Roskuge Mountains

2023-12-05

We went out north of Three Points, Arizona, where I had found a clear road into the Roskruge Mountains using satellite photos. They appeared to be saguaro and associated vegetation on the hills. The peaks top out at 3700 feet with their feet lying probably somewhere around 2600, give or take. The private land goes into Tohono O’odham Nation lands and the Ironwood National Monument. It’s often hot out there and warm in the winter. We can expect a place to ourselves.

After a 30 minute drive through an often tortured desert landscape, we are slowing down as the two lane highway passes through the town which offers a few conveniences. After Ace Hardware, Dollar stores, and Mexican fast food, we find our turn at Fuller Road and head north. Asphalt shortly turns to dirt. I pull over in front of a dusty trailer on a property surrounded with a chain-link fence. I need to get out and adjust my 4×4 locking hubs. A pit bull rages out to punish our ruckus in its serene life.

Standing in the dry dirt street, wrapped up temporarily in my kilt, belted together with a Velcro tab, I note that I’d hate to be here when it floods. We continue as deep ruts are pulling my four-runner in opposite directions. The dips are sharp and deep where the washes cut across the road.

I’m in a residential area. It has stuff piled up, often old hulks of travel trailers are used for storage. This is a very low end place with an air of independent thinking. The lack of trees exposes a plethora of well-meaning projects left to rot. Life, or reality got in the way. A twin pair of disassembled cars, a stash of this and that, once believed to be “worth something.”

A towering black pickup truck passes before us. I have to wonder what the talk at the dinner table might be like, if they would have seen the two traveling nude bodies through the dust and the windshield.

Following a series of right angle turns before each road disappears completely, I find the one road that takes us from this and out into a scrubby barren desert. Here is a flood plain that has lost its top soil to cattle overgrazing and those thousand pound hooves.

The satellite mapping made the distances look greater, so we are soon at the intersection that I had planned to hike from. The terrain sports a more lush saguaro desert here on the hills and bajada. In the satellite imagery, there were dark spots on the rocky hills that looked like trees, but it is, as I suspected, grand pools of dark volcanic rock. We once visited north of here, where similar rock had collected petroglyphic scratched art.

We decide to take a break, get out and taste some freedom. I turn off the motor, fully intending to listen to anything else. We each stretch out of our bodies the more than an hour of driving. I turn to DF and say, “Do you hear that?” She listens, head still, gazing out into the distance.

I explain “Nothing,” There is no river of cars, nothing. Already, my senses are going through a surprised awareness of this lack of clutter from sound. My brain relaxes, listening to the peace of this. I hear my breath, “Ahhh….”

DF says nothing. She just smiles as see turns to look at me. We embrace and kiss. What a wonderful moment to share. What a bond. The mutual experience of truth, natural unadulterated truth.

We decide to drive along the trail that follows the row of grand powerlines, just see how that goes. I tell her that the plan had been to possibly walk up one of these hills that are being passed to our left. The photos showed some curious geology up there and it obviously gets more lush and representative of the particular beauty of the Sonoran Desert.

It isn’t long before the appearance of the spot that we have been waiting for. It is simply a good place to pull off of the two track trail, park and easily get back on track.

We have a “short walk” intention. We’ll just explore and enjoy a string of moments in this treasure, during this pleasantly warm day in December. It is just short of 80F out here. It feels warm and nearly perfect for a pair of nude bodies. Just cameras and a bottle of water will be needed with our shoes.

As I take off, I feel a light breeze engulf my whole body, not too cool, not hot, just right. The lack of sound with this brings me a sense of being home. Goldilocks never had it so good.

The vegetation is very sparse here; we are able to walk in a straight line for 150 feet at a time, as we ascend the gentle bajada‘s slope.

We come across a large hole. One this size is unusual. We have to wonder who dug it and who might still be habitating it. I stick my head down near the barren ground to see what the nature of the tunnel is. It goes back a few feet and turns. I don’t remember ever seeing an excavation quite like this. DF also gets down for a curious look. “It is big enough for a coyote.”

I’m thinking that an unusual animal dug this out.

We keep to our journey up the easy slope. Here everything comes out of that empty backdrop of one hand clapping. Each step is heard grinding in sand, or a light gust through a saguaro’s needles and then again, nothing. In the still, when the desert speaks, you must listen. You have to. It’s amplified.

Naked complements this lack of. It is heightening the experience, the senses, awareness. When one hand is clapping, the mind quiets under the influence. In that void when the desert speaks you listen with more than ears. Bodies vibrate and all senses gain knowledge of the experience.

I just can’t be alone here, because I am this, a part of something that defies boundary. There is that moment of discovery in the deaf silence, when even the turquoise sky is a richer blue. The vast dome is wide, predicable, constant and safe. There are no hidden secrets, there is simply what I’m gifted and to receive it.

I spent many years in the Tortolita Mountain hills, spending days and evenings like a monk at worship. This feels like home.

The vegetation increases. The curiosity, changes and nature of this place seduces us to explore a little further and then, compounded with a little further again.

We begin to see odd pieces of volcanic rocks spread around, looking like it was tossed out here by the hundreds.

Their color contrasts with the hardened sand. As we move up hill, they get more numerous. It becomes obvious that this trend will continue. I think about the Native American coyote reference, the trickster of Indian lore. I imagine a giant coyote digging a hole, dirt and rock being kicked behind him, down this hill. Dug with front paws and piles kicked behind. It looks just like that, my imaginative folk tale. I couldn’t be surprised, if I came across a mine shaft to complete my dreamed up legend of a giants burrow.

As palo verde and mesquite trees begin to populate, I hear a grunt ahead. I stop in my tracks and raise my hand to DF to be alert.

We both hear it.

I whisper, “javalina.”

Her head bobs slowly, knowingly, in concurrence.

We draw cameras like hunter’s guns and begin to creep ahead. The sound of feet in sand seems loud where silence dominates.  For the most part, the numerous rocks are too round and unstable to step stone on quietly. We make some sound and then see a silverback fellow with a thick winter’s coat moving way disgruntled. I sniff the air coming from that direction, hoping to smell more than one, but there is no need. All at once, there are sounds of others stirring.

Squinting at the brush, we attempt to see them and take photos, but it is too thick.

They appear in and out of sight amongst the brush, maybe 40 feet away.

Having moved along, we begin to hear a peeping sound. A very young baby is howling and very afraid, that its mother has abandoned it. Perhaps we were supposed to chase after the adults as predators and be decoyed away from the baby. Through the brush, under a pair of scrubby trees, we see a cute, still light brown youngster. It is struggling to walk. It wobbles like a drunken sailor calling out for security.  This is surely the youngest javalina that I have ever seen. They learn to walk very quickly and follow under mom’s protective belly. This one may only be a few hours old, if that.

Guilt and concern wash over us. We take off, away from their lair. Soon enough, DF sees mom heading back. They sense safety with our new greater distance from them.

There are several saguaros fallen; they are in various levels of decay.

They have been upended by their roots, which are very shallow in this rocky dry terrain.

They are all laying in the same direction. I wonder if the SW and SE winds from the monsoon kick them over as the soil gets wet.

There is little tap root, a feature that is significant in saguaros. The root balls are unusual. As they search for water, they are intertwined in a confined area.

The typical plant’s roots are lateral for stability, but these didn’t wander out and away as the plant grew taller and terrifically heavy.

We notice that there aren’t many suitable mother plants for the saguaro to hide under as they slowly mature. There is one that actually has used another adult saguaro as its mother and hidden with some of those volcanic rocks.

As the rocks become more numerous, the walking becomes slower and more difficult.

I have a couple of more places in these mountains that I’d like to visit. We decide to head back downhill.

Jumping cholla have left “bombs” everywhere. They are bundles of needles sticking out in every direction, all looking to hitch a ride on our shoes.

We warn each other as we pass and step over them. There is no noise out here in the stillness. All that is heard are voices of two naked people, “bomb!” “Bomb!” “Bomb!”

“Bomb, bomb!”

I note a black plastic bag and water bottle. We investigate. Under a short tree, some weathered clothing is lying in a heap. Illegal entrants have been immigrating through here. As I scanned the Google Maps photos, I saw what looked to be six or seven people on a ridge. Well, I also saw what looked to be a horned Chupacabra, a blood thirsty goat-like mythic critter near them.

The geology is dark brown and with black volcanic stones. I stop to observe a few that seem singed, melted. A layer of black varnish sits on them, like black lichen.

Some can be broken off like flakes sounding hollow to a tap. The desert always has its curiosities.

When we think that the return to the truck is just around the bend, I see it at quite a distance more. We have walked further than I thought. When we return to a smartphone, we have been wandering, meandering through the raw desert entertained for a couple of hours.

We drive the powerline trail out a few miles through several washes. I hear Arizona pinstripes accumulating. I must dodge sharp stones that might cut into my sidewalls. There is no road hazard insurance in this remote desert. This is no road. It is slow going.

Finding that another point from the satellite image as Garcia’s Ranch Road, we head south toward the small town of Three Points. On the side of the road as we come out of a dip, there is a mammoth saguaro.

It has had a tough life, but seems to have no sense of quitting.

The base is huge and fat and aged. It has lost its top and grown up multiple new stems. Arms have occurred, but they twist and curl, producing more branches and even these have broken off over the years.

We decide that it is worth it to stop and see and it is amazing. As I said, it just doesn’t seem to know how to quit.

It is next to a small wash where water sometimes flows enough to grow tall grass. It has had nourishment. It might be called ugly in its imperfection, but its tenacity has my respect. I see it as special, in its own way, it is a beauty.

We photograph the monument in wonder. There is a massive arm that has apparently recently broken off. It is lying on the ground before decomposing. Still the tenacity continues on.

Wrapping up:

We have found a way out here that will be a quicker route, next time. I still haven’t found my original goal, a hill that I have attempted to hike to several times. The sun is setting.

This time in a Dollar Store parking lot, I need to find that kilt to get out to shift out of 4×4 again. It has fallen behind the seat, lost. There has just been no need to even consider clothing. We have been in our nature’s intended state, how we are best to imbibe our relationship with our environment. We have been free to live by our rights in our natural world.

 

 

On our way back toward town, the timing is perfect to visit the Terra Sante Turtle Sweat during its Tuesday night gathering. There are many dear friends there. The community is clothing optional and of course we enjoy that.

We wander into the “Back 40” and find its owner welcoming us. He has been manufacturing and experimenting with domes. He leads us on a tour as the sun sets and the evening chill arrives. We decide to don our tops for the journey to the community center, before we get warmed by the sauna.

We spend several hours sweating in the oddly shaped sauna and taking breaks out in the night air. It is set up for acoustics. In the second tier of seating, we can be entertained by placing ourselves inside rounded walls, where echo and reverberation enrich our voices. Om, guttural noises, chanting and singing happen. Empty five gallon plastic water bottles are the drums. Amongst the singing and howling, a didgeridoo, or East Indian pipes, may flavor the harmony. Sometimes, a fevered pitch sets a sweat glistening body to dance. Om and chanting are fun and healthy activities, together in the cleansing heat. It activates the vagus nerve, further effecting the cleanse. Many songs are prayer.

Getting out, the cooler night air is comfortable for a while. People wander about comfortably barefoot-nude. When the nights chill finally penetrates a cooling body, they get back in, or grab a robe, sitting around in relaxed conversation.

More may be read about Roskuge Mountains, here. This is part one of four:

The Roskruge Mountains – Part 1

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