Here in the Coachella Valley, last week’s record-setting rainfall resulted in a delayed Bob Hope Classic (finishing today) but 360° vistas of glorious frosted mountains from Palm Springs to La Quinta. The deluge also resulted in many road closures—the desert doesn’t soak up rain with alacrity–which undoubtedly prompted my girlfriend, Marianne, to rightfully demand a Sunday hike that included waterfalls.
I hike several times a week in our trail-rich valley but water is a scarce commodity in such an arid region and it is exciting even to muck through a ribbon of wetness deep in a palm-tree oasis.
I consulted my hiking bible, 140 Great Hikes in and near Palm Springs, and find one that fits the bill—Indian Canyons in Palm Springs. It also happens to be one of author Philip Ferranti's five favorite hikes. So, off we head—my husband, Kirk, making it a trio—to the northern end of the valley.
For centuries, the Agua Caliente Cahuilla Indians flourished in these magnificent canyon lands at the southern tip of Palm Springs. Creating complex communities, they thrived on the abundant water, plants and animals. Traces of their societies—art, house pits, ditches and dams—are still evident although I didn't spy any remnants during today's hike.
Once past the reservation's tollgate—$8 per adult—the curving macadam bisects a pristine wilderness and you can choose which canyon you wish to explore that day—Palm, Andreas or Murray. We choose the former and head toward the glinting cars parked at the Trading Post and main trailhead. On the way there, we get a preview of what's ahead as we pass through the amazing rock formation guarding the canyon entrance.
Fifteen miles long and stuffed with full-skirted California Fan Palms–the only species native to the state—Indian Canyon is considered the world’s largest oasis of Washingtonia filifera.
The canyon immediately delivers. From the moment you descend the hilltop into the lush valley, you’re in a heady world of serene beauty, the San Jacintos thrusting up dramatically from the canyon floor.
As we are drawn into the green world, we pass through a picnic area and replicas of Cahuilla huts. The streambed, now flush with storm water, has become a wild thing coursing through the palms. One tall beauty in the middle has succumbed to the force, its shallow roots now pathetically upended. I wonder if it will survive.
We head deeper into the canyon and find ourselves off the trail, slipping on palm fronds and scaling granite boulders, looking for the errant path. It taunts us from the other side of the roiling water and it takes a while to figure out the original crossing point. We contemplate the situation, then Kirk and I gamely jettison our pants and shoes. Ignominiously clad in my white skivvies, I feel my way across the icy-cold water. Marianne laughs at us when she sees that the water isn't as deep as we surmised. She is able to ford the stream with rolled-up pants. Good thing since she isn’t wearing any panties!
Here’s a shot of me recrossing the stream at hike’s end, this time doing the same and with an audience to boot.
We walk barefoot along the sandy trail for a while, channeling our inner Indian, before replacing our footwear. Kirk chivalrously assists Marianne with hers.
Most of the California fan palms lining the canyon have scorched trunks—remnants of a huge blaze in 1980 that ravaged 22,000 acres of mountain terrain. Remarkably, few of the trees died from the fire, a testament to their hardiness and a sight I’ve witnessed in other palm oases throughout the Coachella Valley. 
The trail becomes a jungle-like tangle of palms, vines, cottonwoods and desert plants before eventually rising from the canyon floor to greet us with expansive vistas of rugged open terrain punctuated by brittlebush, cholla and barrel cacti, and ringed by the white-capped San Jacintos. Truly breathtaking.
Far off to the north, we glimpse a sliver of Palm Springs and the windmill farm, capped by formidable Mount Gorgornio.
As the author of my hiking book states, it is a “real west” experience and I’m reminded of the James Stewart movie, North to Alaska.
We crest the mountain and enviously watch a group of horseback riders descend down into Palm Canyon before retracing our steps back to the trailhead. Now early afternoon, the trail is full of families and the sublime sense of solitude is replaced by the chatter of voices. 
Kirk, Marianne and I take one final look at the magnificent scenery and reluctantly depart, vowing to return again soon to essay another hiking adventure.
_
Comments (1)Subscribe to CommentsComment