D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
October
2008
Treasure Hunt
Risking bear encounters, gullywashers and rock slides
to retrieve... a toy car? Welcome to the world of geocaching.
Story and photos by Donna Clayton Lawder
"Hell, maybe we'll find Steve Fossett today!" Brad Johnson says with a laugh, Fossett being the record-setting aviator who disappeared last September. After numerous unsuccessful searches for his aircraft, the famous millionaire adventurer was declared dead five months later.
 |
Veteran geocacher Brad Johnson gestures
toward one of the caches, demonstrating how the GPS will guide the search. |
Bouncing along on a dirt road somewhere past Gila, Johnson and I are passing our drive time by sharing colorful hiking stories and local lore. He pipes up with a story of local Forest Service workers who found the wreckage of an old plane in the mountains nearby earlier this year, the aircraft's two occupants' very decomposed bodies still strapped into the small plane. Such wrecks are more common than you'd think, I've heard — often drug-runners and gold smugglers who crash into New Mexico mountainsides.
"More likely we'll just find toy cars and plastic dinosaurs," Johnson says. "I did leave a Jerry Garcia tie at this spot four years ago. I wonder who got that!"
We are going geocaching, an outdoor game that's part treasure hunt, part test of navigational expertise, part hiking adventure. Armed with their quarry's coordinates and a Global Positioning System (GPS) unit, explorers go out into the wild to locate hidden containers, called geocaches, stashed by other hikers. As the geocaching Web site (www.geocaching.com) explains it, "Geocaching is a high-tech treasure hunting game played throughout the world by adventure seekers equipped with GPS devices. The basic idea is to locate hidden containers, called geocaches, outdoors and then share your experiences online. Geocaching is enjoyed by people from all age groups, with a strong sense of community and support for the environment."
The hobby is growing in popularity, with New Mexico State Parks getting into the act for its 75th anniversary this year, enticing visitors with caches hidden at all 34 parks. There are more than 643,000 active geocaches hidden around the world.
Our goal today is to complete the rather rigorous hike to the Turkey Creek Hot Springs cache, with a GPS lesson for me in the bargain. Johnson established this cache, listed as GC10KB5, a few years ago. It's one of 12 caches in the area. The trek should take us a good couple of hours, Johnson estimates, and will involve three river crossings and slogging four or five times through shallow branches of Turkey Creek.
Along the way, we'll stop at a smaller cache he's named "Crystal Canyon," for its litter of purple-and-green fluorite crystals, flushed out in the tailings from an old mine. Johnson figures it will be a good opportunity for my initiation to GPS.
"It's not a tough hike and the cache is easy to find," he says. Looking skyward, he adds, "And if those clouds get worse, it may be the only chance we'll have today to see an actual cache."
Washouts, gullies and still-moist arroyos along our route cause us to look to the sky with concern. "Storms haven't been hitting until late afternoon. We should be okay," Johnson says, sounding more hopeful than confident.
Johnson allows that he hasn't been back to the Turkey Creek site since his son was born — about four years. He's kept an eye on the site from a distance, tracking visitor activity reported online as part of the global geocaching game.
"I read that the original box I'd left the cache in had degraded and someone replaced it with a sturdier box. We'll get to read their comments in the log there; there's a paper log book at the site." He pauses and a boyish smile comes to his face. "I'm looking forward to seeing this site again."
As I drive, Johnson describes how we'll use his GPS to find the geocache sites. New to this kind of instrumentation, I ask a lot of questions about what it can and cannot tell us, how to use the coordinates to find our way. I'm a little nervous not to have a trusty old-fashioned map along. Johnson reassures me that the information logged into his device will be all we'll need. The GPS will tell us how far away our treasure lies and in what direction. All we have to do is find and navigate the trails that take us there.
"Of course, the GPS gives you distance as the crow flies," he says. "We'll cover a lot more ground than that implies, maybe twice as much, maybe more."
We pass through a currently dry arroyo. "We'll have to think about this one on the way home," Johnson says, looking skyward again. "It's good we've got your high clearance," he adds, theorizing that his minivan would have done a nose-plant at this last ditch.
We travel a good while on the washboard-rough dirt road before, at Johnson's sudden instruction, I pull onto a gravel area marked by a signpost, the top number of which is all but obliterated by buckshot. I decide it's a good thing we're relying on the GPS and Johnson's memory of the place, as this sign doesn't tell us much.
We pause to admire the views — purple mountains above, brilliant red Indian Paintbrush wildflowers at our feet. Johnson gets out the GPS unit and shows me how he pulls up the coordinates for my "practice site," the nearby Crystal Canyon cache. He punches a few buttons and gets a read on how far we are from our treasure.
We descend into a rock-studded ravine. The GPS says we're just a quarter-mile from the cache, but we dilly-dally in the ditch a bit. Johnson picks up some lovely purple and green fluorite crystals and hands them to me. He cracks a large rock on a nearby boulder, revealing brilliant facets inside.
"Souvenirs," he says with a smile. I happily tuck them into one of my cargo pockets. "This is part of why we (he and his wife, Shari) decided to hide a cache here. It's a fun place to come back to and just poke around and pick up pretty rocks."
Johnson says he also relies on landmarks to recognize sites, and points out the partial body of a rusted-out truck. The entrails of an unfortunate rabbit rest on the path before us.
"Okay, there are carnivores around," Johnson says, pulling out a sizeable hunting knife. "I'm regretting leaving that gun home now." I instinctively touch my belt to confirm the presence of my mace can.
Ahead of us is a small cave-like opening.
"Abandoned mine," Johnson says. "Wanna explore?" Not knowing my horror of confined spaces, perhaps he thinks I look like I'm actually game for such an adventure. He stops me with a playful block with his forearm. "Helllll no!" Putting on his best Wise Daddy voice, he says, "Never go into an abandoned mine, kids." He laughs, then adds, "Well, some people do. But they're just nuts."
We step gingerly over the rabbit guts and hoist ourselves out of the ravine, up onto the path above. He hands me the GPS, but I'm baffled by the various symbols displayed on its screen.
"Just walk, see what happens," Johnson instructs. As I move, the guiding arrow shifts to point at the programmed destination. I find that if I turn, the arrow points back to keep me on course. Numbers at the top of the screen tick down with each step I take in the right direction, indicating I'm getting closer and closer to our prize. I start to feel downright giddy.
"It says we're here!" I cry out.
Johnson smiles. "Look around." Perhaps thinking my untrained eyes may take a while to locate the cache — or perhaps being a big kid himself, unable to wait any longer for me to spot the treasure — he suddenly exclaims, "And there it is!"
Sure enough, a plastic container of some sort is visible between the cracks of a small woodpile. Johnson moves the wood and pulls out the cache. Inside the plastic box is a small, wire-bound pad: the cache's log. He flips through pages to show notes by recent visitors to the site. He invites me to enter a few words about our visit.
As I write, he spies a plastic pill bottle under a nearby log. "It's a 'mini-cache,'" he says excitedly. "Write that we're combining this mini with the main cache," he instructs. I do, and we re-deposit the whole cache in the woodpile. "I'll make a note of that when I go online later," he says.
Back at the car, we pause for a drink and a refueling snack. A government truck passes by. Again eyeing the gathering clouds, Johnson says, "That's good. If he got through, that means the road is open all the way down to where we're going."
He resets the GPS with our next destination's coordinates. We're 5.8 miles from the Turkey Creek cache. "Remember, that's as the crow flies," he says with a laugh.
Back on the road, passing exploratory mining trenches, we joke about not being able to cross some of these arroyos on the way back. We develop a plan to survive the night on the candy bars we've brought, supplemented with cactus fruits.
As we snake our way up the curvy, narrow road, Johnson barks, "Quick, pull over!" I do as I'm told, fearful that this winding patch of road has brought on his occasional hairpin curve-induced carsickness.
"Photo op!" he says excitedly, and whips out his camera and snaps a few pictures of the mountains around us. In unison, we half-hum, half-sing that "purple mountain majesties" line from "America the Beautiful," then get back in the car and head down the mountain road.
"This, really, is one of the main reasons I like to geocache," Johnson says, a sweep of his arm indicating the breathtaking views ahead. "It's not really about finding the swag people hide in the caches. That's a game, and it's fun. But mainly, for me anyway, it's the excuse to just get out here!"
I pull the car to a stop just before a rutted, mud-filled arroyo. We exchange looks.
"My advice?" Johnson says. "Aim for the right. It looks not as deep. And go really fast. I mean, back up and floor it. Speed will carry us, that's my theory." I nod. He adds, "Oh, and let's roll up the windows first."
We barrel through, mud splattering our windows, only to encounter another, even deeper gulley. I keep my foot firmly on the accelerator and blast right through it.
"Okay!" Johnson says. "You know, if we do get rain, we're not getting over that one tonight."
We wind our way deeper into the woods, park in a gravel pullout and don our packs. A check of the GPS reveals it's 3.4 miles to our cache, in that direction, Johnson reports, pointing. We begin by climbing through a tight spot between two rocks, right into the arms of a cholla cactus. Picking our way past these first obstacles, we're happy to put our feet on an actual path just a few yards up.
Within minutes, we reach our first river crossing. Johnson points to the other shore. "See? That's an obvious trail, continuing on the other side, so we know we're going the right way."
We wade through, the Gila River coming just up to our knees, thankful for the soothing, cool waters on what has turned out to be a warm day. Our path winds uphill, the narrow trail snaking along the edge of a steep drop-off.
After our second river crossing, Johnson notes a bush with orange-red berries and facetiously asks if he should try some. He shoos away several bees and notices that I am suddenly stock-still.
"I'm allergic," I explain, barely moving a facial muscle.
"Oh, you'd better tell me where you keep your bee-sting kit," he says.
"I don't have one," I reply with a sheepish smile. "I know, I know, I should really start carrying one, shouldn't I?"
We joke about him dying from eating poisonous berries, me from a bee sting, our final pathetic moments spent convulsing on the path. I suggest the note I'd write to our respective loved ones.
"Ha! That's the difference between us," Johnson says. "You're a writer so you'd think to write a note. The first thing I thought of was to whip out my camera and make a final movie!"
Perhaps because we're laughing so hard, we've managed to lose our path. The ground around us is maddeningly similar, giving no clues as to which way travelers should go.
"I'll bet you're wishing I'd done this trip more recently than four years ago, huh?" Johnson asks with a smile.
We retrace our steps to a fork in the path and choose the other way. He checks the GPS.
"That's our destination," he says, pointing. "And this is an identifiable trail, so let's follow it."
We walk on, identifying globe mallow, cockleburs, penstemon and other wildflowers along our path. Our trail goes from clear to what Johnson humorously calls "trail-ish," and back again to distinct.
He checks the GPS again: 2.7 miles, that-a-way.
Pushing a multitude of buttons and translating the symbols on the screen, he says, "We're walking at a pace of 3.3 miles per hour. At this rate, we should reach our destination in approximately one hour and five minutes." He pauses. "Well, as soon as we find a path that actually takes us in that direction."
Looking at the sky, determined to beat the rains and find our treasure, we press on. We cross the river a third time and a wave of reassuring familiarity crosses Johnson's face. We now are on the lookout for an old shack with a nearby windmill, he says. We cross a small creek, follow the trail uphill, and Johnson suddenly calls out, "Aha! There's our shack!"
As if the dilapidated building were not enough to restore my faith, he presses a few more buttons on the GPS to display a squiggly line that indicates our path so far. Even if we don't always know exactly where we are, a satellite somewhere up in space does.
We cross another small part of the creek, delving deeper and deeper into the woods. Johnson wonders aloud about how many critters we're passing in the bushes — them aware of and watching us, but we unaware of them.
As if to confirm the presence of those eyes in the bushes, we round the next corner and come upon a big pile of bear scat. Johnson puts his sandaled foot next to the sizable heap and we take turns photographing it. For good measure, he pokes the pile with a stick.
"Not all that fresh. That's a good thing," he says. Without saying it, we both turn our attention a little more to the bushes and shrubs around us. I decided to hold off on the banana I was thinking about eating, not wanting to smell alluringly of fruit.
Sharing some of his favorite "geocache moments," Johnson says he proposed to his wife at a site at the Catwalk near Glenwood. "I went out the day before and hid a ring box with a note in the cache. I mean, I wasn't going to leave the actual ring for some cachers to find! The next day, Shari and I hiked to the site."
Confused by the ring box, his bride-to-be read the note.
"She just started screaming and crying. Finally I said, 'Well, are you going to answer?' And she says, 'Yes! Yes! Yes!'"
Suddenly he looks up and points out a rock formation vaguely resembling a skull on the mountainside way above us. This is Skeleton Canyon, Johnson says. He checks the GPS: 1.94 miles to go.
We pass another pile of bear scat — this one smaller, but also moister, more recent. We become ever more vigilant.
Clumps of manzanita brush, more creek crossings, more bear scat. By the fifth huge pile of scat, Johnson seems to read the growing fear on my face.
"That one's too old to worry about," he says, then adds with a mischievous smile, "Well, much anyway."
With less than three-quarters of a mile to go, we lose the trail again.
"I don't remember being this far up," Johnson says, as we gaze down into a valley, lush from the recent rains. "Good excuse to take some pictures, though," he says, snapping a few. We pick our way back down and regain the trail.
"This is why I decided to put a cache out here," Johnson says. "Turkey Creek Hot Springs is notoriously hard to find, and I thought this would help people and motivate them to make the trip."
Abruptly we are stopped in our tracks by a wall of rock. Johnson points to a small, tight tunnel under the stone mass.
"You're kidding," I say.
"Well, it's that or walk alllllll the way around it," Johnson replies. I weigh my fear against the fatigue in my legs. Muscles win: I'll do the shortcut.
Johnson takes off his pack and goes first, crawling on his belly at the lowest point. I take a deep breath and follow. As we reach the other side, Johnson says brightly, "Now all we have left is a little rock-hopping!"
We splash through the creek, sometimes up to our knees. The warmish water from the natural springs soothes my tired legs.
I think of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, and the joke about how Ginger did everything Fred did, but she did it backwards and in high heels. I muse that I'm taking at least one and a half steps to each of Johnson's long-legged strides. As I'm thus musing — okay, grumbling — I stumble on a river rock and drop my notepad into the creek.
I catch myself quickly and snatch the pad before it floats out of sight, shaking it frantically, checking the amount of ink-run. I hear John Lennon singing "Instant karma's gonna get you" in my head. I resolve to get myself together, as the next line in the song instructs, and banish my grumbling thoughts.
Johnson calls, "Just 500 more feet!" He's springing ahead now. Buoyed by his enthusiasm, I find a spring returns to my own tired step as well.
We climb up and find ourselves on a bluff. Here the water is so hot that the creek is actually steaming. Johnson points out a dip in the earth, now encircled by river rocks.
"All you have to do is dig a little trench into this low spot and the water mixes, and it becomes a pool you can soak in," he says. This'll be a nice reward, I think, also readying our muscles for the hike back home.
He shows me the GPS, clearly indicating the cache site just up a small hill from where we are. Eager as a kid on Christmas morning, Johnson practically sprints up to a tree on the hillside.
"Here it is," he calls, pulling the cache from its hiding place. He pops the top of the square plastic box and examines the contents.
"Well, we've got a toy car," he says. "Ooh, look! Here's a one-dollar coin from the Mirage!" He holds up the memento from the Las Vegas casino-hotel.
He reads aloud some of the notes from previous cachers, the most recent from just a couple of weeks ago. "Lots of nice comments," he says. "This is actually a lot of traffic for such a remote site."
He decides to take the Mirage coin, a suitable souvenir for his efforts today. I offer some items to enrich the cache's swag: a New York commemorative quarter and a humorous notepad with a 50s-ish housewife smiling on the cover, saying "Make your own damn dinner!" Johnson laughs and puts my offerings in the cache box, then returns it to its hiding place.
We rest a bit at the spring, eat some snacks, then head back. Though it took us three-and-a-half hours from car to cache, we navigate the smoother return trip in two-and-a-half hours.
Our legs are aching in earnest by the time we reach my SUV, and we speedily suck down the two extra bottles of water I've stowed in the vehicle. We've beaten the rain clouds, but our sore muscles and the falling darkness rule out a side trip to a pottery-shard site that Johnson had suggested on our outbound hike.
"Shards!" Johnson hollers humorously as we pass by the turnoff and continue, instead, on the road toward home. "Another trip for another day," he says with a smile, then asks mischievously, "You game?"
Check out www.geocaching.com for sites near you. For info on the State Parks Geocaching Challenge, go to www.emnrd.state.nm.us/PRD, or call (888) 667-2757.