On the Cow-Dung Trail

 By The Never-Bored RVers 

 Now that we’re slowly working our way down to the deserts of the Southwest, memories from an unplanned deviation on a hike outside of Kingman, Arizona, have come flashing back into our conscious.  It was our exploration of the Monolith Gardens Trails.

 A beautiful day in the desert:  the rocks and vegetation sparkling under a temperate sun, with the landscape showing enough variety to stop us in our tracks often to just soak up all the formations.  Wildlife was there in the form of a quartet of steers that seemed to know where we were heading so they could surprise us as we rounded boulders along our fine-sand path. 

 

The vegetation was often thorny, sometimes exploding with bright desert blooms, but oftentimes it fell into the category of “Sagga-boosh,” which is the term we learned from Monique’s fun-loving brother Philippe, who lives in France, and who joined us with his wife for a month on our travels the previous autumn.  “Sagga-boosh” was his pronunciation of “sagebrush,” which we adopted for our own.

 We walked the interweaving trails for hours until eventually Monique agreed to follow my suggestion of “taking the shortcut” over a steep, talus-strewn hill to get back to our truck.  It was getting late, and by my estimation, we were an hour away from our truck if we proceeded on the trail, or just across the towering rise if we dared to climb it.

 Agreeing to my plan was not a good decision on Monique’s  part!

We were already at about 3,500 feet.  To reach the top of that plateau, we needed to climb another 500 feet … at about a 70-degree angle … over very loose rubble and gritty sand … and we really didn’t know where we would end up.  [a descriptive note here:  70 degrees is the recommended angle for an extension ladder, so this was like climbing on rubber rungs where the top was out-of-sight!]

 We left our “safe” trail heading across sagebrush, rocks, cacti and brambles toward the steep slope, with growing apprehension the closer to the base we got.  By the time we were ready to put our boots on the upslope, we knew it would take too long to go back to the trail for the long safe way back to the truck.

So Monique dug her toes into the grit and ascended with me far enough behind to have time to dodge debris falling toward me.  We lost traction often, especially when we stepped on embedded slick boulders in the hillside.  As we continued to struggle upward, we stopped to smell the mesquite.  We took water breaks.  We looked down a few times to assess whether it was easier to climb up or slide down over sharp stones below.

We continued toward the unknown, confident we could and had to prevail, and we couldn’t take much time to catch our breath.  Fortunately, neither of us felt pain in our legs or feet.

The crest arrived and was conquered.  It was time to celebrate — not the climb but the fact that Monique’s birthday was coming up in two days and even with her maturity, she was (and is) still willing to take on possibly dangerous adventures.

 But, the tale of the trail doesn’t quite end there.

Earlier on our hike, if you’ll recall, we encountered a quartet of somewhat menacing long-horn cattle wandering along the trails and in the sloughs of the desert (“Don’t worry, Sweetheart,” I assured her, “I would never steer you wrong.”).  In addition to eyeing us as though we were the enemy, those beasts also left droppings everywhere on and off the trails giving us more obstacles to avoid. That will figure again later in this saga.

Once we arrived at the crest, we realized there were no trails.  We were on a ridge between the valley and a steep canyon carved out by hundreds of thousands of years of water, which has long since run its course and disappeared.  I wove through prickly vegetation across the top of the plateau and realized that there was no way to get to our truck that way.  To the south we could see miles of nothing hopeful, so we turned north along the ridge.  “I’m walking, I’m walking, I’m walking …” until we arrived at a cliff.  I looked to the right and looked down 600 feet over a cliff.  I saw the steers grazing far below:  they knew we were up there.

I walked toward the east and found a slight slope — and cow dung, a very good sign.  If our friends the steers could get here, it probably was not by climbing a cliff, so we may have stumbled upon a way down.  The slope took a blind curve and led to another, and then we saw a very faint cow path through the brambles.  We walked it until we reached a dead end at a massive wall of boulders. 

After admiring the beautiful Southwest colors of the rock around us and plains below enhanced by the soon-to-be setting sun, Monique peered over the edge and was sure that the long-horns were now laughing at us.  The rule here is, “Don’t stop walking,” particularly with the glowing orange sun sinking over the monoliths to the distant west. 

I led us toward the rocks on the right where I found more cow droppings and then a real path.  We followed it, making up some of it as we headed downward until we reached a dry ravine.  We traipsed along that for about 200 yards until we saw impressions left by mountain bicycle tires and then followed them eventually to a trail we recognized from when we first set out hours earlier.  We were about 100 yards from our truck, which was still hidden from us by another line of rises. 

We took the trail — the wrong way, however — but soon realized the error of our way(s), reaching the truck just before dark.  We had survived with our adequate supply of water and a few health bars.  We had also “lucked-out” by returning to Point A despite not having a compass with us.  Those three items, plus good hiking shoes, are the MUSTS for all hiking treks, but somehow, we are prone to forget at least one because we don’t expect a 30-minute walk to turn into a 6-hour hike.  Don’t follow our example on this!

Earlier we mentioned Monique’s brother Philippe.  Philippe and Solveig, his bride of 40 years, shared our travel trailer two years ago for a 30-day odyssey that took us from Salt Lake City into Wyoming, Idaho, Oregon and Northern California.   They will return to the States next spring for a 5-week trip to experience the wonders of “The Grand Circle.”  Hope you’ll be with us for that trip.

One other preview of things to come.  Monique and I have ordered and read Bob Difley’s two e-books on boondocking in preparation for a change in camping style this winter.  They are among the best RVing manuals we have read, so I will probably plug those books again in the weeks ahead.  If you are considering camping off the grid one day, take a look at Bob’s website:  www.healthyrvlifestyle.com. 

And, remember, cow dung can be a good thing.

 

From the “Never-Bored RVers,” We’ll see you on down the road.