The next morning, we decided to move to an entirely different area many miles distant, so we packed up camp and drove away. The only signs we had ever been there were a few tire tracks in the sand and the charred remnants of our campfire, both of which would be wiped clean the next time it rained enough to cause water to flow in the wash. As for the trip back out to the  Interstate, it was one long, bumpy drive.

Once back at Big Horn, we continued west to the town of Gila Bend, then south on Arizona Highway 85. En route, we passed through one of the U.S. Border Patrol’s checkpoints, a increasingly-common sight on Arizona’s roads these days.

We soon arrived at the town of Ajo, a colorful place with over a hundred years of mining history under its belt. These days, many retirees who love its small-town feel call it home. It is filled with many historic buildings, such as this one.

This was a perfect place to gas up, get more ice, a few treats and whatever else we needed.

We then continued on to the town of Why (that is not a misprint!), and from there, east on Highway 86 for 13 miles more, which took us into the Tohono O’odham Indian Reservation. At that point, we headed north on Indian Highway 34 and 15 quick miles brought us to the village of Hickiwan. Our pavement ended there, and we braced ourselves for some serious dirt roads. If you drive north from Hickiwan, the road is flat and friendly most of the way, but deeply rutted in spots (this happens after a rain, when someone drives it too soon, before it has had a chance to dry out). In any case, after eight miles you arrive at the El Paso Natural Gas pipeline road. We had pulled over to take a break and have a bite to eat (it was already lunch time), when we saw rooster-tails of dust approaching at high speed, from what looked like two vehicles to the south. In another minute they arrived, and stopped a hundred feet away – two distinctive green-and-white Border Patrol trucks. With hands in plain view (just in case the officers were a little jumpy), I walked over to them. They told me they had seen us leave Hickiwan and head north, so, to err on the side of caution, they radioed each other to join up and pursue us to see what was going on. Can’t blame them for their suspicion, as most Anglos out here would be up to no good, probably involved in moving drugs.

I told them we were climbing in the area, we had a permit to be there and would they like to see it. They said they certainly would, so I went over to my truck glovebox to get it. Paper in hand, I walked back and shared it with them. They seemed reassured, even more so when I asked them which station they were from and did they know agents so-and-so. I told them where we were going that day and which roads we would drive – they said that was so far off the beaten path that even they didn’t go there any more, that none of them had driven there in years. Fine by us, that just heightened our sense of adventure even more. We said cordial goodbyes, they drove away, and in a short while we did too.

In another couple of miles, we had left the rough pipeline road and were driving past the abandoned village of Stoa Pitk. Once upon a time, this must have been a nice little place. It has two churches and a sizeable cemetery, plus quite a few homes. About ten years ago, I recall one old man and his dog still living there, but they’re gone now. It has a well for water, but no electricity. Life must have been tough there. Without television and the internet, young people wouldn’t want to stay. Many communities on the res have gone the way of this one. A few miles past the village, we came upon a strange sight – a collection of old rusting vehicles from the 1930s, like the 1937 Chevrolet seen below, slowly being reclaimed by the desert. Out here, it seemed otherworldly. We didn’t linger, but continued on the worsening road.

Before long, we arrived at a pass at 2,650 feet. Here’s the thing – about six years ago, I had driven this road with my friend Brian from Chicago. We had come through the area on a climbing jag, bagging everything in this remote part of the Sauceda Mountains. The road was bad then, but I had my fingers crossed that it was still the same, hopefully no worse. The guys wanted to climb something nice today, so I suggested that we park a mile past the pass and climb Moivavi Benchmark, elevation 3,470′.

The summit was a thousand feet up from the trucks, but it went well and an hour later we stood on the top.

 

The cairn and register Brian and I had left  back on February 17, 2006  was still there, so we signed in and enjoyed the view. Here is a great photo from that 2006 trip. Brian and I had climbed so many peaks that year that we ran out of proper summit registers, so we resorted to using empty beer bottles instead, of which we had a never-ending supply.

I told the guys I was a little concerned about the time, since we had many miles to go on a dubious road, that maybe we should head down. By the time we got back to the trucks, two hours had been spent on the climb.

The hours of daylight still stretching ahead of us were filled with promise and uncertainty, and maybe some share of excitement. We started off in the two trucks, following the old road. Much of the time, it was fairly easy to follow – two tire tracks in the valley bottom – not so much tread marks, but two lanes where vegetation wasn’t growing. Usually, though, there was a lot of stuff growing up into the road. In places, the road had disappeared, and we had to get out and walk ahead, trying to find where it continued. And when we did, it meant driving through some pretty thick brush, mowing it down with the front bumpers. Branches would scrape along the sides of the trucks, scratching the paint – we call this “desert pinstriping”. After 5 1/2 slow, hard-fought miles, we arrived at an old corral and the ruins of a house.

There was even a shrine on the hillside on the other side of the wash. It amazed me to think that someone would have carried a heavy votive candle this far.

Any undocumenteds who made it this far, perhaps making an offering of a coin and a prayer to the Virgin, were in for a huge disappointment. Several miles more on foot would lead them out of the reservation – all good and well – but then it’d be like jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire. Why? They would then have to cross untracked miles of active military bombing range, littered with high explosives – they could be blown to kingdom come at any second. In the unlikely event they made it across the bombing range in one piece, La Migra would be waiting for them on the other side – game over! However, none of that concerned us at this moment – we were racing the daylight.

We left the old homestead and motored on. There were times when the road vanished completely. One time, all three of us left the trucks and fanned out for a quarter of a mile, looking for the road. It had been driven so little for so many years that we couldn’t even rely on finding the tire tracks of others who had come through. All’s well that ends well, though – we did find the road every time we lost it. Time was really flying by, and I was becoming increasingly concerned about whether we would make it to our camping spot before dark.There was a time or two when I may have been overly strong in urging haste with the guys, suggesting that we drive faster, and I feel badly that I did. Finally, though, we came to a fence across our path – this marked the edge of the Indian reservation. We knew this from our maps, but the odd thing was that there was no sign saying we were entering the military range. The road passed through a large opening in the fence where a functioning gate once stood, so we drove on through. Half a mile later, we came to a large sandy wash, a perfect camping spot. Good thing too, we were all outta daylight.

All those miles of tough driving – what a relief to be done! I spent a while gathering mass quantities of firewood while the guys got dinner and happy hour going. It got chilly really quickly, so the fire felt good, while the adult beverages warmed our insides. Even though we hadn’t done much climbing, the long day had taken it out of us – we retired pretty early.

Something strange happened during the night. Benchmark was sleeping out in the open on the sand, as was his wont – Rhiker and I were in the backs of our trucks, sound asleep. All of a sudden, we heard Benchmark shouting, something to the effect of “Guys, wake up, wake up!! Somebody’s coming!!” We fairly flew out of our sleeping bags and tumbled out into the cold night air. Blinking away sleep, we asked him what the hell was going on. He said he had heard a vehicle coming towards us at high speed, (“sounded like a car”) but didn’t see it, and then it moved away into the night. By the time we had climbed out of the trucks, we heard nothing. We tried to convince him he must have been dreaming, but to no avail. Daylight showed no evidence of anything having passed nearby. To this day, he swears he heard a vehicle in the night, but we heard nothing. An unsolved mystery.

To be continued………………………

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