West Fork of Oak Creek Canyon - May 21, '01

"I'm exhausted, I think I'll take a bath and call it a day.", whined the intrepid trekker.
"Don't you think you should take a shower first?, teased the eternally maternal wife.
"What?, Why?", I cried, incredulous at the Gracie Allen twist.
"Because if you take a bath now, you'll just end up sitting in mud!"

Generally, she whips on me!

The trouble seems to begin just after I lose the trail - my trail finding skills are not developing very well, perhaps it has something to do with my penchant for not following the crowd. Why walk along a dusty, crowded trail, which has been routed scores of yards from the bank, when plowing along the edge or right up the middle of the streambed is more fun and does just as well? The answer of course is that we must take care not to disturb the habitat - walking needlessly up the banks or streambed is understandably frowned upon, so I minimize that mode of touring but still occasionally manage to get my feet wet. Going from the path to the stream and back again does tend to leave one's legs, socks and sneakers all virtually indistinguishable, a uniform chocolate brown. On this trip to the West Fork of the Oak Creek, the patina was not limited to my lower extremities. 

But I have gotten ahead of my story. When you can drive the best family car to the trailhead, park in a paved lot complete with lot attendant and a "Parking Lot is Full" sign, you know that for your day's excursion you are joining a crowd which Disneyland would envy. Once the asphalt trial leading away from the parking lot fades away, it is replaced by a three-foot-wide path which has been ground down 3 to 4 inches into the dirt. This is not an easy geographic feature to lose. But I did, and not just once!

The first time was not my fault, really. Early on I caught up to an elderly couple and we fell into a conversation about digital cameras. As we walked along, we overtook a pair of twenty-something girls trying to hike with 3 leashed dogs. It was amusing, even if it was slowing us down. Shortly, the bunch of us came to a point where the path appeared to cross the stream and the three of us old folks just followed the girls and dogs, letting the girls find the trail on the other bank. Big mistake. I immediately recognized that this new trail seemed less traveled but still it was obviously well traveled, so I presumed that it was a branch trail which would rejoin the main trail shortly. Everything appeared fine except I also noted that it was virtually straight up a steep incline. Soon the trail started to transverse highly exposed roots and other gnarly entanglements; the girls and dogs gave up and turned back. Now pride began to displace common sense; I wouldn't turn back before those other two old geezers did, one being a woman and all. We pushed on, further up the hill side until the path began to loop around a narrow but steep ravine that dropped back down to the streambed. The other two turned back, but not I; now I had to know where this well traveled path lead; I pressed on. A few minutes later I found myself in an overgrown thicket that even Briar Rabbit couldn't pass and I knew why the path was so well traveled; all the morons like me had to traverse it twice, because there was not other way out - for most people.

Initially, stupidly, I scouted for a path down to the stream - I was on an extreme slope; a slick hill covered with dead leaves and fallen pine needles and which was totally undercut by the stream - no chance for a direct route down without a 60 to 70 foot drop to the streambed. Having to use trees for handholds, I grudgingly turned back like the multitude had done before me. And then I saw it; the Roger Route to the bottom, that narrow ravine which I had passed on the way in would be my shortcut. The first part of the decent into the ravine was steep but manageable, covering about half of the way to the bottom. The rest of the way however was nothing more than a narrow crack in the canyon's granite wall. The crack was a little over shoulder width and lead to what appeared to be a level, leaf/branch covered bench about midway down. Spotting a few footholds I started down, lowering myself most of the way without any problem until a foot slipped and I fell the last couple of feet. When a foot hit that "bench" it sank above the ankle in muck - Yuck! Shaking the filth off my foot, I walked to the edge of the bench to peer down; the rock wall was undercut; it was about 25 feet to the streambed; there were few footholds; areas of the crack were wet; my shoes were wet; the return climb back to the top of the ravine looked impossible; I had no good options. I reflected that at moments like this, you gain an appreciation of the term commitment.

There was now where to go but down, so I ventured forth. Almost immediately one foot slipped but I was able to hold myself with my hands while I re-planted the offending foot. After lowering myself a few feet, I slipped again but this time the foot slipped as I was changing hand holds, instinctively I attempted to turn my back into one side of the crack to push against the other side of the crack with the one foot that still had a grip. My backpack blocked my turn - I thought I was a goner - but somehow I managed to jam a shoulder and hip against one slimy rock wall while pushing with the tenuously holding foot against the other side - it was enough to arrest my slide. In this manner, I slowly slipped and slid in a semi-controlled fall as I made my decent to the streambed. And that is how the patina came to cover more than my lower extremities. Scary stuff, huh? I love it.

Remember a few days ago we were discussing the issue of appropriate toys for children and seniors. I thought that it was unanimously agreed that old folks should not be given ropes for any purpose. This week after safely negotiating the Roger Route, another one of my sojourns off the main trail took me under one of the undercut cliffs which has obviously been used as an illegal campsite. As I was leaving the area, I came across a 25 - 30 foot rope, just lying there doing nothing useful. Now it is in my backpack, just lying there, waiting to widen the potential world of trouble for me.

The hike up the West Fork of Oak Creek is a beautiful, level and easy trip (I guess, if you stay on the path), and while it yielded several scenic photos they were all rather pedestrian - typical of riparian habitats - perhaps some of them will find their way to the proposed web site. I did have my new tele-converter lens with me but did not find any instances requiring it's use this week. (That darn Fly Catcher departed just as I managed to get it mounted on the camera!). Next week I hope to have a new wide angle converter lens along, as I continue to hone my photographic skills prior to the Spain trip.

Well, it's getting late, I am stiff and sore, so I am going to go to bed. But remember, any and all of you are invited to join me on any of my treks; pleasant, easy little walks through the wilds of Arizona.

Lov from Phoenix
Pigpen and Sharon