Our family has been taking twice yearly trips to the Colorado River for as long as I can remember. Tradition dictates that we go to the same place, a sandbar about a mile upriver from Picacho on the California side. Picacho, a former mining town, is about 18 miles north of Winterhaven. Getting there requires taking the infamous Picacho Road. It’s a long, reddish dirt road that weeds out all but the most enthusiastic campers. It’s a test for both your vehicle and your nerves.
There is a shorter way to get to Picacho from the west along a road called Hyduke Mine Road. My brother John and I heard about it from an ex-truck driver, who said he used it to avoid the agricultural inspection station on Interstate 8. We figured if a trucker could drive down Hyduke Mine Road, so could we.
Our vehicle was a Chevrolet Caprice Classic; a police car. John was driving, his future wife was riding shotgun, and my girlfriend and I were sitting in the back. We assured them that this was the best way to go. Hyduke Mine Road begins at Ogilby Road and after about 16 miles connects to Picacho Road, just 5 miles south of Picacho. While on Ogilby Road we saw the Hyduke sign written on a piece of wood and nailed to the ground. We reach the trailhead and assess the situation.
To the east of us was Picacho Peak, a prominent butte jutting out of the desert that can be seen for 100 miles on clear days. According to the map, all we had to do was head for it and go around its north side. How could we get lost with such an outstanding feature to navigate?
Within the first 8 miles we encountered only a few obstacles. We crossed numerous dry streams and plowed some sandy embankments. These things were good for a laugh and instilled in us some confidence that this was going to be a piece of cake. All the while we headed up Picacho Peak. I felt a bit uneasy as we hadn’t seen a soul and were now at the halfway point. It would take 8 miles of walking in either direction if there was car trouble. On this day the temperature was about 95 degrees. We had the windows rolled up, the air conditioning blasting, and Van Helen tunes playing all the time.
At this point we encounter difficulties in rapid succession. The car’s check engine light came on, drawing John’s attention to the temperature gauge approaching the red zone. John knew exactly what to do. He ordered us to roll down the windows and turned the heat on full blast. As crazy as it sounded, turning off the air conditioning and turning on the heater provided the extra cooling effort needed so the engine didn’t overheat and thus leave us stranded in the desert. Passenger complaints aside, this was a cautious move.
We came across an area where the trail was washed away by a large creek. The creek bed was now dry, but the path on the other side was 24″ higher than the creek bed. “We can’t climb that” was what we were all thinking. The military shovel came out and a level of ingenuity only La desperation can muster. Within half an hour we had built a ramp out of sand and rocks. John and I carefully studied the situation and decided we would need momentum, timing, and perfect tire placement. After agreeing on the plan, John jumped into the car, He gave the obligatory thumbs up and stomped on the gas. I can still see the event so perfectly in my mind. John’s car hit the ramp and the front end went up the bank just as planned. The rear tires rolled. Half of the ramp and the tires began to skid.The spinning tires inched the rest of the way and finally seized, throwing the car onto the road and ripping the muffler.After a roar of With applause, pats on the back, and a sigh of relief, we all jumped in the car and sped off.
Until this point, we always had Picacho Peak in sight. This helped navigation and reassurance for the women who had begun to lose faith in our plan. As we headed into the foothills of the Chocolate Mountains, the peak dropped out of sight. Our spirits sank along with him. John and I tried to appease the ladies by reminding them that we had camping supplies for an entire weekend. Worst case scenario, we’d just have to camp, which is what we came here to do anyway. None of us dares to point out that water, our most necessary commodity, was already running out.
We come across a deep pond with a soggy earth dam on the south side. The road ran over the dam, which was wide enough for the car to pass through. I got out of the car to see John as he ran over him. To the right of him was a shear fall, to the left of him was this pond slowly seeping over the dam and under his tires. It seemed that when passing over it, the dam collapsed, the tires slipped and more and more water began to fall on the dam. After it crossed, we had the impression that we could never cross it again. No one could, for that matter.
Later we came to a fork in the road and decided to take a left as it seemed to be more traveled. We continued for a half mile as the trail turned to thick sand. John gave him enough gasoline to continue. We soon reached a dead end, a dead end with the coarsest sand we had seen so far. I figured this is where we would be forced to camp that night. This I believe is where John’s 4-wheel drive instincts first manifested themselves. John stepped on the gas and turned the car around this dead end in the widest arc allowed that he could. The tires slowed down and began to skid, but the car kept going. The speed of the car gradually increased and soon we were back at the fork. This time we made the right decision.
I stopped to rest and analyzed our situation. I realized that it was a road for 4×4 vehicles. Not police cars. In 2 hours we had covered about 12 miles. We lost sight of our reference point. Each of us was sweaty, dirty and bitter. We had long since shed the least layer of clothing that decency allows. The secret of the water supply was now public knowledge. The car was running poorly because the muffler was ripped off. This hurt our ears because we had the windows down. We couldn’t roll them up because we were in the desert with the heat on. Of course we did this because the car was overheating, and so on. At that moment, John and I felt that we had passed the point of no return. The ladies, on the other hand, saw every bump and turn as a sign that we should turn back. Our stubborn refusal to back down led to hurtful accusations and a “them versus us” mentality that lasted far beyond the completion of Hyduke Mine Road.
Late in the afternoon we crown a hill and see the Pico Picacho on our right. It was close, so we knew we didn’t have to go far. Going down the hill we entered White Wash. We continued on this wash at about 30 miles per hour not daring to slow down or even turn sharply for fear of digging in and getting stuck. After a few scary spots where we slowed down to a crawl, we were able to see Picacho Road. We saw that the road was flanked by sand berms that were used to prevent drainage from flowing onto the road. John didn’t even consider slowing down. He hit the 2′ sand berm at full speed, working his way over it and onto Picacho Road.
Our misadventure was over. We found our way to Picacho and jumped into the Colorado River to cool off.