remainder of Stage 5 and the final Stage 6 would finally deliver on some of what we expected from this trip or leave us wondering whether we should have chosen a different BDR altogether.

A colorful sky behind a barren landscape.​

Only time would tell, and time has a strange way of getting even. Certainly for us, the following day would end in a way we never expected.

The following morning...

Nestled into the cinder cones, the night ended up being windier than we expected - enough that I climbed out of the tent to tie down the ladder to prevent a stray gust from folding the tent up on us - but earplugs took care of most of the noise, and I was up a few minutes before sunrise to try and get a few photos before shadows began to cover the landscape.

My "before sunrise" didn't account for the increased elevation of O'leary Peak, and by the time I got to the spot I'd scouted for a nice campsite-plus-fire-lookout photo, I was too late!​

Too late for photos, I retraced the quarter mile or so to camp and climbed right back into bed for another hour-and-a-half of warmth and cuddling. This was a benefit of being ahead of schedule that I could get used to!

It was 7:45 when we finally decided to get up. Later in the day, this "slow start" would nearly come back to bite us, but at the time, it was easy to convince @mrs.turbodb to wander over to my before-sunrise overlook as we snacked on a couple of mandarins, to admire the views it commanded.

In the morning sun, O'leary Lookout was a tempting side trip. However, since we could tell it was shuttered, we decided to pass.​

The San Fransisco Mountains were looking chilly in their white dusting.​

To the east, cinder cones and pine trees covered the land as far as the eye could see.​

It was nearly 9:00am by the time we finally got going for the day.​

Now, the highlight of Stage 5 is - without a doubt - meant to be a visit to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. Strangely however, the track to one of the greatest geological formations on the planet is labelled as "Stage 5 BONUS - South Rim Grand Canyon," with the main route coming within a few miles of the enormous gash in the earth's crust, but skipping it entirely.

Not only that, but the route also bypasses the Wupatki National Monument, a collection of pueblos created in the early 1100's by the Cohonina, Kayenta, and Sinagua. The main structure - Wupatki - being a multi-story pueblo comprised of more than 100 rooms, a community center, and the northernmost ballcourt ever discovered in North America.

We weren't going to let either of those locations slip through our fingers, and after a quick discussion, we decided to head to Wupatki first.

We were really making the most of our America the Beautiful pass on this BDR!
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Our first stop was at the Box Canyon and Lomaki ruins. Situated on the edge of small cracks in the earth's crust, it was remarkable to see how perfectly the structures seemed to nestle into the landscape.

Box Canyon ruins.​

Even in the 1100's, it was all about location, location, location.​

The Lomaki Pueblo was a significantly larger structure.​

Still inhabited! A Great Basin Whiptail (Aspidoscelis tigris tigris)?​

Next, we headed to the Wukoki Pueblo. Built on top of a sandstone outcrop, this was the most dramatic of the pueblos, and most definitely the place we'd have wanted to call home if we were to live in a rock-and-dirt shelter some 1000 years ago.

Comprised of seven rooms and a three-story tall tower, it's likely that more than one family lived in this location. A large open area adjacent to the tower, enclosed by a semicircular knee wall, was a plaza used for daily activities, pottery making, basket weaving, and other chores. And the view!

As with the structures in Box Canyon, Wukoki was perfectly situated in the landscape.​

Sharp corners and flowing curves complemented each other in this amazing workmanship.​

Look, but don't touch.​

The ever-present San Fransisco Mountains added to the magic of this place.​

Our final stop in the Monument was at the Wupatki Pueblo itself. With more than 100 rooms, a community meeting area, and a circular ballcourt, this was not a typical household. Rather, it was an important meeting place with those living here holding leadership or ritual responsibilities within the community.

The scale of Wupatki was entirely different than the other sites we'd visited.​

An outlying structure provided even more rooms.​

In the end, we spent a couple hours getting to and wandering through Wupatki National Monument. While not as exciting as finding a "natural" or "unpreserved" ruin at the end of a long hike, it was nonetheless impressive and most definitely a place that I'd recommend spending a couple hours if you find yourself in the area.

Now a little after 11:00am, it was finally time for us to start making our way toward the Grand Canyon. Though the roads were smooth for the most part, these 57 miles would end up taking significantly longer than I expected - largely due to my inability to stay in the cab for more than a few minutes without jogging a few hundred feet behind the Tacoma for photos.

Through the last of the cinder cones.​

We weren't sure why we needed to pick up an Arizona State Land Recreational Permit until we came across this sign along the route. We decided to take advantage of our we're-here-legally status by eating lunch! ​

Racing across the tundra, we spotted the windmills and hour before we reached them. Seemingly brand new - given the freshly disturbed soil around their bases and the perfectly graveled roads that led to each one - none were operating, and we took the opportunity to get a real sense of scale of these behemoths.

So big. And so small.
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Then, it was back into the Tacoma and onto a track that had obviously seen some moisture not too long before we'd arrived. Likely this was the same storm that dropped rain and snow on us two nights prior, and from the looks of it, someone less fortunate than us had slopped their way through shortly after.

Mostly dry for us, another someone wasn't as lucky.​

Entering Grand Canyon National Park on a lightly travelled dirt road, only a small sign urged us to pay our entrance fee at the southern or eastern pay stations before exiting one of the country's most popular parks. A few minutes later, we unexpectedly found ourselves at the Grandview Fire Lookout. No longer in service, it is one of the original tower sites selected when the early Grand Canyon National Monument was planned in 1909. Originally constructed as a simple platform, it was rebuilt by the Forest Service in 1936 as an 81-foot Aermotor tower with 7' x 7' metal cab.

At only 7- by 7-feet, this lookout is tiny in comparison to today's live-in towers. (left) | Up we go! (right)​

Unable to enter the lookout room at the top of the tower, we didn't linger long before pushing on to the main attraction just a mile or so to the north. Here, the land dropped away precipitously, the Colorado River having carved a mile-deep chasm through the Earth's crust.

We'd finally reached a somehow optional section of the AZBDR - the Grand Canyon.

The view from Grandview.​

A lot of down.​

Layers of color.​

Even knowing what to expect, the scale of this place really does catch me off guard each time I visit. Photos can't do it justice, though I tried my darndest to pull every last pixel into view. Eventually - with @mrs.turbodb reminding me that we'd be stopping at several other overlooks along the rim - I relented, and we moved east towards the next lot at Moran Point.

Stratified fins.​

In the distance, the Colorado.​

Closer.​

Our final stop - at Lipan Point - gave what might have been the most expansive view of them all. Here, no pillars blocked the view, the canyon wall dropping away in a broad, sweeping arc to reveal the layers of color, mesas, and ultimately the muddy Colorado churning its way through the bottom of the complex.

A special place.​

It was 3:00pm when we zoomed past the eastern entrance, our America the Beautiful pass safely secured but never needed as we visited one of America's most popular National Parks. From here, we had fewer than 45 miles to complete Stage 5, and we weren't quite sure what would happen once we did.

As we exited the park, we almost immediately turned onto dirt, an action that resulted in some inquisitive looks from the vendors selling jewelry and pottery just across the street!​

As we climbed higher, the hidden part of the landscape emerged.​

The scale of this place is unbelievable.​

It's not that we didn't know where to go, or that any combination of the weather, road conditions, or other "normal" concerns had us wondering. Rather, it was the fact that the final stage traversed a large swath of Navajo Nation land that had the potential to cause problems.

We knew even before starting the AZBDR that we'd need a permit to cross the Navajo Nation, and we knew we could conveniently pick up the permit just outside of Cameron, AZ just prior to entering Navajo land. What we didn't know for sure were the hours of the permit office.

Knowing that we didn't know, we'd tried calling the permit office earlier in the day - just before visiting Waputki National Monument - thinking that we could pick up our permit well before the office closed for the day. However, when no one answered the phone, we called the Monument Valley office to inquire about hours and were told that the Cameron office was only open between 9:00am and 5:00pm, Monday through Friday. Normally this wouldn't have been a problem - we'd planned to be through this area on Tuesday. However, an astute reader will recall that we were way ahead of schedule, and that made for a problem: it was Sunday!

As we worked our way towards Cameron, we discussed a plan for the evening, as the San Fransisco Mountains rose in the distance.​

Not wanting to sit around town overnight just waiting for the permit office to open the following morning, I suggested to my copilot that one option would be to leave a note with our contact info and itinerary at the office, alerting them to the fact that we were crossing Navajo Nation and would call as soon as they were open (and we had cell service) to pay the fees. This seemed like a reasonable plan, and before long we found ourselves just south of Cameron - at the little town of Gray Mountain - where @mrs.turbodb wanted to see some of the artwork installed as part of the Painted Desert Project.

Washing up at an old gas station.​

In June of 2009 I started a self-funded, public art project on the Navajo Nation that I called “Big.” I went back through 22 years of negatives and started blowing up photographs to be larger than life and then wheat pasting them onto roadside stands and abandoned buildings. I’m still amazed at the resonance this project had with people on the reservation and amongst travelers passing through.

Shortly after I started wheat pasting I met a fellow street artist based in Prescott, AZ named Yote, and for 2 years after that we collaborated on installations on the Navajo Nation, Tucson and Flagstaff.

In an effort to boost tourism on the reservation, to supplement the incomes of families with roadside stands, and to nurture the creative talent of local youth, I invited a few world-renowned street artists to come to the Navajo Nation to paint murals in 2012, and have continued to invite more as funding allows.

This is the Painted Desert Project.

Chip Thomas, Painted Desert Project​

Rain.​

I am the change.​

We'd see more work from Thomas as we made our way along the remainder of the BDR - the style recognizable, once you know what to look for - but not all of it was unscathed. As art installed primarily on abandoned buildings, other "artists" have passed through since the Painted Desert Project works were created; in some cases, they've used the surfaces as their own canvas.

You can still see some work from the Painted Desert Project behind this colorful bird.​

We wrapped up our quick tour of the artwork in Gray Mountain about five minutes before 5:00pm. From there, we had but seven miles - along Highway 89 - to the end of the stage in Cameron where we'd leave a quick note at the permit office before carrying on to find camp.

At least, that was the plan until we were met, only seven miles down the road, with a big surprise!