Backcountry, Part I

We are on the mesa between Frijoles and Lummis Canyons in Bandelier National Monument, two hours into a three day hike, walking at a brisk clip toward The Rio Grande. Tom is in the lead, next Kathleen, and I am bringing up the rear. There’s about thirty feet between each of us. Kathleen turns around and speaks to me and I look up. I don’t register what she says, but I see Tom beyond her, jumping and falling to the left. Under his fully loaded pack he crashes into the low scrub, twigs and dust flash up. My first thought is he’s turned an ankle, but he yells, “Snake!” And then I hear the rattle.

But where is it? Nor is it known if the beast has its fangs buried into one of Tom’s legs. The furious buzzing comes from the right, Kathleen and I dash toward Tom as he collects himself and gets up. To everyone’s relief, he did not get bitten. Tom then points to the snake, apparently it’s just off the trail. Still I do not see it, its camouflage is so effective. Then, yes, there it is, and my eyes go wide. I’ve had a number of close encounters with rattlers, but never one this big. It’s a diamondback; I never see it stretched out so cannot speak about its length, but I do get a good view of its girth. It is about five inches. Hold your hands in front of you and make a fat oval with your thumbs and forefingers that’s about five inches across. Yes Margaret, that’s a big snake.

Tom gets out his camera. I speak to him in my little used, reserved for special occasions, most stern voice, “Tom. Do not go any closer to the snake.” The reason I know not to do this? Well, years ago I disturbed a rattler one evening while out for a walk and happened to have my camera. I’d given it a wide berth, but decided to maybe get a few steps closer for a picture. The snake had been quite gracious up to this point, but in a instant it coiled and was ready to strike. This was now serious business. Slinking away while apologizing profusely for my obvious blunder, it seemed like a good idea to make note to self for future reference: Do not go any closer to the snake.

Kathleen suggests in a similar tone, “Tom, use the zoom. That’ll be good enough.” Now Tom is a common-sense guy, but at times like this it’s maybe ok to just reaffirm this a little bit. He does not move an inch closer. Kathleen ribs me later about my stern tone, I guess it came to her as a surprise I even had one. Tom however, is bleeding. We let our heart rates slow, and check him out. Luckily his wounds are superficial, in need of a little cleaning up and that’s about it.

Welcome to the backcountry. The further a person walks, the deeper a person goes.

At the mesa’s edge we are greeted with sweeping views of the rio, the banks are lush with the youthful greens of spring, this powerful river winding through the desert, el agua, es vida. We are treated to slopes covered in wildflowers. Entire hillsides, purple; others, yellow or white. Wild plants flowering in this environment, what a momentous thing, taking so much of the plant’s energy, and of course crucial to their continuation. We stop at Kiva House for a bit of shade and to have some lunch. This pueblo ruin is situated on a bluff with a commanding view of the river. The indigenous peoples sure knew how to pick a spot.

We continue along the escarpment roughly paralleling the river, then up and over another mesa. As forecast, a wind picks up. Each time we are hit with a gust - some are potent enough to nearly knock us off our feet - I think about the connection between winds and spirits. Of what might these gusts portend? Could they be warnings… or welcomes? I do not know, but the wonderment, the feelings are strong. This place, being out here… something inside of me is opening up. I’ve felt this many times in Bandelier, it is mysterious.

Hiking into Capulin Canyon, we’ve been on the trail for nine miles and we’re feeling it. Well, Kathleen and I are. Tom continues his stride, and we joke with him about being The Energizer Bunny. Like all the canyons in this area, Capulin got a good washing out in the flooding last fall. The trail is indistinct - partly from the flooding, partly from lack of use - and comes and goes. We are hiking in brush and rocks, prime rattlesnake habitat. Maybe I’m still a little… um, rattled. We visit Painted Cave, one of the gems of Bandelier, but keep it brief knowing we’ll return tomorrow.

Capulin is known to have a continuously flowing stream, which in large part is why we chose it as our destination. But arriving here, all we see is dry sand streambed. And I do mean dry. It is full-sun hot, windy, and not a drop of water is in sight. We share our concerns and discuss our options and continue up canyon, and hope. As we hike, Tom digs his toe into the sand and a few inches below the surface there is dampness, a very good sign. If push comes to shove, we could dig a pit and hope some water would accumulate. Then we see patches of dampness on the surface and bright green algae (some parts are edible, I’m told)… and then it goes away. And then a trickle, and further along more of a trickle.

Wind screams up canyon as we hike the streambed wash. At least it’s at our backs. Walking in soft sand takes considerable extra effort, and blowing sand swirls around us, but compared to the mostly non-existent trail through dense brush this is the path of least resistance. The canyon narrows and we head for a stand of ponderosa pine and the shelter it promises. In this wildness, the heat and wind, I turn to Kathleen and say, “Even though I’m exhausted, even though all of me hurts, I’m still having a great time.”

Kathleen, the eternal optimist, says in reply, “I’m glad to hear that,” and nothing more. Hang in there kid. Indeed, we all reach a point. This country can test your mettle, and we’re all looking forward to getting these packs off our backs and calling it a day.

The trickle of water turns into a bona fide stream which raises our spirits. The ponderosas stand on a slightly elevated shelf, it’s grassy, the trees provide great protection and the stream is only a stroll away. Camp! Oh, sweet heavenly camp! We nose around and pick spots to pitch our tents and set to it. In less than an hour we are comfortably ensconced around a boulder next to Kathleen and Tom’s tent site. It has a relatively flat top so we name it “the table rock.” Tom finds a big black glassy chunk of obsidian and decorates the table with it. Our water bottles are now full and we snack on hard salami and trail mix. And we’re all looking forward to dinner, the main course this evening: black bean & chicken burritos.

Tom is our executive chef. He pulls “the stove” from a tiny carry sack and holds it up for me to examine. In packed form, the thing is barely larger than a walnut. “That’s the stove?” I ask. He grins, unfolding it like a transformer toy and screws it onto the top of a fuel cylinder. And there it is, a little burner with a regulator and little supports for a pot, in other words, a stove. Amazing. Must be a NASA spin-off, and a lot more impressive than Tang. He fires up the little baby and puts some water on to boil. The sun is on its way down and pretty quick, being in the canyon, we will be in shade. As our star dips, so does the wind (a good thing), and so does the temperature (a not so good thing). Rather, the temp does not dip, it falls like a stone, so hot food is going to hit the spot. We stir all various things into the pot of now boiling water and let it sit. Patience is a virtue… a hard thing to come by at the moment, waiting for dinner when we’re famished and cold. Kathleen packed in fresh tortillas, and in a few minutes we are totally chowing down, we are happy campers.

Now (belch), where is the cheesecake? Just kidding, there is no cheesecake, but there is chocolate. Ah… the end of the day, we’re here, safe and sound in this most beautiful place and we have chocolate. So say yes to chocolate, and enjoy the good life.

We loiter a bit after dinner, sharing a few stories, but even though it’s only 7:30, with bellies full and the temp going down, with eleven miles carrying full packs through snake infested (slight exaggeration) desert behind us… there’ll be no singing ‘round the campfire. We are fading fast. Whooped. QED.

After wishing one another a good night, there is the sound of tent zippers zipping. Having spent nearly all my childhood summers living in a tent (Ok, shameless self-promotion here: please go to Amazon and buy a copy of “Summers In A Tent,” thank you very much.), this sound touches a feeling of “welcome home” in me like no other. And right now, being inside my little tent and slipping into my down bag, zipping it up snug against the cold, feels sooo good. Night descends upon the canyon like a long, relaxed, exhale. I lay awake, recounting my great good fortune to be with dear friends, in this moment and place.

Sister moon comes up, casting lazily drifting shadows of tree branches and foliage across the glowing canopy of the tent. There is no wind, a deep quiet as comforting as my sleeping bag wraps around me, only to be pierced by the sounds of jet aircraft, madly slicing the night sky to faraway places people must get to. Oh, what we bring upon ourselves.

Nonetheless I fall fast, fast asleep.

Gordon Bunker