The Hyduke Mine Road
Our family has been making twice yearly trips to the Colorado River for as long as I can remember. Tradition dictates that we go to the same place, a sandbank 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 is a test for both your vehicle and your nerves.
There is a shorter way to get to Picacho from the west on a road called Hyduke Mine Road. My brother John and I heard about it from a former trucker, who said he had used it to avoid the agricultural inspection station on Interstate 8. We figured if a trucker could get around 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 assure you that this was the best way to go. Hyduke Mine Road begins at Ogilby Road and after approximately 16 miles connects to Picacho Road, just 5 miles south of Picacho. While we were 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 a clear day. According to the map, all we had to do was continue in the direction of it and go along its north side. How could we miss out on such a prominent feature to navigate?
Within the first 8 miles we encountered only a few obstacles. We crossed numerous dry streams and plowed up 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 towards Picacho Peak. I felt a bit awkward as we hadn’t seen a soul and were now at the halfway point. 8 miles of walking in either direction would be required if there were car trouble. On this day the temperature was about 95 degrees. We had the windows rolled up, the air conditioning blaring, and Van Helen tunes playing all the time.
At this point we encountered difficulties in quick succession. The car’s check engine light came on, drawing John’s attention to the temperature gauge approaching the red zone. Juan knew exactly what to do. He ordered us to roll down the windows and turned the heat on full blast. As crazy as it sounds, turning off the air conditioning and turning on the heat provided the extra cooling effort needed so the engine wouldn’t overheat and thus strand us in the desert. Passenger complaints aside, this was a cautious move.
We came across an area where the road was washed away by a large stream. 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. Came out the military shovel and a level of ingenuity that only Despair 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 in the car , gave the obligatory thumbs up and stepped on the accelerator 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 halfway up the ramp and the tires began to skid. The spinning tires inched the rest of the way and finally grabbed, launching the car onto the road and ripping the muffler off. After a roar of 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 aided navigation and provided reassurance for the women who had begun to lose faith in our plan. As we headed for the foothills of the Chocolate Mountains, the peak fell 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 a whole weekend. At worst, 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 asset, was already running out.
We come across a deep pond with a sodden earth dam on the south side. The road went over the dam, which was wide enough for the car to pass. I got out of the car to watch John as he ran over it. To the right of him was a shear drop, to the left of him was this pool 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 half a mile as the trail turned to coarse sand. John gave him enough gas to continue. Soon we came to a dead end, a dead end with the coarsest sand we had seen so far. I figured this is where we’d be forced to camp that night. This I think is where John’s 4 wheel instincts first kicked in. John stepped on the accelerator 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 moving forward. 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. Every one of us was sweating, dirty and bitter. It had been a long time since we shed the least layer of clothing that decency allows. The secret of the water supply was now public knowledge. The car was in bad shape because the muffler was torn off. This hurt our ears because we had our windows rolled down. We couldn’t roll them 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 needed to turn back. Our stubborn refusal to back down led to stinging accusations and an “them against us” mentality that lasted well beyond the completion of Hyduke Mine Road.
Late in the afternoon we crested a hill and observed Pico Picacho to our right. It was close, so we knew we didn’t have far to go. Going down the hill we entered White Wash. We continued into this washout at about 30 miles per hour not daring to slow down or even turn sharply for fear of digging in and getting stuck. After some scary points where we slowed to a crawl, we could 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 top 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.