a wilderness journal: Spring rain in the Painted Desert

Painted Forest, Petrified Forest National Park.

Unusual events leave lasting impressions on the mind, and my overnight trip to the Painted Desert of Petrified Forest National Park will definitely be one of them.

I arrived at the park on Monday afternoon after stops at El Malpais and El Morro National Monuments in western New Mexico. It was enjoyable seeing these sites, though I did not find them as interesting as Bandelier NM to the north. The wind was strong for much of the day on Monday and if anything, it increased as I drove through the remote town of Zuni Pueblo into eastern Arizona.

I obtained a backpacking permit from the Petrified Forest Visitor’s Center, intending to hike into the Painted Desert wilderness area north of the main park road and camp for the night. A trail leads into the wilderness from the old inn perched above the valley. I seemed to be the only one at the trailhead by evening, so I suspect I was the only visitor to the northern section of the park that night.

From the inn, the trail drops several hundred feet in elevation through brick red mud hills into a narrow wash that makes its way to the north. In this descent into the Painted Desert there were a surprisingly large number of plants in bloom, mainly of three species: bright red Castilleja (paintbrushes), yellow Calochortus (sego lilies), and purple Phacelia. A number of Yucca plants had flower spikes developing too, with a few flowers already open.

Flowers in bloom at Petrified Forest National Park. Left: Phacelia. Center: Ephedra. Right: Castilleja.

Calochortus before (left) and after (right) the rains.

I crossed Lithodendron Wash, a large dry creek bed which is perhaps some 20 m wide and which is a major hydrologic feature at the northern end of the park. The name is appropriate for the park: “litho” referring to rock, and “dendron” for tree. To the north beyond the dry wash, the wilderness begins. Large and small petrified wood was everywhere – in the wrinkles between the mud hills, in the alluvial fans at the base of the hills, and in the washes. The largest trunks were probably at least a half meter wide, but they were broken into segments that were not very long. One could imagine these Triassic conifers being a hundred feet tall or so when standing.

Trunk segments in a valley (left), and close-up of banding pattern in petrified wood (right).

Sunset was approaching after I entered the wilderness so I found a place to pitch the tent in a sort of cove of small mud hills with some nice petrified trunks strewn about for scenery in the morning. The wind was still strong at times even in this relatively protected area and the tent was a little difficult to set up. I left the rainfly off the top.

About 3:15 in the morning I awoke to the first sounds of raindrops on the tent. I hastily grabbed the rainfly and began to cover the tent. The rain grew harder, but the wind thankfully began to abate. I attempted to sleep more, but I awoke for good at dusk at about 5 AM. The rain continued, and if anything got harder as the early morning developed.

Peeking outside the tent in the early light of morning gave the first indication that the trek back to the car was possibly going to be an adventure. The hard desert crust on the north side of the tent was now soft mud. My finger sank easily into the mud. On the south side of the tent, a shallow rivulet was flowing, moving water off towards its eventual connection with Lithodendron Wash. My tent wasn’t even in a large drainage area. With what seemed like a lot of rain, how much water would be in the creek bed?

After about 5 hours the rain finally stopped. The center of my tent was still dry but most of the margins were wet and muddy. The rivulets of water remained near my campsite. I put the valuables like the laptop and camera in bags to keep them dry (should the rain return), and packed up my gear inside the tent as much as possible before attempting to deal with the mud.

Although the tent was pretty muddy, (and my hiking boots would eventually be muddy too), I managed to keep the rest of my gear fairly clean. I stepped into the gooey mud and noticed that the first inch of clay easily attached to my boots revealing the dry soil just below. A lot of water over a sustained period would be needed to deeply soak into this parched landscape. The landscape wasn’t a deep layer of mud like I’m used to in my coastal wetland work, but it was a thin layer of sticky goo all over the place.

The hike out of the wilderness and back to the inn was actually not that bad. By staying on the sandier bottoms of the washes, or by walking on rocks or gravel when possible, I could minimize the impact of my footprints on the desert clay and make my own trek through the desert easier.

Tent site (left) and traces of my footsteps (right).

The rain had stopped, but down the narrow washes water flowed as pink rivulets, briefly redistributing some of the surface paint of the desert. Lithodendron Wash itself had flowing water or standing pools, but there was much less water than I expected. Perhaps the sound of the rain on the tent exaggerated the amount of rain that had fell that early morning, or more likely, the significant amount of rain that had fallen was easily absorbed by the surface clay in this large basin.

Pink rivulets of water in a small wash (left) and in Lithodendron Wash (right).

The desert plants, were they capable of emotions or the expression thereof, were probably rejoicing. Rain comes infrequently to the desert, and those brief periods of precipitation are like opening a well-stocked pantry after nearly starving for months. Drops of water lingered on leaves and flowers. Soils that had been cracked in the sun still retained the patchwork pattern of parched ground, but were now softened by the absorbed water.

I think I was fortunate to be in the desert during what seemed like a pretty significant rain storm. April is typically one of the drier months in the park. Surely there have been and will be larger storms, episodic events that bring enough water abruptly to collapse river banks and significantly erode channels. There was no thunder and lightening with this particular storm, elements that would have made the experience more adventurous but which would have also been a little dangerous.