Let us never speak of the shortcut again (Arizona edition)

 

Radio telescopes of the Very Large Array.

“U.S. routes usually don’t get too crazy,” I even said to myself when scanning that the map. With no cell reception in Chiracahua country, I had to rely on Rand McNally. It showed me a scenic route 

From Safford, the highway climbed into the mountains. Everything narrowed at Clifton, with the town wedged into a canyon formed by the San Francisco River, a tributary of the Gila. Trucks hauled huge loads through Clifton and traffic stopped repeatedly. After Clifton and its stately but rundown old buildings, the road grew strange indeed. 

Morenci Mine on Google Earth

At one turn the sign said 191/Mine Entrance. I expected a fenced area that led into mountains. I expected might see the tunnel leading into the mine. 

But nothing can prepared visitors for the Morenci Mine. The largest copper mine in the country has produced 3.2 billion tons of copper ore and continues to produce from its shaved mountains and open pit. This was no hole under the Earth; the entire landscape has been resculpted into terraced, trapezoidal mountains. The road turned to gravel , clouds of dust sent up by heavy machinery everywhere. 

I passed several other highway tunnels as the road soared above the man-carved valleys of the mine. Signs warned of hours-long delays when blasting occurs, and I added a few mph to my speed. I looked around and saw the inverse of a national park. 

There was a certain beauty to the mine, even with its mountains reshaped by industry, treeless valleys and inclines, and clear tailing ponds with water definitely not for drinking. But we all use copper daily, so it’s necessary evil. Better it sits deep in a remote mountain range where most will never encounter those winding, dusty roads. 

Coronado Scenic Byway, all 460 hairpin turns.

The road wound around geometrical crimson mountains. There might have been an overlook, but I wouldn’t have considered stopping. 

The end of the mine and the rough road had to be close. The wildness of the Morenci Mine came to a swift end at the Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest boundary. Certain industries worked in national forests but not mines. Yet the winding road did not unwind. I hit the first of several signs warning of mountain grades and tight curves for the next few dozen miles. 

I happened onto the Coronado Trail Scenic Byway that spans the 123 miles between Clifton and Springerville. The highway roughly follows the path of Coronado's 1542 expedition. The map showed a scenic route, but left out the 460 hairpin turns that define the route. 

Near Hannagan Meadow, past the worst curves.

Miles clicked down so slowly the distance almost seemed to go back up at times. The Apache portion encompasses most of Greenlee County (Arizona has massive counties) and the main route skirts across ridgetops and clings to mountainsides. 

Aside from squirrels and a few deer I countered little wildlife and not a single car headed in my direction. This continued for several hours till I passed I took a break the Blue Vista Overlook, With expansive views of the mountains from 9,000 feet of elevation, I never even lifted my camera, just enjoying a few minutes off the road. 

I caught glimpses of tremendous views from the byway, one of Arizona’s highest roads, but mostly glue my eyes to the road. AAA was not venturing up here for a tow. 

Only at Hannagan Meadow, a recreation site with some lodging, did the curves straighten out. The road fell into the valleys between mountains and I cruised into long-awaited Springerville, which had occupied every distance sign for 150 miles. A spur road put me out on the town’s east side, I turned to rip off the last 15 miles before New Mexico. The towns don’t get better in New Mexico, even as the names do. Quemado had a few cross-streets and not much more. 

But the next town of a few blocks had an unforgettable name - Pie Town. Enduring the wilderness route was partly to connect with the route to Pie Town. I had to see this trip. 

Named for a bakery famous for apple pies in the early 1900s, Pie Town has less than 200 residents. Pie Town spans several blocks atop a hill. I just missed their annual Pie Festival in mid-September. Just getting to Pie Town felt like a victory this day. 

I pulled into The Gathering Place with a major appetite and the relief of having 400-some hairpin turns behind me. Along with a chipotle chicken sandwich and a cup of coffee, I bought pies for the balloon crew tailgate the next morning – apple, blueberry, and blackberry lemon. But I had the last piece of peach pie on my own. 

After Datil, the road crosses some mountains then descends into a dried lake bed, the Plains of San Augustin. The valley has no town but its occupants were visible the moment I entered. Multiple radio telescopes that stand 80 feet tall were spread all over, able to move across the valley on railroad tracks. I had reached the Very Large Array, the nation’s premier tool for exploring the origins of the universe. Initially I hemmed and hawed about stopping, with another 150 miles till Albuquerque. 

As expected, I made the turn. The VLA includes 28 telescopes, with 27 deployed at all times while one receives maintenance in The Barn, a huge shed that easily fits them. One telescope is situated close to the visitor center and another along the gravel entry road to give visitors a close-up view.

 The movie Contact gives one the idea that the radio telescopes of the Very Large Array all sit close together. Most alignments spread them far across the dry lakebed. Also, the array is not searching for extraterrestrial life, but observing black holes, stars with developing planetary systems, and other distant objects.

Watching the silent array probe the origins of the universe made those 400-plus tight turns feel somewhat less significant. Then again, it might have taken that long for the adrenaline surge to wear off. 

Chiracahua National Monument's silent majesty

A curious and historic place, Fort Bowie served as an appetizer to the main stop on this short tour through southeastern Arizona. 

The pavement resumed at an intersection with the road south to Chiracahua National Monument, a lightly visited wonder. More mountains erupted from the flat desert to the south, cutting a deep contrast. 

One of Arizona’s wildlife-rich sky islands, Chiracahua National Monument protects 12,000 acres and several canyons in the Chiracahua Mountains. I dove right in.

After roughly following Bonita Creek into the forest, the road abuts some soaring hoodoos, but no one could prepare me for the turn, when the slowly rising road clings to a cliffside, with a long drop into the valleys of the Chiracahua Mountains on the other. Up top comes the views of Chiracahua’s mountaintop amphitheatre of hoodoos, closely bunched rock towers that could stand dozens of feet tall. 

The rock towers are what remains after the erosion of volcanic rock deposited millions of years earlier. The monument quieted here. Few cars, some tourists hunkered in the shade. Finding solitude and a good observation spot grew easy. 

If I lack the words to properly describe to top of the monument, I was a bit awestruck. Having quiet time in such an august place should cause such a reaction. At least I believe so. Shadows grew long at an early hour in the narrow canyon on the park road. 

I scoped out my campsite, then sprinted out of the monument over the pass that separated Chiracahua from Willcox, the 3,000-person metropolis with a dry lake and a small wine region. I crossed the west of the Dos Cabezas, the mountains on the north side of Apache Pass. I quickly grabbed supplies for the night and headed back to Bonita Canyon. 

I enjoyed wandering the monument. The crowds diminished as the afternoon wound on. The quiet time was a welcome change from the crazy pace of the fiesta and its major crowds. 

A small cemetery near the entrance holds the graves of the Ericksons, the homesteaders that gave up the land for the national monument. They moved to the area after Geronimo surrendered and the Chiracahua Apache were forcibly removed to Florida then Oklahoma. The Faraway Ranch, their one-time home, is also preserved as part of the monument. 

Deeper in the mountains on private property lies the grave of Johnny Ringo of fame from the 1880s Cowboy Wars in Tombstone. 

I was tantalizingly close to Tucson, but knew the trip needed at least two more days to encompass Tombstone, Bisbee, Coronado National Memorial, and the Rincon district of Saguaro National Park. Those must wait for another trip. 

For all the warnings about animals, I saw only birds. I saw all types of scat on the trails and creek beds, but no actual mammals. The park road has coati crossing signs, but none of the little mammals were seen during my 17-hour visit. Not even a deer poked out of the forest. 

Someone did see a black bear near the Bonita Canyon campground. All the sites had metal lockers for food and coolers. The night grew dark quickly. I drank a few craft lagers, wrote and ready by lantern-light. I fell asleep early as the people in the next camp partied till quiet hours. 

A few hours later,  I stepped out into a Chiracahua’s International Dark Sky Park and its perfect noise, my feet the only noise.. No one was about except the stars and exception views of the Milky Way where the dense tree canopy opened. 

I spotted several satellites and a small meteor, then returned for a short sleep. I knew I would grow restless early, but I didn’t want to head out in total darkness. 

By headlamp I packed my bag and tent in the pre-dawn of a silent campground. I tried to stay quiet and raised no more noise than the grunt of a dog inside a nearby tent. 

The park was all mine. No one else stirred. I spent an hour or more before dawn visiting spots throughout Chiracahua. What a wondrous place to have to one’s self. Mountain peaks, dry creeks, a series of life zones chock full of animals just beyond view. 

Reluctantly I left the shadows of the Chiracahuas. Only the waking birds in the steep canyons offered company, the sun just catching the highest points in the Dos Cabezas.

The Fort Bowie foot approach

South of Bowie – fictional birthplace of the fictional John Rambo, home to a few trading posts and pecan orchards – the orchards end and the mountains loom large. 

The fort that gave the town its name wasn’t far, but hidden among the ridges . Getting there wasn’t so simple. Apache Pass Road feels like any dirt road until you imagine traversing it in Butterfield Stage. At a wide spot in the road, the foot path to the fort descends into the landscape. For most, the Fort Bowie Experience begins here.

Trail near Apache Pass Road

Fort Bowie offered an approach more historic forts could adopt. Only those who require accessibility could drive up to the visitor center. For those in decent health – which theoretically includes me - the visitor center required a 1.5-mile hike up a sometimes-shady trail. 

Late this Monday morning, I wanted all the shade I could find; summer temperatures lingered into October, baked the picturesque mountains. 

Passing one hiker, I asked her if was worth the hike. She affirmed it would be worthwhile, so I continued as the path cut in out and of the shade, up and down dry creek beds and small hills. Through signs, ruins, and natural features, the trails traces much of the history behind the Fort Bowie National Historic Site.

 The visitor center has some artifacts but is relatively small, so reading signs and markers in the valley illustrated the long history and the few violent decades that gave rise to Fort Bowie. 

Restored Apache dwelling

Instead, the trail hike supplied much of the Fort Bowie background. This secluded valley was once the homeland of the Chiracahua Apache people, best known for its famed leaders Geronimo, as well as Cochise, who often held the piece with settlers but famously cut his way out of a tent when soldiers attempted to hold him hostage for crimes his band didn’t commit. 

The path crossed a pioneer cemetery, the remains of the Butterfield Stage station (abandoned after the Bascom Affair) and the remnants of the Indian Agency office established in the 1870s when the San Carlos Apache reservation was formed. 

While the Butterfield office closed in 1862 due to the Civil War, Fort Bowie was created following the Battle of Apache Pass. The early fort would be replaced by more sturdy structures in 1868. Geronimo would fight until 1886, ending the Apache Wars and beginning his decades of imprisonment in Florida then Oklahoma, never again to see his homeland. 

Apache Spring

The second iteration of Fort Bowie closed in 1894 and fell into ruin, although much of the adobe foundations remain, making it easier to picture the fort’s bustling heyday as well as the earlier Apache camps. Along with massive horse corrals, the fort ruins included old and new hospitals, officers quarters that surrounded a parade ground centered on a flag post, separate infantry barracks, and a trading post on the fort’s edge. 

With arid land for dozens of miles in every direction, Apache Spring made the land valuable. The Chiracahua defended it from early Spanish intrusions, the Spanish referring to Apache Pass as the “pass of chance” because of the Chiracahua Apache. 

Water still flows from Apache Springs, although in early autumn the flow is minimal. Not treat for drinking, the spring resembles a 20-foot-long strand of water across some rocks that hid it from easy views.

From the spring, the path rises to the ruins of Fort Bowie. They seem older than their years, having been left to decay after the Apache Wars but still giving the fort a framework. 

The cabin-like visitor center overlooks the ruins of the fort, and the wrapround porch proved a good place to observe them while a liter of water or three. I stayed long enough to take in the exhibits and stop sweating for a while.

Parched and sweaty, I ascended to Apache Pass Road, looking back into the valley steeped in history and secrets. 

Some people asked me about the hike and I couldn’t speak; my mouth was too dry. I gave them a thumbs-up and cut around to tackle the last 100 steps up the hillside to Apache Pass Road. 

Chugging some needed water, I couldn’t stop staring at those mountains and their folds guarding the cool spring that brought life to the western edge of the Chihuahuan Desert.

Southbound and down: Chiracahua country

To break up the ballooning days, I headed south for a night, leaving Albuquerque well before first light. The territory of southeast Arizona called to me. This country was dotted with sky islands and small towns  added to the U.S. in the Gadsden Purchase, the last addition to the lower 48.

I barely remember the initial drive. Sunrise caught me near Elephant Butte Reservoir, New Mexico’s major dam on the Rio Grande, named for a massive mesa-turned-island in its waters. Truth or Consequences passed quicker than anticipated, changing my stopping point for breakfast to Hatch. 

Instead of covering the last 40 miles to Las Cruces – the Organ Mountains already loomed in the sunrise haze – I diverted to tiny Hatch, anchor of New Mexico’s chile pepper region. Known as the Chile Capital of the  World, the town was quiet on residential streets with a little traffic on its main drag. 

My hopes of seeing what living in Hatch was like were quickly dashed. A skinny orange cat trotted down the sidewalk and as I called at it, disappeared into the storm drain. I hope it didn’t live there, but who knows with a cat. 

The Pepper Pot restaurant called out for breakfast. I couldn’t come to Hatch and not sample the wares. A pepper-heavy omelette and fresh baked tortilla on the side would power me all the way to Chiracahua. 

 The state route to Deming cuts off significant mileage but passes through some quiet, desolate country rimmed by august mountains and plains that seem to stretch to the Mexican border. 

To the north stand impenetrable mountains that house Silver City and the Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument. I considered stopping there until realizing how truly remote that park unit is. 

The urge to stop in Deming was negated by the desire to maximize my one night in Chiracahua country. A hour of interstate clicked away as I crossed into Arizona. Other than the sign, the geography of the Gadsden Purchase country did not change. 

Pecan groves

The rare air of the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta

Every Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta trip must get treated like it will be the last. The crew I know and respect isn’t getting any younger, and licensing grows tougher as pilots pass 60. So I can’t take a chance and wait till next year. 

While I still have some strength in my limbs, I want to help where I can, even if I’m not handy enough to help as much as I would like. In early September I got the message from the balloon crew. I didn’t hesitate to accept. 

For my third time at the Duke City’s biggest annual event, I decided to work the front end of the festival. Since the festival begins the first full weekend of October and runs nine days, I can pick and choose days. 

As with Colorado, Albuquerque ran hotter than October norms. Allergies I put to rest in Colorado Springs picked up where they left off. Central New Mexico too was setting records on a daily basis – Albuquerque also sits at a mile above sea level, so the climate was similar. 

I knew the routine. Hang out the night before the fiesta, get to bed by 9 a.m. because we had to be curbside for the balloon bus at 4:45 a.m. I had no trouble shutting down, as if my body knew what had to happen the next few days. 

Overly caffeinated and light on sleep, the crew hit the field well before sunrise. Two things immediately stuck out – the warmth (many balloon mornings start cold) and the wind. We brought out the basket and burner to prepare for the sunrise flight. You almost know immediately if the balloons will fly. If the wind hits you when stepping off the bus, you hope it will calm down by sunrise. The continued hot temperatures worked against getting balloons in the air; it would take too much propane to keep them afloat once the temperatures got past the 70s. 

The international aspect of the International Balloon Fiesta was on display both during the morning drone show – the drones assembled into the Earth and red stars marked all the countries represented among the pilots. 

It was also represented in the crowd. As we handed out cards and discussed the balloon with spectators, the first day was clearly heavy on international tourists. Some people come for all nine days, some come for as little as one session on overnight charter buses from cities several hundred miles away.

Even as the flags on the field’s perimeter stood up in the wind, the pilots were clearly eager to get into the sky. But the wind on the field gave many second thoughts about flying. If balloons could not get into the sky fast enough, the wind was a problem. One balloon several rows north burnt a hole in its envelope, not how anyone wants to open the fiesta. 

We briefly stood up the balloon to offer something to the crowd gathered for the inaugural morning ascent. What we didn’t know was not long after clearing the field, the winds eased, and the balloons pushed northwest and away from the reservation. 

We intended to glow on Saturday and Sunday evenings, but the winds would not comply. The only balloons that stood up were those with corporate logos on their fabric, and the wind tossed them around. That resulted in dozens of balloons candlesticking – assembling the balloon basket, the burner, and lighting the burner in concert with the other crews. It’s not perfect, but it lights the night in a delightful way. 

In Sunday's ascent, we ran into a different issue. The balloons took off with ease but headed south. Go too far south toward downtown and landing spots grow scarce. The balloon came down a short distance from the field, in a dirt lot past a RV park, scrubby cacti and other desert plants everywhere.

A dozen or more balloons chose the same spot. Next to us landed the Smokey the Bear balloon – while Smokey is a regular fiesta participant, this balloon was new for Smokey’s 80th anniversary, and that Sunday was its inaugural flight. Our crew paled compared to Smokey’s as people piled out of the chase van. We had three in the vehicle, and one of the crew on the flight already rolled up the balloon before we could bring the chase van up. 

The balloon field remains a hive of activity through the day, with helicopter landings, aerial jumpers, and more. Our Sunday brunch was nearly a casualty of the copter landings. New Mexico State Police and Bernalillo County Sheriff gave us no problems, but Albuquerque PD came in low and set off a wind that flipped our serving tables. Luckily everything was still sealed. The crew had a second pilot this year albeit in a smaller balloon scale. 

Kevin, a regular on the balloon crew, had a remote-controlled balloon built, and was participant in the fiesta’s multiple RC displays. The Wiley B, which has a Wiley Coyote and Roadrunner theme - including a stencil of the two on the balloon fabric and toys of each in the miniature balloon basket - took several short ascents from the field. Known as Globitos, the RC balloons are a run break from those full-scale models that rise for the morning ascent. 

Even if we don’t get into the sky, the days do remain full, and it takes nothing away from the experience. You talk and relax when not on the fiesta schedule. When I remember a time when even visiting the fiesta seemed out of reach, I won’t complain about an instant of my time on the field. 

I returned Tuesday night for one last ascent on Wednesday morning. Our pilot took me and another friend of the crew up. We set up quickly and got the balloon upright to take advantage of the last moments before the sun rose behind the Sandia Mountains. 

I may never experience the sunrise from a hot air balloon again – every ride must feel like the last. I tried to soak in every ray, every bit of sudden color catching the rocks, the fiesta field, the trees and buildings across Albuquerque. Dogs barked, people waved and we exchange good mornings with a few.

The balloon headed south from the field then kicked west. We drifted over the Rio Grande. The river still flowed as a series of braided ribbons and the occasional deep pool. Fisherman looked up at us and the other balloons, some which dropped altitude to dip their baskets in the waters. Due to an incoming balloon, we had to rapidly increase altitude. 

This changed the flight significantly by pushing us out of the current taking us west and into a southerly current. But we couldn’t slow down enough for our crew to wrangle us. Mike the pilot strapped in, gave us a safety talk and prepared us to push through the tops of cottonwoods to slow our pace. 

The balloon basket weighs 800 pounds – it would have to go deep into a tree to become stuck. Hitting the top five feet of branches was jarring to us passengers, but the basket plowed through them like a mower blade to grass. I fell into the basket to avoid getting tossed, although the basket didn’t tip or even come close. 

We were slower, but definitely not slow enough. Finally a landing option emerged, a big white X in a grassy field. We had to take another plunge into the treetops. This time we ended up with several small branches in the basket but our progress stalled. 

The drop line went down, and we eased onto a small farm a few miles south of the balloon field. When I finally crawled from the basket, I felt a bit of relief.

The crew had a few days of good flying ahead, but this marked the end for me. We rolled up the envelope squeezing all the air out before bagging it, packed and loaded for one last brunch on the balloon field. 

No balloons linger over the Sandia Valley past mid-morning, and these hotter days ended flights even earlier. Even if the fiesta had four more days of morning flights, the departure felt like the proper time for me. Plus, I have 12 months to stew on which days might work for 2025.