Getting ready to pack up the trailhead. Photo by Cherie Salmon

What most people know about Whitewater Creek is The Catwalk. Go there most any day in good weather and there will be a half dozen cars or more in the parking lot, and a commensurate number of people hiking The Catwalk over the water as the creek comes down the canyon.

But it isn't hard to escape the crowds. A mile or so up the canyon The Catwalk ends and crossing the creek means getting your feet wet. And beyond a mile, most of the day hikers are gone from any trail and the remnant wilderness trekkers have the place to themselves.

So when we got to the confluence where the South Fork of Whitewater Creek meets the main stem it felt like wilderness, even though it was Easter weekend and we were just a few miles upstream from the parking lot. A couple of backpackers had the same idea we did, and one horse packer was camped out along the South Fork with a party, but mostly it was just me and Steve Siegfried and a nice couple from New Hampshire named Porter who had hired us to show them a slice of the Gila Wilderness.

You can't get pack stock up The Catwalk, not even pack goats, so we had come into the confluence by the Gold Dust Trail. This is a pretty rough trail of about five miles with lots of ups and downs, and mostly on a south-facing slope where the sun can jerk you down in a hurry and make you wish you'd brought more water. Plus, this was the first good hike of the season for all of us; after six months you forget how much work it is to hike rough country with a pack on your back.

But the goats were carrying a measure of everyone's load and we got to the creek without anybody complaining much. The big vistas off the trail were great coming in and the folks from New Hampshire seemed to like the country. We got to the confluence with plenty of light left to set up camp.

The next day was breezy and cool, and we moved up the South Fork to a more remote campsite. We passed the horse packer's camp along the way, and his stock and my goats trembled all over at the site of one another. But nobody had any wrecks.

Hour by hour, the wind picked up the pace, it got cloudy and cold, and it was the kind of day when you either lie in your sleeping bag to keep warm, or keep moving. Nobody was inclined to waste the day so after we put the camp up we got out the fishing rods and went upstream for trout.

It's a lovely canyon, the South Fork, narrow and wooded with pines and oaks, and the water comes hopping down the falls in white rus

hes. And it seems there are always plenty of trout. Most are small. But the nice thing is they were born and raised here, and with persistence, a bit of skill and a measure of luck, you can catch some keepers for supper.

We leapfrogged up and over the flow, sampling pools and eddies and swift chutes. Tom Porter worked his lightweight spinning rod. Anita Porter and I shared another spinning rod, and Steve somehow talked me out of my fly rod.

The fish, most of them, were in the swift chutes, and they fell to Pistol Petes, Mepps spinners, and black gnats. More than a dozen were caught but only six were in the 8- to 10-inch range where you felt like they were big enough to keep. Although brook trout are rumored to haunt the South Fork's upper reaches, these were all rainbows or rainbow/Gila trout hybrids.

Back at camp, the sun went down. It got real cold, and a full moon was slowly rising. We got the campfire and the camp stove both going a good flame.

Tom cooked the trout New Hampshire style: slowly, expertly, and fried in bacon grease. We ate them as an appetizer while Steve and I worked on the spaghetti and Anita prepared the bread with butter and garlic.

Bundled now against the chill and seated close to the fire, we all ate till we were drummed out.

Afterward, we laced the coffee with brandy. As the fire crackled, flamed and glowed, war stories emanating from our respective occupations were told. I talked books and outfitting, Steve talked writing and outfitting, and Tom, a logger by trade, had some great lumberjack tales from the north woods.

The merits and demerits of New Hampshire and New Mexico were discussed, too; we all agreed each state was a good one as long as you stayed away from the cities.

Our last day dawned clear and warming nicely, and the wind was down. Nobody really wanted to leave, but it's hard to operate without a schedule these days, even in the wilderness.

By noon, our big, late breakfast of bacon and pancakes was done, the camp was cleaned up, and the goats and people were packed. We split at the confluence; I would take the goats back out the Gold Dust Trail while Steve would lead the Porters down Whitewater Creek so they could see the Catwalk.

The goats and I got plenty warm climbing out of the canyon up that south-facing slope. There was lots of sun and no wind, and halfway up we were puffing and looking for shade, but there wasn't any. We took our time and I shared my water with the team, and when we topped out we took a good break and enjoyed the view. A breeze came up about then, too, and that always helps.

Halfway to the trail head we crossed a little stream and I filled my hat with water several times and poured it over the heads of two goats and then myself. From then on it was plain sailing.

Not far from the truck I paused at a high spot and looked down into Whitewater Creek a thousand feet below. Steve and Tom and Anita were down there somewhere, fishing their way along, not far from the Catwalk picnic grounds.

The Catwalk parking lot was in plain view and there must have been a dozen cars there on this holiday weekend. Few if any of the people who drove them would ever go up to the confluence or beyond, never knowing what they were missing.