November 17, 2019
Miles: 16
Camp: Laguna Meadow
At 6:30am I sit up to face the sky that’s barely blushing awake to the east. It was much warmer last night, perfect conditions for a deep sleep, despite the lack of tree cover and warnings that cold air has a tendency to slink down off the rim to freeze the desert below. With all my gear in arms reach, I make a rare hot breakfast without so much as leaving bed. The rest of camp gently rustles awake, until our whole little row is sitting cozy watching the morning light shift in slow motion toward a clear morning blue. How quickly the desert brings people together, from randos toward trail fam in a few short days.
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Thanks to Joannah for the group pix!
We’re walking again by a respectable 7:45am, heading for the gentle ridge just beyond camp. The trail quickly becomes more undulating, the path more overgrown. A barrage of sharp desert plants assaults my legs, still raw from yesterday’s slashing, until I break down and put on my wind pants. “You have scratches on your scratches” says Riddle, who has wisely chosen to wear pants.
Between the costume change and stops for photos (purple prickly pears! the Chisos!) I fall a bit behind. Staying on track while avoiding the encroaching stabby-grabby plants demands my full attention. Thankfully the wind pants reduce the slices to pokes, but the day’s heat is already building. I scan each new fold in the earth for signs of our next water source, until, after a few increasingly steep ridges, there are actual trees and impressively tall grasses visible below. I catch the gang as we descend to Fresno creek, which is running as promised, in a steady if slightly sulfurous stream right across the trail. Some argue that what sparse water can be found in these arid West-Texas parks should be left for the non-human residents, but I cannot see the trouble in sharing a source running strong like this one. Scooping the last liters from secret potholes might be a different matter.
After our water break, we pass last night’s intended camp, a clear flat patch with a nice view that would have struggled to accommodate all seven of us, even without tents. More troubling in the present moment is the realization we’re just starting “today’s” miles, there are still many to go before our cache at then the infamous climb back into the mountains. The cumulative elevation change stretches the group out once again, as we scramble out of each tiny dry drainage and through the next dry wash (Riddle later reports the day’s elevation change as: 4790 up and 1994’ down). Finally, we reach last of the ridges on the Dodson stretch, and are rewarded with a whole new set of views all the way to Mexico, our upcoming spin around Carousel mountain all laid out ahead.
The trail zigzags pleasantly down the large slope to a wash below where we steal a quick break in the scarce shade of some scrub. From there, it’s an easy stroll to the smooth, breezy coolness of the Homer Wilson Ranch. I marvel at the stone construction and perfect alignment that make the patio feel fully air conditioned. We take a sprawling lunch break, limbs resting, feet freed of socks, dew-damp gear strung out in the sun. Matthew and Jake kindly fetch our water from the cache box ¼ mile away, and then somehow, we peel ourselves off the cold floor and back on trail. It’s after 2pm now, our proper campsite is 6 miles away still, all uphill and exposed to the now afternoon sun.
Blue Creek is somehow the best and worst part of the trip all at the same time. The sandy wash drags against each forward step, sweat stinging the countless tiny cuts crosshatching my legs. The exact route through the braided wash is tricky to follow and we miss some cairns on the way upstream, though we find the proper exit to the more defined trail just the same.
A group of older men heading the other way seem skeptical of us reaching our intended camp, and admittedly my own confidence is starting to falter. I’ve been leading as the ‘middle paced’ member of the group, knowing I can maintain a steady but not too speedy pace for the group on the uphill. But is this late day push worth it for those struggling right now? This trip is too beautiful and short to be turned into a suffer-fest. We regroup and discus our options, and all remain committed to continuing on so we do.
As with all big desert elevation changes, there’s so much magic if you look for it. And this is the true gift of the OML. From towering red rock formations we enter surprisingly dense forest, a tunnel of willows, madrone and ancient oaks. There are red flowers that look like sky rocket, and so many desert ferns which I didn’t even know were a thing. Ever upward we walk until we emerge above the canopy, the switchbacks visibly daunting up ahead. But we’ve done the majority of the elevation gain by now, and the grade is gentle. My mood has shifted from sand drudgery to elevation elation. The views grow more expansive with each switchback, sinking sun perfectly framed by the valley behind us, until we make it to a rocky outcrop that is golden-hour viewpoint perfection. This, I think to myself, is also Texas. I have forever forfeited my ability to hate on the hiking in the state.
We reach camp in the very last of the dwindling light. I’m so proud of our group for pushing through – that was a lot of hill at the end of the day, packs loaded with water for dry camp and beyond. Though the site is spacious, the cowboy contingent lines up for the third night in a row, chatting like old friends until the stars grow bright.
Adventures in Natureculture 