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.