In the clear February air, I could see the road half way across the wide Tucson Valley. Back in 1977, the air didn't suffer from the dust and auto pollution it does today, so visibility was outstanding. I finally decided that I would find and attack the road to the east. I called two friends to join me on this expedition. Having just finished by Bachelors degree, I had several weeks until I had to report to my job in San Diego, so what better time to explore the country side? My two friends, Andy Extract (fraternity brother from the School of Mines, now living in Tucson), and Sam Cotter a U of A schoolmate, showed up at my apartment about noon. The plan was to find the road, drink a few beers, and do a little shooting. We packed the beer, bullets and the .22s and took on a tank of gas.

We headed east and took the Snyder road exit off the Mt. Lemon highway. It took several tries and an hour before we had located the correct trail head. I consulted my road map and learned that the trail seemed to head to a place called Agua Caliente Hill. Agua Caliente Hill is about 5,000 feet in elevation and lies between the Rincon Mountains to the south and the Santa Catalina Mountains to the north. This area, generically called Reddington Pass harbors deep canyons with near vertical walls. The road to the little town of Reddington is still dirt today and provides the fastest route from Reddington to Tucson. Most of the canyons in this area are only marginally negotiable and then only with ropes and technical climbing tools. Being the fool that I was, I did not have with me a topographic map, only a larger scale road map that identified only the largest of features.

As we started up the trail, I felt the adrenaline rush coming on. But, unlike other trips, I felt uneasy. I kept the speed well under control because the trail was rough. Very rough. In fact, it was the toughest trail I had been on to this point. Still, we had many hours of light left, so we pressed on higher and higher up the face of Agua Caliente Hill. The view out the rear view mirror was commanding. As the beer took its toll, we stopped to admire both a nearby bush and the view. The warmth of the February sun was a good contrast to the chill of the wind. Though the breeze was not strong, the temperature was chilly at 3500 feet in the desert mountains.

As we progressed up the trail it got steeper and steeper. Some rancher with a bulldozer had added berms in the trail to prevent erosion of what little trail was left. Ahead, right in the center of the trail was a large outcropping of rock. On either side of the trail, heavy stands of "Spanish Dagger" a type of tough, and sharp, cactus. Clearly, I couldn't skirt the rock. I had to take it straight on. Ever so slowly, in compound low, I inched forward. The head of the outcropping passed the front differential with no noise, so we pressed on. Then, the sickening sound of granite on steel. We came to an abrupt stop. Thinking, incorrectly, that a little forward momentum might solve the problem, I eased on the gas. I was treated to the sound of spinning tires and flying rocks. We didn't move an inch. The truck was clearly high centered on the outcropping. Moreover, since I had goosed the engine causing the tires to spin, the truck was now balanced on the outcropping, the tires having dug a hole.

I killed the engine, got out and examined the situation. Andy and Sam were unfazed and drank another beer. I however, was starting to grasp the gravity of our current situation. I had minimal tools. The time was now about 3 PM, the sun was sinking low into the desert horizon and the chill in the air was more noticeable. I had only brought minimal tools: an army shovel and some jumper cables. And we were clearly stuck - real stuck.

After discussions with my truck mates, we decided that we would jack up the rear axle, fill the holes under the rear tiers with rocks and see if we could get enough clearance to go over the outcropping. 20 minutes later, dirty, sweating and generally pissed, we were ready to try. Lots of noise, lots of dust, but no motion. We repeated the exercise with bigger rocks with the same results. Then I got the idea that we were attacking the wrong end of the truck. The jack and rocks should be on the uphill side and that would place the downhill wheels solidly on the ground allowing us to back off the outcropping. This maneuver worked, but backing down that very, very steep trail was a heart stopper. Visibility out the back window of the Blazer was limited, and the penalty for deviating from the trail was a flat tire from the Spanish Dagger.

After a short but agonizing distance down the hill, I stopped and reloaded tools and passengers. We were able to back down another few hundred yards until I was able to turn around. At least I can see where I am going now. I had no desire to retrace the route we took to get to our current position. The steep, narrow trail really got the better of me and I was seeking another alternative when a trail to the north appeared. "What I god-send" I thought. I could see the Catalina Highway in the distance and the trail appeared to go straight to it. The concept of driving on a nice, wide, smooth, paved road with guard rails looked pretty good.

Assuming the right fork went to the Mt. Lemon Highway, I took the right fork without a second thought. The trail went sharply down the side of the ridge into the arroyo below. Within 15 minutes we were crossing the cold, swift running water of Agua Caliente Wash. The crossing was uneventful. In the deepening shadows of the afternoon sun, we headed up the switch backs onto the next ridge toward the northwest. This ridge was even steeper than the previous. Whereas the trail from the previous ridge came straight down to the wash, this ridge was steep enough to force the trail to have switch backs. Despite the switch backs, the trail was still quite steep and narrower than before. Clearly, the dozer operator who cut the trail got paid by the mile not by the quality of the resulting work. Up the ridge to the crest proceeding now back to the northeast, we descended into Molino Canyon. Another water crossing. Up the far side and over the next ridge. Down again. By now, given the late hour, perhaps 4 PM, I was getting real nervous. The last upgrade had no margin for error. I had a first class, one way ticket to paranoia and I had a window seat. As we ascended the ridge, I could look out my side window and down many hundreds of feet to the running water below. But at this point, we were committed. We had no choice but to continue on the current course. Surely we would intersect the highway soon and be back on pavement. At the next bend in the road we came to the cattle tank. Rancher jargon for "a hole with water in it". By Arizona standards, this was a fair sized tank - perhaps 200 feet in diameter with trees on the far side that obscured the trail. We followed the trail around the far side of the tank only to discover that the purpose of this trail was for access to the tank - not access to the Mt. Lemon highway.

"What a jerk" I was saying to myself when we stopped. I had been suckered in, fooled hornswoggled, misled and otherwise tricked. In my haste to not have to re-do the front slope trail I wanted to believe that this fork would take me where I wanted to go. Of course, if I had a map... No time for those thoughts now. The light is fading fast and we still have to descend the front slope. Only now there was the real possibility of having to do major portions in the dark. Not an appealing thought.

We immediately headed back the way we came. Only now, with a true purpose - get off the hill before darkness made the passage impossible. In our infinite wisdom, we did not have any supplies for spending the night. No coats, no sleeping bags, no food and no extra water. And, being somewhat adverse to sleeping in an upright position (assuming we could find flat ground to park the truck), I wanted to get home.