Assault on the North Face

Here and there in the more rugged parts of the desert, there are dark, deep places where water gathers and stays long after everything else has dried up. There is precipitation here, after all; snow in the winter and monsoon rains in the late summer. At least a few times a year the dry washes are dry no more: It's possible to get caught in flash floods, though it takes a special kind of foolish. I've awakened to the sound of pounding water and found a torrent rushing by at the foot of the ridge where I live. These floods can carve out whole new channels in minutes, push boulders before them, cause cliffs to calve and crumble like glaciers.

Mostly, of course, it isn't that dramatic, though I could show you places where the drama must have cataclysmic at the time. Still, water does flow. And when it stops flowing, it leaves its remnants in these dark, deep places.

I wouldn't presume to believe that I know them all, but I know four or five of them. One in particular always intrigued me. I discovered it quite by accident almost a year ago. It was higher than any I'd seen before, and more exposed to the sun, but full of water when others had already gone dry. In fact it was quite a climb to get to it; if I hadn't happened to see a bird drinking where I didn't think there could possibly be water, I'd never have suspected it was there. It was deep and apparently floored with rock, which also made it unusual. I wondered if it might not actually be a spring, though no spring had any business being there. I meant to go back and check it out during the dry time, but last year went bad and I didn't do a lot of hiking for quite a while.

Still, since we've been getting back into the canyons a lot more lately, I thought the boys and I should go pay it a visit. This would be an expedition of a few hours. You have to go deep into the big canyon and then climb a steep tributary. Once you've arrived, the most practical way to get back down is to climb the rest of the way to the plateau and hike about halfway back, then there's a reasonable slope that dumps you into the canyon.

We started out early. Since I had to bring water and was going to need my hands, I left the carbine home and wore my gunbelt. The boys were excited about the whole thing, because I loaded them into the landlady's jeep (they love that) and drove up the wash to where it ends and the canyons begin. I knew from experience that this indulgence would prove very welcome on the way back. It's a helluva walk.

So when we got to the canyons the boys spilled out and thrashed around for a while before settling down for the slog up the canyon. At first it's mostly easy sand, but then you pass between two almost identical boulders I call the gateway, and the fun begins. Rock is tumbled everywhere here; at one point there's a trio of standing stones the size of Winnebagos that mark the point where you stop hiking and start rock climbing. Then it settles down a bit, but there's always something that needs to be scrambled over. A few miles inside the canyon proper, you come to a steep, narrow tributary with nothing in particular to recommend it as a tourist attraction. That's where the hole is, and it's a climb. The boys and I mostly stuck to the canyon wall here; the going's easier that way. We finally got to the water hole, which to my disappointment really was as dry as all the others. As I figured, there was no spring here. But at least I got to confirm its configuration. It was just a really deep hole in the rock, with no underlying sand for the water to soak into.

Now the real fun started. From here it was fifty or sixty steep feet up the north wall, by no means all vertical, and neither the dogs nor I had any trouble making the climb. The plateau is the highest point around, and the view is amazing. In places it's virtually paved with flat, fractured rock, as if you'd discovered some huge, ancient highway. We'd been walking and climbing for maybe an hour and a half by now: The cold was immaterial since I was soaked in sweat. I'd only been here once before, but remembered the way well enough. Turn west and keep walking until you find the slope back down to the big canyon. I guess I was starting to get really tired - I'll blame it on the altitude, and not that I'm a decrepit old man - because even Magnus was pretty much bounding down the rocky, snowy slope and I was just trying to keep from getting killed. "Yeah, easy for you guys," I muttered. "You've got four legs and a lower center of gravity." The potatoes and toast I'd had for breakfast had pretty much run out.

By the time we got back down, I was running out of steam fast with a mile or more of rocks to climb down. But when we got to the gateway stones I figured I had it beat. Here the walls are vertical and very tall, and the snow is deep on the floor of the canyon. My carbon fiber foot slipped on an unseen rock. Tired and off-balance, I just fell right over. Naturally another rock under the snow was perfectly placed to smash into the one meat shin I've got left. I just lay there and said "ow" for a while, but I wasn't really hurt; just very tired. Magnus, bless him, trotted back and whined in my face; I braced myself on his shoulders till I could get back to my feet.

It was still a few hundred yards, and around a couple of bends, until the Jeep came into view. "Oh, ye beautiful piece of Chrysler-bred perfection," I breathed. We don't usually go that far, or that high. Magnus had come back for me before, and I hadn't even wondered where Fritz might be at the time. Addicted to 'going for a ride,' he was standing vigil by the door. As always, he was afraid he might miss his chance if he turned his back on the Jeep. I just sighed. "Dude, I've got the keys. It can't leave without me."

So now the boys are sacked out like they'll never move again, and I smell like a goat and have a lump on my shin the size of a chicken's egg. I think this evening we'll just stick to walking up and down the road.