Orientation
After an all-night plane ride to Albuquerque and an equally long van ride to Cimarron, we found ourselves planning the details of our trek. Here Brian and John set up their crews' agenda. We spent a busy day "being processed." These guys need an express line. After years of Fifty-Milers where we step out of the cars and onto the trail, "processing" was a trip unto itself. In this room, we made our first, and perhaps only, serious mistake: we scheduled burros from Ponil to Pueblano. When you go to Philmont, consider this option carefully, and then just say no to burros. They are sweet, friendly, loveable, and have lots of other positive attributes. They are also lazy, willful, stubborn, and strong enough.
Hart Peak
The trek up Anasazi Canyon was our first glimpse of the true backcountry. The canyon was still verdant: lots of water running in the creek, wild turkey, beaver, profuse wildflowers. The petroglyphs were amazing. We participated in an archeological dig, heard about the Anasazi Indians, and had some great campfires. Then up and out, over Hart Peak for our first lunch over eight thousand feet, and down into Ponil for a horseback ride, and cold root beer at the cantina. A little roping, some boot branding, and two great chuck wagon meals, and we were on our way to Pueblano, burros and all.
Burros? Love 'em or leave 'em.
The hike to Pueblano was straightforward and serene, except for our four-footed chums. Even they were not too bad on the first day. However, the next morning, they refused to leave the corral. Could it have something to do with breakfast? Anyway, we abandoned them to the tender mercies of the Pueblano staff, who the night before said, "If they won't walk, we can't make you carry 'em." And we couldn't and didn't. This shot is from Harlan Camp, days later. Along with loading and unloading (on skeet traps) shotgun shells, we also raced burros, a wild and exhilarating kinda thing. (These burros are not members of the same species that were issued at Ponil, by the way.)
Baldy Mountain
After blacksmithing, panning for gold, exploring a tin mine, including walking out in total darkness, Baldy Mountain was a literal as well as figurative high point in the trip. At 12,441 feet, breathing is different. Five of us got up at 3:00 a.m. to scale the summit for the dawn. Then part of the first contingent and the rest of the troop climbed later in the morning. A commanding view with cold brisk winds, the wind chill was worth at least twenty degrees, and it wasn't warm to start with. The complementary view from the Ewells Park meadow was softer and warmer. We sat for hours lunching, taking pictures, and just sitting in awe. Then on to Baldy Camp and down Dean Canyon.
Glissade anyone?
After exploring the top of Baldy with its bleak rock, colorful succulent flora, and old copper mine, a relatively warm glissade down a snow bank put a refreshing spin on the rest of the day. While not in the league with the thousand footers (vertical and linear), these hundred to three hundred foot runs are a hoot. What a trip! We're hooked and planning to go back.
