Delirious Ramblings

On Nonhuman Trails

Rees Peak, Kachina Peaks Wilderness, May 2012

I did a little more wilderness exploring up on Rees Peak on Sunday, about nine miles of tough off-trail hiking and climbing. This time I took a slightly different route and avoided most of the old Bear Jaw burn area (see my last post on Rees). Instead of trying to find my own path through the riot of aspen regeneration and wild rose I poked around the base of the mountain until I found an elk trail that led me up through the worst of it. The trail was obviously not built to human specifications and it got very hairy at the upper end, but the elk know that mountain from top to bottom and they've figured out all the best routes.

 

Rees Peak, Kachina Peaks Wilderness, May 2012

Despite the help from the indigenous quadrupeds I was turned around by residual snow drifts at about 10,900 feet. The top was still a third of a mile and some six hundred vertical feet away. I thought about pushing on through the snow but knew it would only get deeper as I climbed higher. I wasn't really expecting to make it to the top so early in the season so I wasn't too disappointed. Actually, I was surprised I made it as high as I did.

I'm fine with not making it to the top of Rees -- or any of these mountains for that matter. If I bag a summit during one of my ramblings that's great. If I don't that's okay too. At some point I realized that most of the really interesting and neat stuff to see on mountains isn't at the summit at all, but rather around the flanks, in the foothills, and in the experiences you collect in just being there. In some ways I think hiking a mountain just to get to the top should be looked upon as a form of disrespect, like rushing through an art exhibit to buy M&Ms at the gift shop.

 

Rees Peak, Kachina Peaks Wilderness, May 2012

Rees is not the highest or the steepest of the prominences making up the San Francisco Peaks, but it's rapidly becoming my favorite. The forest up there is deep and dark, filled with shadow and mystery and stillness. I have a couple more hikes on Rees before I move my explorations a little to the west to meet Aubineau Peak and ultimately north Humphreys. And then... well... let's just say that things get a little hazy after Humphreys.

Golden-mantled Ground Squirrel

Golden-mantled Ground Squirrel, Elden Mountain, July 2011

I photographed the above Golden-mantled Ground Squirrel while I was hiking around Mt. Elden the other day. It probably had a burrow nearby, as it was very brave and never strayed far from that old stump. After a minute it went about its business, aware of my presence but not particularly afraid of me, either. My copy of Mammals of Arizona says these guys can be rather bold, so perhaps it was trying to stare me down or hoping I'd share some food. 

 

Golden-mantled Ground Squirrel, Elden Mountain, July 2011

Golden-mantleds are small squirrels, about seven inches long or so (minus the tail), preferring open meadows and woodlands. They are omnivorous, eating pretty much anything they can find including green plants, seeds, insects, lizards and even nesting birds. The distinctive black back stripes and reddish/orange head and shoulders are a dead giveaway for a Golden-mantled squirrel. They can be confused for ginormous chipmunks, but despite having similar patterns (i.e. the back stripes) they lack the unmistakable face stripes of a chipmunk.

My rule for photographing wildlife is that if I encounter them while hiking I'll stop and take pictures. I never follow them if they move away -- which they usually do -- and I never lie in wait for them like the paparazzi. If I get a few good photographs that's great. If not, well that's okay too; at least I got to see them in the wild. Encounters with humans are very traumatic for wildlife and it's best to keep contact with them to a bare minimum. That's why I like Canon's "super-zoom" and "travel-zoom" cameras: they're relatively light so you can hike with them but have long optical zooms so you don't have to be too close to your subject to get a good photo, thus keeping the stress levels down.

Hot Loop trail, Javelina sighting and dinosaur trace fossils in Sedona

I attempted to finish the last section of the Hot Loop / Jacks Canyon trail system today but was thwarted by mud. The trail was mostly fine all the way from the trailhead at the Jacks Canyon Road corrals to just after Hot Loop Tank, but up on Horse Mesa where things weren't draining as well it turned into a nightmare of thick, gooey clay - you know, the kind that sticks to the soles of your boots and to itself so that after ten steps you're walking on six-inch platforms of heavy mud. It was no fun and I sure didn't want to damage the trail so I turned back, vowing to return at some later date when things have dried out.

On the way back to the trailhead I sighted six or eight javelina crossing the trail. They didn't offer to give me any trouble so I just stood silently and let them pass. I guess they had more important things to do than mess with me, namely rustling up a juicy breakfast of prickly pear cactus! Unfortunately the terrain and brush prevented me from getting a clear photo to share. This sad long-distance cropped picture is about the best I got. I've been seeing their tracks everywhere so it was pretty neat to finally catch a glimpse of these critters.

Before heading back to Flagstaff I decided to check out an old story I'd heard about dinosaur tracks off of Red Rock Loop road. I spent most of the afternoon poking around the hills off to the west looking at every flat expanse of limestone I could find. Finally, after exploring seemingly every hill and outcrop back there I think I found something. Maybe.

I dunno, if it is a trace fossil it's pretty faint and of poor quality. I put a faint red circle around what might be a track with four toes and a red arrow pointing to a tail or belly mark. Maybe back in the Triassic something like a crocodile crawled across a mud flat and left these traces behind?

The Refugees

The other morning while hiking Mt. Elden I came upon a herd of perhaps fifteen mule deer hanging around the edge of the big thicket of Radio Fire aspen along the Sunset Trail. I'd never seen that many deer together in that area before; if there are any at all it's usually just one or two. As I approached they retreated into the aspen thicket, making a hell of a ruckus, sounding like a bulldozer crashing through the woody stems and downed logs.

Two of them stayed behind, a doe and her fawn. The doe froze, staring.

"Hello," I whispered to her. "What are you doing up here, girl? Why are there so many of you?"

Of course she didn't reply, but a tiny, almost imperceptible movement of her huge ears led me to turn my head. My gaze shifted left, and as if she'd spoken in clear, plain english I understood their predicament: Off to the north beyond the spine of Elden was the blackened, damaged slopes of Schultz and Doyle Peaks.

The Schultz Fire.

Their home had burned. They were refugees, forced to leave their former territory and forage for food in less hospitable, less forgiving areas, forced to compete with existing deer populations and in turn put pressure upon them as well.

Even now, months after the flames finally died, the effects of that blaze are still crashing into the ecosystems around it like great waves on a beach. Because of events set in motion by humans months ago these deer now find themselves playing the role of a variable in Nature's terrible, pragmatic calculus of supply and demand, of overpopulation and scarcity.

The doe broke our staring contest and fled for the safety of the aspen thicket. I couldn't help but wonder what would become of her and her fawn. I silently wished them luck.

Winter is coming to the high country.

Kendrick Peak Gray-Collared Chipmunk

The other day while hiking the Kendrick Peak trail I spotted this Gray-collared Chipmunk watching me from the top of a lichen-covered rock. According to my copy of Stan Tekiela's Mammals of Arizona Field Guide there are six different species of chipmunk native to Arizona, most of which live in the far north of the state. According to the range map and the elevation I was at (9,500+ feet) this little guy is a Gray-collared Chipmunk.The large gray "collar" and distinct dark stripes along its back (not clearly visible in this picture) are the main distinquishing features of this species.

The Cliff Chipmunk, whose range overlaps the Gray-collared, lives at a lower elevation (up to 9,000 feet) and lacks the gray "collar". They also have less distinct back stripes. In any case, if you see a chipmunk in the mountains around Flagstaff it's going to be one of these two species. So just look for the big gray collar!

I love how the aspen leaves glowing in the sunlight make the rock and the chipmunk stand out. One of several good pictures from a good hike.

A chance encounter between two strangers on the Arizona Trail

This morning I found myself hiking the Arizona Trail segment between Horse Lake and Mormon Mountain. The easygoing trail through wide open ponderosa parkland and gambel oak was a big change from last weekend's nightmare slog in the Elden trail system and I immediately felt the stress from work and watching the Peaks burn begin to lift. It didn't take long for my boots to slip into their comfortable rhythm on the trail and the miles began to flow beneath my feet.

Around 9AM I was poking along next to the old Flagstaff Lumber Company railroad grade that parallels the trail for several miles when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I stopped walking, slowly raised my camera, and waited to see what it was.

Making its way gingerly down the hillside was a coyote - quite a large one!

When it stepped across the trail into the light it saw me standing there and paused, looking right at me. We gazed at each other for perhaps half a second and then it resumed its course and was gone. It didn't run away: it just looked at me, acknowledged my presence, and continued on. It was rather like when you see another hiker on the trail, nod, and slip past.

These encounters with wildlife are rare, seem to occur at the strangest times and places, and if you're lost in thought or focused on the trail in front of your boots they are easily missed. Now that I'm more comfortable being in the woods and not stumbling around as much they do seem to be happening more often, though. I imagine the animals were always there  -- I just never saw them.