A rare spot, this
bend in the North Ponil Creek. The canyon widens into a meadow of
sorts, gentle ponderosa slopes lining to the east and west, views of
Little Costilla Peak upstream, Black and Bear Mountains downstream.
There's a little cemetery and some ruins of old wooden structures at
the mouth of a small side canyon. The gravestones bear 19th century
dates – there was once a railroad here. Now, a carpet of golden pea
and aspen fleabane. A rare return, indeed.
The North Ponil is
flowing – over a foot wide and nearly as deep in spots. It's cause
for modest celebration amidst the drought-stricken years which have
descended upon the state, where the follies of our race which
transpired in offices and oil wells elsewhere now cripple even our
most Edenic sanctuaries. But late snowfall and a bout of strong
spring rains have provided a temporary reprieve from choking dust and
gloomy thoughts. Not enough to forget the problem, but enough to
savor this return to health, knowing we may not see another spring
of its kind.
The elk have been
out these last two days. At the Beatty Lakes they were searching for
moisture in the low golden shafts of evening light, cavorting like
camels on a gilded savanna. Again last night, a handful came down to
the creek to drink. They didn't linger in this less-exposed area
where a mountain lion (or in bygone years, a wolf) could race from
tree cover and be tearing flesh from bone in three bounds, completing
the ancient rite which left another member of their ungulate society
nothing but sun-bleached skull, vertebrae, ribcage, and hipbones a
little ways up Seally Canyon.
This morning came
the other side – rebirth – as seven elk (three calves)
crossed the creek, drank, then turned Seally's way, the last of the cows waiting as the final calf struggled up the steep little gully from
the stream.
This peace –
this relatively untrammeled continuation of things ancient and
integral – makes me leap and shudder all at once. I am here with
the purpose of training three young adults who will then train seven
more apiece to lead scouts through these tranquil places. Just north of Philmont and visited by a handful of its itineraries, the Valle
Vidal Unit of Carson National Forest has long held easy magic – so accessible yet so quiet and
healthy next to the busy thoroughfares of Philmont's own property. These common elk sightings would be rare indeed in the
heavier-trafficked canyons of the Ranch.
 |
| The Valle Vidal from Little Costilla Peak. |
But Philmont has
plans for the Valle. The NFS wants us to expand
our use of the area (it must be hurting for tourist money like everything else in the state). There's talk of a rock climbing camp just below
Clayton Corral, smack on the edge of the verdant sprawling valley
which gives the area its name, and barely a mile from the slopes of
Little Costilla Peak which remain closed through June for elk
calving. Would not the sights and sounds of dozens of scouts strapping on
harnesses and bellowing juvenile war-cries from the top of a little
ascent disturb these protected grounds?
Presently, we are
making it work up here. But that could change, even this summer, with
a few more itineraries slated to explore some new parts of the unit. If
we do our jobs well, these crews will pass through as we have the
last few days – quietly, respectfully, quickly. I'd like to believe
that we can accomplish that, that we can expand at a rate which does
not disrupt harmony. But I am not overly optimistic: all we have for
an example, after all, is our deer-stuffed, road-covered tinderbox to
the south.
Just a handful of
miles down this canyon is Metcalf Station, our new railroad-themed
living history camp. The staff there invigorate scouts with talk of making history, of being the first to lay track in this canyon in a hundred years, track that their sons and daughters will see when they come to Philmont decades from now. Is that the proud legacy we're seeking? How far upstream will the sounds of hammering
ties and pounding spikes reach?
No, if we want to give
these scouts a real interpretive experience, let them listen to the
chilling whines of the coyotes at night and rise to the sound of
birdsong. Let them fall in love with the wild lands of our past, not
with the ways we tamed them. Fifty years since the signing of the
Wilderness Act and we have yet to raise the generation of true
stewards we so desperately need.
There is such
potential for good in a summer here, and such cause for concern
alongside. It's the paradox of this business, this leading people
into wilderness. We want it to stay here and stay quiet for aeons eternal, but
the more folks we show it to, the less likely that becomes. The
solution must start from the bottom, with a wholesale shift in our
conception of our place in the world. And nothing inspires
that shift like extended time in the wild.
These are
dangerous circles to run. If anyone asks, I'm taking the hermit
route. The Valle is a mosquito-ridden wasteland, to be avoided at all
cost.
