As I progressed north I slowly learnt the form of the land along the southern section of the trail. A series of small but steep mountain ranges - the Huachucas, Santa Ritas, Rincons, Santa Catalinas - rise abruptly from the desert. They are known as ‘sky islands’ and when they are seen from a distance, soaring above the pale desert, it’s clear why. The route crosses each of these ranges, climbing through a series of different environments en route - Sonoran Desert up to 1,100 metres, semi-desert grasslands dotted with cacti and small shrubs between 1,100 and 1,600 metres, pinyon pine-juniper-oak forest between 1,600 and 2,200 metres, subalpine forest with tall pines and firs above 2,200m. Above 3,350 metres alpine tundra is found but only one small mountain range in the north of the state, the San Francisco Peaks, reaches this height. Elsewhere the mountain summits are densely forested and, as you ascend, the vegetation becomes thicker and taller and there are fewer views, a reverse of what is usual in other mountain regions.
It takes a while to realise that the most open landscapes and widespread views lie at the feet of the mountains not on their summits.
The easiest walking lies at the top and the bottom too. In the desert, plants are widely spaced due to the lack of water. On the summits, trails wind between tall conifers whose shade prevents much undergrowth. In between, bushes with long sharp thorns grab and catch your clothing (one is known as the ‘wait-a-minute’ bush) and tear bare skin. There are cacti too but these I found easier to avoid.
After 350 km of sky islands the mountains fade into a sixty-mile stretch of low, hot Sonoran desert. I’d been warned there was no water so I accepted the offer from Jim Martin of the Arizona Trail Association to drive me round the dirt roads of the area so I could cache some. I hiked this section with Jake Schas, the only other through-hiker I met on the trail, as we both had water cached at the same places. Although fairly flat the Sonoran Desert is fascinating for the wealth of cacti, including huge saguaros that can grow to 15 metres high, and the bird and animal life. The latter includes javelinas, a pig-like animal of which we saw several. Much of the walking was on dirt roads and we had to skirt round private ranches on a few occasions.
Ironically the Sonoran Desert crossing ends with the only serious river ford on the whole trail. The Gila River was deep, fast and muddy where we reached it, full of snowmelt from the far distant Black Range in New Mexico, and it took an hour or so of searching before we found a wide section where the water rippled over rocks that looked safe to cross. Even so it was thigh-deep and powerful in the middle.
On the far side lay the White Canyon Wilderness, a wonderful desert landscape of red rock canyons and cliffs and a great contrast to the flat lands to the south. The scenery here is some of the most impressive on the trail and it was invigorating and inspiring to thread a way through the canyons and climb over rocky ridges and passes after the plod along the dirt roads.
This area is small though and we went through it in two days to the next supply town, Superior, where I went back to solo hiking. North of Superior lie two very rugged desert mountain ranges, the Superstition and Mazatzal Mountains, which are lower than those to the south but much larger in area so the trail stays high for longer. The scenery here was superb and the feeling of remoteness and solitude great but the walking was the toughest along the trail, both due to the rough steep terrain and the heat and lack of shade.
In the southern Mazatzals I had the hardest days of the whole walk on the approach to Four Peaks Mountain. Between the Superstitions and the Mazatzals the trail dips briefly back down to the Sonoran Desert at Roosevelt Lake. It then climbs steeply back up for some 2,000 metres with no water for about 36km. I started out carrying one and a half gallons of water, having already drunk as many soft drinks as I could in the store-cum-snack-bar at the lake. The sun was high and hot and the trail ran straight up a bare ridge with no shade anywhere. Even with my sun hat on and my umbrella up, I was soon overheating. The water went down alarmingly fast. Eventually trees started to appear; black skeletons as the whole mountainside had been burned. (I later learned the fire had been in 1996 and had burnt 60,000 acres). A sign warned of flash flood damage and sure enough the trail soon became washed out into deep V-shaped ravines or loose scree and earth slopes, making the going very difficult. A tangled mass of bushes, the first regrowth after the fire, added to the arduous nature of the climb. After 21km and 1200 metres of ascent I camped for the night with just one and a half quarts of water left.
When I left the next morning on the ascent of the 2,015 metre summit of Buckhorn Mountain I had just a pint. The climb was a desperately hot sweaty scrabble up steep, loose ground and through sharp spiny undergrowth that scratched my legs and tore at my clothes. It took one and a half-hours and a great deal of water loss. My mood was one of aggravation and worry when I reached the top but this was swept away as a magnificent bald eagle, its white head shining in the sunlight, flew over the ridge just 15 metres away.
From the summit the remnants of the trail were easier to follow as they ran along Buckhorn Ridge towards the impressive face of Four Peaks Mountain. Finally, late in the morning the trail improved and I speeded up and, soon afterwards, unexpectedly and wonderfully, found a tiny flowing creek, snowmelt from the north face of Four Peaks Mountain. The feeling of relief was enormous and the water tasted marvellous.
Beyond the Mazatzals the nature of the trail changes again as it reaches the Mogollon Rim, a long rocky escarpment that stretches for hundreds of kilometres across northern Arizona. The Rim is the southern edge of the vast Colorado Plateau, which stretches north into Utah. Most of the Plateau in Arizona is between 2,000 and 2,500 metres high and forested, mostly with Ponderosa Pine. With a good trail in the trees, little ascent and fewer views I sped through this area, soon reaching the town of Flagstaff and then the San Francisco Peaks, the highest in Arizona. These were still snow-covered and I abandoned my attempt to climb Mount Humphreys, the highest summit at 3,850 metres, when I reached 3,290 metre Fremont Saddle as the snow was deep and the slopes were getting steeper.
Further forest and open grassland walking led rapidly to the stupendous, awe-inspiring Grand Canyon. The trail crosses the Canyon by way of the popular Bright Angel and North Kaibab Trails. To camp in the Canyon a permit is required. Permits are limited and, unsurprisingly, those for campsites along the trans-canyon trails had long been taken. However, I was able to get a permit to camp along the Clear Creek Trail on the Tonto Platform on the north side of the Colorado River. This involved 500 extra metres of ascent and eight more km of distance but it meant I could camp alone and wake to the silence and glory of dawn in this magnificent place.
The 1,800-metre climb out of the Canyon through Bright Angel and Roaring Forks Canyons is long and steep but the overwhelming beauty and grandeur of the scenery makes every step worthwhile. On this crossing the hardest walking was on the more gentle trails at the bottom of the Canyon, as it was 35-38°C in the shade. In the late afternoon it became cooler.
Beyond the North Rim of the Grand Canyon the trail returns to the forest for the last 85 miles, finally leaving the trees as it descends into beautiful Coyote Canyon with the red rock cliffs of Coyote Buttes rising above, a superb finish to an excellent walk.
Did I learn about the desert? To some extent but, more, I learnt that convenient labels don’t fit the ebb and flow of the natural world. Cacti and conifers grew together in places, ribbons of bright green deciduous trees traced the line of creeks while cacti rose from the arid slopes just above. The Arizona Trail passes through a wide variety of landscapes and habitats and it is fascinating to see how these merge into each other.
The Pacific Northwest Trail
The Northwest USA is a land of mountains and forest, a wild land where bears and wolves roam. Through this magnificent country a route threads its way from the Rocky Mountains to the Pacific Ocean, passing through three national parks and seven national forests along the way. The Pacific Northwest Trail is a 1,900 km mix of signed footpaths, abandoned old
trails, dirt roads, animal tracks and cross-country hikes. Eventually a complete signposted trail may exist but it was a long way from that situation when I hiked the PNT in 2010, making it an adventure requiring route-finding skills and the ability to deal with difficult terrain. The PNT guidebook doesn’t lay out a detailed route that is easy to follow but rather advice and suggestions. The author says conditions range from perfectly built and groomed paths to ‘hellish jungles’ and warns that ‘you are going to have to work to enjoy the Pacific Northwest Trail’, which is just the sort of challenge that appeals to me.
One of the newer long distance trails in the USA, the PNT was conceived in 1970 by hiker, conservationist and writer Ron Strickland. Since his initial exploration it has developed into today’s network with new sections of trail being constructed every year. In 2009 the PNT became an official National Scenic Trail.
Ron’s idea was for a trail running from the Continental Divide, the watershed of the USA, to the Pacific Ocean. As such the PNT begins on the Continental Divide in Glacier National Park in Montana, just south of the Canadian border. Having already walked south and north from this point on the Continental Divide Trail and my length of the Canadian Rockies walk the idea of beginning a third long walk and heading west from the same spot was really appealing. The route also crosses the northern end of the Pacific Crest Trail (and in fact follows it for a short distance) in the Pasayten Wilderness in the North Cascades and the idea of linking that trail with the Continental Divide Trail was also attractive.
I planned on starting the trail in early July, when the snow should have mostly gone. I began the Continental Divide Trail in late May and struggled through deep unstable snow in Glacier National Park. This time travel should be much easier, there was more likelihood of sunnier weather and I hoped to fully appreciate the glorious mountains of Glacier National Park. The autumn weather in the North Cascades on the Pacific Crest Trail had also been stormy. This time I’d be there in summer.
Between the Rockies and the North Cascades the PNT runs through the Purcell and Selkirk Mountains, the Kettle River Range and the more arid sagebrush country of the Okanogan in the states of Montana, Idaho and Washington. From the Cascades the trail descends to sea level at Samish Bay to the east of Vancouver Island and then follows the coast round to the Olympic Mountains before crossing this range to the shores of the Pacific Ocean and Cape Alava, the westernmost point in the 48 contiguous states.
Neither the start or finish of the trail are actually accessible by vehicle so any hike of the PNT involves extra mileage at both ends, though it’s only 6 km from Cape Alava to the nearest road. The start is in remote wilderness however and it takes a day and half over a high mountain pass just to reach it.
As well as dealing with complex route finding and difficult rough terrain hiking the PNT also involves much ascent, with altitudes ranging from sea level to nearly 2,500 metres. The terrain is mostly forest and mountain, with some coastal and more open drier sagebrush landscapes. . Temperatures can range from below freezing in the mountains to over 35°C in the Okanogon country so it’s necessary to be able to deal with these extremes. Rain is likely, especially in the Olympic Mountains, which records the highest rainfall in the continental USA and where there are rain forests, and snow is possible in the highest areas of the Rockies and North Cascades while in the Okanogon and the east side of the Olympics hot dry weather is likely.
Creating a long distance trail like the Pacific Northwest requires a phenomenal amount of work, energy and commitment. Routes have to be explored, trails constructed, signs erected, information provided and amenities checked (natural campsites, water sources, viewpoints). The volunteers of the Pacific Northwest Trail Association, founded in 1977, have spent thousands of hours on this work. Without them there would be no trail so every backpacker who loves long walks in wild country owes them gratitude. Providing a trail for walkers is only a starting point however. The real value of long distance trails is in the protection they give to the landscape through which they pass. As Ron Strickland says at the end of his guidebook to the trail ‘saving it for others is the ultimate challenge’.
I successfully completed the Pacific Northwest Trail in 2010 and described the walk in my book Grizzly Bears and Razor Clams.
5
VISIONARIES OF THE WILD
In his classic book Desert Solitaire, Edward Abbey writes that the earth is ‘the only paradise we ever need if only we had eyes to see’. As well as the outdoors we can find those eyes in the words of writers on wilderness and landscape, including Abbey himself. These ‘visionaries of the wild’ are walkers, climbers, thinkers and philosophers who set out to inspire and educate with their love of the wild, and who, to a great extent, have built our view of the nature and value of landscape and wild places. I’ve been inspired by these writers for many years and re-read their works regularly, often lying in a tent or under the stars far from the noise of roads and the bright lights of the city.
Writings on wilderness go back thousands of years but our modern visionaries really begin around two hundred years ago with the Romantic Poets, especially Wordsworth, who greatly shaped the way we see the landscape of the Lake District. British poets continued to write about landscape, Ted Hughes being the best late twentieth century example, and it appears as a backdrop in many novels. Direct, non-fiction British writings on wild landscapes are rare though, and it is to the USA we have to look to find a tradition of wilderness writing
The first major literary figure in this movement for wilderness is Henry David Thoreau in the mid-nineteenth century, living and writing beside Walden Pond in Massachusetts and exploring the forests and rivers of the North-Eastern States. Thoreau put forward the idea that ‘it would be well perhaps if we were to spend more of our days and nights without any obstruction between us and the celestial bodies’ and, most famously, ‘in Wildness is the preservation of the world’. Thoreau saw human beings as part of nature, not apart from it, and wilderness as having great value to humans. It was the beginning of a revolution in thinking about wild places.
Although most noted for his contemplative sojourn at Walden Pond Thoreau also saw the value of walking. Indeed, in his essay entitled Walking, he wrote ‘I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits, unless I spend four hours a day at least--and it is commonly more than that--sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields, absolutely free from all worldly engagements’.
Six years after Thoreau died in 1862 John Muir, an immigrant from Scotland, arrived in the Sierra Nevada mountains of California, a seminal event in the history of landscape and wilderness preservation. Whilst Thoreau had bemoaned the destruction of nature he did little to prevent it. Muir however used the power of words to describe, praise and defend the great landscapes of the Western USA, especially the Sierra Nevada.
Muir was a long distance walker who walked a thousand miles from Indianapolis to the Gulf of Mexico by the ‘wildest, leafiest, and least trodden way’, a mountaineer who made many first ascents in the Sierra Nevada, a scientist who showed that glaciers had carved the landscape of the Sierra Nevada and a campaigner who founded the Sierra Club and wrote articles that led to the creation of Yosemite National Park. He also wrote a vast number of books and articles from which many quotations are regularly pulled, perhaps most often, ‘do something for wildness and make the mountains glad’.
Muir revelled in every aspect of wilderness, climbing trees in storms to experience them swaying from side to side, edging to the brink of waterfalls to feel the shaking of the ground and the roar of the water, and sleeping out on snowy mountain sides with just a coat to cover him. One of my favourite quotes, which I try to remember as more rain sweeps across the Highlands, is ‘when I heard the storm and looked out I made haste to join it; for many of Nature’s finest lessons are to be found in her storms, and if careful to keep in right relations with them, we may go safely abroad with them, rejoicing in the grandeur and beauty of their works and ways’.<
br />
After Muir a succession of American writers wrote in praise of wilderness, the most significant of which in the first half of the twentieth century was Aldo Leopold, an ecologist and forester and founder of The Wilderness Society. Leopold developed the ideas of an ‘ecological conscience’ and a ‘land ethic’, major parts of current environmental thinking, writing that ‘conservation is a state of harmony between men and land’ and ‘we abuse land because we regard it as a commodity belonging to us. When we see land as a community to which we belong, we may begin to use it with love and respect’.
Leopold saw wild land as being necessary for human beings saying ‘wilderness areas are first of all a series of sanctuaries for the primitive arts of wilderness travel, especially canoeing and packing’ in his classic book A Sand County Almanac.
At the same time as Leopold was writing, a Scottish climber by the name of W. H. Murray was writing an equally important book called Mountaineering in Scotland, a book written twice in prisoner-of-war camps, the first version being destroyed by guards. Through the 1930s Murray had made many first ascents on rock and ice in the Scottish Highlands and was one of the premier mountaineers of the time. However, his climbing came out of a joy in wildness and his book is packed with wonderful descriptions of the mountains and the effect they had on him.
After a night-time winter ascent of Buachaille Etive Mor he wrote: ‘We had set out in search of adventure; and we had found beauty. Thus we had found both in their fuller sense; for in the architecture of hill and sky, as in great art and music, there is an everlasting harmony with which our own being had this night been made one. What more may we fairly ask of mountains?’ Realising that his beloved Highlands were threatened by development Murray became an active conservation campaigner, his greatest victory, for which we should be very thankful, being the prevention of a hydro-electric scheme in Glen Nevis. Of industrial developments in the Highlands he wrote in Scotland’s Mountains that ‘they could invariably be sited elsewhere than the regions of outstanding landscape quality; sometimes at a greater cost in money, which civilized man should be prepared to pay’ and lamented that ‘to find a wholly wild scene, unmarked by man’s building, one has to go ever farther into the hills’. That is even truer today.
Out There Page 13