Okay, it’s no secret that I live in the desert, and for several months of the year it’s hotter than the hinges of hell. How hot is that, you might ask? Well, to give you an idea, our hottest month is June – the average daily high temperature is 102 degrees Fahrenheit. It cools off a bit in July, when the average high is 101. August fares little better, with an average of 100. September drops off to 97. The rest of the months are our bragging weather, from October to April and even into May in a good year. So if you’re a climber, how do you deal with the heat? Well, you have several choices – you can choose to not climb at all; you can drive to higher country where it’s cooler; you can climb at a time of day when it’s not so hot. If you can’t travel to cooler places, then you can plan to climb in the very early hours when it’s cooler.
When I first moved to Arizona back in 1985, I was pretty ignorant about the heat. I didn’t realize how hot it could get and how dangerous the heat could be, never having lived in a hot place before. I was living in Phoenix at the time, certainly one of the hottest cities anywhere, and once summer rolled around I started to realize how serious climbing in the heat could be. By the time early 1986 arrived, I was trying to figure out which peaks were the highest in each of the 15 counties in the state. For some reason, I had determined that the high point of Pinal County was an obscure peak in the Superstition Wilderness called White Mountain. My neighbor and I headed out there and drove as close in as we could in my old sedan. I don’t remember a lot about the climb now, it’s been so many years in the past, but a couple of things still stand out in my mind. One is that we did a lot of cross-country travel with no trails, and it was hot. The date was April 21st, and it can be plenty toasty at that time of year. We ran out of water and tried to do something we had only seen in movies – we cut open some prickly pear cactus pads and tried to squeeze some moisture out of them to slake our thirst. Big mistake – all we got for our efforts was a handful of stickers, an awful taste from the cactus and precious little liquid.
My next dalliance with the heat came on May 18th, less than a month later. I had come up with the brilliant idea that I’d go climb Harquahalla Mountain, the highest peak in all of southwestern Arizona. Apparently I’d forgotten that it would reach 100 degrees on the desert floor that day. At that time, I didn’t own a four-wheel-drive vehicle, only a piece-of-crap little car, ill-suited to driving any rough roads. I parked miles away on the northwest side of the peak, well over 3,000 vertical feet below the summit. After hours of struggling in the heat, I arrived on the summit. Imagine my shock to discover a road ending right on the top. Maybe I could have driven it, or at least walked it, all the way to the top if I had done better research. As things stood, all I could do was return the way I’d come up. By the time I got back to my car, I was really feeling the heat.
By the time 1987 rolled around, I was busy climbing the high points of the state’s mountain ranges. On May 4th, I decided I couldn’t wait any longer and went to climb the high point of the White Tank Mountains to the west of Phoenix. Because it was May, it was predicted to be 95 degrees that day, another hot one. I encountered a locked gate and had to walk extra miles before I even reached the mountains themselves. Once I started climbing, I was able to follow a sketchy trail and an old jeep track in places as I headed west along ridge-tops. By the time I reached what is now known as Barry Goldwater Peak, I was pretty shagged out. The return journey went without incident, but by the time I reached my car I felt nauseous from the heat. I stopped at a convenience store and drank huge amounts to slake my thirst. It had been a rough day, climbing a full 5,000 feet and covering 20 miles – I suffered from not having brought enough to drink.
In the summer of 1987, I moved to Tucson – I was in hog heaven, surrounded by endless peaks. Close to home was something known as Waterman Peak, the high point of another range. It was September 26th when I drove out to the area along Avra Valley Road. Near the old Silverbell Mine, something called Johnstone Mine Road branches off to the southwest. It looked like it headed right toward the peak, so up I went. However, I soon came to a locked gate. At the same time, a man in a pickup drove up. I told him I’d like to climb the peak and could I please walk up the road. He told me gruffly that it was all private property beyond the gate and there was no way I could cross his land. Much annoyed, I turned around and drove back down to Avra Valley Road. Studying my maps, it looked like I could head cross-country and still get to the peak. I parked and set out on what was to be a 92-degree day. If I had done more research, I would have seen that I could follow old roads in all the way to the peak itself. But did I? Noooo, not me. I ended up climbing over intervening ridges, losing as much ground as I gained, and finally reaching the peak and scrambling to its summit. By the time I got back to my car, I had long-since run out of water and was fighting leg cramps. You’d think that by now I would be learning to be more careful in the heat.
In 1988, I had some unfinished climbing business to take care of out in the western desert, so when October arrived I felt it should be cool enough to tackle 3 climbs. On the 7th, I was on the Camino del Diablo and parked well north of the Agua Dulce Mountains. It was already mid-morning when I set out. The normal high temperature for the day was 89 degrees. The peak looked awfully far away when I set out. The round-trip distance was just over 20 miles with an elevation gain of 2,300 feet to reach the top of Quitovaguita Benchmark. I had no sooner returned to my truck in the 99-degree heat when my calves developed full-blown cramps. What an ordeal – it took a long time to massage my legs back to normal. I hadn’t been drinking enough, obviously. By the next morning, I felt better and managed another climb – shorter, only 12 miles and 2,300 feet, and I made sure I drank a lot. It reached 102 degrees that day. A third day saw me climb a final peak – shorter, about 4 miles and a 1500-foot gain, but reaching 103 degrees. It was much hotter than normal, and I was learning to drink enough.
When the summer of 1989 arrived, I had made the acquaintance of a fellow on the Tohono O’odham Indian Reservation who agreed to accompany me on a number of climbs. May 23rd was memorable. We parked near the border and climbed a ridge south into Mexico to the high point of the Sierra de la Nariz. It seemed to take forever, and by the time we reached the highest point, it was 105 degrees. The heat was oppressive, but at least we were drinking enough.
Two weeks later, my companion and I returned. This time, we drove to a spot near the village of Hickiwan and then followed a tired old road northwest as far as it would take us. We started on foot at first light and in the cool of the day made our way up and along a series of ridges. We found the high point of the Sikort Chuapo Mountains known simply as Peak 3610 and left a register and hustled back down. It hit a hundred that day but we managed to get the climb done before the worst of it hit. Not so bad a day, but still plenty hot.
Ten days later, we were back, this time to climb the high point of the Sierra Blanca. After a confusing start at the south end of the ridge and a bunch of time wasted, we managed to follow an old track north along the spine of the range and eventually reached Rabia Benchmark, the high point. The heat was stifling by the time we were done – it hit 106 degrees that afternoon. Way too hot for comfort, even with copious drinking.
I must have been out of my mind, but on June 20th I returned to the res for another climb. I was really pushing my luck in the heat, but felt an urgency to get all of the reservation’s high points finished. This time, the goal was the Mesquite Mountains. As I parked for the climb, I punctured the sidewall of my tire. Shit! Okay, I’ll change it when I get back. I set out for the high point, Mesquite Benchmark. Six miles later and 2,000 feet climbed found me back at the truck. It was hot, really hot. And much to my chagrin, I found that the single locking wheel nut on the flat was so screwed up that the special tool to remove it was ineffective. It took me a long time to figure it out, but I ended up by bashing it off with a baby sledgehammer that I had in my toolbox. By the time I finally had the tire changed, hours had passed. I was practically dizzy with the heat, and a quick check of my thermometer showed that it was 105 degrees! Man, that AC felt good.
There were many more days spent climbing in the heat, too numerous to mention here. I tried hard to always drink enough and be sensible, and for the most part all went well. However, there was one incident that was a really close call that I need to tell you about, which took place on August 28th of 2005.
That day, I pushed myself too hard. I didn’t bring nearly enough to drink, and climbed 3 mountains that I didn’t have any right to be climbing at all. I kept going when I should have quit, and by the top of the third one at around 10:30 AM, it was already close to 100 degrees. All I had to do now was drop 800 feet east to the desert floor and make it back to my truck. Several times on the descent, I could feel a muscle in my thigh on the verge of blowing out. Thankfully it didn’t, and I stepped on to the flat desert floor.
Feeling more confident now, I started across this three-mile stretch of flat desert. My truck wasn’t visible but I knew where to find it, hidden behind a distant ridge. I was now on the sun’s anvil, just putting one foot in front of the other, trying to make it back before the heat did me in. My thinking was getting fuzzy, but I knew where I had to go. I had nothing left to drink, my spit was a thick paste. The heat was palpable – I could taste it, smell it, as it shimmered off the desert floor. I walked along in a daze.
By noon, I was only half a mile from the truck. It was just around the next corner – the end was in sight. Then it happened. Because of the heat, the exertion and my dehydration a wave of cramping hit me all at once. Ordinarily, if I get a cramp I try to massage it out and try to stretch the muscle, but I had pushed myself too far. I was hit with cramps in both calves, and two in each thigh, simultaneously. It was my worst nightmare, and it was terrifying. Within moments, I found myself lying on the ground screaming in agony, my legs contorted with the massive cramping. I crawled into the shade of a nearby mesquite tree and tried everything I could think of to make the cramps go away. To this day, I can’t recall exactly how it came about, but some twenty minutes later the cramping had subsided enough that I staggered to my feet. I was spent. My legs still burned, I had shouted myself hoarse, tracks of tears stained my dust-covered face, but the good news was that I was on my feet once again.
I limped the last half- mile, rounded a corner and there was my truck – a more beautiful sight I had never seen. It was not my day to die. When I reached the truck, I unlocked the rear hatch and put down the tailgate. You’d think I’d have immediately opened the two small coolers in the truck and drunk my fill. I had water, juice, Gatorade, soda, and plenty of it. But I didn’t drink. My judgement was so impaired that all I did was lean over the tailgate, resting my head on my arms and close my eyes. Maybe fifteen minutes passed before I came to my senses, then sat on the tailgate. I remember slowly swinging my legs back and forth, sipping Gatorade. I drank a couple of quarts, maybe three.
By now I was feeling clearer, so I closed up the truck, got into the cab and fired it up. I cranked the AC up full blast, turned the truck around and headed down the rough road. My legs felt like they were ready to cramp up again with the simple effort of operating the pedals to change gears and to brake. I decided to leave it in second gear and not shift at all, pounding my way over rocks and whatever else lay in my path to just keep moving. En route, I passed the cemetery that was used by the former inhabitants of Siovi Shuatak – I was glad I wasn’t going to be added to it.
Before long, I reached the better road and took it out of four-wheel-drive, driving more easily along the flat, smooth dirt road heading north. I was sure the worst of it was behind me, or so I thought, when I felt my legs on the verge of cramping up again. I slowed down, put it into neutral and set the hand brake before the cramps hit. I vaguely remember pitching out of the door on to the dirt. The next thing I knew, I was lying behind the truck, partly under it in the shade, the engine still running. Another 45 minutes had passed! At least the cramps were gone. I checked the temperature – it was 106 degrees in the shade.
Once again, I got to my feet and back into the truck.. It was one mile to the paved highway, and I felt if I could get there, things would somehow be better. I started driving again, but hadn’t gone but a few hundred yards when my next trial began. My eyesight became dim, and within moments I couldn’t see at all! It was as if I had gone blind – all I could do was close my eyes. I sat with the AC going full blast, sipping more drinks. Another half hour passed. I would open my eyes from time to time to see if my vision was returning – surprisingly, I wasn’t alarmed by this. Gradually, my eyesight returned to normal, and I started driving again. When I reached the pavement, I just kept on going, but driving slowly. Ten miles passed, and I was approaching the main highway, Arizona 86, when I saw a vehicle approaching me from the north. I was probably only doing 30 mph in a 55 mph zone. They must have noticed my slow speed, because they too slowed down. It was then that I recognized it as a Border Patrol vehicle, and, better yet, in it were two agents I had met before on a few occasions. As soon as they saw me, they asked what was wrong, saying that I looked bad. I told them about my day. They offered to park my vehicle and drive me into the clinic in Ajo for help. Thanking them, I said I thought I could make it back to Tucson okay. They wished me well and we parted company.
I won’t bore you with the rest of the details. I did make it back to Tucson okay, but 5 hours after I had stopped climbing, my resting pulse was still 110. Hurricane Katrina slammed into New Orleans that night, killing thousands. It was not my day to die. A doctor friend told me later that I was lucky my kidneys didn’t shut down. In spite of drinking copious amounts of liquids, peeing didn’t return to normal until the next day.
That incident was the worst of all my foolish climbing in the heat. Never again did I fail to bring enough to drink – I had finally learned my lesson.