November 30, 2019.
5.8 mi. | 2600′ ele. gain | 6:30 hr.
I’d been dreaming of visiting the Organ Mountains ever since I saw that first image of them online. I can’t remember how exactly I learned about this little range, but it was love at first sight. The Organ Mountains consist of a series of tightly packed, steep spires and peaks located near New Mexico’s southern border. The craggy highpoints rise dramatically from the flat, desert landscape below. Protected by cactus, yucca and other impossibly thorny and twisted plants, the approaches to these gorgeous peaks are notoriously heinous. While a few peaks, like Organ Needle, had a great deal of information about them online, many were cloaked in mystery. Whether they don’t see many ascents, they are only reachable by rock climbing methods or they’re just too much of a pain to get to, I couldn’t be sure. The only way to know was to go try for myself.
I chose South Rabbit Ear because it wasn’t too far (as the numbers go), looked pretty and had an interesting third class route to the summit, meaning no ropes required. We didn’t have room for technical gear in our luggage, so we were stuck to exploring only the pedestrian routes. Should I want to try for the 4th class route on Organ Needle—the range’s highpoint—later in the trip, I’d have a better idea of what to expect.
As we drove along the edge of the Organs, I craned my neck to look up at all the jagged cliffs, trying to figure out which was which. The topo map showed lots of tightly packed contour lines, with only a few peaks actually labeled. All the summits were so close together it would be impossible to identify them all. Using the scant beta that I had, I made a mental picture of where we were headed.
We stopped at a small dirt pullout near a cattle gate. “I think this is it?” I said with reluctance. My eyes settled in on our destination. Everything looked so close.
The hike began up an old mining road, now apparently the middle of a pasture. We walked among a herd of cows, past a crumbling rock cabin and to the end of the road. Now what? It was clear by then that I had misidentified our mountain, and while we were definitely on route, we were going to a different spot than I thought.
I eyeballed the canyon we needed to enter in order to make it up to the base of South Rabbit Ear and we made a beeline in that direction. Well, kind of. I was soon introduced to the plant lovingly called catclaw acacia. Imagine this: with every step you take, you’re attacked by a gaggle of cats (actually, a clowder of cats, but who knows that?). They try desperately to pull your pants off as you walk forward. Then, imagine the ground is peppered with cactus. And the sharp leaves of yucca and sotol. Did I mention the ocotillo? I didn’t have to imagine because I was there. It was incredibly slow-going and frustrating. But, I almost forgot: the ground was littered with large boulders, which we couldn’t really see until we were right on top of them, because acacia. We thrashed through this mess for a while until I heard Aaron say “hey, I think I found a trail!”
I grumpily headed in his direction, mostly because of the vegetation but also because he found the trail before I did.
Had I known there was a user trail, perhaps we would have taken some time to look for it before plunging into the unknown. In retrospect, however, the start of the trail was not located in an intuitive spot, so I think we did just as good as we could have.
The trail led us right into the canyon, where we could hear the sound of rushing water. This was not awesome, because from that point we’d need to walk up the canyon. So now we were avoiding getting our feet wet too.
We rock-hopped up the picturesque and inviting canyon. Despite the water, it was easier to scramble up the canyon because there weren’t as many pointy things to avoid. But the canyon had another obstacle to throw at us: shade. (Yes, the canyon threw shade at us).
For a moment, let’s try and feel the weather conditions that we experienced that day. The sun was up and the sky was the bluest of blue. However, it was cold. How cold? I can’t be sure. But we were bundled up, even in the sunshine. The wind blew consistently throughout the day and it got more violent the higher we climbed. It was as if the universe was telling us: JUST GO HOME.
Once in the shade, we added more layers to fight against the bitter cold.
That’s not all, folks.
“Oh shit,” I mumbled. Straight ahead of us, coating the rocky ledges, was a sheet of ice. I made a conscious decision at the trailhead to leave my Yaktrax at the car because if the conditions warranted them, I didn’t want to continue. We didn’t have our full winter complement of gear because, again, of lack of luggage space. And I knew that I didn’t want to push my abilities in a brand new area with unfamiliar obstacles. Plus, I was basically the trip leader; I had to look out for Aaron’s safety and happiness too. I did not want to drag him up into some Type 2 adventure that he would not appreciate.
We were kind of in it, though. With no traction devices for our shoes, we carefully skirted around the edge of the icy rocks. It was a good exercise in communication skills as well as routefinding. We worked together as a team to choose the best path through the myriad obstacles, helping each other find our confidence and our footing. As we bypassed one sketchy ledge after another, I could see some sunlight up ahead. There was no way we’d be able to summit this peak today, due to the conditions and the amount of sunlight we had left, so my new goal was to climb up into the sunshine and to get close to the base of the route.
Our pace slowed as we were up against the wind and our (mental and physical) fatigue. It felt like a long walk into the sun. Once we were there, we sat out of the wind and ate some snacks, rallying for the downclimb. As I rested I looked all around me; the sun was so bright and warm. Despite the challenges, I felt like I was in paradise. Icefalls trickled down the vertical cliffs to our left. Cute, little cactui poked out from the smallest rocky crevasses. Frozen water droplets clung to the thick brush at the base of the sheer walls. I was grateful to have made it this far. The summit, naturally, feels like a suitable end point. But summits are not guaranteed, and perhaps that is part of the allure of climbing.
I was a little nervous about being able to find our route down through the obstacle course, but it ended up being much easier than I thought. Once we neared the point in the canyon that connected with the use trail, we searched desperately for a cairn to get us back on track. With a little thrashing around, we located our path and took it all the way back to the mining road. Sure enough, there was a big, weird switchback right before the road that we never would have found on the way up.
Back at the car, I collapsed into the front seat and reached for more food and more warm layers. It had been a day.