We’re grateful to still be putting distance between us and normal life, in which routine elbows exploration aside, society orders nature off the premises, and sedentary work pins physical fitness to the floor.

We’ve been hiking in the Alps since mid-June. We’ve remained injury free, rainy spells have been brief, and we’re disciplined about keeping down-time (shopping, driving, resting, etc.) to a minimum. So we’ve actually hiked most of that four-and-a-half months. In summer, we hiked six days a week. Fall weather and shorter days have recently reduced our average to four or five days a week. Of the 135 days we’ve now been here, we’ve spent approximately 108 days on the trail.

This has been our Endless Summer. The classic film of that title follows surfers on their quest for primo waves rolling toward exotic beaches. Our quest has been for fascinating trails probing sensational mountains. We’re fulfilling a dream. We’re not at home, living a relatively normal, work-constantly, hike-when-possible life. We’re traveling, living a highly unusual, hike-constantly, work-when-possible life.

We have and will continue to blog about our sojourn. Our chief goal—certainly in our books, but even in our blog—is to inspire others to hike and guide them on especially rewarding trails. But  during this endless summer of hiking we’re also exploring metaphysical terrain. The terrain to which we turned our attention when we wrote the book titled Heading Outdoors Eventually Leads Within. It’s this terrain we’re compelled to write about now.

Hiking constantly—far and fast—limits human contact. In summer, on some trails, yes, we crossed paths with many hikers. But even then, we were alone most of the time. Now it’s fall, and we’re inching southward, toward the Med, away from the big, famous peaks. We’re encountering few hikers. When we do meet others—on the trail, or in towns—they’re French. We speak little of their language, they little of ours, so discourse is usually simplistic and fleeting. We don’t have a cell phone. We get internet access rarely—perhaps once a week—in places where we can’t or don’t want to linger long. So communication with friends, family or business affiliates is minimal. Plus, the way we’re traveling—driving a campervan, free-camping in the loneliest, quietest spots we can find, usually at or near trailheads—also limits human contact.

This near-constant state of solitude is conducive to frequent, penetrating introspection.

During a recent spate of rain, for example, when we’d declined to hike for a couple days, we were holed-up in our van, writing. A quiet backroad allowed us to tuck into the forest beside a stream. The trails had been ours alone on our previous two dayhikes. Nobody drove or walked by our van that day in the rain. It was quiet, save for the water music. Fat clouds waddled slowly among the treetops. Fog slithered through the forest. I became aware of how isolated we were were at that moment, how we’ve always isolated ourselves even at home in North America, and how this summer—despite being in heavily populated Europe—we’ve been especially isolated.

I said to Kath, “I feel like we’re in a very small sailboat, far out at sea, on a trans-ocean voyage.”

“I know,” she said. “I feel the same.”

A long discussion ensued, punctuated by several realizations:

• It’s not the hiking that’s difficult for us. Ever. It’s when we’re off the trail, between trailheads—that’s when our life doesn’t always flow smoothly. During those lulls, we’re in a kind of limbo. Like those couple days we were hunkered in the forest, sitting out the rain. That’s when we get antsy. That’s when our minds sometimes become infested with conventional thought: “Should we be doing this? What are we doing? It’s been four and a half months, isn’t that enough? Maybe we should end the trip, go home. Wouldn’t it be better if we had some friends with us? I wish I could be with my family right now. Maybe instead of hiking, gathering info for a future book that might not be profitable, we should be at our desks, marketing our current books.” And on, and on, and on.

• When hiking, we’re immune to all that monkey-mind stuff. On the trail, we’re almost always relaxed and content. We feel very present, fully alive, completely engaged. We never question why were doing it. It feels absolutely right. When hiking, we feel we’re being our true selves. Just as some people have a meditation practice, or a yoga practice, we have a hiking practice. Doing yoga frees the body from tension. Meditating frees the mind from aimless wandering. Hiking frees us from uncertainty and anxiety.

• We’re now engaged in our hiking practice with the same level of devotion as are those for whom meditation or yoga is central to their lives. When getting ready for a hike, we don’t think about the getting ready. We don’t question if we should go hiking or not, if we’ll enjoy it or not, if the trail we chose is the optimal one for that day, if the weather will cooperate… and so on. Mindfully, but without mental static, we simply prepare, then set out. Pre-hike, it’s as if we’re propelled not consciously, but subconsciously. We’ve come to believe that the adventure ahead is more apt go smoothly if, before setting out, we’re calmly focused rather than frantic and anxious.

All that monkey-mind stuff? The uncertainties and anxieties that bubble up when we’re between trailheads? That’s our conscious minds seeking distraction. Distraction from whatever is: the sound of rain dappling on the roof of our van, the difficulty or tedium of writing, the realization that we are utterly alone, etc. Often, whatever is, just doesn’t seem to be enough for the conscious mind. We think we want, need or deserve… something different than what is. Precisely what that difference actually is, we’re not sure, but our conscious minds insist that whatever is just isn’t satisfactory.

• Observing our conscious minds seeking distraction is a new insight for us. We’re now able to recognize the seeking of distraction for what it is, which allows us to let go of it, and settle back into contentment. This glimmer of understanding is one of many that have arisen during our endless summer in the Alps. They’re the result of our new level of dedication to our practice.

• We’ve also seen, with distilled clarity, how little we want. Health, each other, good food, deep sleep, agreeable weather, and wildlands to hike. That’s it. The swarm of concerns, the pile of possessions, the restricting obligations, and the frenetic busyness that seem to consume most people’s lives have, for us, fallen away. We’re completely comfortable—absolutely at home—alone in nature. Noise, crowds and urban bustle have become increasingly agitating. There’s a simplicity and focus to our present existence that’s immensely fulfilling. Wanting so little feels liberating.

• But questions now loom on our horizon: What happens when our endless summer ends? Will we be able to adjust to a life in which we cannot be as dedicated to our hiking practice as we are now? What would it take to indefinitely continue our present level of dedication to our hiking practice?

Meanwhile, our endless summer continues into fall. And each time we look back over our shoulders—at normal life, in which routine elbows exploration aside, society orders nature off the premises, and sedentary work pins physical fitness to the floor—we’re grateful we’re still putting distance between us and it.

Thanks for following us.

Did the universe send us a symbolic gift of encouragement? We were certain of it when, years ago, we received an Alberta license plate bearing the letters CFA. We recognized it as an acronym: Camp Free Always.

"B.C." stands for "Best Camping"

Camping free has long been our creed. We wrote a book about it: Camp Free in B.C. But sometimes camping free-of-charge isn’t feasible, as on our recent drive through British Columbia. It was late. We considered pushing deeper into the night. We knew of a free campground ahead in the foothills. But another long drive the next day was necessary for us to catch the boat on Lake Chelan, in Washington, where we intended to backpack. (We’ll describe that magnificent trail in our next post.) We didn’t want to be exhausted when we began hiking. So we caved to convenience and pulled into Okanagan Lake Provincial Park.

We’re ashamed to admit we spent $30 to pitch our tent there. The campground was meticulously maintained. The endlessly hot shower was soothing. But $30? Too much. Especially given the campground location: immediately below the highway. We couldn’t listen to the water lapping at the lakeshore. We had to wear earplugs to drown out the vehicle noise so we could get the sleep we’d invested in.

The experience reminded us that Camp Free in B.C. is an important, valuable resource. Yes, some provincial-park campgrounds (smaller ones in less desirable locations, with limited facilities and no showers) charge only about $22 per campsite per night. But many campgrounds in B.C. remain free of charge or truly cheap: just $12 per site, per night. And because these are mostly beyond paved roads, they feel wilder than provincial parks and are often much quieter. You want to find them? Pick up a copy of Camp Free in B.C.

Camp Free gives you detailed descriptions of, and complete driving directions to, 350 free-of-charge campgrounds (plus 80 low-fee ones) throughout southern and central British Columbia, including Vancouver Island, the Sunshine Coast, the Okanagan, the Shuswap Highlands, the Rocky Mountain Trench, the Cariboo Mountains, and the Chilcotin Plateau.

You’ll find Camp Free for sale at all Indigo-Chapters bookstores, and in the book sections at Mountain Equipment Co-op stores. You can also purchase Camp Free directly off our website. Or from Amazon.com.

To jumpstart your free-camping adventures this summer, here are some of our favourite, free-of-charge, B.C. campgrounds. We rate each of these “destination,” meaning they’re worthy of a multi-day stay, not just a utilitarian, overnight stop.

Toquart Bay, page 53, SE of Tofino, on Vancouver Island

Nimpkish Lake, page 72, S of Port McNeil, N end of Vancouver Island  (ideal for kite-boarding & windsurfing)

Cal-Cheak, page 122, at the confluence of Callaghan Creek and Cheakamus River, SW of Whistler

Lillooet Lake and Duffey Lake, page 130, in the Coast Mountains, NE of Pemberton

Seton Dam, page 135, W of Lillooet, in the Coast Mountains

Ashnola River, page 168, near Keremeos, close to Cathedral Provicial Park

Harmon Lake, page 183, near Merritt

Wragge Beach, page 272, near New Denver, in the West Kootenay

Little Slocan Lake, page 280, NW of Nelson, near Valhalla Provincial Park, in the West Kootenay

Glacier Creek and Howser Glayco, page 292, N of Kaslo, in the West Kootenay

Mitten Lake, page 306, between Golden and Radium Hot Springs

Quesnel Lake, Crooked Lake (and 30 other free campgrounds in the vicinity), page 433, in the East Cariboo, W of Wells Gray Park

Owen Lake, page 474, SE of Smithers

Beaver River, page 495, NW of Robson Provincial Park

Like sandpaper, the gritty details of daily life grind down our memories’ sharpest edges. How else to explain the surprise and wonder we feel when repeating a momentous event that we thought we recalled vividly?

Kath and I have backpacked in the Grand Canyon more than a half dozen times. We’ve rafted the Colorado River through the Grand.* Its been just two years since we last hiked in the Grand (North Rim to Thunder River). And still we were startled to once again peer into this great gash in the Earth.

Hiking there last week was as grand and deep an experience for us as it was the first time decades ago. Perhaps more so. Our ability to notice and appreciate detail seems to be growing. (A sign of maturity?) But it’s also the canyon itself. The more scenic wonderlands we witness, the more we marvel at this one.

Kath believes ingesting the beauty of this mile-deep canyon by hiking it, she contracted the emotional equivalent of giardiasis. The bug lives on inside her, she says. The symptoms disappear, but not forever. Eventually they recur, nagging her until she comes back for treatment: another Grand Canyon sojourn.

What neither of us can comprehend are North American hikers—particularly those living in the West, within a couple days’ drive of northern Arizona—who assume the more distant a hiking destination is, the more compelling it must be. We know such people. They’ve trekked in Ladakh, summitted Kilimanjaro, but express no interest in the Grand Canyon. Overawed by the exotic, they ignore the nearby.

Despite the noise (see our previous post regarding scenic overflights), the backpack trip we completed last week in the Grand topped any we’ve ever done—anywhere. It was a mere three days, two nights, but every step was captivating. From Hermit’s Rest, we descended the Hermit trail to the Tonto trail. The first night we pitched our tent at Monument Creek. Next day, we followed the Tonto back across Hermit Creek and continued west to our second night’s camp at Boucher Creek (pronounced Boo-SHAY). Finally we ascended the Boucher trail up and out of the canyon, back to Hermit’s Rest. (See distance and elevation details below.)

Camping at Hermit Creek is vastly more popular than camping at Monument Creek. But we find Monument a more impressive setting: a broader drainage where the canyon’s soaring walls are visible.

Most people who carry backpacks down the Hermit trail also ascend the same way. But looping back via Boucher, as we did, makes the journey a little more adventurous and a lot more scenic.

The Tonto trail, which runs much of the canyon’s length, contours along the Tonto Plateau, just above where the Colorado River—architect of the Grand Canyon—surges through the sheer-walled, inner gorge. The most exciting section of the Tonto is between Hermit and Boucher creeks, where the trail hugs the edge of the precipice, grants frequent views of the river directly below, and affords constant vistas up and down the canyon.

It’s actually surprising the National Park Service (whose concern about visitor safety is, to put it mildly, extreme) keeps this airy section of the Tonto trail open to the public. We found it thrilling, but there’s little room for a misstep. As for the Boucher trail, the NPS describes it using the words “climb” and “exposure.” They exaggerate to dissuade the inept. Much of the trail is a steep, rough route requiring strength, endurance, and confidence born of experience. But there’s no climbing required and no exposure. A few sections qualify as scrambling, but they’re easy and short. We enjoyed the Boucher trail immensely. In comparison, the broad, dusty, Bright Angel trail, which accommodates tourist-laden mules, is dull.

Ascending the Boucher trail (much easier and more fun than descending it), the way forward is not always obvious, which makes it intriguing. The terrain changes rapidly and abruptly, from constricted gullies, to broad benches, to narrow ledges on nearly-vertical walls. Ultimately the trail provides a startling, aerial perspective of the Hermit Creek drainage and much of the trail we hiked on days one and two.

An adrenaline rush at a walker’s pace? Yes. Certainly in the Grand Canyon. Definitely on the Boucher trail. The misconception that “hiking is boring” is perpetuated by the lazy and incurious who’ve waddled into a soporific forest, seen nothing of note, and haven’t ventured beyond pavement since. Granted, some trails are boring. And some hikers are bored even amid stimulating scenery, so they either zone out or chat nonstop with companions. But the Boucher trail has the power to grab most hikers by their sternum straps, bringing their distracted minds to heel in the here and now.

Hikers who reside in Canada and the northern U.S. will appreciate that the optimal time to backpack in the Grand Canyon is late fall / early winter (November) and spring (March through mid-April), when the weather at home is no longer, or not yet, conducive to hiking. Last week, the nights were chilly (near freezing) on the 6900-ft (2104-m) canyon rim. But the daytime highs ranged between 70° and 80° F in the canyon at 3000 ft (915 m). It was even warmer, of course, on the canyon’s 2300-ft (701-m) floor, near the river. Perfect for hikers. By late spring (May), it’s too hot for most of us to comfortably backpack in the Grand Canyon.

A cautionary tale…  Two years ago, while we were backpacking off the Grand Canyon’s North Rim en route to Thunder River, I (Craig) stupidly ignored my own symptoms and succumbed to heat exhaustion. By doing so, I ruined our trip and risked my life. It was mid-May. The temperature was 100° F at 6 p.m. on the slickrock Esplanade within the canyon.

By 7 p.m. we’d completed about three-quarters of the 4800-ft (1463-m) descent. Suddenly, nausea and dizziness forced me to slow, stop, sit. Minutes before, I’d been hiking briskly. Now I was prostrate on the trail, vomiting. What motivated me to continue, and what saved my life, was that we were within 30 minutes of where the Thunder River originates, blasting out of the canyon wall.

I staggered and stumbled the final distance. Kath pitched our tent on a ledge beside the torrent. She doused me with frigid water late into the night. The vomiting continued till morning. I spent the next day alternately dozing in the shade and shivering beneath a small cascade, letting the icy water lower my core temperature. I ate nothing, because I couldn’t, but I sipped electrolyte-rich Emergen-C.

Though I was terribly weak, we knew I’d soon be too weak to hike out, so we packed and began slowly ascending at 7 p.m. We continued into the dark. We made it to the Esplanade at 10:30 p.m. By then I could nibble on a PowerBar.

That night, our second in the canyon, was gorgeous—clear and still—but difficult to appreciate. I seemed to be recovering but now Kath was feeling weak. She vomited. We were both unnerved knowing this was a medical emergency and our self rescue required another day’s effort we were unsure either of us could muster.

We packed and were hiking before our enemy, the sun, pounced on us again. The water we’d cached on the way down was now more vital than we’d imagined possible. What we didn’t drink we poured over our heads and down our backs. We ascended at a plodding pace unfamiliar to us. For me, it was “the march of repentance.”

Upon arriving at our car on the North Rim, we were exhausted, grateful, wiser. We’d written about heat exhaustion, warning others to avoid it, but now we fully understood how stealthy and overwhelming it can be. Kath—who never sleeps while I drive because she’s constantly studying maps and guidebooks—slept for most of the six-hour drive to my parents’ home in Scottsdale, Arizona. I continued feeling strangely, deeply fatigued for several days, which suggests I’d been dangerously close to heat stroke.

So this year, we hiked into the Grand Canyon much earlier: the end of March. It was ideal timing. True, the upper reaches of the South-Rim trails can still be snow-covered in March (requiring hikers to use traction devices on their boots for the initial descent), but the Hermit and Boucher trails gave us a snow-free welcome.

Spring hiking in the Grand Canyon is not only more comfortable and safer, it’s the optimal time to appreciate the desert’s botanical diversity, which far outstrips that of mountain environs. From a distance, a green hue washes across the Tonto Plateau. Leafy, blossoming trees give the drainages an oasis appearance. Flowers—purple, lavender, white, yellow, red—add bursts of vivid colour to the infinite canyon-rock palette of reds, browns, oranges, mauves, tans, mustards, maroons…

Many trails plunge below the Grand Canyon’s soaring-beyond-comprehension cliffs. We’ve hiked most of them: Bright Angel (from the North and South rims), South Kaibab, Hermit, Tonto West, Tonto East, Boucher, Grandview, and Tanner. We’ve also hiked into Havasupai Canyon—a tributary of the Grand, far to the west. All are marvelous, inducing a constant “how can this be?” state of mind. Yet some are even more engaging than others. Here are our recommendations:

Backpack Trips

(1) From Hermit’s Rest, at 6650 ft (2027 m) on the South Rim, descend the Hermit trail. Intersect the Tonto trail and follow it around to Monument Creek. Next day, retrace your steps on the Tonto, then continue past Hermit Creek and along the Tonto Plateau to Boucher Creek. On day three, hike the Boucher trail back up to Hermit’s Rest. Circuit: 26.7 mi (43 km). Descent and ascent: 4500 ft (1372 m).

(2) From Monument Point, at 7200 ft (2196 m) on the North Rim (west of Jacob’s Lake), descend to the Esplanade. Cross it, then continue down to Thunder River. Camp in Upper Tapeats Gorge, at 2400 ft (732 m). Return the same way. Round trip: 18.4-mi (29.6-km). Descent and ascent: 4800 ft (1464 m). From camp, it’s 2.2 mi (3.5 km) farther to the Colorado River at 1950 ft (595 m).

Dayhikes

(1) From Grandview Point, at 7399 ft (2256 m) on the South Rim, descend the Grandview trail to Horseshoe Mesa. Continue to the end of the mesa’s left (west) arm, at 4923 ft (1501 m). Return the same way. Round trip: 8.4 mi (13.5 km). Descent and ascent: 2476 ft (755 m).

(2) From the South Rim, at 7240 ft (2207 m), descend the South Kaibab trail to the Tonto trail. Go west, contouring to intersect the Bright Angel trail near Indian Gardens. Ascend the Bright Angel to the rim at 6860 ft (2091 m). Ride the Park shuttle bus between trailheads. One-way trip: 13.6 mi (22 km). Descent: 3440 ft (1049 m). Ascent: 3060 ft (933 m).

(3) From Hermit’s Rest, at 6650 ft (2027 m) on the South Rim, descend the Hermit trail. Turn west onto the Dripping Springs trail, then hike the Boucher trail generally north to 5429 ft (1655 m) on Yuma Point. Round trip: 8.2 mi (13.2 km). Descent and ascent: 1579 ft (481 m).

(4) From Hopi Point, at 6095 ft (1858 m) on the South Rim, hike the Rim trail generally west, past Mohave Point and The Abyss, to Monument Creek Vista. Ride the Park shuttle bus between trailheads. One-way trip: 2.8 mi (4.5 km). Elevation change: negligible.

Details
Visit the national park website (www.nps.gov/grca/planyourvisit/overnight-hiking.htm) to read more about the trails, view a map showing backcountry campsites and trail distances, and download a backcountry-permit request.

If you intend to camp on the canyon rim before or after your backpack trip, stay in Mather Point Campground. Generators are prohibited on the Pine Loop, so campsites there are quieter. Reserving a site is necessary in summer but not during spring or fall.

*Rafting the Colorado River is a thrilling adventure. Kath has done it three times, Craig once. We urge you to do it, too. Sure, it’s expensive. It’s also priceless. If you’re a hiker, choose a company offering a trip catering to hikers. It will afford numerous opportunities for two- to four-hour dayhikes into fascinating, tributary canyons that you’d never otherwise see.

Greetings from southeast Arizona—land of furtive, illegal immigrants, brazen drug smugglers, grotty taco shops, sad, sun-beaten towns, swarming U.S. Border Guards, stealthy free-campers, and sky-island mountain ranges where the winter hiking is superb.

Thanks for continuing to check our blog despite our inability to post on schedule. We’ll continue trying to blog weekly. Sometimes, however, like the past two weeks, we simply won’t show up. It’s likely we’re in the backcountry, gaining experience that, eventually, we’ll blog about so you can benefit from it.

For now, we’ll resume offering suggestions on winter camping and hiking in Arizona’s lower, right-hand corner.

Since leaving Catalina State Park, just north of Tucson, we’ve yet to find a campground where we could settle in for a week or more. As we described in our previous post, Catalina is close to numerous trailheads as well as a wealth of urban amenities. It lofted our expectations too high.

For nearly a week after departing Catalina State Park, we free-camped. In good conscience we cannot tell you precisely where. We don’t want to anger permanent residents and land-management officials by initiating a steady stream of free-campers to any one location. We mention this only to encourage you to sniff out your own free campsites.

If you’re patient, savvy and discrete, you can find places surprisingly close to Tucson where you can sleep—free of charge—in your van, trailer or camper, and where you can comfortably remain all day without anyone taking notice of you—as long as it appears you’re simply parking. In other words, don’t deploy your folding table and chairs, fling your frisbee, fire up the barbecue, and act like you’re entitled to camp there.

The free campsites we found were quiet and beautiful. At both, we worked for a couple consecutive days on our book projects—jamming away on our computers, which are powered by the solar panel atop our trailer. And at both sites we were surrounded by saguaro cacti and enjoyed an expansive desert view.

Since our last free camp, we’ve stayed at three campgrounds:

Benson
We winced when we arrived in Benson. Actually we left immediately, drove to nearby Kartchner Caverns State Park, balked at the $25-per-night fee, shivered due to the higher elevation, then winced again upon re-entering Benson thinking “We can stand this for a couple nights.”

Hundreds of northerners beach themselves and their behemoth RVs in this depressing town every winter. Benson is crowded with “RV resorts.” The one we chose was small, cheap, cheerful. Others are sprawling and—to our astonishment—nearly full.

Why all these seniors choose Benson, we have no idea. Perhaps because it’s as sunny as other Arizona towns yet less expensive? Or is it the recently renovated Safeway that stocks Villa Dolce Gelato and hormone-and-antibiotic-free bison meat?

We stayed in Benson only because it’s central to some of the trails on our must-hike list. Yet our fellow Bensonites were obviously not hikers. And Benson itself is utterly nondescript. It was originally settled because of its proximity to several mines. The town is still staggering (forward?) because it’s beside a major railway and highway, and because all those seniors now moor themselves and their land yachts there.

From what we’ve observed, most RVing seniors who decamp to Arizona for the winter are absolutely satisfied if they have (1) reliable TV reception to keep them sedated during the chilly nights, and (2) lots of other RVing seniors to yak with while lounging during the perpetually sunny, toasty days. You could yak your life away in Benson. Many people are doing precisely that.

Cochise Stronghold
Hunkered into the east side of the Dragoon Mountains, the Forest Service campground at Cochise Stronghold is perfect. It’s small, embraced by the topography, beneath a canopy of trees, far from the lights and sounds of civilization. We wanted to stay several nights. But there’s only one trail there, and we recommend only a 6-mi (9.7-km) round-trip hike. As a basecamp for hiking elsewhere in the region, Cochise Stronghold is awkwardly located. Ambitious hikers will probably camp only one or two nights there, then regretfully leave.

Bonita Canyon
Chiricahua National Monument is astounding, for its bizarre natural features and for how accommodating it is to visitors—motorists, yes, but hikers even more so—thanks to the masterful work of the Civilian Conservation Corps. The Bonita Canyon campground, built by the CCC, is similar to Cochise Stronghold campground but slightly larger and a bit more comfortable (heated toilet blocks with flush toilets, for example, instead of unheated pit toilets). Entering the forested Chiricahuas after driving across the barren desert seems a miracle. Avid hikers will, if they slow their pace, enjoy three days of hiking in the Chiricahuas, so we suggest camping three or four nights at Bonita Canyon. The atmosphere at Bonita is so soothing that even non-hikers agree it’s a camping haven. As a base for hiking elsewhere in the region, however, Bonita Canyon is much like Cochise Stronghold: inconvenient.

Where Not to Hike
Being opinionated hikers, we occasionally warn our fellow hikers away from certain trails. Here in southeast Arizona, however, the U.S. Border Patrol has warned us away from certain trails, including some we’d been keen to hike. The reason? Though illegal immigration declined along with the U.S. economy, the percentage of illegals smuggling drugs has increased. Drug runners are desperate, therefore dangerous. Many are armed. Meeting an armed, Mexican, drug runner in backcountry Arizona is, to our minds, a more threatening prospect than crossing paths with a grizzly bear in the Canadian Rockies.

While returning to Benson from one of our hikes, we stopped at the Chipotle Mexican Grill in Sierra Vista. Several border guards were eating there. When they left, I followed them out and asked if they’d mind a few questions about hiking trails. They were glad to help but began by querying me.

“Do you carry a gun when you hike?” one of them asked. “No,” I said. “You probably should,” he responded. Our conversation was off to an alarming start.

Here are the trails they said we should avoid—even on a dayhike—because they’re frequented by Mexicans illegally entering the U.S. on foot:

Sycamore Canyon
The canyon actually crosses the border, not far from Nogales, which makes it a virtual highway for illegal immigration.

Atascosa Lookout
“One of our agents was shot and killed there,” one of the border guards said.

Joes Canyon
Another natural funnel for Mexicans seeking illegal entry to the U.S.

Chiricahua Peak
Judging by the map, it’s an invitingly gradual hike along a mountain crest. According to the Border Patrol, it’s equally inviting to illegal immigrants.

Miller Peak Wilderness Area
The border guards told us not to backpack there. They thought dayhiking was reasonably safe but said we should be out and gone by evening.

“I’ve been in those mountains at night,” said one of the guards, “and you can hear illegals all around you. The forest just comes alive after dark. They hole up during the day and move on after sunset.”

I wanted to ask why they thought we could safely dayhike there, but I’d already detained them too long. Besides, the Miller Peak area is where Kath and I had hiked all day prior to meeting the border guards that evening.

No doubt there are several other hiking trails in southern Arizona that are unsafe. Ask before you hike. Our experience is that the Border Patrol is the only source of accurate information. We visited a Forest Service office where we were told, “Oh, you should be fine hiking in Joes Canyon. I haven’t heard of any problems down there.” Then we met the border guards who adamantly said “Stay away.”

Southern Arizona is swarming with border guards, so you’ll likely encounter one in circumstances where you can ask for information.

Where to Hike
In addition to the southern Arizona trails we previously blogged about, here are several more we enthusiastically recommend. The Border Patrol told us we could hike them without concern, and our experience corroborates that.

Wasson Peak
West Unit of Saguaro National Park
8-mi (12.9-km) round trip
1837-ft (560-m) ascent
A mildly engaging approach to a summit that affords a startling view of Tucson, the Santa Catalina Mountains, Picacho Peak, Avra Valley, the Central Arizona Project Canal, the Tucson Mountains, Kitt Peak, Mt. Wrightson, and much more.

Tanque Verde Ridge
East Unit of Saguaro National Park
14-mi (22.5-km) round trip
2900-ft (884-m) ascent
Though the trail climbs over Tanque Verde Peak and continues into the Saguaro Wilderness, we suggest turning around shortly before Juniper Basin, which is at 7 mi (11.3 km). You’ll follow an airy ridgecrest the entire way. Views are constant—of sprawling Tucson and sprawling Mt. Lemmon.

Cochise Trail
Cochise Stronghold, Dragoon Mountains
6-mi (9.7-km) round trip
1100-ft (914-m) ascent
Enter a hidden world of salmon-tinted granite stones leaning in to one another: huddling, whispering, consulting, strategizing. This is the stronghold from which Cochise and his warriors battled the invading U.S. Army for a dozen years.

Ramsey Canyon / Huachuca Crest
Huachuca Mountains, Miller Peak Wilderness,
14-mi (22.5-km) circuit
3000-ft (914-m) ascent
Exotic birds, thus birders as well, annually flock to Ramsey Canyon. But few birders wander far up-canyon beyond the visitor center. On this ambitious circuit you’ll go all the way to and along the crest of the Huachucas, where the westward view is vast.

Chiricahua National Monument
Chiricahua Mountains, Chiricahua Wilderness
round trips, one-way hikes and circuits of varying lengths
elevations ranging from 6870 ft (2094 m) at Massai Point to 5400-ft (1646-m) at the Visitor Center
Truth is stranger than fiction. And the stone-hard reality of the Chiricahuas is stranger yet. Here you’ll see naturally-created statuary in an infinite variety of complex shapes. Equally fantastic is the trail network leading you into and among the rocks. The Civilian Conservation Corps built it in 1934. It still serves today. The engineering is brilliant. The craftsmanship superb. We marveled as much at the trail work as we did at the natural formations.

Rincon Peak
Rincon Mountains, East Unit of Saguaro National Park
16.4-mi (26.4-km) round trip
4242-ft (1293-m) ascent
The trail climbs through a chaos of gorgeous, granite boulders: cream and rose. It pierces a forest of God-like ponderosa pines, alligator junipers, and Douglas firs. Then it gradually ascends a mountain so high (8482 ft / 2585 m) and isolated (rising abruptly from the desert) it grants a commanding view of every major mountain range in southeast Arizona. The night after we summited, I dreamt—for the first time in my life—of piloting an airplane.

Does this describe you?

(1) You hike frequently, so you spend a lot of time driving to trailheads, many of which are remote, some of which are accessible only via unpaved roads. You ask more of your vehicle than do most people. You either own a vehicle with high clearance and perhaps 4WD, or you often wish you did.

(2) You backpack as well as dayhike, so you’re not just a hiker, you’re a camper. You enjoy frontcountry camping (between home and trailhead) as well as backcountry camping. If you don’t own an RV, you often wish you did.

If our assumptions about you are correct, you’re much like us, so perhaps the research we’ve recently done on tow vehicles (TVs) and travel trailers (TTs) will interest you. First, however, we’ll explain our background so you’ll understand our subjective commentary.

For most of our lives, Kath and I have owned smallish, gas-sipping vehicles. And we’ve done the vast majority of our camping in tents—not just while backpacking, but while travelling for months throughout western North America and Europe.

We briefly owned a Volkswagen Eurovan Westfalia camper but found it desperately underpowered and woefully under-equipped for long camping journeys. Then, for a few years, we owned a 4WD Dodge Ram V10 truck saddled with a Bigfoot camper. We loved having our mobile basecamp waiting for us at the trailhead after a long hike. Ahhh, we could relax. We were out of the cold, the wind, the bugs. We could cook a proper meal. We could take a hot shower while still far from civilization. And we could sleep in a real bed, off the ground, in a secure shelter heated by a furnace. That was bliss, especially at the end of a backpack trip, and particularly during long stints of guidebook fieldwork. Having a basecamp at every trailhead actually enabled us to hike more often, explore farther, and do so with greater energy and enthusiasm.

But the Ram was a thirsty beast. A nearly constant 11 mpg became financially stressful and ethically uncomfortable. Plus a truck/camper combination is not sufficiently nimble to travel the roughest roads accessing the most distant trailheads. So we temporarily scaled back to a Toyota Rav4 and resumed tent camping.

Our V6 Rav has better-than average ground clearance, 4WD capability up to 40 kph, and gets acceptable gas mileage. It also has an astonishing towing capacity for its modest size: 3,500 lbs. So our intention was to eventually buy an ultralight TT—perhaps a T@b teardrop trailer, or something similar—to pull behind the Rav.

An ultralight TT, we figured, would be the ideal, mobile basecamp: economical, arguably eco-conscious, yet vastly more comfortable than our tent. When necessary, we could leave the TT at a campground, then—unencumbered—drive challenging roads to remote trailheads.

After four years of driving the Rav and camping in our tent, we need a change. Because the Rav isn’t a serious off-pavement machine, we knew we’d have to hoof it the final (and sometimes considerable) distance up some 4WD roads to far-flung trailheads. But we’ve done that too often. Our work demands that we spend our precious daylight hours hiking the trails, not the access roads. Plus, after seriously studying TTs, we’ve begun to reconsider the Rav as a TV. Yes, there are many, small, ultralight TTs the Rav can pull, but finding one that not only has the features we deem essential but also appeals to us personally has proven difficult.

Most ultralight TTs have a cheap appearance because they’re almost universally made of white fiberglass, which undeniably looks like plastic and ages equally fast. And many ultralight TTs feel cheap because they in fact are cheap. Little or no insulation, water tanks that are neither heated nor insulated, thin mattresses, no front windows, press-board cabinetry, etc.

RV manufacturers have the same modus operandi as home developers: Use flimsy materials, poor-quality furnishings, and zero imagination to extrude a soul-deadening supply of white, seemingly plastic boxes that—yawn—all look alike. No wonder most RVs rapidly lose substantial value.

We don’t believe cheap materials are necessary to achieve light weight. Nor can we comprehend why the interiors of these ultralight TTs are almost universally bad imitations of 1970s home decor. Why can’t an RV simply be an RV? Why must it try to look like a dated, tasteless, ranch-style home, and fail to achieve even that absurdly misguided goal?

For that matter, why do most RV manufacturers persist with all those childish, gaudy, exterior graphics? And what’s with all the ridiculous names? Cutesy misspellings (Komfort, Fuzion, Kountry Aire, N’Tense, Phenix, Starflyte), pompous monikers (Presidential, Rolling Thunder, Destiny, Tsunami), and outright threats (Avenger, Prowler, Conquest, Outlaw) seem to be the industry norm.

A company calling itself Entegra Coach managed to misspell an RV name that attempts to be both pompous and threatening: the Entimidator. Riiight. I really want to tug around a giant RV, essentially a mobile billboard, announcing in bold, colourful letters that I have an inferiority complex and am laughably illiterate.

T@b

T@b (www.tab-rv.com) is a gulp of fresh air, and not just because of its original, intriguingly inscrutable name. Their ultralight TTs have a refreshing, retro appearance, and their interiors are decidedly contemporary, seemingly Scandanavian. (If Ikea designed a TT, it would look like and feel this). They’re also very light. Though construction quality seems adequate, they clearly aren’t designed to go off-pavement. (Check out the minimal clearance between the tires and wheel wells). They also have only a tiny fridge and no shower, so the T@b is not a trailer that will serve us for extended backroads sojourns. We applaud the T@b for dispensing with an onboard toilet. (You don’t need a toilet when you’re in the woods, and frontcountry campgrounds have toilets.) But the T@b is expensive for what you get. A larger, more fully-outfitted version called the T@da was briefly available, but the manufacturer (Thor Industries) has discontinued the T@b and the T@da.

Rpod

The Rpod (www.forestriverinc.com) seems to be the T@b’s successor. Its growing popularity is impressive. It’s certainly a more complete home than the T@b. The Rpod has a big fridge, huge holding tanks, a powerful furnace, a wet bath (combination shower and toilet)—everything one expects in an RV except insulated, heated tanks. Yet the Rpod is still light, with a GVWR (gross vehicle weight rating) just barely within our Rav’s towing capability. You can buy a new Rpod 171 (our favourite model) in Calgary for about $17,000. But we won’t. The Rpod just looks and feels too cheap. Yes, it has a shower, but the stall is hunch-your-shoulders narrow. Lacking a front window, the Rpod feels like a panic room. And the damn thing looks like a child’s birthday-party favour. Stepping out of it, I felt I should have red hair and a bulbous nose that honks when I squeeze it. We’ve nicknamed the Rpod the  “the beachball.”

Camplite

Another ultralight TT we’ve considered is the Camplite (www.livinlite.com), which we’ve nicknamed “the tin can” because it’s the opposite of the Rpod. The Camplite is contructed almost entirely of aluminum. It’s strong yet light. And there’s nothing cheap about it, though it remains reasonably priced for what you get. Outwardly it has a distinctive, boxy, utilitarian appearance. But the interior has an extremely cold, industrial atmosphere. It looks and feels like the rear section of a passenger jet, where the stewards load their beverage carts, and the pre-cooked meals are stored in hatches: not a place you really want to hang out. Sadly, the shower in the Camplite is as small as the one in the Rpod. And the Camplite has a fridge and heater that run only on electricity, not on propane, which severely limits how long you can “boondock,” “drycamp” or, as we call it, “free camp” in the backcountry. (With your lights, fridge and furnace all draining a single, deep-cycle battery, that battery will be flat dead too soon.) Insulated / heated tanks? Nope. The Camplite is clearly intended for use in temperate climes at commercial, frontcountry campgrounds bristling with electrical sockets. That’s just not us.

Northern Lite

Yet another TT we briefly considered is the ultralight 16-footer made by Northern Lite (www.northern-lite.com). Northern Lite makes superb truck campers. But in our opinion, they blew it when they designed their trailer without a wet bath. They offer an outside shower as an option. But taking a shower outside is not an option for most of us most of the time. You could perhaps understand an RV manufacturer in Florida making that mistake. But Northern Lite is a Canadian company. They should know that an outside shower on a crisp, fall evening in the Canadian Rockies would not be a pleasure; it would be torture. Other manufacturers fit showers into tiny TTs. Attention Northern Lite: a shower please?

Escape

Escape Trailer Industries (www.escapetrailer.com) is another Canadian company that builds ultralight 15-, 17-, and 19-ft TTs. Even the 15-footer has an optional shower. They’re a small company with a strong reputation for personal service. When you order your Escape, you can choose from a list of options, so you essentially purchase a custom TT. But the Escape isn’t the answer for us. Escape TTs have no insulation to speak of, and the holding tanks are neither insulated nor heated. Delivery can take months from the time you order. And we think the Escape is way too expensive for what you get. A neighbour who’s happy with his Escape summed up our objection to it when he described it as “a summer trailer only.” In the Canadian Rockies, summer is pitifully brief.

Casita

The Casita (www.casitatraveltrailers.com) is a molded, fiberglass TT similar to the Escape. We’ve spoken with many Casita owners who are very content. But we rejected the Casita for largely the same reasons we did the Escape: little or no insulation, holding tanks that are neither insulated nor heated, and a price that seems to exceed the value. The Casita also has a slightly less homey atmosphere than the Escape. There’s so much exposed fiberglass (rather than wood) in the Casita interior that it feels like a small, spartan sailboat. And, while not a deciding factor, we find the Casita company’s relentless, flag-waving nationalism obnoxious.

After seriously considering and eventually rejecting the T@b, Rpod, Camplite, Northern Lite, Escape, and Casita, we’ve turned our attention to the TT we’ve always found most appealing: the Airstream.

TO BE CONTINUED