Philmont - Day 3
August, 2000

We stood on the cool mountain at 5 o’clock in the morning, gazing east at the sun as it inched over the horizon. The black silhouette of the land lightened and brightened to slowly reveal wave after dark wave of mountains, stretching away nearly to Texas. The inky spotting of clouds above had by now changed to fizzy oranges and yellows that every moment shaded toward puffy white. Brian stood next to me and we talked quietly about the sky changes and about the trek ahead. I was a little in awe of both —– hard to believe that he was that morning going to set us loose in these New Mexico mountains.

Thirty Scouts shared the mountainside with us, no doubt equally impressed by this fine sunrise. Cameras flashed and fingers pointed at every new scenic revelation. Then a Scout came over and joined us. He listened politely to our happy conversation for a minute, then grew exasperated and, from the depths of his poetic soul, said, “Can we get out of here now?“

We walked back up to the campsite, pausing on the way to drop the bear bags and retrieve our food and other “smellables” from the bear-safe cable high overhead. Then Nate, our crew leader, distributed the 30 bags of food to the other 9 Scouts and we made ready to depart. Brian, our Philmont Ranger, gathered us together and sat rocking in his portable chair, folding and unfolding his arms and occasionally rubbing his head as he once again reviewed the Philmont way of doing things. He had been with us since we stepped off the bus three days earlier at Base Camp, first shepherding us through the check-in process, and then training us in the field for two days. Every crew gets a ranger, of course, but not every ranger hits it off with his crew as Brian had done with us. We were by now good friends with the man, and as he sat there nattering on about bear attacks, I thought how much we would miss this 13th member of our crew. Still, young birds must learn to fly, and so with many handshakes and pats on the back, we left him behind and started on the upward road that led out of Sawmill Camp toward the south and adventure.

We followed the four-wheel drive road up and up for the next hour, until Alan, our chief navigator, spotted the trail to Thunder Ridge branching off to the right. We stopped then and broke out the breakfast bags. Each food bag holds a meal for four trekkers, and so our crew of 12 surrounded the contents of three bags at each sitting. This morning the bags were labeled Breakfast Number 8. Al, Pete, Clay and I were by now always eating from the same bags. This time we drank over-concentrated orange drink mixed in a canteen that we passed around as we ate. Very sanitary. A small box of Frosted Wheaties, Strawberry Pop-Tarts, and beef jerky sticks completed Breakfast Number 8. It was excellent after the last hour’s uphill climb, and soon I could feel the sugar entering my bloodstream and my energy level start to rise.

We started up the trail to Thunder Ridge and for the first five minutes this wended pleasantly along the mountainside. The forest was of house-high firs with little ground cover to hide the rocky terrain. The sun filtered though the trees, and the morning was cool and pleasant. The Scouts marched along at a great pace and were seemingly oblivious to their surroundings, except when I would call a halt to take a picture or catch my breath. Soon the way turned uphill and to the left, and we were presented with an awful prospect.

How this little bit of hell came to be is anyone’s guess. Perhaps it was just an overzealous attempt to prevent erosion on the part of some wild-eyed conservationist on the Philmont staff. Or, maybe this was some remnant of what all Philmont trails used to look like. Whatever the reason, we were presented with a path that went straight up the mountainside and was covered with rocks ranging in size from tennis balls to wash tubs. It cut a wide swath through the trees that let the sun in to bake the ground and make the huff up more miserable. And it didn’t end, but went on and on, up and up.

The birds still sang, the wind still swished through the fir trees, but I heard nothing except the pounding of my heart. The woods around and the mountain ranges glimpsed through the trees were still there to look at and enjoy, but all I saw was the next rock to step on and an infinity of such rocks leading up the steep slope. Every 100 yards or so I would call out, “Wait!” and stand there gasping for a couple of minutes until my heart rate dropped. After three such pauses, the young bucks at the front of the line were getting impatient with the pace, and Nate decided to try a different strategy. The call came back the line, “Caterpillar!”

The caterpillar technique is perhaps a Philmont invention; certainly I had not heard of it before we began getting ready to come out here. It is a way of approaching uphill climbs that are too steep for continuous hiking. To start the caterpillar, the lead hiker steps off of and faces the trail so that the rest of the group can pass him while he rests. After taking five steps, the new front man steps off the trail in the same way, and this process continues. When the last climbing man passes the first Scout to start standing, the resting Scout falls in behind and continues his march up the hill until he is once more at the front of the line and can rest again. The idea is that half the Scouts are resting and half are climbing at any given time, and though this slows the pace considerably, it does allow continuous progress to be made toward the top of a steep hill. On our training hikes over steep but smooth trails in Pennsylvania, we had had good luck with the technique. Here, it was a disaster.

For starters, there were few places to get off and stand on this rugged mountain trail, and so the line got more and more stretched out. Then too, I went more slowly than most over the rocky terrain, and when I finally reached the front of the line, the Scouts were bunched up behind me and came streaming by at a great rate to compensate for my slowness. In no time at all, still panting and sweating, I had to force myself to start climbing again, or the whole caterpillar would grind to a halt.

I wasn’t the only one with problems. Sometimes the resting Scouts could not get off the trail entirely, and others had problems passing them. Sometimes the faster Scouts crowded the slower ones and urged them to “hurry up!” After half an hour of this all good feelings amongst us were at an end and the crewmembers were snappish and ready to be somewhere else. At 10,000 feet the agony ended, and we stepped out of the woods onto a long, open ridge, but our sense of unity was gone and that was a worrisome thing on day 3 of an 11-day trek.

We rested for a half-hour then, but we made a sorry spectacle in the midst of the magnificent fir clad mountain scenery. The boys were clumped up by personality type. Some played cards, or keep away with a stolen hat, or pitched rocks down the steep slope. Others talked quietly about the computer games they would write or play when they got home. Some just lay there near exhaustion, tending to blistered feet. I re-powdered my own feet and was pleased that they were still in good shape. I needed to get away from this bunch for a few minutes, so I told Nate I would be about five minutes up the trail and walked off alone feeling played out and dispirited.

As I walked along, I saw some sort of hawk or falcon kiting on the breeze in the valley below. I noted many plants that were new to me, and I came upon a tree that sent a huge puff of pollen into the air when you twitched any of its branches. I slowly forgot the troubles with the crew and rejoiced in my novel surroundings. Maybe this was the way to survive the trek. Maybe I would just stay a little ahead of them and enjoy a more solitary walk through the mountains. Of course that was not the way it was supposed to be, but I wasn’t here at Philmont to lead the crew. I was “on vacation,” as I had been frequently told during training. So, if the boys were not going to pull together, that was Nate’s problem, and I sure wasn’t going to deprive him of the opportunity of solving it or failing to do so.

The crew was a long time in catching me, and so I dropped my pack and settled against a comfy looking tree. After five minutes or so, the small creatures in the vicinity came out to resume their simple lives. A Western tanager explored the Ponderosa pines. A golden-mantled ground squirrel appeared from nowhere and started rooting around for his lunch no more than a couple of yards from my extended feet. These small mammals look like slightly inflated chipmunks and are everywhere about Philmont Scout Ranch, where they are called “mini bears.”

I kept expecting the noise of my crew’s approach from the right, but when I did hear humans it came from the left, and sounded strangely like “hut, hut, hut.“ Then I saw them coming, 12 supermen in a row. A lank, muscular 30-year old led the crew of what looked like superbly trained football players. Another young and athletic adult followed and they were moving fast. I called out, “What day?” --- my question to all the crews we passed. They didn’t answer, but just kept chugging along, looking neither left nor right, on their mission to reach the next camp before noon. A couple of our guys would have been glad to be part of this bunch, but to me they seemed to have the wrong idea. An adult leading? Come on! Why the speed? Isn’t it better to stop and smell the roses? Maniacs!

As the army patrol passed out of sight, here came my guys from the other direction. I fell in behind and walked along up toward Thunder Ridge. The views were grand and the walking was easy, but no one was talking. Then along came six guys from the other direction, again moving fast and looking strong. “What day? Where are you bound?”

“Day 7. Sawmill.”

“Where is the rest of your crew?” I asked.

“Oh, they're back there somewhere,” one of them chuckled.

And they were too. A couple of minutes later three more boys passed by. One of them was limping badly, and another seemed near tears. Shortly after that a man and a woman passed by looking bleak and determined. They each had an aluminum walking stick that they dug in with a clink at every step.

Finally, a full ten minutes after the leading bunch had passed, there came a lone, dispirited looking man who used two walking sticks to help himself along the more or less level trail. “Are you following those guys ahead, or are you leading a crew behind you?“ I asked.

“The guys in front,“ he said bitterly.

“So don’t you find those walking sticks a bother? Aren’t they noisy and don’t they get in your way?“

“These sticks are all that keep me going,“ he muttered. “Don’t knock it until you have tried it!“ And he shuffled along his lonely way.

Wow, I thought. What was that mess all about. A good crew stays together. A good crew tends to the problems of its members. This bunch wasn’t a crew at all, and their philosophy was plain to see —– to hell with the sick and wounded, full speed ahead. Idiots!

Our group proceeded on its grumpy way. Some boys were not talking to others and there was more muttering than happy chatter, but hey, we were at least still marching together.

Along about noon we crested a last little rise and arrived at Thunder Ridge Camp; not our final destination, but at least well on the way. The mountain ridge saddled up there at 10,400 feet and in the middle of the notch the fir trees were stunted and the sky surrounded us. As we paused to plot our next move, a crew came the other way and, unexpectedly, stopped to talk. Where had we come from? Oh, that's where we are headed! How was the hike? What was there to see?

A girl who was part of this crew took the lead in the questioning, but most of her group clustered around and listened to what we had to say. I traded one of my loathsome Pemmican bars for a delicious Wild Berry PowerBar, and we chatted about where we were from and our experiences thus far. We heard that they were on day 8, and to watch out because day 3 was the tough one. It was then that the physical strain started to be noticeable, and the emotional and crew problems started to emerge. Too true! I hoped Nate was listening.

After a bit, they hit the downhill trail for Sawmill. As they rolled away, I swear I heard them start to sing . . . and I wanted to go with those guys! 

We found ourselves an empty campsite in an open part of the woods. The sun warmed us pleasantly, and flies buzzed about as we dug into our packs and came up with bags labeled Trail Meal – Lunch Number 4. These contained GatorAid powder, tins of ham salad, Captain Wafers, little sausages, Peanut Butter PowerBars and a packet of Oreo cookies. Mixing up the GatorAid did not appeal to us, so we just washed down the meal with the last of our water. I loved the ham salad, scooped out of the can with Captain Wafers in delicious clumps. Al hated the stuff though, and so I traded my small, plastic wrapped sausage for the rest of his canned ham. Then we ate our Oreos, tucked the PowerBars away for later, and listened to Nate’s plan for the afternoon.

We had a plan for our trek that had been assigned to us by Philmont at the time we applied to come out here. This was recorded on a single piece of paper, called our “life.” Nate carried this very important document. It was our reservation at the various staffed camps along the route, and was needed to pick up food at the commissaries along the way, every four days or so. It was also required to take part in certain activities such as horseback riding. For Day 3, our “life” said we were to sleep at Red Hills Camp, which was two miles south of Thunder Ridge as the crow flies. How we got there and when was completely up to us. Red Hills was next to a stream, and so we could get water when we arrived, but on the map it looked a lonely and uninteresting place to spend an afternoon.

For days Nate had been talking about another possibility —– a side trip to Cyphers Mine. I think this was partly because his last name is Cyphert, but also because the prospect of touring a gold mine appealed to him. Thunder Ridge was where the decision had to be made, since from here trails and roads lead off to Mount Phillips and Red Hills, and down to Cyphers Mine. Philmont rules said we could go where we pleased as long as we stayed on the trials or roads, and as long as we slept where we were suppose to.

Cyphers is on the north fork of Cimarroncito Creek, and so we could no doubt get water there, and there was a decent chance that we could get a tour of the mine, even though this was not officially on our itinerary. The mine is just a long mile from Thunder Ridge, but is 1000 feet lower in altitude, so there would be a stiff climb on the way back. Still, we would leave our packs behind, and so the climb would be much easier than it would have been with all our gear. Who knew how long it might take to get a tour, but as long as we were back at Thunder Ridge by five, it should be easy enough to make Red Hills by dark. Everyone agreed with this reasoning, and so it was decided —– Cyphers Mine, here we come.

We found an open space a step or two back in the woods, and made a pack line, just like we had seen the old hands do back at Base Camp; each pack with its waterproof pack-cover to keep the water off if it happened to rain. We had already removed all food and other “smellables” to our bear bags. Now we ran these up onto a bear-bag cable at the campsite, so the bears would, hopefully, leave the packs alone. Each of us had two or three empty canteens, and, carrying these, we first took a compass bearing, and then hit the downward trail for the mine.

You could tell just by looking at the map that the trail down would be a good one, and it did not disappoint. Whereas the “Trail of Doom” that morning had shown as a straight uphill line on the map, this one snaked about in most engaging fashion. The walk to Cyphers was a wonder. With the forty-pound packs off our backs, camp shoes instead of hiking boots on our feet and with the back and forth, back and forth, but always downhill of the route, we flew along at a terrific rate. 23 minutes later we were standing at Cyphers Mine Camp. The Scouts were still a little standoffish with each other, but everyone was exhilarated by the run down and wanted to talk about it, so things were looking up a bit.

Nate went off to arrange for a tour of the mine with the people in charge. He came back in five minutes and told us that, yes, we could have a tour, but we would have to wait until 3:30 p.m. to start. That would put us a little behind schedule for getting on the road for Red Hills, but everyone agreed that is was worth it. Water was much more of a problem. With a beautiful mountain stream flowing right through the camp, Cyphers, nonetheless had no water! This meant that thirsty crews had to purify the stream water to meet their needs. We had filter pumps to do this, but they were back at the packs. We also had iodine tablets that we hesitated to use because of the taste they gave to the water, but again these were up on top of the mountain. That left boiling as the only means of killing the giradia cysts, bacteria, cryptosporidia and viruses that may inhabit the raw mountain water ¾ the hitch being that there was a ban on fires due to the current drought conditions. Oh yeah, and our pots were… you guessed it… at the top of the hill. So, this was a real problem. The other crews in the area did not have extra chemicals or water to share, and so we settled on the idea of filling one canteen each with stream water and carrying these back to the top where iodine would be added. This meant a dry afternoon and a dryer climb back up, but at least there would be relief back at Thunder Ridge.

Well, I was disappointed at our lack of planning, but was just as guilty as anyone else in not allowing for the unexpected. To myself, I muttered that I would just drink the water from the stream and take my chances —– I had, after all, done that all of my youth and never had a problem. Still, I felt myself bound by the rules that Philmont had laid down, and so hesitated to do this myself or advise it as a course of action for others until water became a real problem. Then I would have to choose between the real and imminent dangers of dehydration as opposed to the small chance of swallowing some beastie that could give me stomach problems or worse.

We could have sat there and pointing fingers over the water situation for the next two hours, but instead (was it luck or was the kid thinking) Nate suggested that we spend our time killing each other. That proved a big success.

It’s a game called Mafia that Brian had taught us during training. One guy acts as "God" and the rest are "villagers". God asks the villagers to close their eyes and "sleep". He then secretly taps one of the villagers on the head to tell him that he is the Mafia. God then tells the villagers to awake and the action starts with an animated discussion of who might be the Mafia. Once a likely candidate is settled upon, the villagers vote to kill him. If that guy turns out to have indeed been the Mafia, the villagers win the round. If the villagers are wrong, the dead guy is out for the round and God tells the villagers to sleep. The Mafia guy then points to the one among them who seems closest to guessing who he is. God then awakens the villagers and tells a sad and funny story about the demise of one of their number, and that guy is out for the round, too. The villagers think about who has died, peer into each other's faces, argue a lot, and then decide who is to die next.

Yeah, I know it’s a politically incorrect game. It's got God, the Mafia and mass pretend killing in it, but it is a lot of fun to play and provides a release for pent up anger. Arguing and shouting about suspects is the order of the day, and any resentments that build up are quickly released when the identity of the true culprit becomes known. "SEE, I told you I wasn't the Mafia!"

The game started slow and evil, but later on we rejoiced in it as we slaughtered one another, along with the stupid, slow-moving, altitude-drunk flies that were everywhere. By the end, we had released our frustrations and were talking again, and I was feeling a little more optimistic about the days ahead.

Along about 3:30, we were standing at the entrance to the mine. Before us stood Slim, a miner wearing pinstriped cotton pants and a black vest, over fire engine red long underwear. Perched on his head was a pork-pie hat that he had folded up in front. He had a runny, red nose and watery eyes, and every few seconds paused in his explanation of how the mine was worked to hack and wheeze and complain about how it was ruining his health. We stood well back from him. Whatever he had, we sure didn’t want it.

As Slim was passing out hardhats and stressing that we must wear them in the mine, Mike pointed up the nearby hill and exclaimed, “Look at that! What‘s that.”

Slim took a look, “Mule deer. They come down here for the water. Just ignore it.“

The deer didn’t make it that easy, stumbling noisily down off the hill, entering the mine area, seemingly oblivious to our presence. It had a sad, stupid, moth-eaten air about it that made me nervous as it came closer and closer. Could it be rabid, or was this a perfectly normal mule deer? It seemed about to come up to us, when suddenly there were flashes a-popin’ as the Scouts whipped out their cameras and indulged in a little nature photography. The deer didn’t like that at all and awkwardly ran away. Slim just gave a hacking cough and resumed his talk as though nothing had happened.

We donned hardhats and followed the sick man into the heart of the mountain. Our flashlights and helmet lanterns lit him with thin yellow light as he sniffled and wiped his watery eyes and explained about the shoring of the shaft. He stumbled along, showing us the branching tunnels that had been blasted out of the rock. With trembling hands, he demonstrated how the drilling and blasting was done in the damp, chilly depths of the mountain. Then he gaspingly asked that we turn off our lights and promise on our honor to leave them off. By the glow of his lantern, he got us into a line pointed back the way we had come and had us place our hands on each others shoulders chain-gang fashion. Then he shouted, “Now find your way out!“ and ran away cackling and coughing down the shaft. When he turned the first corner, we found ourselves in complete and utter darkness.

We shuffle along with only the exclamations of our neighbors to guide us. “It goes left now. Watch out! Puddle! Puddle!” Then comes the clonk of helmet against wood. “Low bridge! Boy, am I glad I'm wearing this helmet!” Suddenly, a light flares and there is a leering Slim, not a foot from my face. Startled, I reel away and crash into the opposite wall, praying that he is not contagious. Then, darkness again and the long shuffle in the dark, surrounded by my fellows. Five minutes pass and I start getting tired of this, but look! What's that ahead? Yes, streaks of daylight seeping through the plank-made door of the mine. We stumble out into the late afternoon sunlight and happily breath the warm, dry mountain air, free at last from the fetid mine.

As we walked away, everyone agreed that it had been excellent fun. Then, here was a laughing Slim, comfortably propped against a rock with a large jug of what he claimed was medicine cradled in his lap. And you know that stuff must be good too. He no longer seemed sick at all.  

It was now pushing 5 o’clock and we wasted no time in starting up the mountain toward Thunder Ridge. We needed water, and we needed to get moving toward Red Hills if we were to make it in daylight. Five minutes along I was blown from the climb and called a halt. I could tell that frequent stops would hurt the morale of the peppier guys, and so we decided to split into groups and meet at the top. In no time, everyone was gone, racing upward to the iodine tablets and a drink of pure water. The fastest of them made it in just the same time it took to come down, 23 minutes. I, on the other hand, took an hour to go back up. I was not entirely alone though. My son, Pete, who a year ago would have been up there with the leaders, hung back with his dad and I appreciated the gesture —– no solitary clinking through the woods for this old fellow. We kept at it, but enjoyed the scenery as we went. We talked of where we had been and what we would do in the coming weeks, and I was pleased to have the company of my sixteen-year-old son.

At the top, we found that some of the iodine water was ready to drink, and was not really that bad. There was not a lot of it though, and so we had to be on the lookout for a stream. The fast Scouts had dropped the bear-bags and were ready to leave. We had a long look at the maps and tried to decide on the best route to Red Hills. The normal trail would take us over Commanchie Peak and down the other side. Having just climbed up from Cyphers, there was not a lot of enthusiasm for this. But wait. Look at the supply roads. Wouldn’t they get us there just as well? They were about the same distance and there was much less up-and-down to the hike! Soon it was decided, we would take the road and make Red Hills in much less time with a smaller expenditure of energy than had we gone by trail. Let’s go for it! 

So I hoisted my 45-pound pack once again and trailed along behind the crew as they located the road and began the march to Red Hills. The sky was clear but gray clouds were beginning to appear in the west, and so we could maybe expect some rain later. The road was an easy walk, and had a downhill trend to it that made the going still easier. All was well for 15 minutes, until we came to the fork in the road that should not have been there.

My mouth dropped open. The map only showed one road, so what was this about! Nate was confused at this development too, and dug out the large-scale map he carried to see if it could be of any help, just as Brian had trained us to do back at Base Camp. Yow! It not only showed a fork, it showed four of them. Nate sent scouts out both ways to have a look, while four of us tried to figure out where we were on the map. The scouts came back and reported, and Nate made his choice. We would go right. I would have picked left, but it was his show, and in retrospect I think he made the correct decision. Had we taken the left fork, I now think we would have ended up back at Cyphers Mine, and what a disappointment that would have been.

This decision took about 20 minutes to make, and there was a sense that we had better start to make some time. The sky to the west was definitely going gray, and darkness was only 90 minutes away.

We worked our way up the hill and along the valley, not quite sure yet where we were, but confident that we were headed in the right general direction. Around each turn I expected to see some terrain feature that would allow me to assure myself that we were where we thought we were on the map. When it came, it was another shock. The road didn’t just turn a little, it did an abrupt 180-degree turn and headed steeply up the mountain in the wrong direction. This was awful! Should we go forward in the wrong direction, or retrace our route and try something else? As we stood there studying the terrain and our rotten choices, some of the Scouts started to become impatient at the delay. Nate held them in check with a firm word, and we oriented the map and finally discovered where we must be. What to do, what to do? Continuing up the road meant a uphill climb to Comanche Peak, a place we had hoped to avoid. The only option seemed to be a  boring return toward Thunder Ridge for another try at finding the right road. Neither prospect was at all pleasing.

When the bulldozer plowed out this sharp turn in the road, its blade had thrown up an 8-foot mound of dirt that blocked the view to the south. As the navigators endlessly discussed what to do next, Binky decided to explore a little and climbed this mound to check out the scenery. His mouth dropped open at what he saw, "Hey, Nate, there’s another road over here!”

“Yeah, right.”

“No, honest, there is a road.”

“Why would they put a road on the other side of a pile of dirt?”

“I don’t know. It looks old and a jeep couldn’t get down it, but there is some kind of path that looks OK.”

“Where does it go?”

“I goes that-a-way,” he said and pointed in exactly the direction we wanted to go.

In thirty seconds half the crew was on the mound gazing down at the abandoned road. Ten-year-old trees were starting to reclaim it, but you could see a pretty good trail that led off enticingly down the range. I knew immediately what I wanted to do, and stood there bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet with my mouth clamped tightly shut, willing Nate to agree. Come on, Nate, come on —– roll the dice. The Scouts were discussing the possibilities.

“It's not on the map.”

“Yeah, so? It’s still there and it goes the right way.”

“What if it dead ends?”

“Why would they make a road that dead ends?”

“Well, what if it does?”

“We come back and try something else.”

“Let’s see that map again. Hmm, OK. Want to try it?”

“YES!”

I was bursting with enthusiasm for this unexpected adventure. Suddenly I was full of energy, and in my eagerness I bounded off the mound of dirt and headed down the trail in front of the Scouts. A minute later I thought to look back and only one guy was with me, Clay, the other adult advisor to the crew. No one else was in sight. A guilty grin passed between us and then we set a blazing pace down the disused track. It was a good walk in good company and I will never forget it.

Fifteen minutes later sanity returned and we paused to rest and wait for the slowpokes to catch up. They weren’t long in doing so.

“Hey, what happened to you guys?”

“Yeah, I though you were about worn out, Hank, and suddenly you go zooming off like a rabbit.”

“Well, I just got this tremendous burst of energy. Isn’t this great? Don’t you wonder where this little sucker will take us? Don’t you wonder where we will sleep tonight?”

“Red Hills is where we sleep tonight.”

“Well, maybe…”

The order of march reverted to the correct one then, with one of the Scouts leading, Nate a few back from the front, and either Clay or I bringing up the rear. The country was beautiful to behold, with a vast bowl of fir clad hills slowly opening up on our left, and a steep upward mountain slope to the right. If this little puppy petered out there would be nothing for it but to retrace our route. That added spice to our gamble.

The line stretched out nicely and we made good time on the abandoned roadbed. It ran nearly level and showed every sign of going on forever. Then I could see the lead Scouts stopping abruptly far ahead, and the rest of them piling up as they reached the same point. Uh oh, there was a problem up there. As I came up to this clump of Scouts, I saw that there was indeed a problem, a big problem --- the road ended abruptly at the lip of an enormous landslide. 

It must be very exciting to cut roads through these mountains with a dozer, or whatever they use. Here for instance, the hill had grown very steep for a few hundred feet, and, I am sure, the equipment operator must have had his heart in his mouth as he scraped away and rocks went rolling hundreds of feet into the valley below. He had succeeded in making the road, but this part must have been the weakest bit. Later on, perhaps due to unusual rains, a twenty-foot section had just given way and fallen into the valley, taking all the trees with it and widening as it crashed downward. The landslide looked like a upended “V” of raw, red earth and rock, and went down and down into the valley below. There was no way we could hike around this obstruction.

Adam picked up a chuck of rock and gave it a toss. The result was appalling. Not only did the rock continue to bounce and slide down the mountainside, but it triggered other little slides at every point it touched. This was not stable earth; it was another landslide waiting to happen. There was no way we could walk across this without ending up beaten, bruised, or worse in the valley far, far below.

“Well, that's it then," I said after a minute of close inspection. "Can’t go around it, can’t get across it. Guess we have to go back.“

“Oh, I don’t know,“ said Al. "It looks OK from over here.“

There he stood on the other side of the 20-foot gap where the road used to be, looking onward.

“Hey, how did you get over there? Who said you could even try to get over there?“ I said with real alarm.

“Well, you didn’t say I couldn’t try. Anyway, it was easy. I just followed the deer tracks.“

“Where? Show me!“

It was amazing. The path was in plain sight, but blended so well with the surrounding rubble that it was not immediately apparent. It was eight inches wide and I walked across it easily. No problem at all, unless you happened to trip or step off of it, then it would be the ride of your life as you slid into the valley bottom. Al was right about the road, too. It continued to swing around the head of the valley and was good for as far as I could see. Nate was standing beside me by then.

“Well, what do you want to do?” I asked.

“Let's go for it.”

So the Scouts lined up and made their way across the narrow deer-track at the head of the landslide. The first couple sauntered across like there was nothing to it. The middle bunch were much more careful and made sure to have a hand on a shrub or vine in case the earth gave way, and I found that their caution communicated itself to me. Halfway through the operation, Clay and I took position and got a hand on the Scouts as they came across, ready to haul them to safety if the need arose. The final Scout to cross was obviously terrified. He swallowed frequently and was trembling, but Clay and I went out and met him. I could see him summon his courage for the 10 foot walk he is never likely to forget, and he made it OK. I was pleased and impressed at his bravery in the face of what was to him a terrifying challenge.

With a sigh of relief, we started out again. The sky had grown quite dark by now, and occasional raindrops hinted at an approaching storm. As we came around the head of the valley, I could see the Cimarron Range that we walked on stretching down twenty miles to the southwest. I could also see that we were getting close to the pass that must lead over to Red Hills, and fervently hoped that there was a trail or road across it, because we were sure not going to be finding our own way up and over. The pass came closer and closer, and then I realized we were beyond it. Rats! It was not going to be easy after all. I was very disappointed, and suddenly very tired of walking. I began considering the wisdom of just setting up camp on this abandoned road and starting again in the morning. I was played out, and ready to stop. Curt came out of the line and walked back to me.

“Give me something to carry.”

“Say what?”

“Give me some of your stuff to carry.”

“I can carry my stuff,” I said, a little miffed.

“Yeah, I know you can, but couldn’t you go faster if you were carrying less?”

“Sure, but don’t you have enough to carry already?”

“I’m OK. I could carry more.”

Suddenly I was suspicious, “Is this your good deed for the day? Is this like helping an old lady across the street or something?”

“Well, maybe,” he grinned at the idea. “It's just that you are going pretty slow now, and we don’t know how much more walking there is to do. If it will help you to go faster I would be glad to carry some of your stuff?”

Well, I was touched and outraged and at the same time. I saw that there was truth in what he said. I was holding everyone back a little. Maybe I should take him up on this kind offer.

“Who put you up to this?”

“Nobody.”

“You thought this up on your own?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I think it's great. This is like something a Boy Scout in a book might do. How about carrying my sleeping bag?”

“Ok. How much does it weigh?”

“About 4 pounds, but where will you put it?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” and so saying he took the sleeping bag, tucked it into his pack and started to walk away.

“Hey, wait.”

“Yeah?”

“Here,” and I gave him a 30-ought-six slug I had picked up the day before. “Keep this to remind you sometime of your good deed and how much I appreciated it.”

He thanked me and soon we were under way again. I don’t know if it was the 10 percent reduction in the weight of my pack, or just my amazement at the whole episode, but my spirits revived and I trudged doggedly on. The day faded around me, and the mountains slowly changed to mere silhouettes against a sky filled with roiling clouds.

“Road ahead!” was the excited shout from the front of the line. Shortly we were standing on it, just a dirt road in the twilight, but one that was obviously still in use. Our gamble had paid off. We were somewhere, but where that somewhere was was anyone’s guess. The abandoned road ended here. To the left the new road seemed to be a continuation of the abandoned one and stretched away as far as the eye could see. To the right, it headed steeply up the hillside, more or less back toward the way we had come.

“Which way?” I was dazed and confused, but Clay took one look at his compass and said with great confidence, “That way” and pointed up the hill. Some of us groaned. More uphill walking? We are out of water. We don’t know where we are. The rains must surely be coming. Isn’t it time to camp? More than one Scout was near the limit of his endurance. We talked briefly about just camping there in the middle of the abandoned road. That brought tears of apprehension to one Scout's eyes. He did not want to sleep in the middle of a road, even if it was an abandoned road. Still, it was that or one final push.

We talked it over and decided that the stronger Scouts would sling on ahead and find the best possible campsite up on the top of the ridge where the ground would be more level, then they would look for water while there was still a little light. Those of us who were worn out would continue up at a slower pace and meet them at the top.

So the tired bunch began the climb. The last of the daylight faded and an occasional raindrop plopped on the dry, dusty road. We wended our way up and up. I kept them talking, rested frequently and promised that when we reached the top that would be the end of hiking for this day. Mike was limping badly, and I could tell that he needed to get his pack off his back soon.

Twenty minutes later we could see the top, highlighted by the last of the twilight. Then a strange black figure appeared leaping wildly up and down and racing down to us. It was Kirk.

“We found it, we found it!“ he chuckled and gasped.

“Found a campsite?“ I said wearily, wondering what the fuss was all about.

“Red Hills! We found Red Hills!“

“You're kidding me.“

“No, honest! Come on!“

We followed him to the top and watched as he searched with his flashlight in the dark. Then there it was, a sign with the, oh so welcome, words and an arrow pointing off down the mountain. We were not there yet, it seemed, but we sure knew what to do next!

We started away, and then stopped. Mike was sitting on the ground rubbing his foot. I had forgotten his condition and my promise

“I can’t go any further,” he said.

“It’s just down hill now,” said Drew.

“My foot hurts too much.”

“There will be water down there,” said Matt.

“That would be good, but I can’t walk that far.”

“How about if you didn’t have the pack to carry?” said Adam.

“Well, yeah, I could do that, but what will happen to my pack up here? Won’t we have to come back up and get it in the morning?”

“Maybe somebody can carry it for you.”

“Nobody could carry it down the hill plus their own stuff. I’ll carry it,” he said resignedly.

“No, you can’t carry it with your foot like that. You'll trip and fall and then we’ll have a bigger problem. Hey, you guys, pick up a corner of Mike’s pack.” Then they messed around until they struck on a way for four people to pick up the pack. Mike didn’t like it, but I had not liked being relieved of my sleeping bag, and he, like me, saw that something extraordinary was needed if the crew was to sleep at Red Hills that night. Finally, he grabbed one of the corners himself and was satisfied to be one of the four Scouts who manhandled his pack down the mountain in the dark.

It was another of those miserable rock covered trails, but this time we tackled it as a team rather than as individuals. Scouts lit the way so that the mules carrying the pack could see to get good footing. Other Scouts pulled branches to the side to ease the way past brushy places. We never rested, merrily heading down and down in the dark as it started to drizzle. In fifteen minutes we heard Comanche Creek, and a minute later were staring at another sign --- “Red Hills Camp." We had arrived.

Four Scouts grabbed the water purifiers and pumped until their arms throbbed to fill half of the empty canteens. Their thirst satisfied, the remaining guys set about erecting the dining fly and making a start on the tents. Clay had a look at the various blisters that had appeared during the day’s wanderings. Nate made the decision to eat tomorrow’s lunch instead of that evening's dinner --- this saved us from cooking anything. Soon we were all relaxing in the dark munching away on crackers and cheese, Oreos and sausage. It tasted mighty good.

By now it was a little after 10, dark as the inside of a black cat, and high time for bed. There were still a few things to tend to though.

For starters, we had all noticed that the food sump had been ripped from the ground by something, presumably a bear. This was not a night to forget to put the food up in a tree, but this proved to be unexpectedly difficult to do. It was dark and when we did find the bear-bag cable we were shocked at its height above the ground. It was way up there. Scout after Scout tried to pitch the rope over the high cable with no success. Eventually the whole crew stood there in the dark gazing forlornly at the wire high above.

“Here, let me show you how it's done,” I finally said, and promptly missed three times in a row --- so much for MY mighty arm. Everyone took the problem amazingly in stride. We would figure something, we always did. Then I did remember something. I had read it somewhere, perhaps on the Internet. I wrapped half the rope into a tight ball and said, “Who has a good arm?”

“I do,” said Drew, so I handed him the ball, made sure the rest of the rope was laid out just so on the ground, and then said, “Aim 10 feet high.” He gave a mighty heave and the ball sailed over the cable neat as you please. Minutes later the food was dangling high above our heads.

That left “Thorns and Roses” a nightly tradition at Philmont. Here the crew gets together in the dark and each Scout tells of the frustrations and triumphs of his day. That night the thorns were of the morning’s breakdown on the Hill of Doom, of blisters and of letting the crew down because of anger, injury or exhaustion. The roses were for the water at the end of the march, for the mine tour, and for the adventures on our mysterious road. There were also many, many roses for the teamwork that developed as the day wore on, and I could sense the crew's confidence that in the days ahead we would be able to cope with the challenges presented by these New Mexico mountains. Everyone was now dead sure we could do the trek, and furthermore, do it in best Philmont fashion.

It was bedtime soon enough after that. After a last look around the now quiet camp, I crawled into my tent where Clay was already breathing peacefully. I got into my sleeping bag, lay there on my back, and heard the rain start —– I had forgotten all about that possibility. But, we were safe and dry now, and the patter of the rain was, as always, nice to hear as it hit the canvas stretched taut above my head. I lay there for a minute, thinking about our very adventurous day and its excellent outcome. Then I thought about the fresh faces and clean shirts of the individuals who had posed for the crew picture at the start of the trek. That had not been a crew at all, just a bunch of guys. I wondered what the crew we had started to become would look like after 11 days of hard traveling? What might it feel like to pass under the welcoming gate, when we finally made it back to Base Camp? Hell, what might we smell like! I smiled contentedly and slept.