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As another season of epic annual monarch butterfly migration comes to an end here in Mexico, we started thinking about our accidental encounters with the fluttery masses last year.

And we do mean accidental.

One of the more exciting road signs in Mexico.

We were driving along  hwy 134 from Mexico City toward Valle de Bravo just minding our own damn business. Our first hint that something was in the air came when Mexican police cars suddenly veered into traffic and slowed all cars to a crawl. As a growing convoy of frustrated drivers crept around a corner the reason for the hold-up came into view: swarms of monarchs flying down the road in a slow-mo river of gold and black. These “butterfly cops” (as we dubbed them) were there to ensure that moving vehicles didn’t hit too many butterflies—or each other—in the winged confusion.

This monarch, and millions of others just like it, fly thousands of miles from the US and Canada to Mexico every year.

Most drivers kept going but we pulled over into the first turnout we saw along the highway. Soon we were hiking up a steep, dusty trail into the forest behind a handful of Mexican visitors in pursuit of what we could only hope was the home roost of the monarchs we’d just seen along the road.

Something in the air in Mexico.What looks like gently falling confetti is actually swarms of flitting butterflies.

Every year, between November and March, hundreds of millions of monarchs somehow navigate their way to the exact same areas of Central Mexico —some flying 5,000 miles or more from where they were born in Canada and the northern US. Scientists say they’re drawn to Mexico’s fir trees, but can’t provide a more complete explanation than that. Once the butterflies arrive, they rest and eat then mate like crazy before attempting the return flight home. Most never make it.

It’s one of the most puzzling, fragile and mind-boggling migrations on the planet and it gives those lucky enough to visit Mexico’s dozen or so protected monarch migration grounds the unique opportunity to see millions of butterflies in one place. There are so many of the orange and black beauties that the air is alive with the sound of their wings. Tree branches bend to the ground under their collective weight. They even begin to give off a not-so-beautiful smell, not to mention their aforementioned ability to stop traffic.

Thousands of butterflies rest in their beloved fir trees, cumulatively weighing enough to bend the branches down as if they were covered in snow.

Some of Mexico’s better known butterfly havens, like El Rosario, are becoming less of a haven as the hiking boots (and the horse hooves of those who take for the “easy” way up) of thousands of visitors churn up the hiking trails into dust bowls and encourage hillside erosion and fir tree loss.  That many humans also create noise and movement that stresses the colony.

But thanks to the Mexican police force we’d stumbled upon the Piedra Herrada site roughly 15 miles outside Valle de Bravo. This newly opened viewing area is one of a handful of migration locations in Central Mexico which attract one third of the world’s monarch population every year.

The hike was steep (prompting some potty-mouthed grumbling from a woman dressed for brunch, not for hiking) and the weather was hot. Some visitors opted to ride up on one of the handful of petite horses-for-hire, a proposition that looked even more uncomfortable than walking.

At the end of a 1,100 foot climb into the mountains there were still no butterflies in sight but we plodded on winding our way up through the thick forest and the thin air above 7,000 feet.

An hour later we were met by two uniformed local men, trained as official monarch monitors. They collected 23 pesos per person and admitted only a dozen or so people at a time into a roped off hillside viewing area roughly 50 feet from the pulsating colony. We were all under strict orders to move slowly and talk quietly and we remained under the watchful eye of these monitors for as long as we remained within the roped off area. It’s one of the few times we’ve felt grateful for being supervised as the monitors shhh’d and admonished with responsibility, care and obvious respect for the butterflies.

At the Piedra Herrada site, thousands of butterflies rest on the fir trees that they love, weighing down the branches like snow. Those dark clumps are all butterflies.

Yep, all those dark patches are monarch butterflies.

Encouraged by the good conditions and manageable crowd size at Piedra Herrada we committed to finding an area even more pristine and private. And we succeeded.

The next monarch meeting place we visited was an area called Cerro Pellon outside a town called El Capulin which is about 25 miles from Valle de Bravo. The trail here was less steep and a bit shorter than the route up to the first sanctuary and our obligatory local guide allowed us to stand within 20 feet of the butterflies.

Karen on the trail to see the monarchs at Cerro Pellon.

The best part, however, was that we were there along with just five other people (three of which were guides). Plus, the trail was less steep.

Monarchs warming up in the sun at Cerro Pellon.

Thousands of monarchs but only five humans at Cerro Pellon in Mexico.

Thousands of monarchs but only five humans at Cerro Pellon in Mexico.

You'd never know that thousands of monarchs were camped out less than half a mile up this hillside at Cerro Pellon in Mexico.

Thousands of monarchs but only five humans at Cerro Pellon in Mexico.

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It’s true that the future of Mexico’s monarchs is far from certain. Loss of habitat through persistent illegal logging, insufficient funding for the 124,000 acre Monarca Biosphere Reserve which straddles two states and encompasses most of the migration points and over-visitation threatens the butterflies.

To address some of those issues Mexican President Felipe Calderon pledged to add $4.6 million to the $36.4 million annual budget for the Biosphere Reserve (a UNESCO World Heritage Site) back in 2007. However, illegal logging (it’s a felony) and even clear cutting within protected monarch habitat is an ongoing problem as a quick Google Maps overview of some areas brings into stark relief.

Monarchs enjoying Mexico's sunshine

Our advice? Get yourself to Valle de Bravo, a charming Pueblo Magico (they don’t call it the Switzerland of Mexico for nothing) in time for next year’s migration. And note that later in the monarch season (late February and early March) warmer temperatures lure the butterflies lower down the hillsides shaving distance off your hike up to reach them.

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Ajijic–on Lake Chapala, the largest lake in Mexico–is a typical mid-sized Mexican town in many ways. Every Wednesday a tianguis (farmers’ market) takes over one huge street and everyone comes out to buy avacados and fresh-squeezed orange juice and any of the hundreds of other wonderful and affordable goods for sale. The streets are cobbled. The town square is peaceful. The pace is languid. The sun is out pretty much every day of the year. Nobody obeys the traffic signs.

Despite a sizeable (and growing) population of gringos, Ajijic retains a healthy Mexican population and they retain a healthy regard for the Virgin of Guadalupe, especially during the festival held in her name every December 1-12 throughout Mexico. It’s a time for Mexicans to honor their own unique religious icon, also known as Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, which was tolerated by the Spanish conquistadors who figured turning a blind eye to a miracle-working Mexican version of the Virgin Mary was a small price to pay for converting an entire country to Catholicism.

It all began on December 12, 1531 when the image of what has come to be accepted as the Virgin of Guadalupe appeared on the cloak of Juan Diego, a peasant who, earlier in the day, had encountered an odd teenage girl who had requested that a church be built in her honor on the hill of  Tepeyac. Mexico’s virgin was eventually invoked by revolutionaries and honored by Popes (there’s a shrine to her in  St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome) and today she is perhaps the most ubiquitous symbol in all of Mexico (left).

December 12 was decreed a feast day for the Virgin of Guadalupe in the early 1800s by Jose Maria Morelos, a priest and rabble-rousing leader of Mexico’s War of Independence against the Spanish. Today, in typical Mexican fashion, the Virgin of Guadalupe celebration has been expanded to encompass the first 12 days of December and her festival is marked with  both the profound and the not so profound.

On the one hand you can buy a car freshener with the Virgin’s image on it and hang it from your rear view mirror (we did). On the other hand, millions of devoted pilgrims and followers swarm Mexican shrines and temples devoted to the Virgin every year during the annual festival commemorating her miraculous encounter with Juan Diego. Mexico’s Basilica of Guadalupe,  Tepeyac hill near Mexico City, is the most visited Catholic pilgrimage destination in the world. In 2009 more than 6 million pilgrims traveled there over December 11 and 12–many of them walking for biking long distances.

Ajijic’s festivities don’t include millions of people, however, those who do take part make sure they have a good time.

The faithful pitched tents for the 24 hour mountain-top Virgin of Guadalupe fiesta above Ajijic. That's our orange Coleman tent in the lower left hand corner.

We were lucky enough to get invited to one of Ajijic’s celebrations of the Virgin which combined some of our favorite things: a good stiff hike, good friends (new and old) and the chance to take part in Mexican hospitality and ritual. But first we had to get there.

On December 6 At 6:00am we (along with our great friend Tom from Ajijic) met up with Renee at the local Oxo (think 7-11 but without the creepy parking lot lurkers). Renee is a Mexican resident of Ajijic, an avid hiker, a big-hearted guy and an artist and it was thanks to him that we were headed to the top of Mount Chupanya, 6.5 miles and 3,000 feet above us.

We began the steep steady climb in the dark and slowly wound our way up the desert scrub hillsides of the Sierra Madre for about three hours before we reached our destination, a saddle in the mountain with a small shrine to the Virgin that’s been hand-chipped out of a huge boulder.

This small Virgin of Guadalupe shrine has been carved out of a huge boulder on Mount Chupinaya above Ajijic.

The trail takes us past a few stations-of-the-cross markers, through someone’s small hand-worked corn field and in and out of many different types of vegetation ultimately passing a cluster of crosses, then the summit shortly thereafter. When we got there around 9:30 we were shocked to discover that we weren’t the first arrivals. Already hard at work was a group of Mexican men and it was a pleasure to watch (and try to help) as these guys, not necessarily even friends on any other day, worked seamlessly and resourcefully together to turn a narrow, lumpy bit of hill into a party pad.

It was amazing what they accomplished with a few tarps, a knife and some fallen logs. And as we watched them build a campfire, create makeshift benches, string up tarps, collect firewood and literally unearthing buried treasure, we thought MacGyver’s got nothing on these guys.

For month these men and others had been hiking up the mountain from Ajijic and neighboring communities with enormous bottles of purified water, huge soup pots and other cooking utensils,  bottles of tequila and many other necessities that were the makings of a party which was expected to attract 200 people–not to mention an entire banda band (typically at least eight musicians) which would hike up with their instruments some time in the wee hours when they were done playing at parties down in town.

The early arrivals (including us) warmed up by a never-ending campfire between trips into the woods to dig up party necessities that had been cached in the ground over the previous months.

Two vital ingredients that couldn’t be cached in the ground ahead of time were fireworks and noise makers. Virtually no celebration in Mexico is complete without setting off copious quantities of bombas (extremely loud creations that look like giant bottle rockets) and fireworks or cuteras that come with names like vampiros. During the 12 day Guadalupe Festival even priests set the things off at their churches.

It wasn’t long before other men began arriving up on Chupinaya, huffing up the hill carrying huge baskets full of bombas and cuteras on their backs. All told, about 300 of the things were ultimately amassed at the top. Almost immediately one guy began lovingly sorting, piling and covering them. Then he began lighting them–usually four or five in a row from extremely close range.

By noon it was drizzling and Tom was sorry he hadn’t bothered schlepping his tent up the hill. All said, however, he kept miraculously dry under a crudely strung up bit of plastic even after the drizzle turned to a true rain. We’re just saying.In large part due to the rain, this year’s Chupinaya Virgin fiesta attracted far fewer than 200 people and the banda band arrived late and in reduced numbers. But by dawn they were set up gamely in front of the shrine where they belted out loud, rollicking, slightly-circus-like banda tunes on their drums and cymbals and tubas.

OK, the weather kept the Tuba-man at home, but someone walked up to the top of the mountain carrying a bass drum.

At some point in the soggy night the party crew had begun simmering an enormous pot of menudo (a slow-cooked soup made with tripe) and a equally impressive pot full of cafe olla (a Mexican spiced and simmered cowboy coffee). We’ve had menudo before and have we’ve made peace with the fact that we just don’t care for tripe (cow stomach) but we do like the broth so we breakfasted on a couple of bowls of rich broth (puzzling our fellow revelers by politely refusing the tripe), then we packed up our wet gear for the hike back down.

In the morning the rain stopped long enough to allow Karen to go on a successful orchid hunt.

As we began our descent the weather cleared and we were treated to this view of Lake Chapala and the village of Ajijic 3,000 feet below.

The sun finally came out when we were about half way down the mountain. Here Karen and Tom push on.

 A few days later we found ourselves at another Virgin celebration, this one slightly more urban, in the viollage of San Antonio next to Ajijic. It was December 12, the culmination of the 12 day festival, and San Antonio–like virtually every other city, town and hamlet in the country–was marking the day with a big fireworks display at the entrance to the church. As if to enhance the experience, the power miraculously went out in San Antonio, plunging everything into darkness–the perfect backdrop for the huge castillo or intricately built tower of spinning wheels and fancy shapes which would be brought to life with one flick of a match.

The Virgin of Guadalupe Festival in San Antonio on Lake Chapala culminated, as so many Mexican festivals do, with a castillo (fireworks tower).

The fireworks finale of the Virgin of Guadalupe Festival in San Antonio on Lake Chapala included this castillo (fireworks tower) and a larger-than-life fireworks Virgin.

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Basaseachi Falls is not technically inside the official boundaries of the Copper Canyon Natural Park (Parque Natural Barranca del Cobre) but it’s close enough for us. Actually the 812 foot cascade–which is the second highest waterfall in Mexico and/or the highest year-round waterfall in Mexico (depending on who you ask) and the 28th highest in the world–is the center piece of its own park, the Basaseachi Falls National Park. And rightly so. This gorgeous unbroken ribbon of water that made us think of Yosemite Falls, the seventh highest waterfall in the world, more than once.

The CHEPE Copper Canyon train doesn’t go to Basaseachi Falls so we drove there taking highway 16 which was marked as a major highway and looked pretty straight in our Gia Roji Mexican road atlas but turned out to a narrow winding road full of 18 wheelers. At one point we watched in horror as the pickup truck in front of us nearly got wiped out by an oncoming big rig which has taken a corner way too wide.

Basaseachi Falls and the Candemeña Canyon from high above on the rim trail.

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Around 5 pm we finally pulled off treacherous highway 16, reached the town of Basaseachi safe and sound and found our way out to the Basaseachi Falls National Park. Happily, the park gates hadn’t been closed yet. We’re not exactly sure there are any actual park gates, come to think of it, and we never passed a ticket booth or an entrance station either.

Anyway, with the light fading we hurried to find a spot in the park’s campground where we had our pick since we were the only ones there. The campground is rocky but each of the vaguely demarcated sites has a spot that’s smooth and flat enough for a tent.  Some also have solid metal park benches bolted into place. We picked a particularly grassy site on a bluff above a river and spent a good part of the night wondering who okay’d the budget to install a half dozen huge fancy metal street lamps throughout the campground instead of improving the mostly-not-working bathrooms. And where do they get a budget anyway if there’s no entrance station or fee collection?

We're not sure what this trail sign is supposed to be warning us about (falling gorillas?) but whatever it is, it doesn't look good.

The next morning we hit the trail headed for the bottom of the waterfall and what we believed would be a stiff two hours or so down a couple thousand feet then back up again. We didn’t even bother with hiking boots or our Mountainsmith day packs–just one liter of water and our sneakers.

We reached the top of the falls in less than 10 minutes but you can’t  actually see the falls from there since the cascade is directly under the viewpoint so we started down the trail into the canyon. Then we came to an unexpected fork in the trail.

Of course we took the fork and ended up hiking way back up to the opposite canyon rim until we were substantially higher than the top of the falls where we’d started. This delivered us to a group of three overlooks including San Lorenzo. They were spectacular vantage points on the full face of the waterfall but we’d unexpectedly added a couple of hours and a couple thousand feet of climbing and descending to what was supposed to be a moderate hike.

Weirdly, long sections of the trail on this side of the canyon have recently been widened and paved with large flat stones and concrete–most likely because you can just drive to this chain of overlooks and the tempting trails are meant to entice people to stroll from point to point.

Basaseachi Falls from the San Lorenzo viewpoint.

We, however, hiked on. After getting our fill of the hard-earned view we descended back down to the fork in the trail, then continued on our original route to the bottom of the waterfall. This trail was steep and exposed and hot but spectacular and heading back up proved to be a long hard slog (did we mention that we’d run out of water by this point?) made only vaguely easier by the promise of a sandwich once we got back to our campsite.

Karen cooling off in the refreshing spray at the bottom of Basaseachi Falls.

Basaseachi Falls (click image for full size panorama)

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Whenever you put the words “canyon” and “hike” together you know it’s going to be steep. That’s a given. It’s also a given that you never completely appreciate a canyon by simply peering over its rim.

With that in mind we added local guide Gustavo Lozano and local pony man Pepe to our motley crew and hit the trail bound for the Urique River at the bottom of the Urique Canyon, nearly 4,300 feet below us.

Unlike other canyon hikes that we’ve done–including twice into the Grand Canyon (once from the South Rim and once from the North Rim) and, more recently, to Havasu Falls–this time we had the luxury of a mule to drag our camping gear down and back up.

Initially we had reservations about this. Over almost two decades of hiking and trekking around the world we have always carried our own packs–partly out of pride, partly out of an uneasiness about forcing an animal to do our work for us and partly out of sheer cheapness. The mule wasn’t our idea but since it was there we added our packs to its load with an apologetic little nod and took off with just day packs on our backs.

Pepe from Cabañas Diaz and Dave Hensleigh of Authentic Copper Canyon (in the back) traveled on horses. We opted to use our legs but we did ultimately let the mule carry our camping supplies.

The first hour of the hike and two miles or so of trail took us up-and-down into the canyon past sparely populated Tarahumara/Raramuri villages surrounded by steep fields until we reached a saddle in the ridge with a huge mesa in the middle of the canyon visible to our left. This, we learned is a stop on a massive new gondola (teléferico) being built.

When it’s done next year it will be take people in 60 person gondola cars more than a mile from a station on the rim near Divisadero to  the mesa top in the midst of the canyon. Besides 360 degree views of the colorful rock, lush vegetation and awesome depths in this section of canyon, there are also rumors of a restaurant on the mesa.

Even more incredibly, there appear to be plans to ultimately extend the gondola from the mesa all the way down to the river at the canyon floor taking people down and back up in smaller 10-person gondola cars. Time will tell.

For now, the only way down is on foot or horseback so we pressed on.

Look closely on top of the mesa in the upper right hand corner of this photo and you can see a tower being built for the new tourist gondola (teléferico) that will ultimately span a massive section of canyon.

Looking down into Urique Canyon with the mesa and gondola tower on the left and Dave Hensleigh of Authentic Copper Canyon and his trusty steed on the right. (click image for full size panorama)

Dave Hensleigh (upper left) of Authentic Copper Canyon never seems to get tired of the Copper Canyon even though he sees it almost every month with the groups he brings down from the US.

Any reservations we may have had about not carrying our own bags disappeared as soon as we left the saddle and continued descending past the mesa. That’s when trail conditions went from “steep canyon hike” to “treacherous rock-strewn vertical obstacle course.”

Honestly, this trail was one of the hardest we’ve ever done, not because it was any steeper or any longer than other canyon hikes. Actually, it was much shorter than the Grand Canyon. What wore us out was the quality of the trail. Much of the hike required total focus just to stay balanced and upright as we hiked down steep inclines that were covered with 4″ of sliding round rocks and gravel then strewn with ankle-twisting mini-boulders. At times it was like walking down a slide covered with ball bearings and volleyballs.

Did we mention the giant swarming wasps and often sheer and substantial drop-offs along the trail?

Suffice to say we were glad for our boots and poles and our point6 wool socks as we slowly picked our way down, down, down–ultimately losing almost a mile in elevation over the course of about five miles from rim to river.

Karen carefully picking and choosing her way down the steep and unstable trail to the Urique River in the bottom of the Urique Canyon.

About a third of the way into the canyon the trail veers off into this side valley which leads to the river. Even this deep into the canyon we still can't see the Urique River.

The canyon is so steep that the Urique River doesn’t come into view until we’re nearly at the bottom.

Our first view of the Urique River, 4,300 feet below where we started on the rim.

After a long, hard, hot hike we cooled off in the clear water of the Urique River at the bottom of the Urique Canyon.

After a long, hard, hot hike we cooled off in the clear water of the Urique River at the bottom of the Urique Canyon.

A full moon rose over the canyon making it almost bright enough to read.

Our comfortable camp on a sand bar by the Urique River under a full moon that was so bright it actually made it hard to sleep.

After a great night of grilled chicken and a nice bonfire and no run-ins with scorpions we awoke knowing only half the job was done. We’d managed to walk into the canyon, now we had to manage to walk out. Despite our best intentions to get a bright and early start to avoid as much heat on the mostly-exposed trail, we still didn’t get packed up an on our way until after nine.

Walking up the trail proved easier than walking down since the risk of sliding was reduced so we were able to make fairly decent time, ultimately returning to the rim–hot and tired–in about five and a half hours. The mule, with our bags, made it in less than three.

What goes down must go up....local guide Gustavo Lozano leads the way back up and out of the Urique Canyon.

The view from the mesa where the gondola that's being built across this section of canyon will ultimately stop. A sliver of the Urique River is visible more than 3,000 feet below. (click image for full size panorama)

Hike into the Copper Canyon – Areponápuchi to Urique River

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The drive to the trailhead down to Havasu Falls on the Havasupai reservation is gorgeous. Winding, deserted, rising and falling through desert into forest and back into desert again. It dead-ends in a parking lot, pack mule hitching area and helipad grandiosely named Hilltop, AZ. This is the only point within the Havasupai reservation that’s connected by road. From here its about eight miles down, down, down to the lone Havasupai town, Supai. From there we’ll have to walk another two miles to Havasu Falls itself, famed for its blue-green water (the word havasu actually means blue green water) and impressively tall cascades.

From the parking lot at the end of the road in Hilltop, AZ we hit the trail and descended more than 1,000 in the first 1.5 miles of our 1o mile hike to Havasu Falls.

As usual we didn’t get as early a start as we’d hoped so it’s after 11 before we’re on the trail under a blazing Arizona sun. The first mile and a half of the trail is wicked steep and very dusty from all the pack animals that travel up and down all day long. As we round one of the very first switchbacks we encounter one of those pack animals and it appeared to have had enough. It spooked, bolted, pulled on the other horse it was tied to ultimately seemed to collapse. Scary stuff as the frustrated wrangler tried to get the animal to stand up again. No dice, so he began unloading the poor thing. Frankly, some of the hikers heading up the trail looked like they were about to collapse too.

A few miles of the hike down to Havasu Falls took us through this beautiful winding canyon.

Much of the trail down to Havasu Falls travels over deep river rocks in the dry river bed that winds through a canyon. It’s beautiful, but not easy hiking through all those stones. It sure beats the other predominant trail condition, however: sand. In a truly evil turn of events, the sand gets particularly deep in the final two miles of the trail between the village of Supai and the campground itself so save some energy for that last push!

After 10 miles of hiking we near the top of Havasu Falls. However, we weren't there yet. It was still another half mile or so to where we pitched our tent.

We’d planned to hike to Havasu Falls last September but terrible flash flooding in August of 2008 closed the area until June of 2009. Near the end of the hike down we saw the first signs of flood damage as we passed what used to be Navajo Falls but is now a scarred bank and two new weaker falls.

A quarter mile further along we finally reached the top of the campground and got our first view of Havasu Falls itself. It too was changed by the flooding and water that used to fall via two side-by-side cascades now tumbles down in one single stream.

Our long hot hike down the canyon was rewarded with this first glimpse of Havasu Falls.

Havasu Falls is still a spectacular sight, however, and the Havasu people have done a good job of repairing damage the flood did to the pool below the fall by shoring up areas with sandbags to preserve the weirdly resort-like swimming hole beneath the cascade.

Havasu Falls finishes in a pool that's still lovely and inviting despite damage caused by the flash floods of 2008.

The campground was also heavily damaged in the 2008 flash flooding but we found a comfortable spot by the river and set up home for three nights.

Tree stumps, piles of debris and half-buried picnic tables attest to the havoc the flooding wreaked on the Havasu Falls campground as well and there’s still a lot left to clean up. Thankfully the camping area is huge and there were plenty of flat, sandy, shaded places next to the now-placid river to pitch a tent. We even inherited a hammock and a couple of blow up water mattresses from people heading out. Tip: the most private sites are down by Mooney Falls at the far end of the campground, so keep walking.

Another tip: it’s generally pretty warm at the campground even at night and we were very glad that we’d decided to leave our full sleeping bags in the truck and bring our Cocoon Silk Tropic Traveler warm weather bag instead. Not only is it a fraction of the size and weight of our regular bags, we also have a coupling sheet that makes it double-size allowing us to sleep together.

One great side effect of the flooding is that the campground now has a vastly improved toilet system. Gone are the porta-potties that used to inefficiently serve the campground when it was maxed out at 300 or more campers. In their place are clean composting toilets built up the bank away from the river to avoid damage from any future flooding. The things even have motion-sensor solar lighting at night!

There is a pure spring at the campground for drinking water but the steep, hot 10+ mile hike and 2,200 foot descent made us reluctant to get up and walk to it from our campsite. Luckily, we’d packed in our SteriPEN and that’s all we needed to make perfectly pure drinking water in 60 second straight from the river using safe, tasteless ultra-violet rays.

Karen put our SteriPEN to good use purifying river water in 60 seconds using nothing more than ultra-violet light.

At the far end of the campground lies 200 foot high Mooney Falls.

Rested and revived, we spent the next day hiking down to Mooney Falls, a 200 foot cascade at the far end of the campground, via an incredible “trail” carved out of (and sometimes through) a rock face. Crude footholds and chain hand rails only made the trail moderately more manageable.

Getting to the bottom of Mooney Falls required an interesting climb down a sheer rock wall.

From Mooney Falls we continued about four miles down river (sometimes literally in the river) to Beaver Falls. The descent was gradual and the weather was perfect. Most people never hike beyond Havasu Falls but for us this walk was the highlight of our visit.

From the bottom of Mooney Falls it was another four miles or so gently down the canyon to Beaver Falls including several refreshing river crossings.

The river pools and cascades as minerals in the water form crusty enclosures.

The way down to  Beaver Falls included trails through lush vegetation, many river crossings and the ever-changing river itself which rushes in places, pools up in others and was always that gorgeous blue green color.

At one point we even encountered a small band of big horn sheep feeding near the trail. Startled, they leaped across the trail not more than five feet in front of us, each of the four animals looking us in the eye as if to say “what are you doing here?”  before bounding away.

On the way down to Beaver Falls we ran into a family of big horn sheep. Or did they run into us?

The top of Beaver Falls.

Yet another inviting pool in the river on our way to Beaver Falls.

On the return trip back to the campground Eric got pummeled as he attempted to get close to the awesome force of Mooney Falls.

To say we weren’t ready to leave is an understatement but after three days of swimming, hiking and hammocking it was time to go. We gave our inherited hammock and blow up mattresses to other campers, packed our bags and headed out.

For one split second we contemplated tossing our gear onto a horse for the hike out, then laughed at oursleves and hit the trail. This time we did manage an early start (6 am) and the canyon walls kept us in the shade until about 9 am. The final two hours of the climb out, however, were in full sun including that final brutal mile and a half during which we steeply gained 1,000 feet.

After three days at Havasu Falls it was time for the long hot climb back up, up, up.

Hike to Havasu Falls – Havasupai Reservation, Arizona

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