Robertson Mountain (VA)

Old Rag Mountain from Robertson trail.

This fun little summit is located adjacent to Old Rag Mountain 90 minutes east of DC and has been on the list from the start of my quest for Sixty. I was late getting out of Dodge and arrived at the Old Rag trailhead at 2:00 pm on November 9. That gave me about three hours to complete a seven-mile loop before dark. As I headed up the access road from the parking lot, it was apparent that masses of people were strutting back to their cars after a glorious day on Old Rag. So I started counting. In the mile from the car to the former trailhead, I passed 151 people. Whoa. My turnoff for Robertson was a mile farther and by the time I reached that junction, I’d passed a total of 334 fellow hikers all headed for the cars. Whoa again. I seemed to be the only one hiking upward. (Speaking of which, www.hikingupward.com is a great website I’ve used many times to come up with destinations and directions for dozens of hikes in the Mid-Atlantic region.)

40. Robertson Mountain: Once I was on the lonely trail to Robertson, I passed only one solo hiker and a couple coming down from the top, plus a largish gaggle of some tired looking Boy Scouts lugging overnight packs. I thanked their leader for flushing the bears off the trail and continued to the craggy, scenic summit. I hopped around on the bigger boulders to be sure of tagging the highest one. I could have hung there for an hour and soaked it all in, but for the lateness of the afternoon. I continued down the other side to a fire road and a junction with another trail leading me down Corbin Hollow back to the start. I hit the access road well into dusk.

Of note, on the way in and not far from the parking lot, I had passed a guy under a canopy selling apple cider. On the way out, he was still there, sitting in the dark picking his banjo. I asked if he still had any cider left and he said absolutely. Hot or cold, he asked. Whoa again. By then the temp had dropped considerably so it was hot cider for me (and the young couple behind me as well), which made for a very pleasant walk in the dark that last half mile or so to the car. I thought about those 334 hikers I’d passed—and 1,000 more I did not pass—and figured this cider-banjo entrepreneur must be doing alright.

Miles (RT):  7.1 miles; elevation gain: 1,700 feet

Cumulative mileage and gain:  173.3 miles / 48,800 feet

The top.

Historic foundation, perhaps an old homestead.

Sentinel Peak (AZ)

At the base of the letter A.

Above my motel room in Tucson rose tiny Sentinel Peak, also known as A Mountain, due to the giant white “A” plastered across its face (one of those college things). Coming into town after my dad’s memorial (below), I thought I might have just enough time to run up the peak before dark and thereby add one more baby summit to my list. After driving around in figure-8s lost for a while, I found the correct sideroad leading up the hill. But police had the road blocked and shooed me away.

39. Sentinel Peak: Early the next morning (November 4), my brother agreed to a drive up the hill before heading to the airport to catch our flights back east. This time, we made it up and I hopped out of the car at the bottom of the “A” and walked the last 0.3 mile and 100 vertical feet up to the top. Okay, it was a wimpy summit hike, but it was such a gorgeous morning I had to count it. I zipped down the other side to meet my brother and we scurried to the airport.

Miles (RT):  0.4 miles; elevation gain: 100 feet

Cumulative mileage and gain:  166.2 miles / 47,100 feet

Tucson from la cumbre.

Day of the Dead (AZ)

Serendipitously, I arrived in Tucson late afternoon on November 3^rd (the day after my dad’s memorial service), just in time for the annual Day of the Dead parade, which I only learned about after noticing people were parking their lawn chairs along the curbs as I headed for my motel. For some, the parade is a solemn sign of remembrance for those who have recently passed from this world to the next.  For others, it’s a hell of an excuse for a zombie party. I walked in the parade as a non-zombie for a few blocks in remembrance of my dad and stepmom. Altogether it’s become quite an event, with tens of thousands attending. The night culminates in a fire and brimstone visual and auditory grand finale with an eclectic mix of dancers, drummers, fire artists, acrobats and zombies all doing their best to be solemnly odd, and succeeding at it pretty well. While the end of it might have been a little overdone, I was moved by the act of so many who took to the streets to remember the loved ones lost.

After the parade performances.

The grand finale.

Kirchner Caverns (AZ)

Pic of a pic at the visitor center.

The day after my dad’s memorial in Safford, I headed back to Tucson for a flight home the next morning. On the drive west (November 3rd), I stopped at Kirchner Caverns in time for a 90-minute tour of the Big Room. Wow, very cool. Unfortunately, no cameras are allowed, not even the cell phone kind, since people have a habit of absentmindedly (or intentionally) taking flash photos when asked not to. The light damages the delicate ecosystem of the cave and, of course, disrupts the ambience of this mysterious underworld. Kirchner was discovered just a few decades ago and has emerged as one of the more coveted caves in the U.S., and certainly among the best preserved.

The cavern is beneath this hill.

Dad’s Farewell (AZ)

My dad, Don, and his wife Clarice, as most remember them.

Dad and Clarice (our stepmom), sad to say, slipped over a far horizon in October and March of 2012. They had a lot of friends around Safford, Arizona, their home since the late 1970s, and my brother and I had meant to hold a memorial gathering for them in town last spring. But life got in the way. Summer’s way too hot in the desert, so we planned an event for the fall, November 2nd to be exact, while the weather was mild.

My sister picked up sandwiches and cookies on her way down from Phoenix. My brother flew in from Philly and grabbed the ice and beverages, while I arranged with Ponderosa Aviation at the Safford airport to hold the event in one of their spanking new hangars. Don and Clarice were aviation connoisseurs, of course. (They completely restored the PT-19 in the photo above.) The Hardys helped us set up the tables and chairs at the hangar and I picked up some flowers at a local florist for the occasion. I had also enlarged some pictures of Don and Clarice and brought along the photo albums and log books to share from their many years among sailing vessels and flying machines.

Dolan, a friend who did a little work on Dad’s airplanes as well, brought the model of the Great Lakes biplane, a memento I had given him last fall. We set it next to the flowers. Dad built the model after also having built the actual airplane and flying it around the West for about three decades. It was a familiar sight over Safford and everyone wanted to go for a spin in the open cockpit, hand-cranked, bright yellow airplane. I flew in it once, wearing a leather jacket and matching leather helmet. I sat in the front and enjoyed my dad’s piloting like a carnival ride. After some aerobatic maneuvers a few thousand feet up, he said, okay, you take it! And so I did, for about ten memorable minutes. The Great Lakes is now enjoying retirement at the Pioneer Flight Museum in Kingsbury, Texas.

Dozens came to the memorial, including a family friend and hospice nurse, Mary, who provided much warmth and outstanding care to Don and Clarice in their final year or so (Clarice passed only seven months before Dad). Many others came whom I’d never met, but whose names were in the address books I used for sending out the invitations. All thought highly of Don and Clarice and a few good stories were told.

My long-lost aunt Marilyn came with her husband Herman and we enjoyed a lot of catching up over dinners on two consecutive nights, whereupon I learned a great deal about her and my longer-and-loster Wilcox cousins (I grew up with my mom and as a kid had never met my dad). Marilyn was married to Uncle Jack who passed away in 2000. My dad’s only sister, Marion, passed away a few years ago. Her husband, Grant, is still going to the gym in his 90s and is now living in Kentucky. Marilyn gave me the rundown on all of my cousins to boot (both her kids and Marion’s). I’ll look forward to meeting some of them on future trips out west.

The American Legion surprised us with a moving tribute to Don, a Navy veteran. After a prayer and recognition for his nearly twelve years of service, six riflemen fired the customary three volleys into the air before a trumpeter performed Taps, flawlessly. Behind them rose the Gila Mountains, a perfect backdrop for a final send-off to Don and Clarice. It’s still hard to believe they’re gone.

Me and my big brother learning about mobility.

Brothers grown up (allegedly).

The Great Lakes.

Destiner, pride of the fleet.




 

Mount Wrightson (AZ)

I was meeting my brother and others in Safford Friday afternoon (November 1st), so the morning gave me a suitable time window in which to trudge up another mountain, to sneak a peak, so to speak. My research led me to Mount Wrightson, a highly regarded objective an hour south of Tucson. At 9,453 feet, it’s the highest summit of the Santa Rita Mountains. With an elevation gain of just over 4,000 feet in five miles, it is also one of the more ambitious dayhikes in the region. The weather could not have been more perfect.

38. Mount Wrightson: I left the trailhead in Madera Canyon around 10:30 am, opting for the more direct Old Baldy Trail, rather than the gentler but longer Super Trail. Both converge at Josephine Saddle, where a marker denotes the tragic demise of three young boy scouts who became lost in a snowstorm near the saddle a half century ago. The trail continued up the ridge and into an upper basin with occasional views of the valley below and the peak above. Yellow crags jutted up from the forest where a series of short switchbacks brought me to the high crest north of the mountain. The final scenic spur to the top gained the last 800 feet in less than a mile, and I was on top by 2:00 pm. There I met two couples, including a mother and son repeating a hike they’d done when he was a kid. She rightly (Wrightly?) bragged that her parents had also made the trek when they were in their 70s. I wanted to stay, but alas, I had obligations in Safford that I was already running late for. There are other good hikes in the area and I will have to return at some point. But for now, I raced down the mountain, happy that my knee was still holding up well despite the abuse.

Miles (RT):  10.4 miles; elevation gain: 4,000 feet
Cumulative mileage and gain:  165.8 miles / 47,000 feet

Mount Wrightson summit.

Half way there!

Good looking charmer.

At the top, Mount Hopkins behind.

Sky island country.

Five-minute rest.

Pusch Peak (AZ)

On Halloween, I flew to Tucson where my brother and I were hosting a weekend memorial in Safford for dad, who passed away a year before. My plane arrived early enough in the day that I had just enough time for an energetic hike up Pusch Peak, a few miles north of downtown. Pusch, at just over a mile high, is the westernmost summit of the Santa Catalina Mountains. Given the distance and elevation and a 5:30 pm sunset, I calculated there was just enough time to nab the summit before dark. The weather was perfect, sunny and not quite 80 degrees.

37. Pusch Peak: I hit the trail at 2:00 pm and meandered among the prickly pear and creosote into the saguaro zone, with the rocky summit looming dead ahead. As warned, the climb was steep, but the trail was in better shape than I had imagined from the descriptions online. It was just a matter of upward trekking as the valley beneath me slowly fell away from one turn to the next. I saw no one else on the mountain, though Pusch is sure to be a popular weekend hike. I was on the splendid summit by 3:50 pm, which allowed a short rest and still the hour and a half I needed to descend before dark.

From the top, the views into the Santa Catalinas and out across Tucson and Oro Valley were fabulous. Although I was a long way from Mount Lemmon, the high point of the range, I enjoyed once again, one of those top-of-the world moments that make peakbagging a more sensible and honorable endeavor than some might presume. On the way down, the brilliant light of the pre-setting sun turned the mountain to gold and lit up the stately saguaros like little monuments. This one was going into the journal as one of the most enjoyable of the Sixty.
Miles (RT):  4.1 miles; elevation gain: 2,700 feet

Cumulative mileage and gain:  155.4 miles / 43,000 feet

Summit rock.

Out by sunset.