THE CHIRICAHUAS

By Jim Hickson

An Apache Stronghold

A close friend recently suggested I write a blog about a few of the unique places my wife and I have been. At first I thought, hmm, it’s not like we’ve been to Antarctica or Katmandu, but on further thought…yeah, we’ve traveled to a few somewhat unusual places. Here’s one, among others, in Arizona.

My son and soon to be wife moved to Tucson and lived there for 7 years. Thus my wife, who I will refer to as “Clara”, and I journeyed to the Southwest multiple times in our retirement.

The Chiricahua Mountains which rear up in extreme Southeast Arizona are a bio-diverse area of numerous sky islands that exceed 9,000 feet. More impressively they contain a vast array of “hoodoos” which are pinnacles, spires and balanced rocks (which originated 25 million years ago in a vast volcanic explosion— erosion did the rest). The mountain chain contains 275 species of birds and exotic animals like ocelots, coatimundi and even jaguars and meld combinations of plants and animals found nowhere else on earth. We decide to camp in Bonita Canyon at 5,300 feet. A small stream gurgles down below our site. It’s early March and we are the only campers there.

The following morning Clara prepares for her exploration hike up higher, and I’m the driver. This is before my second ankle replacement, so I am limited to walking about a mile a day on fairly level ground.

Her solo hike is called “The Heart of Rocks” beginning at the Echo Canyon Trailhead (6,870 feet) and is said to be a nearly circular 7 miles. We agree to a pick-up point at a completely different spot from her take-off. It’s known as “Inspiration Point” and a mile away. She sets off from the trailhead at 10:30 with her daypack, food, water and maps. I expect her to take her slow and steady time and revel in the unusual beauty. There is one other empty car there; very occasionally a vehicle turns in, the tourists look around and drive off. (This is definitely not California).

I explore the broad turnout/trailhead, checking out the 360 degree views and after 20 minutes walk back to our Toyota van. But then, I realize I have no car keys. She has taken my keys with her and already vanished hundreds of feet down into a myriad of canyons and hoodoos.

Hoodoos Everywhere

What to do? Well don’t panic. I decide to read a New Yorker Magazine and sort things out later. After a while I put it down. Clara’s returning to a different place and may be gone most of the day. The sun sets around 6 in March. I’m above 6,800 feet and have no jacket or food. Two windows are half down.

She mentioned yesterday that she was putting her car keys under her sleeping pad back in camp. I need to get back down to our camp and then get back up here.

A car finally pulls in and I humbly ask them for the 7 mile ride back down to our campsite. They squeeze me in. But when I get to our camp there are no car keys under anything. I grab a jacket and some food and go out on the road to hitchhike. I try to recall the last time I did that.

Who’s going to pick up a 65 year old man in this remote location? A car goes by every 30 minutes. I hear a noise behind me. Three Coatimundi are foraging. They are an odd type of raccoon but not aggressive.

Coatimundi

Finally after about 90 minutes an old VW shudders to a stop. I peer inside: it’s a solo hippie girl and her dog. I climb in gratefully. The car smells like patchouli. She is is thin with layers of loose clothes and wild unkept hair with flowers or weeds in it. I can’t tell; I do not want to fully examine her. Dried sage and desert wildflowers line the dashboard.

Heh, “Thanks”, I say and tell her the story of the van and the car keys.

The dog shifts in the back seat. She nods. I notice her right wrist has three intricate bracelets and on her finger is a small turquoise thunderbird ring. This startles me, as I bought the exact same ring at a flea market when I was 23 and lost it when I was 43. It was my favorite ring and I’ve never been able to find one to replace it.

“Nice ring,” I say. Where’d you get it?”

“Oh, at some flea market.”

I exhale and change the subject. “So, What’s your dog’s name?”

“That’s Huxley,” she says. I turn around for a better look. An Australian Shepherd stares at me intensely with blue eyes.

“Huxley. Like Aldous Huxley,” I state. “Brave New World. Doors of Perception.”

She waits about 5 seconds and glances at me as she downshifts. “Did you know him?”

“Huxley? I’m not that old. He was before my time.”

Another 5 seconds and she smiles slightly. “Well, time is flexible, you know.”

Now I’m wondering if I’m in a Twilight Zone episode and have been transported back 40 years. I examine my hand and fingers. They look the same. Apparently I haven’t gone into a time warp and am not 26 years old.

She slows the car down as 3 Coatimundi cross the road. Strange mammals indeed.

I turn around to see if Rod Serling is in the back seat with a cigarette in his mouth. Huxley stares back, his eyes aglow. I decide to be quiet and let it all unfold.

Soon we arrive at our pull-out/trailhead after seeing no other vehicle the entire way. She stops next to our van which is all alone.

“You gonna take a hike today?” I ask, glancing at her sandals and thinking it’s getting late in the day.

“Yeah, I think I’ll drive on and take Huxley somewhere.”

“You know this road ends in about 2 miles.”

“Well, we like the end of roads. That’s usually the start of something else.” She pauses: “Good luck with the car keys.”

I have a feeling my little dilemma is a but blip on her radar. She’s probably slept in her VW with Huxley multiple times. I get out. “Thanks again.”

She smiles a bit more broadly. “Peace,” she says, shaking her bracelets and drives slowly away.

I am back, but now I have a plan. I’ve found a piece of cardboard back at camp and the van contains a sharpie and some duct-tape. I scrawl a sign to alert Clara that she “has the (damn) car keys, and I am stuck back where she started.” I hobble 300 yards down a steep trail with my hiking staff and tape the sign to a boulder that intercepts her trail, hoping she hasn’t already passed by, climb back up and wincing at my ankle, sit in the van and wait.

The sun is already low in the sky and it’s getting cold. Obviously I’m in no real danger, nor is she. It’s just another incident (and a possible uncomfortable night) in our long marriage of traveling errors and missed connections. I pull my parka around me and watch the hoodoos dancing in the shadows below.

An hour later a car pulls in and Clara emerges. She didn’t see my sign, but the one and only other party at her takeout did and as she was wandering around asked her if she was “Clara.” They then drove her back to our van.

She pulls two sets of keys from her backpack and smiles sheepishly: “Oops; sorry.”

We drive back down to our isolated campsite. It’s a cold night and we build a small campfire. I wonder about the girl and Huxley. Bonita Creek murmurs against the silence. Occasionally I glance around to see if some wild eyes are glowing from the bushes. But there’s no ocelots or jaguars, no green or blue orbs.

Our trip through southern Arizona continues for the another week.