Tortilla Loop

A gentle rain pattered down on my windshield during the last few miles of the drive. Unexpected, though not unwanted. It’s been a hot, humid transition into fall, and even now, in the predawn darkness of five am, the temps were hovering around ninety as I drove up and down on AZ-88 past Tortilla Flat. Maybe this little morning sprinkle would knock some of the humidity and heat out of the air. Maybe.

I parked at the start of FR 213, a 3.5 mile two-track that leads south and provides access to Tortilla Trailhead and a handful of trails that start there. This road was too rough for me to drive, with large rock steps that need specialized gear to crawl over, and I’ve had to walk down it a few times now. It’s not a bad road walk, with stunning views down into Tortilla Creek, colorful cliff bands towering above, and a steady descent down into a lush, high-desert grassland. The first thirty minutes was in the dark, only the rain and the dim outline of the road in my headlamp to keep me company. When the sky began to slowly lighten into a gloomy grey I was thoroughly soaked. The rain had not helped with the damp after all, and instead had only added to the existing humidity to slowly steam me.

Making my way past the ranch site, with those odd blue water tanks looking like they’re still in active use, I soon reached the trailhead and paused. There were a few bail options for the day, and this was the cheapest one: turn around before a single foot on the trail. My loop itself was only 17 miles, but they were difficult miles on some overgrown trail, with six or seven distinct climbs along it. Foolishly, I had only packed 4L of water capacity, and had not checked ahead of time on the water sources. Most of them should be running, between the wet late-summer activity that we’ve been having. I wasn’t about to turn around this early, so I stepped onto JF Trail for a short climb before dropping down the Hoolie Bacon Trail to the green banks of Tortilla Creek.

Today’s 17 mile loop was a Superstition classic, the Tortilla Loop that spent most of its time in the central of the wilderness. Hoolie Bacon heads through Horse Camp Basin, behind Music and Herman Mountains, and connects with Red Tanks Trail. Red Tanks is more often used on the “Red Tanks Loop”, a fantastic southern loop, and I’d only be on it for a few miles today. To close the loop, I would continue north a short distance on Dutchman and then close back east via Peter’s Trail, a remote, winding trail on top of Peter’s Mesa that slinks next to Tortilla Peak. Man, some of these names just keep getting reused. I had been on all of these trails except for half of Hoolie Bacon, although it had been… dang, almost a decade since I was on Peter’s Mesa. Had it really been that long?

My time along Tortilla Creek was too short. I was surprised at how well the trail was defined, with how lush the surrounding growth looked. Sure, catclaw had already been… clawing… at me, but so far, this route wasn’t too rough. Then the trail crossed the creek and began a steep, steady climb, up to a pass that separated Horse Camp Basin and that drainage away from Tortilla Creek. Rain slowly drifted away during this climb, sweat and humidity keeping me quite sodden, and I appreciated the slight breeze that the summit of the pass gave me.

This was familiar terrain. Once upon a time Chris, Kirsty, and I had hiked a shorter version of this loop, cutting most of the distance out by going cross-country between this basin and a valley next to Tortilla Peak. I vaguely remembered a few things, like an old cement trough, and a ton of catclaw. Didn’t have the energy to hunt for that trough, and the catclaw found me without much problem.

Following the trail as it bucked and weaved through Horse Camp Basin, I began to weigh the next bail option. I could do a through-hike instead of a loop, a direct line past Miner’s Needle, and ask a friend for a shuttle. Eh, that didn’t sound like fun. Besides, I was kinda looking forward to playing on Peter’s Mesa again. Distracting myself from the bail option, I drank in the views of Music Mountain and Herman Mountain, the overgrown and lush valley that drains out Trap Canyon, and the looming Coffee Flat bulk ahead.

A few hours after starting on Hoolie Bacon and I met the signed junction with Red Tanks Trail. This is a pleasant area, with lots of junipers, and most of it survived the Woodbury Fire. Another location that Chris and I had hiked eons ago, camping in this little valley, and we had even seen two fighting gila monsters nearby. It’s starting to get fun seeing how these areas suffer and recover through the dry, through the fires. There’s a metaphor about life in there somewhere.

Now it was time to take Red Tanks Trail down, follow it with LaBarge Creek down through the Upper Box. This is a stunning canyon that, while the trail can be frustrating, with small bucks up and down, overgrown sections, and narrow tread, has amazing views. Far below I could see the little creek, with a few rock tanks holding onto water, far too distant for me to pull from easily. This section, and Dutchman Trail, were the two spots that I had hoped to see other hikers on. There were no other hikers, not even a footprint to mark passage. It’s easy to forget how close to a major city this wilderness sits sometimes.

The end of this trail got very frustrating. There was a creek crossing, maybe, but I was unable to pick out where my route exited the creek, so I bulled my way down the creek itself, rock-hopping along the massive boulders. This didn’t work out for long, with thick growth and deep pools blocking my way forward. Soon I was crawling over an unknown variety of vines, shoving through woody stems, and swinging around spikey plants, just trying to make forward progress. Eventually I gave in and pulled out my GPS, finding the trail a few yards up the bank, and wondered idly where the heck I had lost the thing.

I was now at the lower section of the hike, down below 3,000’ elevation, and the tall hills around LaBarge Creek did a great job at blocking the wind. At least the trail on this section is well-defined, compared to the more remote sections of Hoolie Bacon. I cruised along quickly, thirsty, excited to bump into LaBarge Spring, one of the more dependable springs. This is one of my favorite water sources, an overfilling water trough of clear water that runs year-round, and I’ve even seen turtles swimming around in the thing. When I found it, though, it was obvious that the fires had changed the area dramatically.

Deadfall and a terrible thorny vine had overtaken the entire eastern bank, hiding the trough (which may have been damaged?) and the source of the water. Instead of an easy filter, I could only find a dribble down the bank that quickly dried up on the floor of the creek. I tried to collect the water, waiting a few minutes with a cup, and got a meager half-cup of water. Humbug. With a dry mouth and ill temper I pushed away from this once-great source, making quick work of the next mile or so, and filtered up at Charlebois instead. This added about a mile to the trip, but the water was necessary at this point, and I couldn’t complain about the crystal-clear source and thick shade around the deep pools.

Filtered back up to 4L, with a full belly of lunch snacks and water, it was time to tackle the next big climb, the one out of LaBarge Creek and up onto Peter’s Mesa. Last time I had done this climb was in December, and there was a steady flow of rain coming down, forming a long chain of tiny waterfalls that were kinda delightful to splash through. Today, instead of that downpour, the sun had come out to play, heating up the west-facing slope. Strangely, it didn’t feel too hot, likely due to the lengthy rest at Charlebois, and I made good time up the climb, focused on climbing a few dozen yards at a time.

Once I reached the top of the Mesa things began to slide sideways, unfortunately. The trail became more difficult to find, and I had to stop at almost every cairn to hunt for the next sign of tread or a general direction of where to go. When I saw the drop down into the other side, where the trail follows Peter’s Creek for a mile, I felt a hit of despair. How exactly was I supposed to get out of here before the sunset? Would it be easier to just follow Peter’s Creek out to avoid any more climbs? Heh, I knew the answer to that one.

The tarantula on the boulder gave me a strange reassurance. This little dude was out here just surviving, just fine, without worrying about the sunset or anything. In fact, I had been way too caught up with miles and hours and pace and all that. The desert had been alive today. Multiple varieties of caterpillars, huge spiderwebs, dragonflies, thousands of tiny frogs, and even the tens of thousands of gnats were a welcome sight amidst the lush desert. I may have been chafing (literally and figuratively) over the hot, humid day, but the desert was loving it.

Trying to keep my spirits up I slogged up the next climb, trying my best to not cramp as it steepened. This didn’t work out well. My legs had started to cramp on top of Peter’s Mesa, mostly hamstrings, and now I was starting to get full-section cramps: the entire side of my leg would seize up in a painful curl. This wasn’t great, not with miles to hike and hours to go. My water was running low after the shadeless mesa walk, and I began to ration it, taking a few sips at a time.

I finished the traverse along Tortilla Peak in a slow, steady slog. The little valley before the last saddle was always an interesting piece of recent Dutchman lore. A few years before Katie and I moved to Arizona, a man had camped here, looking for hints of the lost gold, and then died on top of Tortilla Peak. As tough as today had gone, with the still-damp clothes, soaked shoes, and cramping legs, I was going to walk out of here today. Only a few downhill miles of trail, and that darn road walk, sat between me and a dark drive home.

Those last few miles did drag, as they often do. The trail alternated between a well-defined singletrack (which was sometimes occupied) and simply walking in the creek. Creek portions were annoying, loose sand and rolling rocks, although I appreciated the shade that Tortilla Peak granted me. Eventually I reached the end, a small pull-out close to where I had started down JF Trail so many hours ago, and I collapsed on the inside of the tank, taking advantage of the sloped sides to lie down and watch the sunlight fade.

I won’t say much about those last few miles of road walk, as they were in the dark, repeat mileage, and pretty boring. There was more cramping, and even some puking. My plans, my rough ideas on how much water and electrolytes to bring along, had been wildly inaccurate. Still, I made it out of there, reaching my car just before nine, making a quick change into wonderfully dry clothes for the drive home. The desert, as wonderfully alive it was today, is still a harsh and unrelenting environment.