Mills Canyon is breathtakingly beautiful. I came here in lieu of visiting the Grand Canyon. The Canadian River, gravity and time created a landscape of such awe-inspiring magnificence, it made me weep and laugh out loud, sometimes at the same time. For two days, it held me dumbstruck.
Now, y'all will say, "Mills Canyon? What the hell? This is supposed to be a 'natural wonders' road trip. How can you not see The Grand Canyon? It's way bigger and deeper than some Canyon in New Mexico.
True that. There are also way more tourists. For almost two days, I had Mills Canyon all to myself! I could have run naked through the canyon's fields and not a soul would have known.
However, doing so is not a good idea.
But I digress.
The drive to the canyon starts with an uneventful nine-mile drive through a few huge cattle farms/grazing pastures. You eventually come upon a sign directing you either to the canyon rim or bottom. The latter stipulating, " Vehicles with High Clearance and 4-Wheel Drive Recommended." ...fuck yeah!
If you know me, you know of my love affair with my 2003 Toyota Tacoma. Aside from its sibling the Hilux (considered the best small truck ever made, sold on every continent except North America and is the pickup of choice of many rebel armies and third-world terrorists), the first-gen Taco is considered the best small truck built in North America. You also know I live in northern Illinois, a place not known for its off-road, 4-wheel drive venues. I've never taken my truck off-road, ...until today.
Now, one can carefully drive a regular vehicle down to the canyon floor. In fact, an old Dodge Caravan came down the afternoon of my second day. However, with one good rain, the access road turns to mud and that Caravan would have to be towed out.
I make my way down the access road and into the canyon. I find the campground. There's no one there. I'd seen on my way down a number of off-road trails running throughout the canyon. I'm so excited, so instead of setting up camp, I head out to the trails.
Now, every bit of info I'd read about off-road 4-wheeling said don't go alone. It's foolhardy. Not heeding this warning, I've instead equipped the truck with redundant means of recovery, two 4 ton come alongs, a hi-lift jack, numerous tow straps, chains, etc.
Setting out, I drive slowly and stop to get out and spot the trails as I go. I'm an idiot. If I get stuck, it's on me.
I finally learned what my 4-wheel low gearing is for! I forded a river! I traversed mud up to my axels. ...never came close to getting stuck. It was awesome.
...love that truck. We'll see how it does in Moab.
So, why is it not a good idea to romp naked in the fields?
This is bear, cougar and rattlesnake country. (In fact, most of my trip is in bear, cougar and rattlesnake country.) Not ever having encountered a bear, a cougar or rattlesnake, let's just say that, and regardless of my research and preparations, I was uneasy about being in bear, cougar and rattlesnake country. So, I cooked my meals well away from where I slept, I slept not in the clothes I cooked in, and I watched the paths ahead for snakes. I saw bear and cougar tracks near my campsite, but no rattlesnakes.
After waking up from my first night's sleep (a bit scary, ...heard a lot of unidentifiable noises), making breakfast (oatmeal, coffee and some potato chips, Mmmm.), I decide to do a bit of hiking. I grab my bear mace, my k-bar (thanks, Jacob), my trekking pole and set out down a well-worn path.
It's a beautiful, warm, sun-filled morning, perfect for a hike. I'm keeping my eyes glued to the trail, looking for pretty rocks.
I'm about a hundred yards down the trail when I hear this loud, steadily increasing noise in the brush to my right. I think, "What kind of bird makes a noise like that?"
It's not a bird. It's a five-foot Diamondback expressing its obvious displeasure of my disturbing its morning sun gazing. I've invaded its space and it's not happy.
For those not in the know, the rattling is the snake telling you you're getting too close. Closer, the rattling stops as the snake coils, preparing to strike - to defend itself.
The rattling stopped. I about piss myself. This big-ass rattlesnake, head as big as an Oreo, is coiled up and ready to kick my ass.
Now, the number one thing not to do in such an encounter, despite everything your gut tells you to do, is make a sudden move. (This also goes for bears and cougars. ...research.) I'm well within striking distance, as a five foot Diamondback can strike about eight feet. (Again, research.) I slowly back away, to a safe distance, scared shitless.
For the remainder of my hike, I banged my trekking pole on the ground ahead of me to let the rattlers know an idiot doth approach.
Fucking rattlesnakes...
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