A trail of dust followed as we rode 20 miles of washboard through open desert and narrow arroyos to the banks of the Colorado River at Picacho. Ghost-like on the prairie, a wild mule, glowing white in the moonlight, watched us pass.
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| Looking north up the Colorado River |
Despite a piercing icy wind, we launched at midnight, ferried across a 3-knot current to the other shore where we wove our way through tunnels illuminated only by moonlight penetrating dense tule and cane forests. Following the wooden clacking of night birds, we emerged into a wide open lake. By daylight eight hours later, the tunnels, the lake, the birds, were no less magical.
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| Picacho Peak Sunset |
The razorback ridges of volcanic birth concealed an endless labyrinth of mule trails dotted with mesquite trees; the only shade come summer time. But this is winter, and the shadows hang low. Come February, thousands of winged visitors will stop to rest at this hidden treasure along the Pacific Flyway, competing with resident osprey, eagles, hawks and egrets for catfish and bass in these clear waters. The nights will be even colder. Perhaps not a single human will sit beside a roaring campfire then, witnessing Picacho's most vital season.
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| Stewart Lake |
