Lessons from the Gila

It usually works out

Our plan was to hike up to the top of Hillsboro Peak, climb the fire lookout tower and see the big world of the Gila National Forest from 10,000 feet. We thought we’d camp at Hillsboro Lake on our way up, not too far from the Peak in the Black Range. But it’s been so dry that there just wasn’t any water in it. Same for the spring nearby. And it would be hard to carry enough water in to make it worthwhile.

We had to find another place to stay overnight. So Ulysses and I headed for the Black Range Lodge in Kingston instead.

Kingston was, towards the end of the 19th century, the biggest city in New Mexico. It grew so quickly, outpacing Albuquerque by a thousand people, because of its proximity to the incredibly productive silver mines in the area (names like Empire, Brush Heap, Lady Franklin and the Iron King mine, after which the town was named). Folks came from all over to get in on the riches and see the “Gem of the Black Range.” Billy the Kid, Pat Garrett, Butch Cassidy, the Sundance Kid and Mark Twain, among others. It boasted an opera house at which Lillian Russell sang. A bordello located on Virtue street. More than twenty saloons, three newspapers and the pulsing energy of a boom town taking all comers.

But in 1893 the bottom fell out. Silver was demonetized in the U.S., the price for it cratered and the boom was over. There was no longer a reason for people to come to, or even stay in, Kingston. They literally picked up the buildings, brick by brick, and moved them to wherever the next boom was booming. Just a few structures left behind, including the Percha bank building (the thick walls, the massive vault, the stone construction just made it too expensive to move) and the sprawling mansion that would become the Black Range Lodge.

We drove in from El Paso, stopping for a bite at the Hillsboro Cafe in Hillsboro, a small town just east of Kingston. A man who introduced himself as Larry was at the counter and said: you look familiar. We talked politics, talked backpacking and hiking and wished each other well as Ulysses and I ate dug into our green chile covered plates. We paid and said thanks and drove up into the Black Range for a quick hike along Railroad Canyon before making our way to the Lodge.

Gary welcomed us when we arrived, showed us to our room and told us dinner was at 6:30. When we came down, Gary was joined by his wife Catherine and the other guests staying at the Lodge. We ate cheeseburgers, potatoes au gratin, squash and beets at a communal table, starting with small talk and then moving on to some interesting conversations. One of the guests had stayed here before when on a motorcycle adventure with friends, so we talked motorcycles, heard about some of the trips he’s taken and some of the spills he’s seen over the years. It’s not completely safe, he told us, but you get to be pretty free out there on a bike.

Then Doug dropped by. He’s staying with his mom (president of the Kingston Spit and Whittle Club) who lives across the street, but spends most of his time in Nashville where he plays trumpet, recording and touring with a cowboy rap band (yes!). He brought half an apple pie that his mom made, sat down with us and just held forth on politics, music, geography and the world at large. We could have listened to him all night, he was really good at talking.

But Catherine’s sister was waiting for us next door at the Percha bank building. She and her dog Bear led us into the bank vault which at one time held $7 million in silver deposits. We looked at the displays, marveled at the bank vault door with its beautiful art nouveau design that looked so fresh it could have been painted yesterday, and toured the grounds. Then we marched back up to our room, brushed our teeth, watched 20 minutes of Smokey and the Bandit (which I last saw when I was 5 — I was into it, Ulysses not so much. Burt Reynolds, Sally Field, Jackie Gleason, what else do you want?) and knocked out.

Gary had told us to come down for breakfast at 8. We got there at 8:05. There was Larry, the guy we’d seen at the Hillsboro Cafe, sitting at the head of the table. “I’m eating your breakfast, Beto!” Luckily, there was some left, including homemade bread that Gary grinds the grain for and bakes himself. Slathered in butter and homemade jam, it was all the fuel we needed for the hike ahead. As we ate, Larry talked with pride about his kids, the work that they’re doing out there in the world. Told us about his own journey in life, the businesses he’s started (house paining at the beginning), the folks he’s worked with, his outlook on life.

As we cleared the table Gary asked us: Are you sure you want to hike Hillsboro Peak in t-shirt and shorts? See those clouds up there? That’s snow!

Gary and Catherine next to their 19th century cast iron stove

Thank God for Gary. I hadn’t checked the weather before we left El Paso and had assumed that, this being mid-April, we could expect a beautiful spring day on the ridge line. He took pity on us, lending me his Carhart and Ulysses a warm windbreaker. His wife Catherine found a couple of pairs of gloves in their lost-and-found collection.

Before we drove up to the trail head, I stopped in at Doug’s mom’s place. I wanted to thank her for the apple pie and to ask if there was any way Ulysses and I could join the Spit and Whittle club. Out back was Doug, planting trees and moving soil. Believe it or not, Larry was there too! Doug’s mom couldn’t have been any nicer. She made us honorary members of the Club right there on the spot.

We drove up to the parking lot at Emory Pass (named after Lt. W.H. Emory, who passed by here with the Army of the West and Kit Carson in 1846) and read about the land we would soon be traveling on one of the Scenic Byway signs that dot the roads through the Gila. We learned that this used to be the home of the Warm Springs Apache, before they were shipped by train to Florida in 1886 (just as the big silver boom was exploding in Kingston) as prisoners of war. They weren’t released as prisoners of war until 1911, and never were allowed to return here.

The temperature gauge in the truck said 34 degrees, but when we stepped out the wind and sleet made it feel much colder.

Carhart, windbreaker, lost-and-found gloves, and shorts, we started walking.

We were in the clouds and snow right from the start, hard to see much past the burned and stunted stumps, scars from the big fires (in 2013 it was the Silver fire, in 2022 the Black fire) that have raced through there in the last ten years. But as we gained elevation over the five mile climb (about 2,000 feet), we emerged above the clouds and then beyond them, able to see the full extraordinary vista.

The snow and wind didn’t bother us so much, and in fact was kind of fun considering we live in the desert and aren’t used to the stuff. About three miles in it really started to whip us, the wind howling and the snow blowing hard UP the mountain into our faces, stinging and making it hard to breathe. I thought, a few more minutes of this and I’m turning around. No use getting in trouble up here.

Luck broke our way again, and the wind abated, the snow started to fall down instead of up and we were able to climb in comfort that was all the more enjoyable for its contrast to the previous half-mile.

We began to notice that, in addition to the fire scars across the mountain, there were baby oak and piñon pine growing around us, the forest slowly replacing the trees and life that had been lost. Underbrush, prickly shrubs scraping against our shins, yellow grass as we got closer to the top.

Two hours in, we finally got there, Hillsboro peak. The fire lookout’s house was locked with a big rock leaning against the door. The wind whistled through the steel staircase of the lookout tower and the log cabin (built a hundred years ago and painted red) beckoned.

Inside, we took our gloves off, cursed the fact that we hadn’t brought matches to light the cast iron stove that was stuffed with tinder, and got down to lunch, consisting of rolls, summer sausage (in your honor, Pat O’Rourke) and cheese. After ten minutes our hands were so cold we couldn’t feel them to cut another slice or even fold the knife back into place. We quickly cleaned up, got our gloves on and walked and jogged down the hill, trying to get our hearts beating hard and fast enough to warm our hands and toes.

We (meaning me) also sang snatches of songs, whooped and hollered, fully feeling the freedom of the Gila and this special time spent together. After one big whoop I looked up to see a startled pack of young hikers coming up the trail. I smiled and waved and slowed down to say hi as we passed. Is Phil up there? One of them asked. I don’t think so, I said. But the cabin’s open. Watch out, it’s cold up there! Enjoy your hike!

We took a few celebratory pictures when we got back to the parking lot at the trail head, warmed ourselves up in truck as we drove back down to the Lodge. We dropped off the warm clothes, thanked Gary and Catherine for their hospitality and then hit the road.

Realizing the time, I said Ulysses we can still make it to the Hillsboro Cafe before they close at three! But we just missed em, the woman who had served us the day before poked her head out and said, nicely, you’re too late. We steered towards home, wondering what kind of highway food was going to restore all these calories we’d just burned on the mountain.

And then, as we passed one of the last buildings in town, an old school drive-up motel that a friend of ours owns, we saw a party in the courtyard. I pulled over, peeked over the wall and heard someone shout “hey Beto!” It turns out it was our friend’s birthday and the celebrants had brought a potluck of home cooked food — hot dogs in chile, chile con queso, chocolate chip walnut cookies, all the good stuff. We hung out for a while, ate to our heart’s content, and then after lots of happy birthdays and we’ll see you down the road, we jumped back in the truck and headed home.