Out in the wilderness, with food and bed on my back, is the only time I ever feel anything like “freedom."
 |
| Towel creek trail |
With sons grown and working, coordinating schedules is now the only difficulty. Employers don’t accept a note from Dad as a work excuse.
Dudine thinks I’m too old to backpack alone, thankfully sons two and three, Leroy and Malcolm, and their friend “Ant,” were able to join me on a trip down little-known Towel Creek to the Verde River, an official government “Wild and Scenic River.” (The rest, I suppose, Tame and Ugly.)
 |
| Towel Creek trail |
It was the first backpacking trip ever for Ant, and it didn’t begin
well. At the remote trailhead, he grabbed his pack to put it on (for the very
first time!) and tore a shoulder strap completely off. I had foolishly assumed
his gear would be functional, and he foolishly brought gear so old the fabric
had dry-rotted.
However, in the single most virile act I’ve witnessed in all our treks, he rigged a shoulder strap with a “bungee cord” and insisted we proceed anyhow. (And never spoke a word of complaint thereafter.)
 |
| Towel Creek |
Towel Creek runs through cattle grazing land. Cattle, their feces, and
disastrous overgrazing, are part of local history. The Verde (green) Valley was
indeed green when the white conquerors arrived, but now it should be renamed
Moreno (brown). This used to anger me but now I shrug it off. Desert-grass
cattle grazing is far less freaky than force-feeding them (sickness-inducing)
corn in a prison setting.
Also, modern desert ranchers have been forced by nature’s economy to graze critters sensibly. Rich hippies have become ranchers, and ranchers a little bit hippie. For the better.
Also, modern desert ranchers have been forced by nature’s economy to graze critters sensibly. Rich hippies have become ranchers, and ranchers a little bit hippie. For the better.
 |
| Towel Creek ruin |
We saw our first “cowboy” within a couple miles. He was wrestling
rocks off the old jeep trail to “Towel Tank,” one of the many little earthen ‘check
dams’ that catch scarce rainwater for cows (and deer and ducks and coyotes).
“You’ve walked a long way,” he said, and we hikers laughed.
The next wrangler rode a little gas-engine “quad,” had hauled salt blocks to popular cow hang-outs. The third was riding one horse and leading another. This guy knew Leroy, they’d been wise-cracking back-row classmates, and we all chatted. He was a horse-hollerer, his critters skittish and misbehaving. “You’ve got a long walk ahead of you,” he told us. Ha-ha, boo-hoo.
By the end of the day we would walk seven-plus miles, carrying 30-40 pounds each, and sleep on cold ground not comfy beds. Simple proof that backpackers are much tougher than cowboys nowadays.
 |
| Towel Tank crap field |
Every good flat camp spot along the trail is covered with crap. Also,
the cows don’t pay one lick of attention to the trail cairns (rock stacks that
mark the way). Most of the route was obvious, these old trails had begun as
animal trails, become Native trails, only recently cattle and new native fools
like us.
On the way we passed the old “line shack," which the Gub'ment website incorrectly states is still used. If I had to rate it for a travel website I would give it negative five stars.
 |
| Towel Creek "line shack" |
The afternoon faded, the trail climbed out of the creek, and tall dry
grasses obscured most of the cairns. No creature had been down this section
since the last good rains, months ago. We wasted a lot of time wandering to
find the route, finally went off-trail based on an old topographic map, and
stumbled down the last steep hill by the light of the moon. (We had quit
carrying flashlights (and tents) years ago--unnecessary weight.)
The Verde gurgled nearby, we heated dinner and threw down our beds, too tired to build a fire. Across the river (but 30 miles by road) lights shone from an old ranch. No escaping those hopeless electric eyes, it seems. Through the night we repeatedly woke up, cold, except Malcolm and his inner furnace.
 |
| @ Verde River |
In the morning, play time. A nice warm fire, and a stroll to find a
better camp spot. Then we struggled through brush and rock-climbed, hoping to
find better water to drink than the “dirty Verde,” but Towel was dry where it
met the river. Hurray for water purifiers !
Like childhood play, ours could be practice for real life. The ability to survive in the wild is far more critical than a closet full of guns. If you can’t carry your arsenal (and a full pack) anywhere, you are just another sitting target, for government drones and other killing machine enthusiasts.
We also gathered firewood and broke it with rocks. Though time-consuming, I’d rather gather wood and haul water to survive than sit in an office, but maybe that’s just me. Dudine considers backpacking one of the most purely masochistic activities a human could voluntarily pursue.
As the sun sank lower, the young men began their camping sacrament.
Gin and Alligator-Ade, (a ‘fortified’ sports drink!) Their plan to ration their
drink over two nights was soon abandoned. We decided the “five-second rule”
does apply to food dropped in dirt--a gritty mineral supplement. Beans are a
camping staple, and soon we were all stinking out loud and laughing.
Our firelight shadows danced in the trees, our smoke and laughter rose into the night. All but Malcolm wore more clothing to bed, to stay warmer, with mixed success.
 |
| @ Verde River |
Next morning I headed back up the trail to locate public housing from
a few centuries ago. The young men stayed at camp to do what ancient
hunter/gatherers often did: nothing.
 |
| Towel Creek ruins |
This old complex has become the bat cave.
 |
| Towel Creek ruins |
Bats do not clean house, it stank. Nice view though.
Did the former tenants enjoy the view too? And before them, who
wandered this vast landscape? Did they feel something like freedom all day?
There is another ‘ruin’ but I was too tired to search it out. Got back to camp as it was getting dark.
The last night all but Malcolm put on nearly every bit of clothing
we’d brought. Leroy wore nine pairs of socks! Malcolm wore one extra shirt, and
slept partway out of his sleeping bag. All reported a warm sleep, finally.
The hike out became a bit of an adventure. My fault, as expedition
leader. In years past I hiked behind to keep an eye on my babies, now they hike
so fast I have no choice. Early in the day I lost them, or they lost me.
Observing footprints, to develop my tracking skills, I noticed their
flattened-grass tracks going off trail...I thought.
After a while I stopped and waited. But what if I was wrong and they were far ahead?--and I hurried on.
I waited again at the little spring in a side-canyon that cows hadn’t fouled, where we had planned to lunch and pump water. No fresh tracks, they had to be behind me, but what if...? Onward!
 |
| Towel Creek trail |
They, too, took a long break when they got to the water hole, debating
whether I was ahead and hurrying, or below some cliff with multiple fractures.
It became a nervous comedy for both parties. I hurried and waited. They finally began to hurry, ignoring the nagging worry that I lay bleeding somewhere. Ultimately, it was our mutual trust that kept us from panic. I knew they would find their way back to the trail; they know I am a careful hiker whose only injury has been a broken pinky finger (when I slipped while squatting to poop, deep in the Grand Canyon).
 |
| View from trail looking south |
We finally reunited at Towel Tank, happier to see each other than we
would admit, I think. They hurried ahead and I straggled to the truck at sunset.
I don’t hate civilization, I am always glad to eat a greasy burger and sleep in a (warm!) bed. I don’t love civilization, either; it must have been the first day of work for the idiot kid at the burger joint, all but incapable of putting our food order into his electronics. Pardon my profanity, dumb child of the conquerors. Too many cars, too many all-night lights for no reason, too many stupid human slaves.
Contrary to the patriotic propaganda, freedom is free. But all our “convenient” crap, and dirt-wage jobs, and
bossy ignorant people with their churches and governments, conspire constantly
to take it from us.
I am deeply grateful for the places out here in the western United States that are still as rugged and wide open as 20,000 years ago. I will wander whenever and wherever I can until I can’t. Even if I must dance with cow pies. Smells like freedom!
 |
| Towel Creek trail |
No comments:
Post a Comment