Geezer on the Trail, or How to Hike the Arizona Trail in 13 Short years

By Doug Ball

There once was a Sailor who carried his oar inland until someone asked him, "What is that?" After 20 years at sea, he was home. That would be me. The scent of the trail soon replaced the scent of the sea and due to his adventurous #2 son, the sailor became the hiker and just had to go all the way, 800 miles from Mexico to Utah. Join me on this journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doug Ball
• Release date: Jul 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781370147199

Doug Ball

Born in California and raised in Arizona. Grew to love the west at a young age while growing up in a blue collar home. Never knew we were kinda poor until I was 21 and making more money than my dad. Dad and mom were still raising three of my siblings. It was a shocker. I joined the navy after high school to get out of school and promptly went to over 2 years of technical schools. Rode submarines for 20 years and retired. Went back to school and earned a D. Min. while I pastored a couple of small town churches full of great people. My big dream in life was to be a cowboy and own a ranch. Santa never brought me a horse. At 37 I bought a horse and a ranch and lived my dream. I started writing at 39 and sold a few pieces to Mother Earth News, Countryside, and Arizona Magazine, along with many others. Wrote my first book and quit mailing out that western after 47 rejections. Nobody ever read it. That western is BLOOD ON THE ZUNI which has all five star reviews to date. Got the itch and kept writing. I recommend GENTLE REBELLION. It is the story of the life I wished I could live for years. I wrote it in my head on many a mid-watch at sea. PS. Sea horses are no fun to ride.

Book preview

GEEZER ON THE TRAIL

Or

HOW TO HIKE THE ARIZONA TRAIL

IN 13 SHORT YEARS

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1

A TEAZER FROM THE GEEZER

or

Some men are more excitable than others.

After the first short climb from the campsite, it was all downhill. We saw bear sign, elk scat, deer droppings, and no sign of any humans. White Rock Mesa gave us a beautiful walk, except for having to find the cairns, piles of rock indicating where the trail was.

Come lunch time we were pretty danged near whupped. Nothing but downhill had worn us out. We stopped for lunch.

I watched Gunless and Mr. Ed step into the trees to relieve themselves as Sixty-six said, Nice tree limb over here to sit on. Dibbsies, he laughed as he sat down.

I turned my back to walk to a soft rock that looked a great place to park me and my pack.

Just as I sat down, Sixty-six let out a bellow that woke the dead for miles around. A BEAR.

I looked.

He was pointing at a black streak heading off to the east of the trail so fast all I caught was a black blur.

Gunless took off after it yelling, Where? Where?

I pulled my Glock .40. Mr. Ed had his .45 out. Sixty-six was taking aim with his .357 wheel gun. Nobody fired a shot. Which was a good thing. We weren’t about to shoot anything that wasn’t coming at us and Gunless was down that hill with the bear. His wife would kill us if he got killed by us or the bear. Not that she needs him, it’s just that she’s gotten kinda used to him around the house.

Gunless came huffing and puffing up the hillside after about five minutes. I didn’t even get a look at it. I saw his tracks, but that was all.

He looked around at us standing with guns in hand. You weren’t gonna shoot that bear were you?

Nope. Mr. Ed put his .45 away. You were in the way, anyhow. Were you gonna shoot it for a rug or something?

No. I don’t have a gun with me.

Right about now you might be thinking Gunless isn’t too bright. He is a very bright man, he just likes to see critters in the bush.

We all looked around as Sixty-six said, Three of us with guns. One without. And, the one without goes after a full grown black bear. I’m shaking like a leaf in yesterday’s thunderstorm. I sat down on that log and that critter busted out of this pile of dead tree not three feet away. I think I may have to change my britches, but I ain’t got a change with me.

A good laugh was had by all, except Sixty-six. He shivered and shook for a good ten minutes while the rest of us ate lunch.

This is just one of the exciting, and maybe a little scary, episodes of this old man and his obsession with hiking. Come along and join the fun. Wanna go hiking?

Note on trail names – Gunless earned his trail name during this incident. Trail names are used or not used on many trails, particularly the National Scenic Trails like the Arizona National Scenic Trail. The practice is twofold in my opinion. The first is that quite a few hikers, hike to get away from society, problems, the rut, etc. or they are just out to have fun and really don’t care what they are called. The second is that there are a lot of Bobs and Angels in this world, but there is only one Gunless or Sixty-six or even Geezer. I believe the idea began on the Appalachian Trail where somebody did something funny, embarrassing, or just anything that singled them out from the crowd. Like Barndoor (left his zipper open), Hot Butt (sat on the hot tip of a wiener stick), or Miles (does a lot of miles in a day), or Pokey (you figure that one out). Most are usable in polite company and many are not.

My trail name is Preacher or Geezer, depending on the moment.

Some people tag themselves, Preacher, and others have their name given to them, Geezer.

2

For the love of sons

It all began with a phone call.

What’s up, Pa?

It was my son from college.

Not much. Same old same old. You know.

How about we go on a hike when I get home. Just a couple of days. You, me, and Sean.

Sounds good. What do I do for gear? You got enough?

You’re rich, get some.

Got nothin’ for Sean either.

Get him some. WalMart carries some decent stuff at a good price.

Okay. Where and how long?

You figure it out. Gotta run. Love ya.

He was gone.

So, a week later I am off to the surplus store in town. Come home with two mini-rucks army issue, a compass, and two ponchos.

I already had a sleeping bag but needed one for Sean. Off to Walmart. The weather report was warm and balmy. I must have been balmy to go for all this. Three $29.00, on sale, dome tents, a cook stove, small, folding, with 16 ounce canister of gas. Got to looking at food in the grocery department. Canned food was so heavy, and eggs break easily, bread crushes, bagels might work. Warm weather ruled out meats and other perishables.

I called my son.

MRE’s he said.

What is an MRE?

Meals Rejected by Ethiopians.

Put that in old man language.

Meals Ready to Eat, military rats.

Where do I get those?

Try a place called Cheaper than Dirt. You know, they’re like the old C rats but better, and you can eat them without a P 38.

Gotcha. I hung up and went searching the internet on the dial up Yahoo in my office. Found nothing.

As I rode my bike to lunch, there was a sign outside the post office with a bold banner of ‘MRE’S FOR SALE. $36 A CASE OF 12. MIXED MENU. REASONABLY NEW’ and a phone number.

I mentioned MRE’s during lunch at Speedy B’s and two people told me how raunchy they were and one man, a recently discharged Vet, told me they were great. Well, all of them except the Pasta Primavera. We’ll talk more about the Pasta Primavera later, wait for it.

I thanked them all, pulled out my brick cell phone, and called the number from the sign.

An hour later I was the proud owner of two cases of MRE’s.

A week later, two of my sons and I, went walking.

Two hours by car to Grants. One hour to find the El Malpais office to get a backcountry permit. It was temporarily located in an old gas station with only a 8.5 by 11 piece of paper in the window saying EL MALPAIS OFFICE to mark it. If we hadn’t seen a ranger in uniform come out of the door, we would have never found it. Another hour to the Trailhead after missing the turn off twice. Off we went. Mini Rucks on our backs (Doug had one from ROTC), three two-liter soda bottles of water for each, there was supposedly no water sources in the Big Hole in the Wall trail. We hiked at least twenty miles before a break. Son Doug was calling the shots.

My back was rubbed raw. My neck was cramping like crazy. I wasn’t a bit hungry. The boys ate snacks heartily and laughed about how level the trail was and speculated where this trail-on-a-road was going. Doug broke out the topo map.

Couple miles ahead we will find some buildings.

Sean asked, How far we gone?

Oh, about four miles.

I laid in the pine needles groaning. It has to be much further than that.

Nah, Pa, I’ll check it again. He looked down, used his finger for a measuring stick, Nope. Four miles, and a couple to go to the buildings.

I moaned some more. My neck is killing me. These new boots hurt. My knees are groaning louder than me. How about we camp here and go the rest of the way in the morning?

Pa, you’re wimping out on us, said the ROTC soldier boy that had been working out since middle school.

Yep, that’d be me.

Sean said, Let’s go, Doug. We can pick him up on the way back day after tomorrow. He slung his pack on his back and started walking.

Doug closed his pack and took out after him.

I laid in the dirt whimpering.

I got up. Told myself for the umpteenth time that I was a sailor not a grunt. I rode submarines not my feet.

A couple minutes later I realized I was in the path some ants were using and they were biting me to declare their ownership of this ant highway. I did a funny dance, killed a bunch of ants, put on my pack, and took off at high speed to catch the boys who were out-walking my highest speed.

In that couple of miles we came to an abandoned ranch. Old adobe house in fair condition. We sat on the porch in the shade and had lunch. I ate Corned Beef Hash from an MRE pouch. It was good. Better than any of the C Rats I’d ever had. There was a tootsie roll in the MRE bag so I ate that, too. A cookie got unwrapped and I ate it also.

Across a bald spot in the grass that was obviously used to turn vehicles around in, was a windmill. The breeze was gentle but powerful enough to turn the fan. A stream of water an inch and a half around came from the pipe into a round water tank. The tank overflowed into a man-made dirt pond. Just beyond the pond was a barn with saddles and other rigging hanging from the rafters to keep the rats and mice off the leather. A couple old bales of hay were stacked at the back. Cans of oil and liniment, branding irons, and other ranch paraphernalia decorated the walls and shelf. There was no door. A small corral was attached at the furthest side from the house.

We speculated about the ranch and cows. I had read a book on the area and I told the boys, During the depression, outlaws lived in here and two or three ranches had operated in this area since the late 1800’s.

I was just dozing off when they loaded up and called for me to get moving.

You driving me like a lost cow or something.

Come on. Couple more miles and we’ll stop for the night.

That kid was getting downright bossy.

After a total of 9 miles according to the topo, we set up camp. No one wanted to use the tents, so we cowboyed for the night. The conversation around the campfire went from college life to where we were going in the morning. I was for dumping the gear and walking out away and come back here for the night again.

Wimp. My loving sons said as they suited up for the day’s walk.

The map showed a couple of old tracks in the Big Hole in the Wall, but the one key one we wanted didn’t show up on the ground. Out came the compass and we headed north and then bent to the east.

The map showed a nice place across the lava flow. Only a couple hundred yards of hard lava. Have you ever walked over reasonably young lava, like 6 or 8 hundred years old? It’s sharp and will cut you without warning. Each of us gained a couple of scars from that journey across the lava.

We saw holes left after lava hit a pine tree. Straight up and down from 6 inches to 20 inches diameter and one we bobbed with rope was almost 20 feet deep. A flashlight showed a recent addition to one of the holes, a critter still in one piece at the bottom. Another hole had a stack of bones at the bottom. That 20 inch one would have been very difficult to get out of should one fall in.

I swore right there and then, no night walking on the lava.

We found a falling down square of poles and barbed wire where a corral had been, behind it was a hitching rail. Someone had brought cows or horses into this area, an area of no water except that windmill at the ranch and that was a good four miles away if you didn’t want to hurt your horses.

We hiked around and up and over and under the flow until we got to the old ranch house. The mice didn’t invite us in so we camped about a hundred yards from it and the well.

It was a beautiful day that made the whole trip worthwhile. Yeah, being with my boys was great and the food was okay. The blue foam beds were a bit hard, but the sky was filled with puffballs of clouds in all kinds of shapes. We laid on our backs and pointed out the battleships, and footballs, the horse’s head and the proverbial teddy bear.

Sean wasn’t too enthused. I found out later that he was trying to give Doug my whole attention. We adopted Sean, He never could understand he is our child as much as our bio-kids. Doug straightened him out that Christmas by telling him, You are my brother. I am your brother. We are family. Yeah, there’s times I think Pa puts more time into you than he does me, but then I watch and he does a danged good job of loving us all.

We have six kids. One is mine. Two are our biological kids. Three are adopted. WE ARE FAMILY.

The next morning, we loaded a 2 liter bottle each and headed for home. Got to the Trailhead and loaded up. Drove a different road back to the highway to home.

As we were unpacking the truck, I realized I had left my walking stick at the Trailhead.

Miles travelled (afoot) – 25 + or –

Lessons learned – Clouds are fun. MRE’s are different but good. A walking stick helps. Teens can outwalk an old geezer.

Interlude #1

Now that walking stick has a special place in my heart. It was beaver built. Okay, I’ll tell ya the whole story.

The Church we were attending was without a pastor. He left the spring after we started going there. I had filled in a couple of times at this church. I had also preached in a small church just off of I-40 at the edge of the Navajo Reservation.

I was asked to fill in. Me, the sailor, with little or no formal Bible training, although I was taking a course from Moody Bible Institute, a general overview of the whole Bible.

At the time, I had a job. I was teaching 8th graders English and Literature.

I agreed to fill in. Note the words, fill in.

After a couple of months, school was out, and everybody went on vacation. Not enough people left in the church for a vote on somebody, so I asked for a leave of absence from the school, so I could do the job right as long as it took to get a new pastor. I figured it would be well into the fall before that happened.

Come October, the church asked me one Wednesday evening, if I would be their pastor. I responded with, I’ll let you know Sunday and headed for the mountains in my folk’s motor home. My intent was to read my Bible and pray in the peace and quiet of the Arizona high country. I parked on the edge of a beaver pond on the banks of the Black River at West Fork (a beautiful place that has gotten burned up twice since then).

Sitting in a folding chair at the edge of the pond with my Bible in hand and kinda chatting with God about my role in His church, two beaver came out of their home and swam around a bit before climbing out on the far bank. I watched as they chewed through the base of a sprouting tree and then proceeded to strip the bark, chewing away like crazy.

Absent minded as I am, I lifted my cup of coffee and spooked them. They hit the water with the splats of two tails and disappeared only to return in a few minutes and finish their work on the tree. When they finished stripping the bark off the trunk, they chewed it off about five feet from the bottom end, took the top part to the dam, and stuck it in place.