Hidden Canyon rescue

I did go up the mountain with RB and Bob Sunday (Back in May). We were supposed to meet Byron--- he was in Water Canyon with girl scouts Sat. night--- but R&B were late, as usual, and we passed Byron going the other way on Hwy 60 near the hospital.

So much for that.

Hurting and tired, I decided to take it easy and just stay on Forest Trail 15, but first I ate my lunch while the guys took off, loaded down with picks, buckets, pans, and a lot of water for panning. Heavy, heavy loads. Those two men are badass!

And Bob might weigh 85 lbs in soaking wet clothes.

Loosening up enough to actually make progress requires an hour of pushing hard, through brutal pain and severe stiffness, through COPD. My pulse pounds in my head. I teeter and totter. This part is always hard on me. I’m not sure how many people could take the struggle and pain and push on through.

After an hour, I feel better. I can move and bend okay and for some reason, I start breathing better, too. Until recently, I ran out of gas at this point, but I get stronger every trip, though at 56, I know there are limits to that.

You know me, Little Imp, I’m always pushing those limits. “1-2-3 Go!” you tell me.

Probably kill me someday. I hope I fall off a cliff.

Hell, I might even jump.

I always wanted to fly.

I caught up with Bob right where the FT gets really steep, so I took a break. We split a cigarette.

Damn. That was good.

But bad.

Now I can’t breathe.

RB showed up. He’d been on a scouting expedition. He pointed out a nearby narrow, steep-sided canyon, said, “Man, that little canyon is beautiful. Up near its head, way up high, there’s a series of dry waterfalls and little pools. They might be spring-fed. Lots of oak trees and firs above 8000 ft. Birds and insects and bees everywhere.”

To accentuate that point, we heard turkeys calling nearby, then I saw the first turkey I’ve ever seen in the Maggies, though I’ve heard a few.

I really wanted to see the waterfalls, springs and pools.

“Do you think I can make it up there?” I asked.

“I think so,” he replied. “Once you get over this hill, you’ll see several trails. They are easy, a foot wide, not much elevation change.”

“1-2-3 GO!”

R&B left most of their gear where we were, then took off. In minutes, they were outta sight.

Damn it! They always do that!

I made it up the hill, then saw three game trails. One followed the crest of the hill, which forms the northeast wall of the canyon. I didn’t really want to go up. Parts of the hill are steep, 60 degree slope or worse and the trail fainter than the other two.

Another trail switch-backed a hundred feet down to the floor of the canyon. I could see it, but no R&B.

That left the third trail.

Which is about 6 inches wide and traverses a 45 degree slope. Parts of the trail are missing all together.

Bloody Hell!

“1-2-3 GO!”

“Damn, Imp! Shut up. I’m going.”

To make matters worse, the slope was all dirt and loose material. I don’t know how it stayed in place. Seemed like it was all defying the angle of repose limitations for alluvial deposits!

I looked down at the streambed. It was a good eighty feet below me.

I used my cane on the downhill side and more or less crabbed sideways while pressed to the dirt above the trail.

Until the trail ran out. Couldn’t turn around. Too narrow, too steep, nothing to hold on to.

I turned and sprawled with my back against the slope, dug out places for my feet and inched across the gap. The bright sun had heated the slope to the point where even the dirt was too hot to touch. My arms burned with fatigue. Sweat stung my eyes. My left leg rapidly weakened.

I had no idea where R&B were, just somewhere up the canyon. There would be no help.

They always do that to me.

At the halfway point, about 60 feet or so, I stretched out my left leg, planted my cane in a spot that might hold and shifted my weight. The cane slipped. All my weight was on my weak left leg. Dirt started sliding, then so did I, feet first down the slope on my back. Rocks and dead branches clawed at me, scratched my left arm. I dug frantically at the slope as I was sliding. My cane flew out into space, then clattered all the way to the bottom. I managed to grab a small bush and stop, though a veritable landslide continued on down to the canyon floor.

I slid about 50 feet and was now in a worse spot than the bad one from which I started.

“Freaking RB,” I cursed. “I won’t sell him my soul, so now he’s trying to kill me.”

I had no choice but to try to retrieve my cane. I wouldn’t make it far in this rough country without it.

The only way to it was to slide the rest of the way down the slope, so, I did, most ungracefully.

Got my cane and sat on a rock for 15 minutes, re-centered my strength, caught my wind.

‘Well,’ I thought. “I made it this far, might as well see if I can get to the upper part of the canyon by staying in the streambed.’

Had to climb several dry waterfalls, at least a dozen gigantic boulders, but RB was right. The little canyon was gorgeous, shady, lots of firs and oaks up this high, better than 8000 ft elevation.

Leaf-covered small pools occupied the base of every dry waterfall.

A bluebird zipped by, then a piñon jay, then a flycatcher chasing its dinner. Green and bottle-nose flies buzzed loud enough to wake a hibernating bear. Sunlight filtered through the spring-green oak leaves.

I just sat down on another rock and soaked it all in, thinking, ‘Wow, I wish Keli   could share this moment with me. She would dig this spot, probably take off her clothes and dance with the dappled shadows on that patch of cool, damp sand.’

Wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen her do that.

Topless hiking, biking and rock climbing are popular in the Magdalenas these days.

Sometimes bottomless, too.

Nobody seems to care, much.

Eventually, I made my way to the area about which RB had spoken, a series of tall, steep waterfalls and pools. I could hear R&B banging on rocks and a low murmur when they talked. I yelled several times, but I was sort of down in a hole and they never answered. I couldn’t go any further, way too steep, so I rested for a while and studied the other side of the canyon hoping to find an easier way back out.

Up there… a game trail… looked promising, but damn, it went up instead of down.

Double Damn.

More climbing.

I was exhausted.

I ran into several steep slopes where the trail just disappeared. RB and Bob wouldn’t know I switched to the other side of the canyon, but their side was clearly visible.

Still, the whole scene was a bit frightening.

Again.

Once I reached the mouth of the smaller canyon, the trail leveled out. I enjoyed the walk back, the towering evergreens, the fine weather, but I was tired and gasping for breath.

I rested on a log for a long time. R&B passed not fifty ft. from me, but I didn’t have the breath to yell. I whacked my cane on a rock, but they were oblivious. They never saw me.

They beat me back to the truck by 10 minutes.

The last part of the trail is uphill, but not very steep. Still, it kicked my ass. I was overheated and had over-exerted. I don’t think I could’ve taken

another step just then. R&B didn’t bat an eye, just handed me a smoke and a lighter.

I couldn’t say a word, just shook my head and tried to catch my breath.

“WTH happened to you, brother?” asked Bob.

Again.

I held up a finger, like, “Wait a minute,” and puffed like a steam engine with no safety valve.

My left arm was scratched and bleeding. My shirt was ripped, my back covered with scratches. My cane was beat to hell and back, the tip cover shredded.

I was finally able to tell them, “I made it to within a hundred ft of where you guys were,” then I told RB, “You can kill me if you want, bro, but you’re still not getting my soul.”

He grinned. “There’s always next time.”

Freaking RB.

We loaded up about 5:30. RB turned the key. Click. Click. Dead battery. “Oh. I guess I left the lights on. The battery’s dead.”

GD it!

Bob muttered and cussed. That’s just Bob.

You know the wizened, bearded old prospector from b & w western movies? The one that waves his arms, jumps up and down and chortles in toothless glee?

That’s what Bob looks like.

Especially if he’s not wearing his teeth.

We were parked on a slight incline. RB said, “Ya’ll push and I’ll see if I can crank it.”

Damn. I was beat and pushing just ain’t my thing.

So Bob and I pushed. RB popped the clutch, but the wheels just locked up.

“RB,” I asked him. “Did you have it in second gear?”

“Uh... no... first gear.”

Dumbass...

“Well you better get to walking, bro, it’s three miles down to where you’ll have phone service. Call Byron.”

So RB took off. Bob and I built a fire, then gathered firewood. I hurt so bad I could cry, but you know me, I didn’t say anything, just listened to Bob’s bullshit stories. He NEVER shuts up!

RB got back about 7. He climbed up high on the mountain rather than walk down the canyon.

Byron is coming.

This will be the second time he’s rescued me in a month.

He showed up about dark in Dr. Sharon’s Subaru. He immediately shut the car off and asked, “Hey, ya’ll got any water? This piece of crap has a blown head gasket. It needs to cool off before I can give ya’ll a jump.”

Then he asked, “Who’s got the beer?”

“Well, Bob and RB drank the beer they brought and I’m beer-less. Can’t drink it much anymore,” I said.

Byron looks at me, grins and shakes his finger. “You know if there’s a third rescue, you have to put out, like on a third date.”

“But I wasn’t driving either time!”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re the common, or uncommon, factor in this rescue business.”

The Subaru cooled off after 20 minutes and he gave us a jump. We followed him back to Socorro.

Got home at 9.

I feel all right today.

I guess if I come home bloody and with a story to tell, I had a good trip up the mountain!