Gila National Forest - Stoner Creek, Pine Spring Mountain

Fall color on Stoner Creek

Pine Spring Mountain towers

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Old trailer abandoned along the creek

It's been awhile since I've been out to southeast side of the Black Range. Back in the early 2000s, I made three trips to Tierra Blanca Creek and one over in Trujillo Creek. I had been thinking about doing a hike in the section of Macho Canyon that is on Gila National Forest land, but it appears that private lands block vehicle access to the Forest Service boundary. I have vague memory of this not being so back twenty  years ago. If any of you out there know the situation, please let me know, as I would still like to visit this canyon one day.

Well, I began looking around for nearby options,  and became intrigued while looking at Google Earth by the bare rock towers and formations on the southern end of Pine Spring Mountain. I had a destination. Then I  saw that it was a short hike over an easy pass to reach Stoner Creek when parking along Tierra Blanca Creek. I had a trailhead. Off I went on Veteran's Day ( Thursday, 11/11/21). I love getting out on weekdays when I can, especially during hunting season, to be assured of solitude, although most of the places I go it's pretty much assured anyway.

 Everything was going well. I was making good time on the lonely backroads NM 26, and 27 and then was cruising along at a good clip on the well maintained county miles of the Tierra Blanca Road ( FR 522), when I pulled up behind trailer going around 8 miles per hour. They didn't notice me, which would have been nice, to let me around. It was pretty tight on the road, as it was, but we could've figured something out. I began to worry they were actually going to try and pull that thing onto the really rough part of FR 522  where it veers off to the north for a few miles before returning to Tierra Blanca Creek. If that was the case, their speed was probably going to slow to about 1.  I knew I was in for something stupid, but it turned out  be more of a knuckler than I expected. At the one closed gate, a passenger from  their vehicle gets out to open it. They pull through. Then the guy motions for me to pull through also. I'm reluctant, but I do it. I'd just as soon close my own gate and give these people a chance to find a place to pull over so I can pass. Anyway, the driver hasn't pulled very far past, so I have to pull up very close in order for the passenger guy to close the gate. As the guy is closing it, just barely clearing the back of my truck, for some unknown reason the driver starts to BACK UP!!! I'm honking my horn like crazy. I don't want to throw truck in reverse, because I'm not  even sure the passenger guy has closed the gate yet and could be right behind me. It's all happening so fast, but so slow at the same time and then comes sickening inevitable contact of his spare tire hitting the front of my truck. I'm still honking my horn like mad, but it seems to take way too long for him to realize what he's done and stop. He gets out of the truck and comes around  as I get out to inspect any damage and says something about me being "so close "and  how he " can't see" me. Which begs the question that I didn't ask,  IF YOU CAN'T SEE WHAT'S BEHIND YOU WHY THE FUCK WERE YOU BACKING UP?  Instead I just told him I had to pull up close so his friend could close the gate. After which a stupid sheepish look came over his face. We looked at the front of my truck together and really didn't see any damage other than a  broken clip or two on the plastic bumper cover. I tell him it's all good ( although later I find a few plastic pieces that are slightly off kilter) and we start to move on again. I'm hoping they will have the decency to let me pass at the first opportunity, when, after passing  the well traveled entrance to a dispersed camping area, they turn abruptly, bouncing and then breaking a fresh path through the embankment. The trailer followed the truck and I watched, horrified, as it tilted entirely onto one set of wheels. Then,  it tilted even farther over to one side so much so that it seemed destined to be lying on its side in the middle of road.  I thought " grrreat, first this guys hit me, and now they're going to block the road by flipping over their trailer." By some miracle, it righted itself,  and although I would've liked to have had a look inside just to see how badly things had been re-arranged, I just had to trust that it was a little bit of instant karma. 

Tierra Blanca Mountain

  Soon after I was on the private property bypass section of FR 522. It wasn't any better that 20 years ago, but it was any worse either. After FR 522 veers off to the north, I drove a short ways on FR 4146, parked  once, thought better of it, drove just little bit more, and then parked at the second to last little camping spot right above Tierra Blanca Creek. The road only went a little farther, and it was definitely not worth it  to drive any farther.                                                                                                                                          

Tierra Blanca had a nice a little flow and a few trees in their fall color where I crossed. On the other side I immediately encountered the aerial ballet of  30 or so butterflies as they lifted off from their perches on the leaves of  a scrub oak. An amazing sight and I thought it was surely a good omen for the rest of my trip. Four steps later I stumbled and had a painful fall. . . 

Tierra Blanca Creek

                                                  

                                      

Upward I went through piñons, junipers and mountain mahogany. The rock formations at the top of Tierra Blanca Mountains glowed on my left, The cliffs on the east side of the ridge extending south from Juniper Peak stood stately and tall on my right. 

Quickly, I was at the saddle and then descending on a good cow trail in the dust and sand. At the bottom was a wide clearing along Stoner Creek that was a bit sad to behold. In fact the entire little box canyon that I subsequently passed through has been used for far too long without a rest. It was a little a bit astonishing there was any water in the creek at all given how dry it's been for the last couple of months, but there was hardly any growth of willows, or new alders,  or even grasses along the banks. A very lightly used ( and then only by ORVs) road wove through the bottom, and a few cattle shook their dusty behinds and moseyed on at my approach. I  couldn't shake the thought that this stream could and should be running ( at the very least in this little box) year round or nearly year round if the allotment could be designated for resting. Narrow leaf cottonwoods, ash and a few oaks provided a bit fall color to ease my distress.

                                       

                                                 

                                                   

Stoner Creek

After the box was the confluence of the west and north branches. The latter had some flow,  while the former had a wide and dry bedrock channel. It was also lacked any shade so was just a tad warm as well.  A young deer clued me in to where my turn would be as  I arrived at the ravine channel that  comes down from the saddle south of Pine Spring Mountain. Up I went.There was an easy livestock/wildlife trail to follow and soon I arrived at the muddy spring.  Wet though it was, there was  there was very little vegetation of any kind surrounding it. It's a popular spot with  the hoofed crowd.

Near the confluence of the two branches.
Rock towers of Pine Spring Mountain are
in the center distance.

Old trough at Pine Spring

Pine Spring

                                             

Pine Spring Mountain highpoint

Up and up I went still. The massive bare rock towers came into view only briefly.  Even as I  arrived at their base, happening upon two large deposits bear scat, they were impossible to photograph through the conifer forest. A  high two tiered dry waterfall was directly in front of me, so I began hiking steeply up the left side, slipping on pine needles as I went. I made it up quickly, and now was on the bedrock basin below the peaks with nothing to obscure my views and photographs. I carefully crossed over to the other side, snapping photos as I went, of distant views, and the mountain directly across ( to the east ). I worked my steeply down the other side at times on six points, but eventually the grade let me stand and retrace my steps through the forest.

 When I arrived back at the confluence, I headed upstream in the north branch, following the narrow road for a bit before sitting down near the creek and eating my lunch in the shade of the tall alders as they shed leaves in the afternoon breeze. This would be nice alternate hike to  complete another day- walking up the the rest of Stoner Creek in the shade of its many deciduous trees, as it was I only explored a bit further before heading back.

At my truck, I ate my orange, and listened to Tierra Blanca Creek. The afternoon sun lit up the gold and orange in the leaves of trees up and down stream from where I stood.

Organ Mountains-Desert Peaks National Monument - Mesa Azur

 It has no beginning. It has no end.

What is the sum of a man after he's gone?

"This I can't believe I said, I can't believe our warlord's dead . . ."

 Songs, bits of melody, snippets of lyrics are always coming to me in commentary to so many situations I encounter. This was the first one after we got the news that my best friend, really the only close male friend I've had in the 23 years I've lived in Las Cruces, had died. It's  from  a song by Elton John called Indian Sunset. It has a cliche pentatonic melody, historical inaccuracies, conflates eastern, plains and southwestern Native American groups and is over 6 minutes long to boot. Still, for all that, it is an effective performance, hitting the right emotional notes as it depicts the last days of a warrior and his family still engaged in the struggle against the ultimate and complete dominance of "white men."

  I probably hadn't listened to the song in over 10 years, maybe more. It had seemed faintly, or even obviously ridiculous to me for years before that, and I was in the habit skipping right to track 2, Holiday Inn, on side 2 whenever I listened to Madman Across the Water.  Yet at some point during that day, I went out in the yard and sang the entire song, remembering the lyrics as if I was 14.

Why? Because I couldn't believe it. I said it over and over again. " I can't believe it." I could not believe I would never see my wonderful friend again. This relationship, which was a huge part of my life, was done. 

 " Pissing in a river, watching it rise . . ."

 The first line of a song of utter desolation and hopelessness, Pissing in a River. This song, by Patti Smith, of longing unfazed by the humiliation  of desperation is a brutal few minutes. It's seems when it ends it's from the physical exhaustion of the singer who ultimately must accept the finality of lover's decision not to return. It's a song of lost love for sure. There are many more of those type of songs out there than songs that deal with death specifically, but this crept into my mind once before when my friend Scott Daniels died at age 43 when he aspirated his own vomit after a binge of opiates and alcohol. It was one of three songs that played over and over again in my mind ( the other two were The Byrds' He was Friend of Mine, and the Rolling Stones' Sway).  

 "Ain't never was, never gonna be, another big shot like me . . ."

  I think of this chorus, from Dr. John's wonderful swaggering song Big Shot, in a happier way. When I think of all the students I have taught, most of whom have reacted positively to my style of doing things, I often think of telling them " enjoy this time, because you are never going to meet anyone like me again." I think that some of them know. When I think of David, who was as humble a man as I've ever met,   I think of the first time I realized he was kind of big deal. We had known each other a few years and had only begun to sketch out plans for our book Exploring Organ Mountains-Desert Peaks National Monument and  were both serving as guides for the ARARA (American Rock Art Research Association) convention that was being held in Las Cruces that year. I got into conversation with him at the initial gathering,  and somehow ended up asking him who the keynote speaker was the following night. "Me" he said. I don't think he would have mentioned it otherwise. It doesn't sound like much, but that's when it began to dawn on me my friend was kind of a big shot in our community and our state. Of course he was, but he was only my friend when we were together and there never was, and is never going to be anyone like him in either capacity.

David Soules' memorial was a hike up and a gathering on  top of Mesa Azur, the massive flat topped mountain at the center of the Sierra de las Uvas ( one of, if not David's favorite mountain range) which culminates at its southwest end at Magdalena Peak,  or as David would frequently say " Mag" Peak. Friends and family hiked up the paved road. David Crider's Southwest Expeditions provided food, drink, chairs, and port-o-potties ( on a little trailer) brought up along with those who couldn't or opted out of hiking in a couple of vans. Eventually after eating and small talk, we gathered the chairs in a circle and told stories about David.  I learned enough about my friend to know even though I didn't know him nearly as long as most of the people there, I met him at the right time in his life and in my life.

                                                

 I got up and told a silly story about the first time I hiked with David along with Nancy, Eric and other friends on a long, warm, winter day in the canyons and mesas right below the mountain we were standing on. Our relationship really grew out of those hours in January spent together. It had always seemed strange to me that at least part of the reason I had been invited that day was because I had blurted out ( wrongly, most likely, feeling a type of pressure that led to a misplaced need for one-upmanship) a kind of speculative lie about how there were petroglyphs down in Pine Canyon. I knew it wasn't true, at least from the perspective of having actually seen any, but I also knew it could very well be true. I'm not sure what the ultimate point of the story was except maybe that something  really good can grow out of less than ideal beginnings. I never told David about this little secret. He may have known all along, but if he didn't  he probably would have thought it all very funny had he ever found out. It was an odd unburdening for me. It probably isn't the last chapter, as I journey to a self free from petty competitiveness, but it was an important one.

 That story was what I chose to tell, because if I  had said what I really wanted to say, I wouldn't have gotten very far, or all the way the way through, for the absolute guarantee of some real crying happening. If I had been able to it might have gone something like this:

 "  A lot of thoughts, a lot of thoughts. . .  I'm going to try to keep it simple. Most of you  don't know me or know me very well, but David knows, sometimes I have a lot to say. I was thinking many here have known David for much longer than I did. I only got seven years or so. I was sad about that, but I thought about it and I know we met at the right time, and perhaps a younger version of me and a younger version of him might not even have hit it off. I can't look back very far, but to tell the truth I was mostly thinking of the future.  Places I wanted to show him, places I wanted to go with him, and  a St. Patrick's Day dinner invitation  that had been put off for two years. I had this idea we'd  be happily stomping around forest and desert well into our seventies together.

 It's fun to listen to everyone talk about David. And everyone holds the version of him that resonates best for them, each in their own heart and it's good as well not to take for granted all the universal qualities, his kindness, generosity, curiosity, passion, intellect, friendliness, integrity and of course  even more, that gently permeated every variation of himself he presented. But on the morning I heard that he had died, my wife, on the phone, getting the news from Edan Luschei, said something like ' David's had a heart attack, or 'David died last night' and my immediate response was ' My David?!!'  My David. Oddly enough I know a couple of other Davids, but we wouldn't be getting a phone call early on a Saturday morning about them.  Of course it was my David, the panic and terror in her voice, I won't forget. In my heart I suppose I was reaching out for it to be some other David. Some David that I would spend a few hours or  a few days thinking about, and then file away with things that get lost and are never to be found again. But it was my David  who left me . . .

 It's right and good to talk about Mr. David Soules, all that he was, and all he accomplished, and how much he was loved, but the thing is I don't really want to talk about David, I want to talk to David. I want to see him smile ( the last time we talked face to face we were wearing damned stupid masks), hear him laugh, and see the light in his eyes. I want him to make me laugh, smile and see the light in mine. I want to dig deeper into all the issues that concerned us that we expounded on so forcefully. I even want to convince of him, that  his stance on some of these issues to my mind, displays some decidedly disordered thinking. I want him here. Now.

O Captain, My Captain . . . 

I'm little more lost now. The little shine that is left on the world for me is a little duller. In time perhaps I'll come through it all. I try sometimes to hear his voice in my mind, and I do, but I can't pin down what his death should mean, or what our friendship meant, only that it was, and it was good.

 Most of my close friends over my lifetime have been at least some small or large part scoundrel. It was a very new thing for me, to have a friend like David who was so different. I was ready for it happen, just not ready for it to end. There is some strange comfort now,  knowing I will never have a friend like him again. I don't have to struggle with expectations ever again. I know David had many, many friends.  He was my only close friend,  and maybe, sadly, the last intense male friendship I'll have. He was my best friend. I don't know if I was his. Something inside of me wants it to be so as if I was kid again. It's okay if I wasn't. When we were together, it felt exactly like I was and it was a gift to be like kids again, playing in the rocks and dirt, exploring without a care in the world ( at least for a few hours). That was the best of all."

                                        

 After the story circle, the gathering began to break up. Andrea and I walked off to the south on the road and we looked off the edge of the mountain. I saw so many places I'd been to, some with David, some without. Then we walked back and steeply down the road. It was a good few hours. I will always miss my friend to the end of my days.