NM: Sapillo Creek to Gila Hot Springs, 17 miles

The night’s are not cold yet.

I still opt to sleep inside the alicoop, my tent, just to be snuggled in on a bed of grass right next to the babbling creek. It also offers a modicum of privacy from the fire starters across the trail. To be fair, they’re quiet but I can’t help but wonder how they’d feel if a spark set this beautiful place on fire.

I’m eating breakfast when a young man passes. He doesn’t see me, but offers a “Good morning!” to my neighbors then plunges into the creek towards the Gila. He’s one of those slender hikers carrying a tiny pack the size of a book bag. You know the kind that makes you to wonder how on earth he has enough warm clothing stuffed in there let alone food.

I get kind of judgey and bummed out that I don’t have the Gila all to myself, even though knowing other hikers are using it gives me courage that I’m not a crazy lady for starting so early.

Aw, forget about him. He’ll be miles ahead in no time.

Packed up now it’s my turn to plunge in and walk the short bit to the main river. I’ve been told this next few crossings is the worst of the entire river because it’s overgrown from flooding and it’s nigh impossible to find a trail. I carefully move forward determined not to lose my way and off I go on my first day on this famous river.

A canyon wren sings its swoopy melody, echoing off the rock walls. An elk browses nearby but all I can see are dried bushes blocking me from the river. Surely I need to cross here somewhere. Am I meant to just plow straight through?

Indeed that is exactly what I’m meant to do. I did read something somewhere about wearing long pants and long sleeves in New Mexico because the plants have a way of eating you alive. I do it to avoid sunburn, but happily I am not scratched, just covered with giant prickly burrs hitching a ride to get planted further along. Even trying to pull these off is an unpleasant chore as they prick my fingers.

My first plunge into the Gila is a deep one, a “crotch toucher.” Not cold really, but startling in its depth. Where does all this water come from? The snow in the mountains naturally, but now in heat and drought, it’s hard to believe t here’s so much of it.

New Zealand trained me well to cross rivers and even at that depth, the current is light. Mostly I need to use my trekking poles to ensure I don’t wipe out on the rocks which have a slippery coating.

I push on through but there’s no obvious path to join on the other side. No need to panic, this is what was expected, but I am checking my GPS over and over to ensure I’m on the correct path. Other hikers mention to not follow the GPS but rather a dotted line in the map layer itself. Who knows! Just when I’m ready to give up, a path appears and I walk it until it disappears again into prickly covered shrubs.

Cliffs rise above and I’m amazed at just how wide the flood plain is on each side. Water-loving Sycamores grow tall in here, their lower branches like arms shrugging at me when I ask if I’m headed the right way. Upstream is right!

I’ve already started counting my crossings just for the fun of it and ten pass within the first hour. Oh wow, I’m going to be wet all day. As I mentioned, it’s not cold and the water feels good. I feel good. But I will say, this wind is starting to build.

When I checked the weather in Silver City, utterly freaked out by the plunging temperatures, I only casually glanced at a warning for high winds and dust storms today. Not too much dust down in this gorge, but the wind is absolutely wild, I’d say 40 mile-per-hour gusts. I’m afraid my hat will go flying while I’m crossing the river.

As I move into double digits, I turn around to see the young man behind me. What happened?! I wonder. He tells me that he got on the wrong side and was climbing some cliff. So maybe I wasn’t all that far off in the end. I assure him I have no idea where to go next and he says with a laugh, “Well, it’ll be the blind leading the blind then!”

I introduce myself as Blissful and he calls himself Dots. With that, we’re off, crossing again at a spot where swallows dive bomb the water surface and I get my picture and video for posterity. Surely we must be coming out of the difficult section by now.

Not exactly. I choose one side and Dots chooses another knowing we should eventually meet at a trail. This time it’s my turn to climb along cliffs and into washes, wasting time on eroded banks and in and out of eddies. I had heard that beavers build dams especially during times of drought when there are fewer floods. It’s makes for some deep crossings.

Indeed we eventually meet again, this time Dots ahead and find a well-marked trail, large cairns at the crossings. It’s flat and easy walking, I move well and am surprised that the crossings are far easier than I’d anticipated. Light current is a plus, for sure.

In New Zealand, there was the magic moment when you got into the river’s pull and had to carefully calibrate your balance to crawl forward. There were a few places I was scared to cross, but only one or two where I was by myself. Water is powerful and very dangerous. I have a healthy respect for rivers.

Dots and I walk together for a while and talk about trails, our lives back home, what we have planned. He’s a school teacher in San Diego and has just a short window to walk the section to Pie Town. I’m amazed when he tells me that he walks all the roads (I happily skipped the ten miles or so up Walnut Creek) and camped high above last night, setting his alarm for 3:00 am and walking down into the Gila in the dark.

For a guy who has had so little sleep, he’s in a remarkably good mood. But this is precisely his plan, to walk every last step of the trail over many years. For me, it’s more buffet-style: skip the roads and cram in as much of the amazing stuff in the allotted time. Neither way is “right” just what’s preferred and I have to say, I like Dots.

As we talk and walk, he suddenly stops. “What was that?!” There was some kind of noise, a roar? a snort? I’m not too worried here, I mean what would come for us?

We walk on but there it is again. “Is it a cougar?!” I come to a complete stop and try to listen more carefully, blocking out the constant sound of rushing water. The sound is hollow, like some sort of party favor noise maker. No, more like…a gobble. Turkeys!

We both laugh at the ridiculousness of killer turkeys coming for us in the Gila River, though it does bring back memories of one of my first solo backpack trips.

I was in my 20’s and drove all the way across Texas to the far western corner right on the border of New Mexico. The Guadalupe Mountains were my destination for a few nights out testing gear, very heavy gear as it turns out. Heavy and slightly unnecessary, though I was convinced by the lovely REI salesman to purchase all of it including a mountaineering backpack with a special pocket for crampons and two nesting pots. What on earth did I plan to cook up there in the mountains where every drop of water had to be hauled up with you?

When I finally found my site likely only a few miles above the parking lot, I set the tent and immediately crawled in to take a nap. A similar noise maker/gobbling sound awoke me and I too thought a cougar was coming for me when it was just a couple of awkward wild turkeys making the rounds.

I should pause here to mention I still have all that gear and use it often…when car camping and kayaking. Everything is much smaller and lighter these days.

We stop for lunch n the wild wind thinking a tree will protect us, but the wind just blasts down the canyon and it’s a short stop. I’m making good time, but I need to keep moving steadily in order to get to Doc Campbell’s Post before closing time at 4:00.

Dots forges ahead faster than me but I make good time, crossing and crossing for a total of 55 times. I climb up an embankment and join the road where I shamelessly stick out my thumb and hitch a ride for two miles only to find the store closed.

This is no good. They’re meant to be open on Tuesdays but closed for sure on Wednesdays. that would mean I’d need to hang around here for two days but without any food. I panic a little and let a few expletives fly. Dots tells me that sometimes bad things happen so better things can happen. It sounds a lot like the words from “A Boy Called Sailboat” filmed in Silver City which Miriam I watched last night.

He then asks if we might pray together and he holds my hands asking the almighty to make it so, that it will work out and all will be well. The store is still not open but I definitely feel better. Dots (or James as we now share our real names) decides hiking since 3 am was not enough and plans to walk even further.

After saying goodbye, I head across the street to the RV Park – and then the magic happens. Looking for the hikers pavilion, I pass an open door where a man is eating dinner and ask the way. “Just over there,” he points, and I wander over trying to find a suitable place for my tent in the wind.

No luck.

Eventually the man wanders over and suggests I camp behind the building he’s renting – and would you like a burrito? Clay is his name, a mule wrangler and a really interesting person with a gentle dog named Junior. We talk and I eat, and from my perch I see someone drive into the store’s lot.

The owners have come home and happily open up just for me to get my box. They even offer me a pair of gloves since the weather is about to turn cold. I thank them then head back to Clay’s house where he has another burrito ready to satisfy hiker hunger, then offers me the couch and a shower instead of my tent which refuses to stay standing in this wild wind.

Dots was right, sometimes some things happen so that other things can happen. I got my box and I can keep moving forward. I had a really good dinner and a a safe place to crash and I made a new friend and we talked late into the night.

You really never know how things will turn out on a hike, a day I’d expected to be all alone and much harder. The trail provided and I am so grateful.