Waterhole at Vellecitos walked 17 miles that day, was just plain punishment.
Jane Tucker, Jeane McSheehy and Walter Donaghho elected to stay at the water holes of Los Lianitos. That night they heard the screams of mountain lions. Twelve of us started for the rim, an estimated five miles. After toting the packs for about two miles, a nice little flat tempted us and we made camp for the night. We scattered to look for water, but found none. That made us all suddenly very thirsty.
Roy took inventory and found we had an average of two quarts each in our canteens. This had to do for dinner that night, breakfast the next morning, and the 3000-foot descent into the gorge. We had better find water in the gorge, we decided. Roy said, "If I catch anyone brushing his teeth; he'll get sent back to Horse Camp!" We crawled into our sleeping bags and dreamed of Utopia where all the streams ran clear, cool water. Next morning we found plenty of water in a gully a few hundred yards away, just beyond where we had searched!
We lost several hours Thursday morning, trying to find the rim. There were no trails, so we carefully ducked the route. A duck, in mountain lingo, is three or more graduated rocks placed one on the other to mark a route. They are usually placed so that from any given duck you can see a duck behind and a duck in front of you. Roy had also brought red and yellow ribbons which he tied to branches of trees and bushes. And yet, when we decided we must retrace a bit, we became temporarily lost.
Finally we found the elusive rim of the gorge of Cañon Diablo. It was as wild as our imaginations had pictured it. There, across the gorge, its summit only a thousand feet higher than the rim on which we stood, was El Picacho del Diablo. It would be a comparatively easy ascent if it didn't have that gorge protecting it. There is a route to the right, around the head of the gorge. but that involves several pinnacles where ropes are necessary for safe climbing. Norman Clyde and Randall Henderson scaled the peak in 1937, and avoided the gorge by making the ascent from San Felipe Valley on the desert side.
Lodgepole pines were abundant a this elevation, as were the San Pedro Martir cypress, found only in these mountains. Ed Peterson measured at ancient specimen of the latter. It was 15 feet in girth, perhaps a record for this species. A golden eagle soars over the Cañon Diablo. In the distance the San Felipe desert dropped down to the blue waters of the Gulf of California, and the mountains of the
which way to go, a Mexican rode up and directed us. We had not suspected it, but Mrs. Meling had ordered him to see that we didn't get lost! The Mexican turned out to be Pompa, the packer's helper. Our packer was Bill Barré, a handsome French vaquero, son-in-law of the Melings.
After lunch we entered the western fringe of the forest and soon the four leaved piñon was supplanted by the Jeffrey pine, which from then on was the dominant tree. Most of these Jeffreys are of moderate size but we measured one that was a good five feet in diameter.
La Corona was our first overnight camp. We had climbed gradually in 25 miles from an altitude of 2200 feet to 6600 feet. La Corona is a beautiful circular meadow surrounded by tall pines. The stream was running just enough that we could dip in a cup without stirring up the bottom. Here food was our first thought. Some had brought canned foods like beans, corn, tuna and roast beef. Some cooked spaghetti and some dreamed up weird concoctions out of dehydrated milk, minute rice, corned beef and bouillon cubes. Nearly all made tea, the mountaineer's favorite hot drink. Some had brought neat aluminum kettles that nest in one another and some had brought billy cans to cook in. Appetites were ravenous. No one felt like spending much time around the campfire that evening. During the night the poorwills whistled.
Wednesday morning found us climbing in a northeasterly direction. The white fir, that harbinger of the cooler altitudes, appeared. Through long isolation in this dry southern environment,
it has developed new characteristics. The needles are notably thicker and more bluish in color than those of its counterpart north of the border.
Early that day we got our first glimpse of El Picacho del Diablo. We hoped to climb this peak. It seemed so far away we wondered if we could reach it in the allotted time. We planned to reach the rim of Diablo Cañon that afternoon, shoulder our packs, drop down the 3000 feet into the gorge and camp that night on the bottom.
The temperature was delightful for climbing. Water became scarcer above La Corona. At Vallecitos, a meadow with a dry water course, Pompa had dug a water hole against a huge boulder and enough water had seeped in to fill all the canteens. We couldn't have gone very far beyond that point without that water hole. Eight miles to the southeast of here, at Los Llanitos, Pompa dug another water hole. Water took on even more importance because from here on we would not have the packers to locate it for us. We might not find water again until we reached the bottom of the gorge, and we weren't sure we would find any then. We knew that if we didn't find water in the gorge, we must give up the idea of climbing the peak.
The packs we shouldered at Los Llanitos weighed about 30 pounds and contained sleeping bag, full canteens, food for two days, cooking utensil, matches, first aid, parka, sweater and personal necessities. The packers shook their heads and said, "Why did we bring pack animals in the first place?" Putting on a full pack in the late afternoon, after having already
 
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