A Visit to the Pecos

New Mexico has so much to offer, yet I've seen almost none of it. 

That's not entirely true - I did walk the entire length of the state on the CDT - but I've always felt like I was missing out. While the CDT's route through most of New Mexico is quite lovely, it also bypasses many of the state's gems. That's no criticism of the CDT, it's simply to remark that as a linear trail, it has to make some 'tough decisions', and its routing largely follows the Continental Divide for obvious reasons.

One such gem that the CDT bypasses is the Pecos Wilderness, which protects part of the southern end of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. IThe Pecos sits east of the Continental Divide - in fact, east of the Rio Grande, which drains to the Atlantic - so I never even glimpsed it from the CDT. I was long overdue for a visit.

This one was a solo trip, as Steph is heading into her busy season at work and was jonesing for some R&R. And for the second straight year, I turned Memorial Day weekend into a bit of a solo sufferfest. I suppose it's becoming a tradition at this point!

The tone for the weekend was set early, when I misread the driving directions and took a route that was an hour longer than intended. I didn't get into the town of Taos until midnight, where I gassed up and finally arrived at the trailhead at 1:00 AM. Exhausted, I collapsed into bed in the back of my car.

Day 1 

I woke up the next morning and packed up my backpack... and discovered, to my horror, that I'd left my tent at home. Groan. Grousing at myself, I drove an hour back to Taos to scrounge up something at Walmart. Longtime readers of this blog (hi Grandma!) will recall this is not the first time I've had to panic-purchase the same crappy "backpacking tent" at Walmart. Of course, that one was the result of a legitimate gear failure. This one was a result of abject negligence. But I picked up a tent and knockoff Groundhog stakes, only costing me forty dollars and the last iota of my pride. The tent deserves its derisive sobriquet "Ozark Fail" and it's atrociously heavy, but all in all, it the whole ordeal could have been a lot more painful.

The same could not be said for the initial climb out of the trailhead. Having lost a couple hours to the Ozark Fail escapade, I didn't hit the trail until after 9am, and the sun beat down on me as I gained 4,000' in the course of six miles. My heavy, lumpy pack didn't help matters. The cherry on top was the sorry state of my lungs; this was my first high-altitude trip for the season, topping out at 12,800'. By time I got to the top, I was absolutely and utterly pooped. 

As I emerged from the trees, I was exposed to the full force of the howling wind. Despite a benign forecast, it was really ripping up there. The next dozen miles were all above 12,000 feet on a windswept ridgeline without a shred a tree cover. And I had a thirty dollar tent from Walmart. This might get interesting.

It was only about 5pm, but given my exhaustion and sketchy tent situation, I prioritized finding a campsite with at least a little wind protection. I dropped a hundred feet off the lee side of the ridge and found a wonderful little spring-fed pool with a campsite just barely big enough for an Ozark Fail. The westerlies battered my tent all night, but it held up alright. Despite camping at 12,300', I slept like the dead.

Day 2 

The next morning dawned bright, with just a couple scraggly clouds dropping a few snowflakes. But the skies soon cleared, and I resumed my long ridgewalk. With renewed energy and less blustery winds, my pack somehow felt considerably lighter than it had the previous day.

As I came over a rise, I glimpsed a couple of marmots chasing each other. Then my gaze shifted, and standing right there was a large herd of bighorn sheep! And of course, a cow elk was doing her thing in the background. It seemed I'd inadvertently stumbled into a safari. I grinned to myself and remarked to the Lord, "now, a bear would be the kicker".

Cairns marked the path along the broad, gentle ridgeline. Actual trail tread came and went, but the way forward always presented itself. Tiny patches of snow dotted the mountains, just enough for decoration. Trails periodically reached up from the valleys below to connect with my ridgetop route, which gradually gained more definition as traffic increased. I soon spied a few backpackers coming up those trails, but only perhaps half a dozen groups in total.

The trail sagged down to the very edge of treeline. The craggy Truchas Peaks began to dominate more and more of the skyline, and soon I turned off onto a side trail. After a roller-coaster mile or two, I arrived at a delightful little lake, where I enjoyed the finer things of life - Spam singles and sour gummy worms.

From the lake, I popped over a pass and said goodbye to the high alpine. I followed a beautifully-constructed trail down a series of marvelous switchbacks into a wooded basin. A few patches of north-facing snow slowed me down, but not enough to necessitate microspikes. I had to slalom around a few blowdowns too; the pine bark beetle has recently claimed more than its fair share of arboreal victims. But the trail was gentle and mostly well-maintained, and the miles passed quickly.

By and by, I reached the bottom of the river valley, which opened up into a gorgeous meadow studded with wildflowers. Even a couple of columbines made an appearance. I found a nice little campsite tucked in the bend of the river. Aside from a minor dinner mishap (yes, it is possible to add too many sundried tomatoes), the evening was pleasant and I once again fell asleep quickly.

Day 3 

Significant weather was forecast to move in at some point in the morning, so I got up promptly with the sun. I headed to the nearby woods, searching for a nice place to go to the bathroom. And then I froze. A large, chocolate-colored bear was happily moseying his way through the trees, just doing his bear thing. While I didn't notice him until he was maybe 30 yards away, he was downwind of me, and I don't think he noticed my presence. I slowly backed away until I was back at camp, where I kept an eye on him as I packed up my gear. Does a bear poop in the woods? Certainly, but I didn't want to join him.

I chuckled to the Lord - what a lovely bear encounter! 

See that lil guy back there?

I meandered down the trail the last few miles to the trailhead. The light on the cliffs to my west was just perfect, and even the Ozark Fail felt a little less burdensome now that I'd eaten all my food. I cruised past a bustling campground and back to my car. As I drove away, the clouds gathered and the deluge began.

Overall

I couldn't have chosen a better introduction to a beautiful part of New Mexico. Despite the tent mishap and considerable exertion, I had a great time. Especially in a scary-low snow year, the high country is quickly opening up. Summer backpacking season is here!

 

Springtime on the Green

On New Years Day, Steph and I sat down and mapped out an entire year's worth of outdoor trips. We had no illusions that each and every trip would actually happen, but by planning in advance, we gave ourselves the best chance of actually getting out more.

That's the theory, anyways. Between illness, ridiculous windstorms, and random obligations, we managed a grand total of zero backpacking trips in the first third of the year. Ouch. We were both - to put it mildly - a little antsy. Enter: a beautiful weekend where neither of us was sick. Glory be! On tap was a classic packrafting triangle - hike down a canyon to the Green River, float a section, and then hike up a different canyon back to the car. 

Our trip began with an ho-hum drive down a sandy dirt road to a nondescript patch of slickrock shortly before the road sketches out. After a utilitarian Friday night cowboy camp under the starts, we awoke on Saturday morning, loaded up our packs, and trotted down a series of desolate dirt roads and motorbike trails. Soon the sandy, featureless landscape dropped away from under our feet as we descended into a short canyon.

We weren't expecting much from such a minor drainage, but soon found flowing water through a short-but-sweet section of narrows. After a little splashy fun, the canyon spit us out onto a broad riparian plain choked by tamarisk. With the help of a few convenient dirtbike trails, we found an inlet to launch our boats. The only thing less fun than bushwhacking is bushwhacking in a packraft, but the whole operation wasn't nearly as bad as I anticipated, and within a few minutes we were ripping along on the Green River.

Photo: Steph

And yes, I do mean "ripping". Despite the utterly abysmal winter we've had, the Green's flow was at a healthy 10,000 CFS - on par with peak springtime runoff in a normal year. That's because the Bureau of Reclamation recently approved emergency measures to drain about a third of the Flaming Gorge reservoir to send downstream to Glen Canyon. Glen Canyon is so low that, without this emergency intervention, its ability to generate hydroelectric power would have ceased later this summer. Of course, draining one reservoir to fill another is not exactly a sustainable solution, and no long-term plan has appeared on the horizon to fix the Colorado basin's water woes. I suspect at some point, we'll have to withdraw life-support measures for Lake Powell and bid it a not-altogether-fond adieu. 

 

With such weighty thoughts rattling around in our heads, we paddled a mile downstream to a random side-canyon - one not even afforded the dignity of a proper name. But there, we found a wonderful lunch spot and, ten minutes up from the river, a crystal clear, deep, cold swimming hole, perfect for the hot day. We also filled up our bottles with that perfect water - such luxury!

We've noticed over the years that river trippers - rafters/canoers/kayakers - keep a very different rhythm of life than backpackers do. Backpackers - at least we thru-hikers - get up at dawn, put in a full day of dirt and sweat, and collapse in a make-do campsite surrounded by cow poop. By contrast, 'river people' seem to get up at the crack of nine, linger over delicious breakfast, and get on the river around mid-morning. After a couple hours - lunch time! Float for a couple more hours, drink a beer, and make camp around 3:30. After that, it's time for a swim, followed by some porterhouse steaks on the grill. A very different way of life, indeed! 

As packrafters, we have one foot in each world. So yes, we got up early and hiked deep into the evening hours. But we also took a long lunch, stopped at an archeological site to view some cowboy glyphs, and spent more time drifting than actively paddling. And boy, was it nice. Some high cirrus softened the harsh rays of the sun through most of the afternoon and with the occasional intentionally-splashy paddle stroke, we stayed cool enough on our dozen-mile float downstream.

 

 

At long last we found the lagoon that marked our exit canyon. Due to the high water, we started paddling up the flooded canyon.

And kept paddling.

And kept paddling.

Each time we though that the water had ended, another bend revealed itself. We glided up the canyon for about a half-mile until we finally found terra firma. That delightful canyon paddle alone made the whole trip worth it.

But the next several miles of hiking were nothing to sneeze at either. A friendly damp wash bottom made for easy travel, and the dark red rock walls twisted in labyrinthine fashion. A true wonder - one shared only with a trio of very lost cows that kept bolting upstream as we approached. 

With both of us fading, and the sun taking its toll on my Swedish-complected bride, we found a nice little flat campsite on a bench above the wash bottom, ate a couple tuna packets, and conked out in thirty seconds flat.

We woke up before dawn, eager to get our miles in before the day got too hot. We started upstream, and found that yesterday's idyllic ramble had transmogrified into a sandy slog. Rogue cattle had trampled the entire width of the canyon, and where there wasn't slippery mud, soft sand made for post-holey conditions. Not fun. We found occasional pools of stagnant water, but were both grateful we'd filled up at yesterday's swimming hole. 

Right about the time we'd had our fill of Type II fun, we spied a weakness in the canyon wall and climbed up to an ostensibly-closed jeep road. A quick mile back to the car completed our trip.

I'm hopeful that the next few months are going to be a lot more fruitful for outdoor adventures than the past few. Regardless, this was a wonderful way to spend some much-needed time outside.

 

2025 - In Review

 

I didn't really intent do to a long-distance hike every single year; it just kind of happened. A brief accounting of some of the highlights:

• 2018: Continental Divide Trail
• 2019: Route In Between
• 2020: Greater Yellowstone Loop
• 2021: Desert Winter Thru-Hike (Arizona portion)
• 2022: Tahoe Rim Trail
• 2023: Pacific Crest Trail
• 2024: Desert Winter Thru-Hike (the whole enchilada)

Some of those were longer (CDT, RIB, PCT). Others were shorter (looking at you, TRT). But all of them had at least a plausible claim of being a "long-distance hike".

This year, 2025, was different - no thru-hikes, for the first time in many years. My longest trip this year was a week-long section on the Colorado Trail. And the biggest events of the year had nothing to do with hiking. But we'll get there. First, let's begin with some silly stats.

Gear:

• Tents: 3
• Fancy new tents purchased as an amazing wedding gift by my parents: 1
• Packrafts: 1 (but Steph bought one too!)
• Pairs of hiking shoes: 3 
• Gear organization strategies that actually worked: 1 
• Phones: 2
• Phones whose camera got all nasty, resulting in an unsightly dark spot on all my photos for several months: 1 

Trips:

• Thru-hikes: 0
• Weekend backpacking trips: 10
• Week-long backpacking trips: 1 
• Packrafting trips: 2
• Brought a stove: 2
• Brought a stove, but completely forgot the ramen noodles to cook on said stove: 1

Highest/Lowest/Fastest/Slowest:

• Highest point (literal): 13,042' (an unnamed thirteener in the San Juans) 
• Lowest point (literal): 3,960' (Green River in Canyonlands NP)
• Longest day, in miles: 26 miles (Dominguez Canyon trip)
• Highest point (metaphorical): Belly-flopping into the cool, refreshing Green River on a sweltering trip with scant water and heavy backpacks
• Lowest point (metaphorical): About five minutes prior
• Longest waterless stretch: 25 miles
• Hottest temperature: 95
• Coldest temperature: 24 

Experiences:

• Hitchhikes: 1 (this may be a new record low for me)
• Buses taken: 4
• Trains taken: 1
• Ubers taken: 1 
• Random PCT acquaintances bumped into on the Colorado Trail: 2
• Long-time hiker friends, trail magicked in Silverton: 2 

Previous years in review: 2024, 2023, 2022, 2021, 2020, 2019, 2018, 2017, 2016, 2014.

Steph took an amazing New Zealand trip in February, but my year got off to a slow start. My first backpacking trip of the year wasn't until April, when we meandered through an archeologically-rich canyon system in SE Utah with our good friends Paul and Joan.

 

Later that month, we took another delightful trip in Utah's Escalante country with Justin and Emily. There was a little more water in the slot canyon than last time Justin and I visited, and we had great fun splashing through pools and helping each other navigate obstacles.

The momentum continued in May, with perhaps my favorite trip of the year, a packrafting adventure in Canyonlands National Park. Of note, I drank unfiltered water from the Green River, as I'm wont to do, and was fine. Meanwhile, Steph treated the water and still got giardia. I guess a decade of abusing my gut with crappy cow water is finally paying dividends!

Memorial Day weekend brought a solo trip for me - a high-mileage butt-kicker of a packrafting trip in the Dominguez-Escalante canyon system not too far from home.

But we saved the best for last in May. On the 31st, on a hike along the Colorado Trail, Steph said "yes". 

In June, as wedding planning kicked into high gear, we still managed to squeeze in a pair of short trips. The first was a weeknight backpacking trip. We left directly from work on a Thursday night and headed up onto the Uncompaghre Plateau. We hiked a couple miles in, set up our tents, and ate a bedtime snack. Up at first light the next morning, we hiked back to the car, drove back down to town, and made it to work right on time. Gimmick? Sure. But it was really special to sleep outside on a weeknight.

Later that month, we threw the packrafts in our packs and headed down to the Curecanti National Recreation Area. On a Friday evening, we hiked a few miles down a beautiful trail to water's edge. The next day we blew up the packrafts, and spent the day clowning around on the reservoir. Up early on Sunday morning, we hiked back to our car and slid into church back in Montrose at the last minute.

July brought more small adventures. Justin and Emily came to visit over the Fourth of July, and after spending a night car camping, we went on a beautiful overnighter outside Silverton. We were blessed with gorgeous weather and a top-ten campsite of all time at 12,400 feet.

We explored a basin in the San Juans at the end of the month - one we'd had our eye on for a good long while. I climbed an unnamed thirteener along the way, and we feasted on fried chicken in celebration of Steph's birthday.

We only got out once in August, a hundred-mile section of the Colorado Trail (CT). We parked our car near the Copper Mountain ski area and took a series of buses and light rail to the CT's eastern terminus in the Denver metro area. From there, we gradually climbed through the foothills until we reached the Continental Divide. The last two days of our trip were true mountains-proper, and an excellent preview of future jaunts on the CT. 

That was the last trip for a while. Wedding planning consumed every spare minute for the next couple months. But so worth it to marry my best friend and favorite adventure partner!

As we turned the page from October to November and life started to settle down a little bit, we snuck away for a beautiful fall weekend on Cedar Mesas in southeast Utah. We saw plenty of stylish fall colors, beautiful rock grottoes echoing with the cheerful sounds of trickling water, and traces of previous cultures that called these canyons home.

In December, we stretched our legs with a quick local trip into the Gunnison Gorge.

A Tribute

As mentioned, September and October were pretty crazy. On September 28th, Steph's father Collin walked her down the aisle to me. During the ceremony, our parents took a moment to douse us in prayer as we began our life together. It was the best day of our lives. Scarcely twelve hours later, Collin suffered a massive brain bleed in his sleep. He never woke up, passing away exactly one day - to the minute - after he walked Steph down the aisle.

I still don't really have the words to contextualize just how much he meant to Steph, her family, and to me. The biggest thing - he love his Savior, and even now is praising him face-to-face. And that gives us hope in the midst of some pretty deep grief.