The Canadian River flows through eastern New Mexico’s Mills Canyon.

I have wanted to write something along these lines for a long time now. I have always kept HikeMtShasta focused on the Mount Shasta area, with occasional deviations into the Sierra Nevada or some other long trip we took. However, I have had a desire to write a bit about places that have had an impact on me, the formation of my views on nature, my wilderness ethic and that were formative for me as a person. Naturally, a lot of locations that would fall into this category would be in California since I am a California native. Yet the Golden State was my home, its mountains my playground where I was comfortable. This formed me in fundamental ways that drew my heart to the mountains and the vast expanses of the wild. It took being wrenched away from these that made me ponder and consider these things from a perspective oblique to the what I had always maintained.

At first I was pulled away willingly, thinking adventure in Texas (gradschool) was what I needed but I was quickly disabused of this romance of this endeavor. My time there became more of a tension between my love of my studies and my yearning to leave the city and return to the mountains…except there were no mountains, at least not of the sort I was used to within any sort of striking distance. That forced me to explore outside my alpine comfort zone and to recalibrate what I was looking for, what I was satisfied with and what I found pleasing to my eye. After four years, this project was an unmitigated success, as I discovered myself to be able to enjoy a wild expanse of plains or secluded canyon nearly as much as I longed for the soaring towers of the mountains. I still do.

Of singular importance to my development in this regard was the discovery of the Wichita Mountains in Oklahoma (this was the place that prompted me to first explore photography). I want to reserve discussion of this for another post but suffice it to say, this was a watershed discovery for me, knowing there was topography of this nature within relatively easy striking distance of where I lived. Yet, it was another discovery of nearly equal importance that broadened my horizons beyond anything I had anticipated. A chance discovery of Dan Flores’ book “Caprock Canyonlands” at a bookstore made me aware of places in what was essentially an enormous dark spot on my mental map. Reading this book, looking at the images of hidden canyons and red cliffs in the midst of the Plains, my imagination was seized by this seemingly lost (if ever really known) beauty and I was filled with a compulsion to visit and explore, and thus began my quest.

Note: all photographs were taken on primitive digital cameras 20 years ago. I apologize for the poor skill with which they were taken and the lack of resolution of the images. Mostly the poor skill though.

The Canadian River (light blue) flows east to the Arkansas River. The Gila River flows west to the Colorado River.

In Flores’ Caprock Canyonlands he explores via his legs, his camera and the written word, the canyons of the Caprock Escarpment in Texas. The lone outlier to this was his inclusion of the canyon of the Canadian River, that cuts through eastern New Mexico. This vast “horizontal yellow” has few notable features but hidden below the expanse, nearly invisible from the level land is a deep canyon of red sandstone through which flows a Rocky Mountain river.

The Canadian River rises in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains a little more than a mile north of the New Mexico border. It flows out of the mountains and into the flat lands of eastern New Mexico near Raton (for a good read about the canyon for beyond this beautiful area at its headwaters, read John Ericksen’s “Through Time And A Valley“). About 20 miles to the south, it begins to cut a deeper channel into the land and soon it is flowing through a 600 foot deep chasm. This canyon, known as Mills Canyon an so named for the nearby the small farming “village” of Mills, is composed of horizontal layers or rock, the deepest of which consists of red sandstone. The crimson stone imbues the canyon with an appearance akin to canyons found in the Four Corners region, not the High Plains. Of course, as noted by Flores, the nearby canyons in Texas’ caprock have a similar quality. The greatest difference between those and Mills Canyon is the presence of the Canadian River, which blesses the New Mexico chasm with far more lushness amidst the arid landscape.

Satellite view of the Canadian River’s canyon cut into the High Plains.

Mills Canyon has, for a long time, been lost to the vast majority of Americans. Like much of the west’s intricate geology it was just one more place in the midst of an innumerable number of places that draw the eye, inspire awe, and imprint themselves on the hearts and minds of people who yearn to see the grandeur and beauty of creation. Like so many of these places, it was just too far, too remote or too overlooked in favor of it’s neighbors. Consequently the canyon was lost to all but those few that happened upon it by whatever means.

I was one of those few and the means was Dan Flores’ book. It became a quest for me. I was stuck in Dallas and many, many places had become subjects of fascination and fantasy to a young student stranded in the heart of urban sprawl. Coming from Northern California and raised with Yosemite as the archetype of natural beauty (which it still is, of course!) my sojourn in the Metroplex was forcing me to reevaluate what I considered beautiful, what I considered spectacular and where I wanted to go. Yosemite might be out of my reach but there was a whole new world of magical destinations that were within my grasp. It was time to go explore!

To me, there are few things as exciting as filling in the blank spots on my mental map. It’s even better if they happen to be interesting and beautiful! Mills Canyon was one such place. It became a priority for me to get there, to know the land, to see its ruins and history and to perceive its beauty with my own eyes.

This I was able to do on one of my return trips from Dallas back to California for the summer. Being the end of the spring semester, I arrived at Mills Canyon in May. The spring thaw had swelled the Canadian River and the normally small river was flowing powerfully. I arrived at the edge of the canyon and gazed in, overwhelmed by the chasm unfolding before me. On the rim of the canyon, I was the only soul present. With a bit of trepidation, I began to drive the rough road down into the Mills Canyon. Arriving at the bottom, the beauty of the canyon was striking. Bands of red cliffs stretched to the north and south, flanked by green slopes of juniper and occasional ponderosa pine. It was less than a mile from the plains above the rim but a world away.

There is a small campground at the bottom of the canyon. I was the only one there, meaning that, more than likely, I was the only one in the entire canyon. Given that I was that alone but in a place the nearly the entire world did not know existed, it was the most isolated and alone I had ever felt. It is one thing to be alone in the wilderness and another to be alone and essentially off-planet. It was a unique and powerful experience, one that has continued to permeate my mind to this day. The rugged canyon amidst the plains, its swollen river and arid cliffs left their imprint upon me in an irrevocable manner.

The Gila River winds its way toward rugged Murtocks Hole in the Gila Wilderness.

I had a similar experience in a river canyon in the Gila Wilderness, one of New Mexico’s premier wilderness areas. Rather than a Rocky Mountain river, the Gila River rises in the Mogollon Mountains of southwestern New Mexico, near Silver City. The Gila Wilderness is the largest wild area in the state and the very first area in the world set aside to be preserved in its wild state. This was due to the writings and advocacy of forester Aldo Leopold, whose influence on this land is profound. In his essay “Thinking Like A Mountain”, Leopold states:

“A deep chesty bawl echoes from rimrock to rimrock, rolls down the mountain, and fades into the far blackness of the night. It is an outburst of wild defiant sorrow, and of contempt for all the adversities of the world. Every living thing (and perhaps many a dead one as well) pays heed to that call. To the deer it is a reminder of the way of all flesh, to the pine a forecast of midnight scuffles and of blood upon the snow, to the coyote a promise of gleanings to come, to the cowman a threat of red ink at the bank, to the hunter a challenge of fang against bullet. Yet behind these obvious and immediate hopes and fears there lies a deeper meaning, known only to the mountain itself. Only the mountain has lived long enough to listen objectively to the howl of a wolf.”

In his writing, Aldo Leopold had taped into a rich vein of thought, advocating for preserving the land in its primeval state. In such condition it is a reservoir of sorts for nature and humanity to recharge in the natural order of the world. It was for this purpose that I was compelled to head to southwestern New Mexico to immerse myself in the Gila Wilderness. My plan was to pack into the West Fork of the Gila River, camp for a few days and then head back out. The Gila River was once the boundary between the United States and Mexico (until the 1854 Gadsden Purchase) and the headwaters, into which I would be venturing, were the birthplace of the famed Geronimo.

It was a long drive from Dallas, but I had a week during Thanksgiving break. That meant the canyon would be in some kind of autumn condition. With great weather and no school, it proved to be a fantastic week in southern New Mexico.

The canyon of the West Fork of the Gila River. Note the hoodoo spires lining the cliffs.

The West For of the Gila River was everything I had hoped it would be. After visiting the Gila Cliff Dwellings, I slipped into Aldo Leopold’s wilderness and out of time. For the next few days, I felt like I was time traveling, as though Geronimo may still have been lurking in the rocks, watching my progress through his domain. I wasn’t that far off. In the days I was camped along the Gila River, I saw only one other soul, who turned out to be a local guide, whom I gratified is still present in those mountains and canyons.

The canyon through which the Gila River flows is a marvel of unique geology. The steep cliffs are punctuated with spectacular clusters of rhyolite hoodoos. In many ways it is similar to the terrific hoodoo formations of Chiricahua National Monument except these hoodoos are spikes jutting upward rather rounded towers. Of course, the presence of the river completely alters the dynamic of the hoodoos from the more famous counterpart in Arizona. Hidden amongst the rhyolite cliffs are ancient cliff dwellings. Smaller than the ones preserved by the park service, these are lost in the wilderness, bearing testimony that, though wild, this land has many human stories to tell. I felt like an explorer in an alien land.

After months in the urban sweep of Dallas, this was exactly what I needed. Moreover, this fantastic canyon left its imprint on me. It was not just the mountains that I loved but the great diversity of the land, the many manifestations of the astonishing and the wonderful. I had never seen a canyon like that of the Gila River. I don’t know if there is another like it but it is a jewel of the west.

Strangely enough, when I got back to Silver City, I was searching for a place to sleep for the night when I noticed a large number of the community’s citizens congregating. Curious at what had drawn so many people out, I stopped and found that they were gathering to send the nation’s Christmas tree for that year off to Washington D.C. with the town’s blessing. The tree had been harvested specifically for this purpose somewhere in the Mogollon Mountains and was now beginning its journey to the nation’s capitol. It was a serendipity of an encounter.

Thus these two canyons in New Mexico were integral to my development as one who appreciates the natural world. I was no longer devoted solely to the grandeur of the mountains. I had stumbled upon other qualities of place that stirred my soul. Wildness was one, but it was not the only quality. I had made forays east from Dallas and while I did develop a deep appreciation for the Ozarks, it was not just the terrain and the wildness (and the waterfalls, which are plentiful there!). It was the aridity of the west that truly captured my imagination. This was the hidden aspect that I hungered for. I was just beginning to understand that aridity, in its many, many forms was what I yearned for. It was life west of the 100th meridian that I desired. The canyons of the Canadian and Gila Rivers had helped imprint that upon me.