What a perfect night of a babbling brook and warming temperatures. I again wake before dawn to head up. It’s 3,500 feet to Mica Mountain with barely a moment’s rest the entire pull.
Arthur and Bear peak out as I leave, both cold overnight. Big Greenie does his job well. I start in oak forest, the air cool and the sun still behind the mountain. The trick is to ‘stay under the breath’ meaning to always be in control of the rhythm and never feel gasping for air. Of course, to do that requires moving slow and steady.
I’m in my lowest gear and feeling pretty good. I’ve attached a loop to my shoulder strap to hold a small bottle, and sip from it all the way up, especially if there’s a flattish spot, which happens occasionally.
I follow the Chimenea River Canyon – I believe the same river that fell into our camp. It’s loud below, but far out of reach. I’m still in shadow as I cross exposed granite, oak giving way to pine and a pungent fragrance.
I pause on one bit of pink rock dotted with mirror-like mica and milky, translucent quartz over the edge of the canyon, but shiver in the shade. Beautiful rock stairs are built most of the way up, but I soon realize it’s not for our benefit, but to preserve the trail.
When rain falls here, it can be torrential – and snow quite deep. Water can carve away the trail to a deep trench if it’s not mitigated by rock, especially creating paths for water off the trail. I walk up one trench, placing a foot on each side and sort of waddling up.
The ascent is relentless. I read somewhere that hikers who come from the PCT to walk this are shocked because it is so much steeper and rocky. It’s so hard to keep going. I feel I just can’t and yet each foot gets placed in front of the other. I sing “Love Divine” under my breath, the hymn Richard and I walked up the aisle to. We celebrate 20 years in May. It helps to think of him cheering me on.
Soon my feet leave rock for a carpet of pine needles. The river is loud here, crashing down a rock chasm. Snow clings to the sides and explains why it’s so strong. It’s not far now up and up through tall, straight trees and into a beautiful camp.
Levi Manning was the mayor of Tucson at the turn of the last century. He escaped the summer heat up here with his family and lived in the cabin still being used by the National Park, mostly for base of operations for research and prescribed burns. There’s a corral for pack mules, a locked fence around a tank (pond) propane, picnic tables and permanent tents. I use the long drop outhouse which is deluxe with paper, a mirror and reading material.
I immediately meet Tumbler, using the camp as a base to climb all the peaks in the Rincon Range. She points me to water which is a bit of a climb to reach. I’m so glad I got my perfect riverside spot last night.
I drink up and filter, planning to grab water at Italian Spring once I cross over the top. It’s steep up to 8,600 feet and I breath heavy, really ready to come down. It’s like the Sierra here, enormous perfectly straight trees and a pine carpet. Patches of snow cover the trail, but it’s icy and I mostly stay on top until the crust breaks in a chunk.
The top is flat then straight down. Changing my gait is a challenge. I’m no longer out of breath, but I’m having to control a fall constantly. I look for the water, but never find it and hope I see more heading down.
The view opens between trunks to a vast, mountainous landscape. I’m so high, I feel completely disoriented. The sun gives the view a hazy look, and it’s hard to focus. How do I even get down from here?
I begin by traversing a slope only recently melting. It’s a steep drop and the remaining snow touches on each side of a narrow, muddy path. I feel confident with each step, but it’s so exposed I need to focus.
I clear the snow and look back at the mountain face, fingers of snow in every crevice, at least for a few more days. It’s really getting hot now. I sit down in shade for a break and to study this phenomenal view looking at another mountain range I’ll clamor over in a few days time.
This trail is a doozy.
There’s no more snow, just rock as I descend fast into a canyon of wind and water-shaped stone in odd shapes. As relentless as things were headed up, down is almost worse on crumbling, loose stone. I skid out every so often and need to go slow and carefully.
The view sharpens as I get lower and I can discern the rocky valley I’m entering and the wide expanse I’ll traverse to the next range. It’s a very long way.
Nothing is easy here, every step calculated and slow. I look anxiously for water, but only see a green streak of algae. I’m carrying a liter and keep sipping from my shoulder bottle, but I’m feeling wrung out by the heat and the hard walking.
My map app assures me large pools await in two miles, but it’s a joint exhausting full hour on that two miles. Yes, it’s beautiful, but I’m feeling mortified I let myself get panicky over water. The good news is the guys are behind me and would hopefully get me through.
Down and down, into washes that seem as if they’d have pools then finally a direct descent to a wide wash. This has to be it. Glory halleluia, look at the size of that pool!
I dump things in the shade a begin scooping the beautiful, fresh clear water into my bag to begin filtering. I make a shake and realize I pushed it too far and need to be careful because I’m getting wobbly.
Arthur shows up and says he too was running low on everything, the descent absolutely exhausting. I stay in that beautiful place a long time, water-worn stones, gravelley wash, long grasses and oaks. Arthur gives me a squirt of electrolytes and I feel better right away.
I tell him I’m trying to keep moving so I can finish and he reminds me I ascended 3,500 feet and descended 4,000. There’s really only so far a person can go. He’s pretty sanguine about the whole thing and hangs out under his sun umbrella with his feet in the pool.
I push on back into the heat. The trail is flat for a while, then steep on loose rock to a low point where I scare a big black cow out of the oaks. Back up I go, not too steeply, but in and out of hills for what seems like forever. The sun is turning everything orange and it’s time to stop.
At a dirt road there’s a locker filled to the brim with empty bottles except one. I just top up my small bottle, then head up again to find a cowgirl camp. I have just enough sunlight to set up and make dinner, but the nearly full moon takes over where the sun left off and I cuddle in with where I’ve been and where I’m headed surrounding me, plus twinkling lights from Tucson in the distance and a ceiling of stars.
