Every now and then, John and I have a
disastrous weekend, during which anything that can go wrong usually does and
at the worst possible time. This was one of those weekends.
The plan was to leave bright and early Saturday morning and drive to Sheep
Bridge, where we could find the southern trailhead for the Verde River Trail
#11. We hoped to be at the trailhead by 9:00 a.m., at which time we would
begin backpacking to Pete's Cabin, ten miles into the Mazatzal Wilderness
Area. There, we would spend the night, and Sunday morning, we would hike back
to the van. It sounded like such a good plan, and I was looking forward to it
because I was finally going to have the chance to use my new backpack...and
John and I were going to christen our new backcountry tent.
The day started off without a hitch. John and I awoke at 4:30 a.m.; and we
were so efficient that we were at Einstein's Bagels just after 5:30 a.m. to
get breakfast. From there, I drove the van until we reached the boundaries of
the Tonto National Forest, at which point the pavement ended and John's
excellent driving skills were required.
Getting to Sheep Bridge involves a three-hour drive, two hours of which is on
dirt road. From the valley, we drove north on Scottsdale Road until it became
Tom Darlington Road, as we entered Carefree. Then, we turned right onto the
Carefree Highway, which eventually becomes FR 24 as the pavement ends. This
forest road goes right through the Seven Springs Campground then continues on
for another twenty-five miles or so. After Seven Springs, the road becomes a
little rough, but it doesn't require a 4WD vehicle. Eventually, the road comes
to a T-intersection at another forest road. This one -- a primitive 4WD road
-- leads to Sheep Bridge.
We passed through Seven Springs a little after 7:00 a.m., just as the sun was
rising in the eastern sky, warming us but blinding us as well. There was
hardly a cloud in the sky, no rain in the forecast, and we were expecting a
high of about eighty degrees for the whole weekend -- perfect weather!
Then...it happened. Twelve miles north of Seven Springs, twenty miles north of
pavement, thirty miles from a service station, disaster struck. At first we
thought it was nothing but the sound of rocks hitting the running boards on
the van. That made sense because we were on a dirt road. Just to be sure it
wasn't an engine problem, John stopped the van and revved the engine. It
sounded healthy, so he continued driving.
Minutes later, as he glanced at his side mirror, he saw bits of rubber flying
off of the rear tire. "Oh, shit!" he exclaimed, stopping the van. "We blew a
tire!"
Of course, as long as you have a spare, just one blown tire, even one that was
as shredded as our rear tire, is not an issue.
But if you have two flat tires...well, as John put it, "We are so screwed!"
As he got out of the van to assess the damage, he heard a hissing sound coming
from the front tire, and it was getting flatter by the second. Whatever it was
that we hit had punctured the left front tire and shredded the left rear one.
Naturally, we were scared that we would be stranded there for a while, and
fortunately we were prepared to be there for a couple of days -- we had enough
food and water to get us through until Monday. However, we weren't ready to
give up just yet. We still had one spare and a can of Fix-a-Flat, and just a
mile up the road was a ranch. John used the Fix-a-Flat to inflate the front
tire. Then, after driving the van onto flat road, he changed out the shredded
tire.
Meanwhile, the front tire was still deflating. The Fix-a-Flat wasn't working,
and by the time he had finished putting on the spare, the front tire was flat
again. With only three round tires, we carefully drove to the ranch-Ranch 51
to get help.
Of course, it would have been easy for us to get help if the rancher had been
home, but we weren't that lucky. As we pulled up to the fence, we noticed that
there were "No Trespassing, Keep Out" signs posted, and the main gate was
locked up tight. John wouldn't let that stop him, so he crawled under the gate
then walked towards the ranch, calling out, "Hello?" as he approached the
house. He didn't want to startle the rancher, because getting shot would have
only made matters worse.
Minutes later, John returned to the van to report that the rancher was not
home. "Great," I scoffed, discouraged. "Now what are we going to do?"
John was far from discouraged; while down at the ranch, he had found a
compression tank that he could use to inflate the tire. Taking the front tire
with him, he returned to the ranch and filled the tire with air from the
compression tank. He then plugged the leak with a screw and a little JB Weld.
After putting the tire back on the van, he drove like mad back to Carefree, to
the Shell station on the corner of Tom Darlington Road.
And by the time we arrived, we only had five pounds of air left in the tire.
The workers at the Shell station helped us repair the damage. They plugged the
front tire and filled it with air; then they replaced the rear tire and fixed
the rim, which had been slightly damaged. By 11:00 a.m., we were back on the
road, ready to go to Plan B. Since we had come all that way to go backpacking,
we weren't about to turn around and go home. However, it was already too late
in the day for us to do the Verde River Trail. After consulting the Tonto
National Forest map, we decided to go to Horseshoe Lake, park the van at the
dam, and backpack to a campsite along the lake's shore. There was a 4WD road
(FR 497) that would take us around to the northern shores of the lake, where
we hoped to find a secluded site where we could spend the night.
As always, though, finding that perfect campsite required a little work -- in
this case, it involved hiking cross country, along the ridgeline above the
lake, on a trail so narrow that it couldn't even be classified as a deer
trail. One wrong step, and we could have rolled down a cliff and into the
lake.
And that was only the first mile. After leaving the ridgeline, we found a 4WD
road leading to FR 497. We hiked the road for about two miles, until we
reached a point at which there was, according to the map, an undeveloped,
primitive road/trail that would take us to a peninsula along the northern
banks of the lake. The problem was that we couldn't find it. We did find a
wash (in which we found a Canadian Club whiskey bottle) and we followed that
until it became too overgrown, at which time we started hiking cross- country
again. This time, it was through a desert that was so lush that you couldn't
walk three feet without running into another jumping cholla cactus or a palo
verde tree. One part was so dense that we kept stepping on dead cholla
branches; we would have to stop and pull them out before continuing.
Eventually, we found the road we were supposed to take, and we followed it
down to a vast meadow that was covered with driftwood and..... pricker burrs!
Thousands upon thousands of pricker burrs, dense in some spots, sparse in
others. You couldn't walk ten feet without having to stop to pull them off of
your socks! And the plants on which they grew were indestructible. John tried
to set one on fire, but it wouldn't burn.
It had taken us three hours to get to that meadow: three hours of rough
hiking, through bad conditions. And when we arrived, we were only one straight
mile from Horseshoe Dam -- and the van was just on the other side of the dam.
Worse yet, on the opposite shore was the boat ramp. Several trucks were parked
there, and one of them had a very loud stereo. Fortunately, he didn't stay
overnight, however, just after the sun went down that night, someone started
firing off a gun. So, it wasn't the best campsite, but we at least had a
little privacy.
We found a campsite next to a dead tree, in an area in which there were the
fewest pricker burrs. We pitched our backcountry tent, set up a fire ring, and
gathered firewood. Then, tired and sunburned, John and I rested. I crawled
into the tent, where it was nice and cool, and I took a twenty-minute power
nap. John went down to the lake, where took off his shirt, sat on a log, and
soaked his feet in the water. After I awoke from my nap, I joined him down
there.
The rest of the day was peaceful. We started a roaring fire, using the
driftwood that was strewn about, and after dinner, we christened the
backcountry tent. We turned in early that night; and though the ground was
hard, I slept like a rock, warm and cozy in my semi-mummy bag. The next
morning, John and I awoke at 5:30 a.m., and we had a chance to watch the
sunrise before dropping camp.
We left at 8:30 in the morning, before the day began to get too hot. We tried
to take a short cut through the meadow, which meant hiking through dense
patches of those damn pricker burrs! That also meant hiking down the side of a
steep hill, which, to me, was more like a cliff! I couldn't do it, so we hiked
back the way we had come, going first through the lush desert. Ironically, as
we arrived at FR 479, we ended up at the exact point where we had left it the
day before: at the Canadian Club whiskey bottle!
Once again, the hike took us three hours, and to our great relief, all four
tires on the van were roundish. Since it was still early in the day, John and
I decided to drive to Bartlett Lake, where we saw a most amusing sight (of
course, it probably wasn't so amusing to the people involved). There was a
truck whose front end was partially submerged in the lake. It looked as though
it had been parked on the hill, but its owners had failed to use the parking
brake, so it probably rolled into the water. There was also a tow truck
nearby, but that, too, was stuck on the side of the hill. As Homer Simpson
would say, "D'OH!"
Amazingly, we returned home early. Filthy and smelly, we staggered into the
apartment and threw ourselves into the shower. Having survived the weekend, I
was thankful for the hot water and the clean clothes, but most importantly, I
was thankful for John's ability to solve bad situations. Had he been anyone
else, we would have still been stuck on FR 24, twelve miles north of Seven
Springs.
But we weren't. We were home, and another adventurous weekend was over. |
