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Tents, sleeping bags, and backpacks are the primary pieces of gear that tend to preoccupy backpackers. This focus is certainly appropriate, as these pieces of equipment can certainly make or break a trip if they don’t perform as needed or fit properly. I spent an inordinate amount of time researching these items when I first got into backpacking and thought of many of the “accessories”, such as stuff sacks, were simply gimmicky add-ons that I could postpone purchasing or forego altogether. This worked well for my first few years of backpacking with entry-level gear and I did pick up a few stuff sacks from a clearance bin along the way and found myself pleasantly surprised at their utility.
Once I invested in a high-quality down sleeping bag, it seemed a wise choice to protect my investment when backpacking with a waterproof compression bag.

The Sea to Summit eVent compression dry bag appeared to be the best product on the market (and much better than the stuff sack included with the sleeping bag by the manufacturer) so I bought one, size medium for a 15 degree down bag, and never looked back. I’ve used this compression dry bag for over five years and when I added another sleeping bag to my quiver I immediately bought a smaller version of the same compression dry bag for that sleeping bag as well.
The Sea to Summit Evac eVent Compression Dry Bag
The Sea to Summit eVent compression dry bag comes in a variety of sizes that hold different volumes, and is currently offered in 3 versions: a lighter weight UL version, their middle of the road regular / standard option, and lastly a heavy duty (HD) version. Weights seem reasonable for a durable and waterproof piece of gear that will completely protect its contents. The UL version weighs anywhere from between 2-3.9 ounces depending on size. Sea to Summit frequently updates their compression dry bag lineup, changing size options, weights, and product naming.
If you're looking for an even lighter weight compression option, Sea to Summit also offers their Ultra-Sil Compression Sack, but this does not utilize the eVent fabric as can be found in the compression dry bags in this review. I've used several sizes of the eVent versions to fit everything from a 30 degree, 900-fill down sleeping bag (Marmot Plasma 30) to a 15 degree, 800-fill down sleeping bag (Marmot Pinnacle), and a 0 degree, 900-fill down sleeping bag (Feathered Friends Snowbunting EX 0).

While the lineup is updated frequently, the basic principle remains unchanged. This is a simple, functional product made of high-quality materials. While the outside of the oldest dry bag has some stains and superficial scars that testify to its frequent use, the inside is nearly pristine. The stitches and tape on the seams (double-stitched and seam-taped to ensure the 70D nylon body has no weak spots) look almost brand new even after over 200 packings and unpackings on trips ranging from sweltering to subzero, from high desert in Arizona to temperate rainforest in the Great Smoky Mountains.
While no piece of gear can make a 15 degree sleeping bag become the size of a tennis ball – and for the sake of the down and the bag itself, this wouldn’t be desirable – the Sea to Summit compression dry bag easily renders it to the size of a cylindrical soccer ball. A 30 degree down bag in the compression bag easily packed down to become not much larger than a two liter bottle. Having the bag compressed helps immensely with getting these bulky items into a backpack and making the most of the limited space available. Just as valuable, in my experience, is the peace of mind that is provided by knowing that regardless of daylong rains or accidents with water (such as a leaking Camelbak or Platypus) the sleeping bag will be as dry when it is taken out as it was when it was put in.

The wide mouth of this compression bag makes it easy to fill it with large, lofty sleeping bags and the breathable bottom, which is made of eVent fabric that allows air to pass out of the stuff sack while still remaining waterproof, makes getting all the air out and compressing it incredibly easy. Depending on the shell of the sleeping bag, getting the air out can be a bit more involved but this is just a comment on the process of compressing gear in general and the varieties of shell fabrics, not an issue related directly to the Sea to Summit compression dry bag. If you’re using a smaller sleeping bag with a larger compression dry bag, you might have room to throw in a down jacket or down booties as well. The roll top lid is intuitive, buckles securely and the four straps allow for everything to be evenly and quickly compressed. The bottom of the compression dry bag has a “handle” (really just a strap of fabric with the eVent logo on it) that allows for it to easily be retrieved from the pack when you arrive in camp and begin unpacking.
I’ve never had a catastrophic accident with the Sea to Summit compression dry bag, such as dropping it in a lake or leaving it out in a thunderstorm, but I have had it in enough “normal” backpacking conditions and around enough moisture to know that it performs as advertised. Major water bottle spills aren’t even minor issues with this compression dry bag and on rainy multi-day trips where pretty much everything becomes saturated to some degree with moisture, this stuff sack serves as a safe haven for one of the most important backpacking items.

While Sea to Summit explicitly states that the compression dry bag is not intended to remain waterproof if submerged, I decided that it would be interesting to test its performance in a worst case scenario. What I discovered was after repeated submersion and being placed under running water, there was a minimal amount of leakage through the top (at the point of closure) but overall I was impressed by its ability to keep water out. The sleeping bag inside would certainly have been usable without any issues…my sleeping bag has gotten more wet from just spilling a bit of a Nalgene on it or condensation overnight. This certainly isn't a "deal breaker" characteristic for a compression dry bag and given my satisfaction with its real-world performance it seems to me that this item performs extremely well under normal conditions and impressively under adverse (and unintended) conditions.
Although there isn’t really any specific double-duty that this product can perform, I have often stuffed the clothes I’m not wearing into it at night and used it as a pillow. This works well and also helps with organization as my clothes (other than wet or damp ones) are all in one place and protected from any moisture that might land under the tarp, build up on tent walls, or spill out of an improperly closed water bottle.

The Sea to Summit Evac dry bag lineup offers a variety of sizes, with one likely working well no matter your packing application.
Conclusion
Overall, this product approaches perfection and is one piece of gear I wish I’d bought sooner. It has greatly simplified my packing process and eased my concerns about my sleeping bag getting wet. Having these large items reduced to a manageable size is great and although there are cautions about compression damaging down sleeping bags, my experience with this has been unnoticeable and inconsequential. However, I do not leave the bags compressed for any longer than necessary. They are compressed the day of the trip and unpacked as soon as the tent is set up. Two of my sleeping bags have been through this cycle more than 100 times each and I have not noticed any performance issues.
The product might be a bit too heavy for superlight or ultralight or superultralight backpackers, but Sea to Summit does offer an Ultra-Sil version (non-eVent) made with a lighter 30D fabric and less robust hardware. All utilize a similar design and may be of interest to many readers. In regards to the ever present backpacking weight to durability tradeoff however, the experience I’ve had with the 70D version reviewed here has been entirely positive. I would recommend this product without any hesitation for lightweight backpackers, and especially those who have a bit of anxiety about water and down.
The eVent Compression dry bags from Sea to Summit come in a variety of different sizes and lineup options (UL, standard, and HD) priced between $40 and $90. Take a look at the UL version here at Backcountry.com, and you can check out all 3 versions here at Amazon.com. For the non-eVent Ultra-Sil option, you can take a look here at REI-Co-op.
Editor's Note: This article originally appeared in Issue 32 of TrailGroove Magazine. You can read the original article here for additional photos and content.

I stood, breathless and exhausted, on the top of the divide, looking down at the pristine and untrailed cirque that lay ahead. My route bared before me, for a moment continuing on across the three passes that lay ahead seemed achievable. Then my eyes lifted to the glaciated massif of 7,600-foot Mount Mystery on the opposite wall of the basin, and my shaking legs sent an unmistakable message: I would make it no further.

Olympic National Park offers hikers rugged terrain and stunning views.
The Plan and an Olympic National Park Trip
I had set out solo the day before from the Dungeness River Trailhead, in the northeast corner of Olympic National Park, with an ambitious loop planned. My goal was to enter Royal Basin via a high traverse and then trek cross-country beyond the basin through the wild high country of the eastern Olympic Mountains. All told, the route covered 27 miles and a whopping 11,000 feet of elevation gain (and loss) in three days. While certain to challenge me, the route promised the dual rewards of solitude and unparalleled adventure in one of the most difficult-to-penetrate mountain ranges in the lower 48.
The trip began innocently enough, following the well-trodden and relatively flat trail along the Dungeness River through lush old-growth forest. Moving briskly through the easy riverside terrain, it wasn’t long before I reached the Old Way Trail that would guide me to the top of Gray Wolf Ridge. The ridge hovers around the 7,000-foot contour, forming the northern flank of Royal Basin, but is wide and smooth enough to be less technical (in contrast to nearly every other ridge in the vicinity) and provides an alpine conduit into the heart of the basin.

The shift in grade from flat to calf-screamingly steep was instantaneous as I turned onto the Way Trail, the beginning of a 5,000 foot climb from river to ridgetop. Apparently, the scant eight miles from the trailhead to Royal Lake via the ridge – which from a glance at the map hardly seemed realistic – would be made possible by eschewing switchbacks. With each step, I forced my leg to land flat to avoid doing hours of calf raises and lifted as much of my pack weight as possible with my arms and trekking poles. By the time the trees receded into meadow, still 1,000 feet below the summit, my body felt as if it had suffered through 15 miles of hiking rather than just two.
With the summit in sight, though, I pushed ahead, determined to make it to the top before stopping for lunch or taking in the view. I was greeted at the top by a gnome sitting on a toilet – by far the strangest and, delirious with exhaustion and celebration, funniest mountaintop trinkets I have encountered. But I certainly envied the gnome’s boundless panorama. Puget Sound, the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and the southern reaches of the Salish Sea stretched out before me, punctuated only by the San Juan Islands and the mountainous coast of Vancouver Island. To the east, the glaciers of Mount Baker and the Picket Range stood out against the hazy blue horizon, while to the west the tip of Mount Olympus poked out from behind the jagged peaks of the Bailey Range.

My reverie in the endless landscape was broken when, looking ahead and comparing the landscape to the map, I counted one bump too many in the ridgeline. The summit I had reached was not a summit at all! Instead, it was merely the shoulder of the first of three peaks along Gray Wolf Ridge. My celebration quickly turned to anxiety, as the ridge climb had not been nearly as straightforward as I expected and the traverse was looking equally challenging. Each peak dropped over 1,000 feet to a saddle, meaning that my tired legs had much more climbing to face. Worse, I was running low on water and there was no sign of snow along the ridge. To top it all off, by the time I reached the true first summit, legs wobbly, it was already late afternoon.
It was clear that continuing along the ridge was not a viable option, but rather than turn back to The Way Trail, which would have doomed my trip only hours into it, I decided to drop off the ridge below the first saddle and head downhill for Royal Creek and the trail. The ensuing bushwhack was a backpacker’s nightmare. Exhausted and without water, I descended 3,000 feet first over loose rock and then, after reaching the tree line, through unkempt rainforest. By the time I reached the trail, a highway running through the forest compared to the endless debris of fallen trees that I had been scrambling over, I was too unhappy even to celebrate making it down. I simply put my head down and forced myself to march the five miles of trail up to Royal Lake as the sunset faded to dusk.

I reached the lake, my original endpoint for the day, at 9PM. Exhausted and frustrated, I pitched my tent in a hurry. Setting up my stove to cook dinner seemed a laughably difficult task at that point, and in any case I was too dehydrated to have much of an appetite. Instead, I munched on trail mix and Oreo’s before crawling into my tent and passing out.
I broke camp early the next morning, knowing that my second day was the most ambitious portion of the route and that I would be moving slowly after the abuse of the day before. To form a loop between Royal Basin and Constance Pass, from where maintained trail led back to the Dungeness River trailhead, I would have to first climb over the shoulder of Mount Deception at the head of Royal Basin. Once down the other side, the plan was to contour around the base of Mount Mystery until I could find a way into the notch on its southern flank known as Gunsight Pass. From there, the map presented a maze of closely-spaced contours that I could traverse to intersect Constance Pass. A glance at the map seemed to indicate that none of this would be possible, although my research into the trip (the same research that had failed to adequately prepare me for the traverse of Gray Wolf Ridge) had assured me that it could be accomplished in a single day.

With my quads still throbbing, I turned uphill once again following the trail from Royal Lake to the upper portion of the basin. As I passed through a series of astoundingly beautiful meadows, Royal Creek running alongside the trail, the morning was filled with the sound of marmots chirping. At the head of the basin, rivulets poured from remnant snowfields on the northern face of Mount Deception into a turquoise-colored tarn. Looking up, trying to pick out the least vertical path up to the divide 1,000 feet above, the immensity and steepness of the landscape hit me in full. I had come to the right place for a rugged adventure, but I was no longer certain I was prepared for this level of ruggedness.
Moving sluggishly, I picked my way up the steep talus field, stopping every now and then to watch the ominous rock falls coming down the main face of Mount Deception. Shapes became apparent on the ridgetop, and my first thought was that I would have to fend off mountain goats when I reached the top. Thankfully though, the shapes took on human forms and I crossed the group of three as they descended into Royal Basin. Apparently, they had attempted to reach Gunsight Pass via the Mystery Glacier the previous day and failed, the steep terrain proving too unstable to climb. In response to my plan to traverse around the base of the mountain, their leader grimaced and expressed little confidence in the route. With my resolve already as weak as my legs, this was anything but encouraging.

I pushed on, determined at least to reach the top before making any decision. The view as I crested the divide was almost enough – almost – to push me onward. Mount Mystery stood in full splendor directly across from me, along with the Mystery Glacier and its invitation into Gunsight Pass. The basin itself was dominated by a muddy lake at the glacier’s base, the grey water flowing steeply out of the basin and leading my eyes to the craggy peaks hidden deep in the interior of the Olympic Mountains. My intended route around the base of Mount Mystery was also clearly visible from the pass – even from a mile away and 1,000 feet up, the area that I had planned to contour around looked steep.
The Decision Point
Looking wishfully at the map and the basin before me, it was obvious that to go on would be painful at best. Once I began the descent, there was no reasonable way back to trail except to reach Constance Pass, which meant crossing a significant portion of uninviting terrain culminating in Gunsight Pass. The weight of these concerns, combined with the heaviness in my legs, was enough of a signal that I had reached the end. Disappointed to let go of my grand loop, but content with my decision, I made the steep descent back into Royal Basin from where a switchback-rich trail could deliver me back to the trailhead.
Need to Know
Information
Royal Basin is one of only a few areas within Olympic National Park that requires reservations for overnight camping. The park begins accepting reservations in March, but note that summer weekends often fill up. All overnight trips into Olympic National Park require backcountry permits, available at the Wilderness Information Center in Port Angeles.
Getting There
From Highway 101, turn onto Louella Road opposite Sequim Bay State Park. Turn left onto Palo Alto Road and follow this for 17 miles as it enters Olympic National Forest, crosses the Dungeness River, and ultimately ends at a well-established trailhead just before a concrete bridge over the river.
Best Time to Go
Royal Basin becomes free of snow in early to mid-July most years, although snow can persist on the pass over Mount Deception into August; you can call the Wilderness Information Center for current conditions. Late September and early October offer colored leaves and misty mornings, but cold nights and unpredictable forecasts. Reservation permits are required for backpacking from May 1 to September 30.
Maps and Books
Trails Illustrated 216 Olympic National Park map. An overview of the attempted route is briefly described in Olympic Mountains: A Climbing Guide, and you can find additional information about hiking in the park in this guidebook.
Editor's Note: This article by contributor Michael Graw originally appeared in Issue 32 of TrailGroove Magazine. You can read the original article here for additional photos and content.

Distance mode. Proximity mode. Red light night vision mode. At 90 lumens, my new Black Diamond Spot headlamp is the newest addition to my backpacking kit in ages. For the second or third time on today’s maiden voyage hike, I unsheathe the Spot from my Gregory Z65’s brain pouch, cradle it in my fingers, and imagine how its endless wonderful qualities will make every trip better. The blood red bezel’s sharp lines attach to a diagonally-shaded retro headband conjuring the aura of Optimus Prime.

I’ve already perfected the push-button command rotation flowing seamlessly from one handy mode to the next. Now that I’m two miles along east county San Diego’s Noble Canyon Trail, I’m dying for nighttime and a chance to test it out.
A Noble Canyon Hiking & Backpacking Trip
Starting from the trailhead’s Pine Valley parking lot around 2:00 p.m., hiking buddy Chad and I weave with the path around rock strewn terrain before descending into an alluvial depression sandwiched beneath tangled chaparral hillsides. Even in mid-May, Southern California’s sun is withering on the path’s initial shadeless two and a half miles. Chad takes the lead. Snarled Cuyamaca manzanita and scrub oak eventually give way to javelin-touting desert agave and whipple yucca. Occasional patches of desert paintbrush give the trailside florescent red strokes.

Skirting the western fringe of Cleveland National Forest’s popular Laguna Mountain Recreation Area, Noble Canyon’s eight mile one-way trail is a short 45 minute drive from San Diego. The forest contains 460,000 acres of Southern California’s peninsular ranges and protects the area’s native chaparral, oak land, and evergreen sky island landscape. By mile three, the well maintained path continues its gradual 2,600 feet ascent between sharp slopes. A dense canopy of Canyon Live Oak provides protection from the sun while a tributary of Pine Valley Creek gushes over a stone-filled streambed.
Three miles in, we drop our packs in a glen containing a flattened spot for my cheapo Alpine Design tent ($30 on sale at Sports Chalet) as well as two perfectly spaced trees for Chad’s homemade hammock. Whitebark lilac’s lavender blossoms dangle like fluffy dusters above the undergrowth. Leaving our gear at the campsite, we explore the more wooded sections of the canyon further uphill and soon find ourselves surrounded by lofty Jeffrey pines.

Arriving at a narrow alpine meadow, Chad asks what’s further ahead. I have hiked the canyon several times before, so I offer a brief sketch: the path continues its gradual ascent towards Penny Pines on the Sunrise Highway where it joins the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) and offers incredible views over the Mojave Desert four thousand feet below. “Why not make a run for the PCT before dark?” he obviously proposes. With three or four miles to go, and not much more sunlight. Not wanting to be outdone in outdoorsy derring-do, I readily agree.
We trot briskly up the trail, and the sun seems to set with accelerating swiftness. I offer to pick up my pace, and Chad, taking me literally, breaks into a jog. I’ve never attempted trail running before, especially in mid-cut Lowa hiking boots. After a mile or so, I slow to a painfully hasty gait. The sun disappears behind Cuyamaca Peak in the west, and twilight dims rapidly. By the time we make the PCT, complete darkness limits our views over the desert to far off El Centro’s unimpressive glow.

This is the first time I’ve tried a night hike. Testing my body's and mind’s limits is a new thrill. I’m dehydrated and hungry. My body is exhausted after an eight mile hike-run, and we must now claw our way five or so miles to our campsite. A dull thud of worry hits my mind. I immediately catch a glimpse of life without modern comforts, and I’m not sure I like it.
Christopher McCandless, or Alexander Supertramp for those who have read or watched his biographical Into the Wild, exercised similar wilderness self-reliance. Immediately after graduating from Emory in 1990, McCandless abandoned his car, burned his spare cash, and donated his substantial bank account balance to OXFAM. He then disappeared for two years tramping solo around the American West. McCandless’ story appeals to something in my soul. It is difficult to read about his adventures without an indelible (and perhaps naïve) longing to share the dangers he sought.

Sharp, prickly bushes threaten our legs while loose, ankle-spraining rocks lurk at every stride. Our steps decelerate to a scuttle. Four miles to go. Anticipating a long schlep, pangs of anxiety give way to an alluring dependence on my own hardiness. I am suddenly at home with the unfamiliar simplicity of endurance and survival. The sensation is addicting.
McCandless was no histrionic kid trying to escape responsibilities. A broken family history left an emptiness in his heart, and McCandless tried to fill it by connecting to the simple emotions and mental concentration of survival. Relying on his own wherewithal filled him with the meaning that modern life left him without. Sadly, he would ultimately push himself too far and die of starvation while living solo in central Alaska. He was 24.
Chad and I tromp forward in relative ease and reach our campsite in less than an hour. Enjoying the aid of my foxy headlamp, we gulp freshly filtered mountain water and twin bowls of cheesy-ham Top Ramen. I can grasp McCandless’ satisfaction as he subsisted for months on self-found food sources in Alaska’s wild.

I wake up early the next morning to the creek’s cheerful crackle, refreshed from the night’s physical and emotional strain. Although never in much danger, I feel like a survivor. I’ve discovered a new me: brave, hardy, ready for the next adventure. I’m eager to test this new confidence, following my Spot headlamp one step at a time.
Need to Know
Information
I found that trails were well maintained, with a 15.6 mile round trip distance. The hike is moderately strenuous with 2,600 feet of cumulative gain from Pine Valley to Penny Pines. Permits are required for overnight backpacking along with a Daily Adventure Pass ($5) or the Yearly Pass ($30) for parked vehicles. You can stop at the Descanso Ranger Station at 3348 Alpine Blvd on the way to the trailhead. More information can be found at the National Forest Service’s website.
Getting There
I-8 east out of San Diego; take Pine Valley exit north. Follow Old Highway 80 then veer sharp right after bridge to Pine Creek Road. Noble Canyon parking area is clearly marked with a forest service sign.
Best Time to Go
The best time to go is typically November through April with the summer months being especially hot.
Maps & Books
For a great map of the area, purchase a Tom Harrison Backcountry San Diego Backcountry Map. For more on hikes in the region, see the 101 Hikes in Southern California guidebook as well as Hiking Southern California.
Editor's Note: This article originally appeared in Issue 26 of TrailGroove Magazine. You can read the original article here for additional photos and content.

I sit alone along a flat gravel ridgeline somewhere in the Sonoran Desert’s Ajo Mountains. There are no winter clouds, no moon, and a spellbinding cacophony of tinsel stars is visible above the din of chirping, cheeping crickets. Suddenly, the distinctive roar of fighter jet engines joins the caroling chorus, aircraft whose red blinking LEDs trace somersault motions in the sky like a berserk Rudolph piloting Santa’s sleigh. A string of yellow puffs, bright as Christmas lights, trail the planes before I hear the distant boom of missiles pummeling the earth somewhere north within Barry M. Goldwater Air Force Range. Solitude. Nature. America. I can’t help but smile.

Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument offers hikers challenging terrain and outstanding desert scenery.
A Backpacking & Hiking Trip in Organ Pipe Cactus Begins
Six hours after leaving San Diego, I arrive at Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument without a clear plan, hoping the ranger in front of me at the visitor center can suggest a backcountry route. “I’d like to ask about backpacking in the monument,” I begin. Staring back in a confused manner, the ranger mumbled unintelligibly before repeating my question back to me: “You would like to know about backpacking in the monument?” “Yes,” I affirm, leaning on the glass countertop. I sense we’ll be here for a while.
Organ Pipe Cactus encompasses 516 square miles of Southwestern Arizona’s Sonoran Desert. Designated a “Biosphere Reserve” by the United Nations, 95% of the monument is set aside as wilderness. Organ Pipe is divided into ominous-sounding “zones,” all but four of which are closed to overnight backpackers. However, the park’s superintendent, is committed to opening new areas to the public.

As far as deserts go, the Sonoran is a veritable garden due to higher and more predictable precipitation than, say, California’s bleak Mojave region or the Great Basin. Lime green Palo Verde, tangled Ironwood trees, and, of course, the picturesque Saguaro and Organ Pipe cacti comprise a bristling landscape that looks almost lush. Besides numerous short day hikes, there are no backpacking trails in the park other than “Country Road 131” which parallels the monument’s main artery, Highway 85, for all of eight miles. Backpacking in the four approved zones is entirely cross-country.
“OK,” the ranger finally says as if stalling for time, retrieving a large black binder from behind the counter and unclasping a sheet listing regulations and the approved zones. “How many people go out there to backpack?” I ask. “None,” he says with decisiveness. “Is it not popular?” I continue. “Not at this time of year. Only February and January.” He fills out my backcountry permit ($5) as I pour over a map and decide to try “zone 160” near the Ajo Mountains. After purchasing sundry post cards for friends ($3) and the obligatory patch for my pack ($6), I’m back in my 2000 Jeep Cherokee and headed to the trailhead. Except, of course, there are no trailheads in zone 160.
A First Day of Hiking: Into the Organ Pipe Cactus Backcountry
I drive eleven miles on Ajo Mountain Drive, a one-way washboard dirt road, and find a suitable pullout from which to embark towards nearby hills. I am fully aware that an unconscionable amount of weight is squished into my aging Gregory Z65 including a REI Half Dome Plus (5 lbs) and a full twenty pounds of H2O. Having run perilously low on water during previous desert excursions, I take the gallon-per-day maxim literally this time and bring two and a half. Standing up under the heft requires a bit more maneuvering than usual, but I am soon tromping gently across the desert floor and up a nearby ridgeline to the west.
Intending to stop as soon as a flattish space for the tent presents itself, I have no problem navigating through the labyrinth of prickly shrubs, eventually settling on a spot directly atop the crest. Even though the dirt road is barely out of sight, I know I am alone. No one will drive through the Ajo Mountains tonight. No one else is backpacking in Organ Pipe Cactus.

Propped up in my folding camp chair, I enjoy a Knorr’s Pasta Sides dinner and face the Ajo’s dramatic snaking apex to the east, sunset rays playing magnificent games on the range’s naked geologic veins. I can taste the rock’s fruitlike shades of orange like a giant parfait of mango, tangerine, and papaya. I watch as the sunlight’s changing angles spray neon terra cotta and deep blood red upon the jagged massif which soon looks like slaughterhouse mounds of newly hewn meat. Smiling and talking aloud to God, I watch the sun’s grand finale peels probe and illuminate the mountains’ every curve, curl, crevice. “Wow,” I repeat to myself. “Wow.”
Day 2: The Hike Out
Without a specific destination in mind and no trails to follow, I decide the next morning over a Jetboil full of cement-like oatmeal to ascend a rocky eminence a quarter mile or so south and reconnoiter the area. It doesn’t feel like backpacking as much as casual exploring, a very different sensation. The going is slow as I contour around the erosive slope, finally climbing several hundred feet up a crumbly incline to the boulder-strewn summit. I find myself standing on the lip of a wide bowl encircling a forked gorge boxed in by auburn sandstone crags. Diablo Peak, rising another half mile ahead, beckons to me as the most enticing next target.
Long pants are typically suggested for cross-country bushwhacking in the Sonoran boonies. I, of course, did not bring a pair. Blazing a path requires squeezing, squirming, and sidestepping through mazes of flesh-chawing brush. Every plant, it seems, has developed an effective means of harpooning any creature fool enough to graze against it. Briars, thorns, needles of all diameters, sharp-as-swords leaves, thistles, or any combination thereof, scratching my bare legs into pulp – jabbing, poking, piercing until my calves look like checkerboards of bright pink welts and blood stains.

I wade through punishing fields of sotol whose javelin pompoms skewer my ankles. I dance around columns of saguaro and barrel cacti, flirting with veritable doom. If I’m not careful, Organ Pipe Cacti spread their octopus tentacles wide, always attempting to give me a bear hug I’ll never forget. At one point, feeling something knifelike against my big toe, I find a nail-sized ocotillo thorn has punctured the sole of my hardy Lowa hiking boot. Yikes.
My route wreaths along a narrow gravelly rim to the foot of the peak, zigzags around its precipitous midriff a quarter mile, then clambers up a precariously steep seepage between sedimentary cliffs. Slabs of long-congealed volcanic ash look cratered, full of caves and grottos whittled by millennia of tireless wind and water. Most of the cavities are trampled with animal footprints. One is filled with mountain lion scat, discreetly arranged as in a kitty litter. I can stand erect in another and briefly consider spending the night. I keep moving.
Diablo Peak
From the tiptop of Diablo Peak, serrated desert ridgelines ebb into vast alluvial fans, countless square miles pockmarked by flash flood drainages and gray scrubland brush. Distant mountains, hemming every horizon, are pale against a sky hung with downy clouds flowing across the deep indigo atmosphere like streamers in the wind. The land looks as barbed and foreboding as the plant life, beautifully barren, showing off every wrinkle and crease in the earth’s storied crust. Gusts whipping my face, dumbstruck with awe, I crouch next to my backpack and eat a peanut butter Clif Bar. Life is meant for moments like this.

Aiming to descend the range to the south, I trundle around the uneven hilltop plateau and find only uninviting bluffs and broken drop-offs. Eventually, and a bit begrudgingly, I decide to retrace my steps down the north side of the Diablos, a feat accomplished several hours later after tromping to and fro down sharper-than-I-remember slopes. With clouds getting stormier and Twin Peaks Campground mostly empty and just ten miles away, I decide to leave the wilderness a day early. I’m tired, scratched up, still have one and a half gallons of undrunk water on my back. But I’m happy. I’m refreshed. And I’m more in love with the desert than ever.
Need to Know
Information
Expect uninterrupted desert scenery and verdant Sonoran flora on this hike with strenuous cross-country trekking over rough terrain. No backcountry trails exist in Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument. I navigated with a map and compass and brought plenty of water, which would be the case at all times of the year. More information can be found at the National Park Service’s website. Backcountry permits are required. See the monument’s permit regulations and guidelines.
Getting There
Directions: Take I-8 out of San Diego, turn right on AZ-85 out of Gila Bend.
Best Time to Go
To avoid desert temperatures and crowds, winter months are typically best. January and February comprise the most popular hiking season, but temperatures are inviting as early as November when the monument is nearly empty.
Maps & Books
The Trails Illustrated Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument map by National Geographic details the area. For a guidebook check out the Falcon Guide, Hiking Arizona’s Cactus Country. For getting to and from the trailhead and exploring other destinations in the state, the Delorme Arizona Atlas & Gazetteer can be useful.
Editor's Note: This article originally appeared in Issue 29 of TrailGroove Magazine. You can read the original article here for additional photos and content.

Along the edge of an ancient sea, a reef formed. The water was an inland sea, connected to the rest of the earth’s oceans by a narrow channel. The reef grew and grew until it stretched around the horseshoe-shaped shoreline of the sea for a length of over 400 miles, towering high above the ocean floor, similar to the Great Barrier Reef off the coast of Australia. This 250-million year old reef is known as The Capitan Reef. It was a tropical ocean, teeming with life – sponges, algae, and other lime-secreting marine organisms.

For several million years these organisms built their home in the ocean until the inlet became restricted and the sea began to evaporate. Thick blankets of other sediments then covered the reef, eventually burying it for millions of years. As movements of the Earth’s plates caused the area to rise and these ancient sediments were exposed, they began to erode and reveal the massive reef once again, leaving the resistant limestone standing high above the surrounding softer sedimentary rock. This exposed reef now forms the rugged and beautiful Guadalupe Mountains National Park, which contains the four highest peaks in Texas.

In late October 2008, my usual hiking buddy Ward and myself made a trek from Oklahoma to the west Texas Chihuahuan Desert to visit Guadalupe Mountains National Park. Guadalupe Mountains National Park is not a park where one drives to overlooks to see the sights – here you have to get out and hike to them. And hike we did. There are 85 miles of trails in the desert, the mountains, and the rugged canyons. The park is remote, it lacks water, and once you’re in the backcountry chances are you’ll feel like you’re the only visitor in the whole place. In our week there we saw the highest point in Texas, hiked in the canyons, were amazed at the bright autumn colors of the maples, had endless views of the surrounding countryside, and spent a couple of nights in the isolated backcountry campgrounds of this awesome national park.
A Hiking Trip to Guadalupe National Park Begins
We drove from our homes in central Oklahoma, across the somewhat boring flatlands of western Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle, and arrived at the park in late afternoon. We found a camping spot in Pipe Springs Campground. It was only $8 for the night, but there are essentially no facilities except a restroom, a few water spigots, and a sink for washing dishes. It was adequate for our needs. After a cool, quiet night, and a beautiful sunrise, we relaxed around the campsite for a time, then broke camp, loaded our packs, and began our hike to Guadalupe Peak. Our goal was to go to the peak and then camp at the backcountry campground which has five sites. Guadalupe Peak is the highest point in Texas (8,749 feet) and it is 4.2 miles one way to peak from Pipe Springs Campground.

Along the way there is a 2,940 foot elevation gain. On sections of the trail, we were amazed and impressed with the expert construction of the trail, and the obvious difficulty of constructing a trail in such steep terrain. At one point, there is even a footbridge perched precariously over a chasm on the side of the mountain. The last part of the climb to the peak is steep and rocky but not that difficult. From there are beautiful 270 degree views of the surrounding desert and El Capitan below. On the highest point of the peak is a silvery metallic obelisk – a monument placed by American Airlines in 1958 to commemorate the one-hundredth anniversary of transcontinental mail delivery, which went through Guadalupe Pass. After visiting the peak and taking some pictures, it was getting late in the afternoon so we headed about a mile back down the trail to the campground – the highest campground in Texas – which has five sites scattered just off of the trail.

The next morning we were treated to a lovely sunrise. We broke camp and headed back down the trail to the campground and chose a site where we set up camp for the night. Since it was still early afternoon, we decided to hike Devil’s Hall Trail. Compared to the trail to Guadalupe Peak, this is relatively easy 4.2 mile round trip with minimal elevation change (~750 feet). The trail also starts at Pine Springs Campground, heads out across the desert and eventually drops into the shallow valley of Pipe Springs Canyon. The canyon meanders and gets gradually deeper. I’m sure that water flows in the canyon some times of the year, but when we were there it was completely dry. Partway along the hike is a stepped rock formation known as the Hiker’s Staircase. The canyon is lined with oak and big-tooth maple trees, alligator junipers, yuccas, agaves, cacti, and Texas madrones. At the end of October, the maples in this canyon were especially vivid. At the end of the trail is Devil’s Hall, a narrow, vertical-walled slot, about 200 feet long and 15 feet wide. This is the turn-around point of this hike.

Along Devil's Hall Trail
McKittrick Canyon
The next day we hiked in McKittrick Canyon. This canyon is in the eastern part of the park – to get there from Pipe Springs and the visitor center area, you have to leave the park briefly and drive a few miles to the northeast and then back into the park, or hike up and over the reef, which would amount to a multi-day backpacking trip. McKittrick Canyon Trail is fairly level and shaded most of its length and follows a small stream for much of the way. Historic Pratt’s Lodge, Hunter Line Cabin, and the Grotto are highlights along the trail, plus the relatively lush forest. It is about 3.4 miles to where we turned around at The Grotto, although the trail continues past this spot, climbing nearly 2,000 feet to McKittrick Ridge where the trail connects to several other trails in the heights of the mountains.
One evening, with nothing better to do than hang out and enjoy the fresh air of west Texas, we drove out of the park a few miles to the southwest, where we had a spectacular overview of the west side of the reef. As the sun set I repeatedly took pictures of the ever-changing light on the mountains, and came away with one of my favorite photos which I now proudly display in my home. When taking pictures, it is always a goal of mine to shoot one which I consider worthy of hanging on my walls. I occasionally succeed, as was the case that evening.

Desert scenery at its finest
To Pine Top
Our next hike was up the Tejas Trail to spend the night at Pine Top Campground. The Tejas Trail starts off fairly level for the first mile or so, then has three miles of switchbacks. The hike from the trailhead at Pine Springs Campground to Pine Top Campground is a total 4.2 miles with an elevation gain of about 2,540 feet. Pine Top is aptly named as it is in a dense (for west Texas) forest of ponderosa pines, Douglas firs, and other trees. Once we set up camp one of the eight available campsites – again with piled trees, branches, and rocks for a windbreak – we took an evening jaunt on the Bowl Trail to Hunter’s Peak. This peak is, at 8,368 feet of elevation, the 5th highest peak in park and has spectacular views in all directions – a great place for a panoramic photo of the park and the surroundings. It is an easy mile hike from Pine Top to Hunter Peak. Back at our campsite at Pine Top, I shot some beautiful sunset shots of Hunter Peak.

The Guadalupe Mountains can offer spectacular scenery at sunset and sunrise.
Final Thoughts on the Guadalupe Mountains
It’s mind-boggling to think that all of what we had seen during our visit was once under an ocean. This is a rugged mountain range, with steep slopes and deep canyons, high ridges, and limited water sources. The geography is complex, allowing unique life zones to shelter a staggering variety of animals and plants. After a wonderful four days of hiking and enjoying the fall colors and beautiful scenery of the Guadalupe Mountains, we said our farewell (for now) to the mountains, and headed home. The park is a hiker’s dream, with numerous trails ranging from easy beginner trails to multi-night backpacking trails. With few amenities and being in an isolated location, park visitation is small compared to many other national parks – all the more reason to go!
Need to Know
Information
Like most trips, visiting Guadalupe Mountains requires some planning to ensure that your experience is a pleasant one. There is no gasoline available in the park. If you are traveling from (El Paso) Texas, Dell City is the closest town with amenities such as gasoline, food, and ice. When traveling from New Mexico, Whites City is the last place to stock up on supplies. Campgrounds offer primitive dry camping. There are two campgrounds: Pipe Springs Campground near the visitor center, and Dog Canyon Campground, a more isolated in the secluded, forested canyon on the north side of the park. Other than restrooms and potable water, there are no other amenities. There are no lodges in the park. Weather in the park can be unpredictable. Cell phone coverage is very unreliable in the park. This is a dry environment. Permits (free) are required for all backcountry camping. Find more details on the park website. Other nearby attractions include Carlsbad Caverns National Park, about 42 miles to the northeast on US Highway 62.
Getting There
Guadalupe Mountains National Park is in west Texas, about 110 miles east of El Paso, Texas via U.S. Highway 62/180. Dog Canyon, on the north side of the park, is accessed via New Mexico state road 137.
Best Time to Go
The park is open year round. Weather in the Guadalupe Mountains can change in an instant. In the spring and summer, average temperatures vary with highs between 70-80+ degrees with evening lows in the 40-60 degree range. The fall and winter bring milder temperatures with highs typically from 50-60 and evening lows in the 30-50 degree range.
Maps and Books
National Geographic Trails Illustrated Map 203. For a guidebook see Hiking Carlsbad Caverns and Guadalupe Mountains National Parks, a Falcon Guide. For getting to and from trailheads and exploring other destinations in the state, the Delorme Texas Atlas & Gazetteer can be useful.
The Author
Steve Ancik is a landscape architect by profession whose hobbies include mountain biking, hiking, backpacking (getting there is half of the fun!), and photography. He lives in Edmond, Oklahoma. All photographs in this article © Steven L. Ancik.
Editor's Note: This article originally appeared in Issue 37 of TrailGroove Magazine. You can read the original article here for additional photos and content.