Gila Legends: Traversing New Mexico's Most Remote Territory

Jake Quiñones and his posse delve into the Land of Enchantment. By Jake Quiñones (Article originally published in Overland Journal)

Amusement parks, motels, and roadside diners were not part of my up- bringing; the backcountry of New Mexico’s Gila forged many of my ﬁrst memories. Countless camping trips with my dad and sister all started the same: Friday aﬅernoon he would get oﬀ work early and we’d load the Bronco with a coﬃn-sized, waﬄe-topped Igloo packed with food, cola, and 80 pounds of ice before hitting the road. Pulling oﬀ the pavement at North Star Road be- fore sundown, Hagar, our white German shepherd, would be whimpering to be let out so he could run to our familiar camp along the Mimbres River. The road in was rough, and eating waterlogged cold cuts and hot dogs was common.

At the crack of dawn, I’d be playing in the river, whittling boats that would eventu- ally be lost to the current and climbing massive cottonwoods that had fallen across the watercourse. The trunks were carved with words I’d get the belt for repeating, lover’s names, and dates going back to the Great Depression. By lamplight I would study a dog-eared map of the Gila, exploring the canyons and peaks with my ﬁnger. Reading paperback Westerns in bed fueled my imagination; I became captivated by the legend of a young 16-year-old Henry McCarty, who earned himself a stay in the Silver City jail for stealing 2 pounds of butter and robbing a Chino copper miner of $70. Before Mc- Carty’s sentence was up, he crawled out the jailhouse chimney and ﬂed into the moun- tains. Years later he would make a name for himself as Billy the Kid.

The Gila region is rich with history and lore. In 1540, Spanish navigator Hernando de Alarcón led an exploration by ﬂoat from the Gulf of California up the Colorado River in an attempt to ﬁnd a waterway to the Paciﬁc Ocean. Part of his mission was to map the uncharted territory in support of Francisco Vázquez de Coronado’s pending expedition. Alarcón traveled up a smaller river from its conﬂuence with the Colorado, which he named Rio Miraﬂores (Flower View River). He was one of the ﬁrst Europeans to lay eyes on this region and body of water, now called the Gila River.

BANDITS AND WEEKEND ARBORISTS

Following a late-spring snowstorm, American Expedition Vehicles (AEV) gathered a group of adventurers in Silver City, New Mexico, for a six-day traverse of the Gila Legends Expedition route. As their guide, in the weeks leading up to the trip I had scouted large sections of the trail, moving fallen trees, surveying camps, and verifying that back roads were passable. Each team member was required to possess the ability, equipment, and provisions necessary to handle the trip entirely self-supported during stretches of up to 200 miles, and three days between fuel and resupply. Wine tasting, bison petting, and cabin lodging were not on the itinerary. The route would eventually lead us to Truth or Consequences and included a variety of terrain including desert, grassland, chaparral, water-filled canyon bottoms, and dense forest. Amongst the spread of vehicles were an AEV Brute double-cab Jeep Wrangler and Ram Power Wagon Prospector. The Ram would be the biggest rig I’d guided through the tight and technical sections of the Gila’s backroads. Its driver, Kent Klein, stood ready for challenge, sharp-toothed KatanaBoy saw in hand. Heading up the team was AEV’s Chris Wood, a four-wheel drive professional and trainer with over 30 years of experience under his belt. After a brief drivers’ meeting, like the Kid we made our own escape, bound for the Southwest’s farthest reaches

We turned off the pavement above the rural townships of Mimbres and San Lorenzo. Mustangs and mules greeted us a few miles up the boulder- and branch-strewn river road, circled a few times in curiosity, and galloped up a side canyon. Knowing the spot well, I stopped the group at a particular nook in the canyon and coaxed them to investigate the natural hideaway on foot. Steve, a lawman from California, looked at me cautiously from over his shoulder as he entered the narrow passageway, as if he’d put me down should I attempt a holdup. Bullet holes and inscriptions in the rock hinted at those that had preceded us: cutthroats, trappers, and Apache Indians. Only a rope was needed to climb the canyon wall to the rim and mountainside above. Ahead of an impending raid or posse drawing near, occupants of the hideout could make quick light and gain a healthy lead into the vast Black Range.

While navigating a primitive two-track from the Mimbres to the Continental Divide (without a single switchback) the radio crackled, followed by a voice with a heavy Detroit accent: “I’m stopped! Hot oil warning came on!” Glancing in my rearview mirror I could see Jim’s hood propped against the windshield—his transmission fluid had hit the boiling point. Waves of heat emanated from the Jeep’s engine bay, distorting the view of the canyon below. I dismounted, chocked the tires, and made my way down the steep trail to assess the situation. Despite the precipitous angle, waiting for the fluid to cool with the engine and fan running was the only option.

On pause, I took a moment to further study our surroundings. Between heat-induced, mirage-like ripples the Mimbres River appeared as a quivering silvery line, an image that took me back to boyhood. Rays of light projected through breaks in the clouds, illuminating small patches of foothills and dales that lead into the Black Range and McKnight, Reeds, and Hillsboro Peaks. On the southern horizon the Sierra Madre created a chain of sky islands over the Chihuahuan Desert floor—once a vast prehistoric ocean. After a second start up the mountain, we only made it a few hundred yards before Kent began his weeklong hobby as an arborist. Although his Ram walked up rocky inclines with ease, overreaching branches constantly taunted the glossy orange sheet metal. The path to a camp spot in Black Canyon led us along the Continental Divide and a portion of the Great Divide Expedition Trail, which straddles a thin strip of vehicle-accessible land that separates the world’s first designated wilderness areas: the Gila and what is now known as the Aldo Leopold.

WOLF HOLLOW AND LONE RANCHERS

By the early 1900s, bear, wolf, and beaver populations, as well as large swaths of forest were largely depleted throughout the Gila; the result of ambitious frontiersmen and entrepreneurs that overburdened the land. During this time, a young forester named Aldo Leopold began his career with the U.S. Forest Service (USFS). Among his duties was predator control in New Mexico and Arizona. On a day that would become infamous, Leopold fired his rifle upon a mother wolf and her pups that had just emerged from fording the swiftly moving river.

We reached the old wolf in time to watch a fierce green fire dying in her eyes. I realized then, and have known ever since, that there was something new to me in those eyes—something known only to her and to the mountain. I was young then, and full of trigger-itch; I thought that because fewer wolves meant more deer, that no wolves would mean hunters’ paradise. But after seeing the green fire die, I sensed that neither the wolf nor the mountain agreed with such a view. –Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac: And Sketches Here and There, 1949.

Later in life Leopold attributed the killing of the wolf as a pivotal moment, one that eventually changed the way he perceived the natural world. He pioneered the idea that the wildest sections of public land should be set aside and protected for future generations, absent of mankind’s mark. The lone inhabitants of the cave. Opposite, left column: A cave homestead. Cavalcade in a shallow canyon near Wolf Hollow. Perfect snowball-hurling form. Center column: Free-range mustangs and mules. Kent Klein versus a ponderosa pine. Daybreak at Black Canyon Creek. Right column: Ryan Racine takes a stroll in the Chihuahuan Desert. A relic tire swing. Gila baptism in the Mimbres River. Opening spread: The Black Range of the Gila. Wine tasting, bison petting, and cabin lodging were not on the itinerary.OVERLAND JOURNAL SUMMER 2016 112 Daybreak brought sunrays and the invigorating scent of pine and moist earth into the canyon. The new warmth caused steam to rise from the grass and drift into the tangled tree limbs above. Birds worked the silt- and ash-rich banks of Black Canyon Creek, hunting for bugs and calling aloud. Once proper coffee was brewed and our supplies stowed, we clambered up a set of switchbacks to North Star Road and the heart of the Black Range. In this country, the occasional passerby is not a gear-laden Subaru, but rather a lone rancher, pack team, or lawman.

Near Whitetail Canyon we crossed paths with an inquisitive landowner. He arrived in a Toyota pickup ahead of a cloud of dust and fiercely motioned at me to come closer—unwillingly I did. Inside the cluttered cab were bullets scattered over the passenger seat and a rifle stock perched against the center console. Tensions eased when he bellowed a friendly “Hello!” and inquired about our direction of travel. I didn’t get more than a few sentences in before he cut me off with a well-versed narrative. The topics covered were grazing rights, unusual weather patterns, a recent wolf killing by the Feds, and helping tourists (such as ourselves) “move along” down the road. In his parting words, he touted his precise marksmanship while referencing a road marker about 300 yards off.

The landscape central to the Black Range, Plains of San Agustin, and Mogollon Mountains trades off between high-desert chaparral, savannah (complete with golden grass and juniper), and park-like ponderosa forest. Our path west would lead us through Beaverhead, Wolf Hollow, T Bar Ridge, Loco Mountain, and Snow Lake in pursuit of the Mogollon Range. Some of New Mexico’s largest elk populations graze these areas, which in turn supports another animal’s feeding habits—the Mexican gray wolf. After near extinction in the 1970s, five Mexican grays were captured in northern Mexico and bred in captivity. In 1998, 11 were released into the Blue Range Wolf Recovery Area, which includes the Gila National Forest. The effort has paid off, as U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service estimates put the area’s gray wolf population at 50 in 2010 and an encouraging 109 in 2015.

FIRE IN THE HIGH COUNTRY

Due to a night of below-freezing temperatures and howling wolves at Loco Mountain camp, our group was a bit rough in character. My ambitions were to get the convoy through the snowcapped Mogollons and then descend into Reserve for supplies. The Gila’s high country features two extremes: thick forest and post-apocalyptic burn scar. From a distance, the fire-stripped trees appear as pencils stuck into the ground, while veins of untouched vegetation suggest the path and speed at which the fire moved. Within the burn it is common to find a dozen newly fallen snags across a roadway that was clear the week prior; the charred trees topple under the slightest breeze or precipitation. After miles of slush, clearing snags, and a morale-building snowball fight, we reached Corner Mountain, the highest point of the route. The San Francisco Mountains and Arizona’s White Mountains lay in the distance, and elk maneuvered gracefully through the steep, fire-stricken terrain.

During the spring of 2012, a lighting strike started the Whitewater-Baldy Complex Fire. It burned 465 square miles of the Gila and became New Mexico’s largest wildfire in recorded history. Fanned by Daybreak brought sunrays and the invigorating scent of pine and moist earth into the canyon. Lawman Steve led the way on the wide-open savannah of T Bar Ridge. The view of the San Francisco Mountains and Arizona through the Whitewater-Baldy Complex Fire burn scar (Mogollon Mountains). Opposite: A U.S. Forest Service wildland fire crew attempts to fortify a firebreak ahead of the oncoming Whitewater-Baldy Complex Fire.OVERLAND JOURNAL SUMMER 2016 113 hot temperatures, high winds, and dry conditions, wildland fire crews faced a monumental task. While photo documenting the fire I watched areas I had wandered since childhood reduced to ashes. An image that I will never forget was a lone cow elk that emerged like a ghost from the blackened forest and glowing embers. It was thought that nothing could have survived, yet the animal ran past our crew, seemingly unharmed and head held high, each stride raising a cloud of ash—a testament to its will to live and fight for survival.

ICE CREAM SANDWICHES AND GOBBLERS

Even though we carried extra fuel, a sense of pride came with coasting into Reserve on a single tank, some 200 rigorous miles after departing Silver City. Two gas stations, a market, cantina, and a few purveyors of fine goods highlight this metropolis of 300 persons. The economy is supported by timber, hunting, ranching, and forestry jobs. People that live here are rugged, resourceful, and represent a tight-knit community…and a well-armed one at that. Reserve made national headlines in 1994 when the Catron County commissioners mandated that “A gun and ammunition should stand at the ready in each home.” The call to arms came in response to the Clinton Administration’s gun policy; specifically, the Brady Bill and nationwide ban on assault weapons. Armed with only a sack of ice cream sandwiches, AEV’s Jeff Clark brought grins back to our weary faces. A group of burly men eating ice cream on a Wednesday afternoon amidst a filthy convoy and heavily equipped vehicles was a spectacle to behold.

A well-worn Ford F-100 pulled up and the door swung open before it came to a full stop. A slight, elderly man wearing a cowboy hat and boots hopped down from the seat and took a few steps toward the store before he turned back with an eyebrow cocked and half glare. A bit embarrassed, I lowered my Eskimo Pie, knowing we were about to be called out. “What are you boys doing here?” His tone was that of Mayberry Sheriff Andy Taylor lecturing Opie for skipping Sunday school to swim in a fishing hole. Still holding the ice cream, I told him we had just driven in from Corner Mountain. With a squinted stare and toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth, he looked over our rigs for what seemed like a long while and said, “What’s your business up there?” I explained that I had guided the group up the Mimbres, through the Black Range, across the Mogollons, and to this very parking lot. He remarked gruffly, “Spring turkey is all about done isn’t it? There’s a wolf pack moved in and milling around the Cienega. Slim picking for you, eh? Don’t see any gobblers bagged.”

I struggled to find words that described what we had been doing over the last three days was in pursuit of adventure. Our accomplishment, usually defined by miles, duration, road conditions, and images captured, suddenly seemed insignificant. His pickup, on which he now leaned, was rich with patina and dents. The headache rack was outfitted with two spares and a wood-handled farm jack, well-thought-out preparations for the mismatched and nearly bald radials at ground. He likely had more dirt miles under his belt than our group combined. All I could come up with was, “We’re not hunting. We’ve been driving back roads…camping.” “Huh?” he said, “Sounds like y’all are on a fishing expedition without any fish.” With that, he cracked a smile and walked away.

SAW TEETH AND ELK

In the next 24 hours we would cover less than 50 miles through the Tularosa and Elk Mountains, some of the roughest driving in the Gila. Wild turkeys scrambled up hillsides ahead of us, slow and clumsy with feathers flapping. I chuckled to myself about the Reserve elder’s doubts that we could catch a rafter given our procession. The old back roads of the Elks are rarely driven outside of hunting season, evidenced by the heavy brush that hangs and saplings that grow through the road’s center. Dry creek crossings and steep inclines are gullied, resulting in cut dropoffs and exposed, ragged bedrock. I brought the Ram to the front for bigtree duty—it had been looking a bit lazy mid-pack over the past few days. Chris managed the rigging and Kent doled out 429 lb-ft of torque from behind the wheel. Once the timber was parallel with the trail, the crew lined up to finish the job with an old-fashioned hand roll. We drove until sunset to reach Double Barrel Springs, our camp for the night. Situated atop a gentle mountain dotted by widely spaced ponderosa, our spot overlooked the distant Mogollon and Tularosa Mountains. The saw-dulling, back-aching handiwork brought us all a bit closer that evening. As beer was sipped and the whiskey bottle passed around, we recounted our day and told tall hunting tales of record-breaking bulls and savage cougars that refused to tree.

PLAINS OF SAN AGUSTIN AND THE RED PAINT PEOPLE

Exiting the tedious Elk Mountains we made tracks east on the smooth dirt highway that follows Railroad Canyon upstream to the high-elevation Plains of San Agustin. The plains feature endless grassland, rolling bluffs, and the sedimentary remnants of prehistoric water bodies that have been shifted by glaciers and wind. Antelope raced along a few hundred yards off, eventually outrunning us and crossing the road ahead. Atop a gentle ridge we passed over the Continental Divide one last time before beginning the long descent toward the Rio Grande Rift through Alamosa Canyon.

The washboard road along the canyon is highlighted by miles of parched arroyo and scrub-covered hills. At the southern end, an unexpected bend gives way to rock monoliths that rise from the landscape and form a sacred passage. Here, spring waters of Ojo Caliente bubble from the earth at the rate of a few thousand gallons per minute, forming the Rio La Cañada Alamosa (Cottonwood Canyon River). The waters that flow down the sheer walls sustain a green sanctuary, complete with dragonflies, reeds, and ancient cottonwoods. Butch Cassidy, during his early ranchhand days in the Gila, might have caught a nap and some shade under one of these very trees.

For centuries, the Warm Springs Band of the Chiricahua Apache (also known as Chihenne or Red Paint People) made a livelihood hunting, gathering, and fishing in this canyon. The arrival of Europeans marked the beginning of great change and turmoil for American Indians; boundaries were drawn and land was staked. After New Mexico was ceded to United States by Mexico in 1848 under the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, frontiersmen and the U.S. Cavalry moved across the West and the bloody Indian Wars reached their height. Among the sacred lands held strong by the defiant Apache leaders Cochise, Mangas Coloradas, Victorio, Nana, Loco, and Geronimo was the Rio La Cañada Alamosa. In the end, after three decades of battle, Geronimo surrendered.

I should never have surrendered. I should have fought until I was the last man alive. –Geronimo Goyaałé (kòjà:łέ, the one who yawns)

In the aftermath, the U.S. government took away most of the Chiricahua’s homeland and relocated them across the country, some as far away as Florida. Land along the river was divvied up amongst settlers, ranchers, and farmers who put up fences and shored irrigation channels. Today, the canyon is only accessible by a right-of-way as wide as the road itself.

As quickly as this lush oasis appears, it vanishes into the desert before reaching the Rio Grande. Our push toward civilization placed us on a gravel road surrounded by creosote and yucca, symbols of New Mexico’s Chihuahuan Desert.

On a downhill stretch, an endless line of glimmering windshields and semi-trailers revealed itself in the valley below. Pinstriped and dusted, our fleet looked a bit haggard compared to six days prior when we met in Silver City. While airing up at the pavement, words were few but grins were big. As for the Ram, it was a pioneer of sorts. Assisted by Kent’s precision driving it had emerged unscathed.

When the last of the group disappeared down the frontage road toward Truth or Consequences, being alone after six days of guiding gave me the inclination to hesitate on the roadside for a longer parting view. At a distance, the Black Range of the Gila appeared as a subtle, dark ridge against the horizon. Our brief, 400-mile excursion seemed inconsequential at best. What defines the Gila is its unforgiving terrain, diverse landscapes, and those that walked here long before; the American Indians who respected and lived off the land, and the legendary explorers that went without maps or guides and survived immeasurable hardship. When traveling the Gila, its history is as important as the journey.