Sycamore Canyon, 5 July 2010
Pools above confluence with Montana Canyon
On July 5th, 2010, I hiked World-famous Sycamore Canyon in the Pajarito Montains west of Rio Rico, Arizona with the intention of walking all the way to the Mexican border for the first time in my 12-plus-year residency in the state. I have been awed by the majesty of this beautiful place many times before, but have never gone much further downstream than the confluence with Penasco Canyon, almost three miles from the parking area near Ruby Road. The border fence, it turns out, is over 6 miles from the parking area, making for an almost 13-mile roundtrip through this deepest, wettest, and most biologically diverse drainage in one of Arizona’s most remote border ranges. The rainy season had not really arrived yet and, although there may have been some recent precipitation prior to our hike, most of the pools were disconnected from each other, containing schools of temporarily stranded native fish, extended Leopard Frog familes, increasingly concentrated water-bugs, and all their accompanying biological by-products. Several large pools, wet areas, and zones of lush vegetation await within a mile of the car, making much of the best birding habitat relatively easy to access, but my birding partner Josh Stewart and I were hoping for Rose-throated Becards and Five-striped Sparrows, species that normally can be found only after committing at least 4 miles to the canyon. Thick-billed Kingbirds are also not normally found in the upper part of the canyon, but we had one calling from near
- Native fish and leopard frog pool
the turnoff for the parking area on Ruby Road. Other individuals, or perhaps this same bird, were heard twice more downstream as we progressed toward the Upper Box area. Elegant Trogons were heard beginning less than a mile from the car, and we think we traversed through three different calling males’ territories. One male was making softer contact-calls, indicating the possibility of a nearby female on the nest.
About 4.4 miles into the hike, we found our first Five-striped Sparrow near a tiny pool of water. This was the first water in quite a while and only four or five such pools were still in existence from this point to the border. Each pool had conspicuous sparrows nearby, and the dry gaps between pools must have been occupied by more birds. We saw at least six individuals, but heard many more and figure we probably crossed paths with twenty or so. The ones we saw were all apparently adult birds.
Adult Five-striped Sparrow
An interesting aside is that the central breast-spot, a field-mark which is often not well illustrated and frequently goes unnoticed when observing a quick-moving or distant bird, was X-shaped on one of the birds, and distinctly blotchy whenever observed.
They like Ash and Willow trees
After spending too much time trying to get photos of the Five-stripes. we began the final mile-and-a-half or so trudge to the border, in midday Sonoran summer heat and canyon-bottom humidity, not really knowing what to expect. At one point we heard voices ahead, shortly after which a small group of illegals, probably drug-mules, turned and scattered in the direction we were headed. Deciding they were pretty small-time and probably hiding to allow our passage, we did just that, scanning up high on the opposite side and making bird noises to certain them of our intentions. The whole trick, in my mind, is to make it obvious to any illegal entrants that you are not “La Migra” (immigration, or Border Patrol), but just another gringo nature-nut hiker. These people have been doing this for a long time and know, through their own identification processes, who their enemies are. We never saw them again, and the water supply we left outside the car was unmolested once we got back. They either bypassed the parking area, or had enough water of their own.
Shortly after our near-encounter with the foreign back-packers, we began to see fairly fresh horse manure, not far upstream from a collection of small, evaporating tinajas (water pools). This turned out to be the last water before the border, and downstream the manure became fresher and more plentiful. We soon came upon the producer, a rail-thin Bay with a white blaze, who apparently had been living for quite some time in this stretch of canyon. One hoof was so badly injured that it must’ve been extremely difficult for him to move about, much less to make the dry downstream escape from the canyon. I think he’ll probably make it until the rains come, when there will be more water and green stuff to eat, but unless he can grow a new hoof or gets airlifted out, I don’t see how he can escape his unintentional prison.
Now I just really wanted to get to the border to see what it looked like, turn around, and get back to the car where, we hoped, unlimited water remained. Josh and I each brought about 2 liters of water, and at the turnaround point we both had a small, 12-ounce bottle left. That was not going to be enough, we figured, so we were in for a very dehydrating walk back out, all 6-plus miles.
"Mule's" sneakers on border fence
Hoofing it straight to the border, I got there around noon and quickly took a few photographs of the 3-strand fence and walk-through gate, trying to keep sweat off the camera. I walked into Mexico a bit because my GPS said I wasn’t quite there yet, but the Forest Service fence was the only thing down there. It was obviously never meant to prevent passage, and by this point the canyon was so wide and level that I imagine it’s not too difficult to get here from the southern side. There still seemed to be plenty of sycamore trees, extending as far as one can see into mystical Mexico.
Welcome to Mexico (or the U.S.?)
Josh and I did run out of water, still over a mile from the car, and realized that 4 liters of water per person would have been closer to our consumptive needs. It’s really not fun, and extremely energy-expensive, to force oneself to soldier through dehydration, especially once the leg cramps kick in and make a mockery of comfortable locomotion. If the car had been a half-mile further, I think I would’ve had a really hard time getting there before, say, the next morning. As it turns out, our little excursion took over 11 hours, covered almost 13 miles, and probably never needs to be duplicated by either one of us. That’s not to say I’m not glad I did it—I’ve been wanting to for 12 years—but I’m not proud of committing such a rookie mistake as bringing too little water, especially since I did the same thing (only much worse) on a very long, dry walk around California Gulch twelve years ago. Dehydration is much more dangerous that you’d ever believe until you experience it, and once it really kicks in, it’s downright terrifying. Sure was a pretty hike, though!
From here, your car is 6-1/2 rocky, uphill miles behind you
