I just wanted to go out and bag a couple of peaks and get some exercise, and I had one day in which to do it. A nice boring day, no drama please. Well, as I found out, that’s getting harder to do out here in the desert. It was 6:30 AM and still dark when I headed out, driving 80 miles on the freeway. There’s an old house on the side of the road which used to be a place to gas up before the freeway was built and changed all that – it’s called Big Horn, and a road heads south into the desert from there. Every time I drive those bone-jarring miles along that road, I swear it’ll be my last. I’ve probably made myself that promise 30 times now, but I just keep coming back for more abuse – some people never learn.

The sun was up and a cool breeze was blowing as I finally turned off on to a lesser road, and a mile later I rolled to a stop. It had rained a bunch the couple of preceding days, so the ground was still damp and a lot of clouds were still floating around. This little peak I’d come to climb was a straggler, one that hadn’t been on my radar until now, and it was in about as obscure a spot as you could ever wish for. By the time I’d readied my pack, it was 9:20 AM.

Crossing a low ridge put me into a nice little valley with easy going, and I knew it wouldn’t take long to reach my destination. However, an empty food can caught my eye before I’d gone a hundred yards – it was easy to see that it was pretty new. Hmmm, that was a surprise. Not much farther along, I came upon a whole mess of stuff.

I knew right away what it was. There’s a group that loosely calls themselves “Samaritans”, whose sworn mission it is to leave food, water and clothing along paths traveled in the desert. I’ve come across their places many times, and it annoys the hell out of me every time I do, for several reasons.

First of all, the stuff they leave out there is littering. Every jurisdiction they’re in, whether it’s BLM land, a national monument, a national park or a military reservation has laws against this. Sure, passers-by take and use the stuff, but they in turn leave a trail of garbage that stretches out for miles from these spots. They are directly contributing to littering what would otherwise be pristine desert, which is heartbreaking to see. In addition, by leaving these items, they are creating an incentive to encourage even more illegal activity. It’s not just border-crossers who take and use this stuff, it’s also criminals working for the drug cartels, so they’re aiding and abetting this type of activity. It helps lure even more people to use these paths, as word gets around, and in turn increases the number of people out there who can potentially die from harsh desert conditions. The presence of these people out there makes it more dangerous for those who just want to enjoy the desert, as some of them are armed, desperate and dangerous.

I myself immigrated to the US many years ago, but I did it legally, and I think everyone should play by the rules. Anyone who sneaks into the country illegally is breaking our laws, and these Samaritans are encouraging more of that kind of activity.

This 5-gallon bucket’s lid says “Food. Socks. With lots of love.” Warily, I moved on, but all the way up the valley I found cast-offs like these.

Some of this stuff never disintegrates, it just gets broken into smaller pieces and sits there.

Sadly, I followed this trail of Samaritan-created trash up the valley to the pass at its head, and I’m sure it continued down the other side. I left it to climb up to my peak, and arrived on a ridge (here I surprised 3 deer) where I had this look at the final stretch to the top.

It was short work to cover the final ground and stand on top of Peak 2300. Here’s a look at the summit, looking northwest. The white stuff is poop from raptors who sit up there and look around for prey from these lofty perches.

Here’s a nice view south deep into the Sand Tank Mountains.

And another, looking a bit north of east. Most of the distant mountains are in another range, the Maricopa Mountains.

After leaving my customary cairn and summit register, I headed back down to the valley bottom and made my way past more trash left by indocumentados. Maybe this poor soul thought he’d fool people by wearing a fake US Army shirt as he crossed the military reservation.

When I reached the old Toyota, I headed back a few miles towards Big Horn. There aren’t many roads I’ve never driven out in the Sand Tank Mountains, but today I’d drive one. I doubled back south along it, better than most out here, and soon came to this sign.

This area used to be part of a more active bombing range, but things are quieter these days. Nevertheless, you still need a permit to enter. My new road turned out to be one of the best I’d ever driven in these parts, as it followed ridge lines and rarely crossed any drainages. Before I knew it, I’d reached an old mine, but more on that later. The map showed that the road continued, but in a much worsened form. It took me a bit of looking around, but I found it and motored on. Yikes, this was the road that time forgot. I put it into 4-wheel-drive and hung on for dear life. Down into deep hollows, along a narrow canyon, up crazy-steep hillsides and finally a complete stop overlooking a wash. Here’s a view looking out my windshield in a narrow spot.

There was a peak I wanted, and I’d go on foot from here. One way to get there was along a winding ridge; the other was to wind my way up a wash, then make a beeline for the summit – I opted for the ridge. Moving quickly, I started uphill – there were a few bumps I had to cross, and from a distance I thought I saw someone on top of the first one. I went slowly and cautiously, concerned about who I might encounter up there. It turned out that it was just an odd rock formation and I moved past it. Here’s a look along the ridge to the summit, a few more bumps away.

A short while later, I found myself moving up a final steep slope towards the summit ridge. During a brief pause to catch my breath, I thought I heard a small rock rolling down the hillside near me. That was odd – here in the desert, that usually means some animal has moved and loosened something. I didn’t see anything nearby, so dismissed it and kept climbing. Moments later, the sound of another rock, larger, moving down the slope. This time, when I looked up, I clearly saw a man on the skyline, perhaps 50 or 60 feet above me. He had tossed the rocks down to catch my attention, not to hit me. He said something to me in Spanish, but I couldn’t even make out the words – his voice was too faint. I shouted to him that I was a climber. He said something back to me, but again I couldn’t make out his words. I shouted to him that I was a climber, and if he’d wait there I’d climb up to him. Well, that was the last I saw of him.

In a minute or so, I had climbed up to where I’d seen him – gone! Now I was really on guard. Was he alone? Were there others? Were they going to jump me? I found myself on the summit ridge, which dropped off steeply on both sides. Naturally, the highest point was at the end farthest from me, about 2 football fields away.

I scampered along it, crossing a couple more bumps, paranoid and looking over my shoulder constantly. Where was this guy? I left a quick register, but if border-crossers were up here it wouldn’t last – they’d destroy it like they always do. Making my way back along the ridge, I regained the spot where I’d seen him standing. Still nothing. I carefully looked around, and spotted what looked like a day pack and a few other small items tucked into a crevice on a rocky rib tumbling down to the north. They sat about a hundred feet away, within easy shouting distance – so I did. This photo shows the spot, right in the middle on the rocky outcrop.

Although I couldn’t see him, I hoped he was within earshot. I hollered out that I wasn’t his enemy, that I wasn’t La Migra, and that if he wanted to talk to me I could give him information about the surrounding countryside. After a short wait, nothing. I was tempted to say that I could see his pack and knew he was nearby, close enough to hear me, but didn’t. Who knows if he was in a bad way or not, but if, like most undocumented border-crossers, he was trying to reach Interstate 8 (Ocho, as they called it), he was a mere 5 miles away – several hours on foot, tops.

After one last look, I dropped down the steep slope and headed to the sandy wash, which would be my conduit back to my truck. It was open and sandy in some places.

And rocky in other spots.

An easy mile and it was done. I’d even worried that someone may have messed with my truck, but no (I always leave it unlocked now, to spare interlopers the trouble of breaking in). It was a bit of white-knuckling on the drive back out, but soon I was parked at the site of the old mine.

This was a curious spot. State records show it was called the Altuda Mine, and was active back in the 1950s, producing some gold, silver and silica flux. It wasn’t anything special and died the death of many small producers after a few years. There were some curiosities to be seen, though. Such as this thing (there were 3 of them).

And how about this old car.

The scariest thing, though, was seeing a sign like this.

And this.

And here’s why the warnings. Look at this vertical shaft inside the barbed-wire enclosure.

Here in Arizona, all too often people fall into these and die. It’s said there are 100,000 of these, many of them unfenced.

There were all sorts of other curious things around the property, such as these concrete enclosures.

There were metal scraps by the hundreds lying about the place, all of which could have been cleaned up when this venture failed. Why that was never done, who knows? Maybe the state of Arizona just doesn’t care. Sad. Okay, enough philosophizing on my part. It had been another anything-but-boring day in my beautiful Sonoran Desert.

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