Our sister crew already is here and Scoutmaster Randy Lewis pulls Mr. hand aside to pass along some disturbing news. There has been a plane crash at Philmont. The initial word is that it involved some sort of twin-engined aircraft which went down last night on the slopes of Mt. Baldy. The crash was heard by a crew nearby, and Philmont's two-way radio system has been full of emergency messages and communications this morning. So full, in fact, that all non-emergency conversation has been halted for the timebeing. Details coming our way via the Philmont grapevine are pretty sketchy, but the word is that there were several fatalities aboard the plane. There are no reports of injured Philmont hikers. PhilSoar, the emergency rescue team from base camp, is on the mountain now, along with police and off-camp rescue personnel.

This will become an item of conversation for most of the day and for the next several days, and in the absence of real information, rumors abound, passed from crew to crew. At one point, we hear that the plane belongs to some federal agency and even now is being guarded by armed agents. The truth, which becomes known later, is that the aircraft was a World War II-vintage plane which was being restored to flying condition. The pilot and co-pilot were killed. The crash was on the south slope of Baldy, not far from where a new trail had just been opened this summer. But there were no crews camping or hiking in the immediate vicinity.

Perhaps in years to come, the crash site will become a feature on Philmont's topo maps because much of the wreckage cannot be removed. There has been at least one previous crash at Philmont. A bomber hit the crest of Trail Peak in the South Country during World War II, and the site is noted on the maps we are carrying.

But back to 621-D-7. Right now, we're also busy with work-a-day logistics. Mr. Hand's back and shoulder are doing better, but Ruben's foot remains swollen and painful. Mr. Hand manages to get through to the health lodge by two-way radio in between some of the other emergency calls, and the medics decide we'd better take Ruben off the trail for a day or two. It just so happens that a base camp jeep is on the way here now to pick up a Scout from our sister crew, so Ruben will be able to ride in with him.

We settle in at P.J. anticipating a long wait, since we aren't going to leave Ruben here by himself. But the Philmont vehicle comes tooling down the jeep trail soon thereafter, and Ruben finds himself getting a lot of good-natured ribbing as he climbs into the vehicle that will carry him back to base. He's told it must be tough to face the idea of sleeping on a mattress under a roof, or having to eat food from the dining hall rather than that good, old freeze-dried stuff. He takes it quite well and agrees that it's a real challenge - but somebody's got to do it.

We saddle up as the vehicle pulls out of site and follow its dust down the jeep trail for just a bit, hiking parallel to Rayado Creek. The cheerful mountain stream is on its way down to Fish Camp, where it will swing east and begin its run through the rugged Rayado Canyon. We won't follow it that far today. A mile or so below P.J., we will cross the creek and head west for Apache Springs. Tomorrow, we will loop around and rejoin the creek at Fish Camp.

Ah, but what's this? We round a bend in the jeep trail and run into Ruben again and the yellow Philmont vehicle, which isn't moving even one little bit. A dead battery and a blown tire have put this machine out of commission. But the Philmont staffer tells us that a wrecker is on the way and they will be fine if we push on. And so we do.

Just below the point at which the jeep has stalled is the place where we must cross the Rayado. It is swift and a bit wide here but it is usually shallow. Today, however, the rains have swollen it so that its waters rise a foot or so above the stepping stones that would otherwise allow a dry river crossing.

Several crew members find a spot a bit upriver where they can cross the creek on a slippery log. This looks precarious to the rest of us, so we decide to rig the bear bag rope across the creek and use it as a hand line. Richard sheds his pack and gets across with dry feet and finds an anchor for the rope on the opposite bank. We tie the loose end around a tree on our side. Then, across we go, more or less without mishap.

The rocky trail we now are taking follows Buck Creek for a bit. This is one of Rayado's tributaries and it lends its name to an unstaffed camp in a broad meadow just ahead that was on the itinerary for last year's trek. There is a fine feel to this part of the country. It is open and inviting and peaceful, but just wild enough to appeal to that longing for rugged challenge that brought us here in the first place.

A few sprinkles of rain begin falling, signaling we haven't left the stormy weather behind us.

At last, we reach the point we have been looking for. Off to the right is Buck Creep Camp, and almost immediately to the left is a foot trail leading to Apache Springs. We take a breather here and unsaddle so that rain gear can be taken out of the packs. It looks like the weather may be with us for a while.

While we're stopped here, a friendly crew from Wisconsin comes hiking up the Apache Springs trail. They, too, stop to rest and we talk a while. Like us, they are part of a much larger contingent from their home council. (Actually, we met some other members of their group back at Beaubien yesterday.) Among the items they brought with them to Philmont to help mark the 50^th anniversary is a 50-pound hunk of Wisconsin cheese!

This particular crew is on Trek 23, an 87-mile hike that will take them around Philmont's entire perimeter. They camped last night at Bear Canyon, halfway between here and Apache Springs, and they are headed today to Wild Horse Camp, up near Clear Creek. They have just been through the Indian lore program at Apache Springs, and tell us that camp is about two hours away. Since it now is about 1 p.m., that would put us there at 3 p.m. The rangers shut down the program activities at 5 p.m. That's not much time.

We set off really pushing it now as the trail ascends a heavily-forested slope. We find ourselves snugging our rain jackets and ponchos as the rain picks up tempo. Winding around one switchback, Mitch smacks head-on into a tree branch protruding into the trail. Fortunately, the blow struck just below the eye. He shakes off the injury after a short rest, and after a little further hiking we top out in a level clearing and intersect a jeep trail.

We follow the jeep trail for a bit, occasionally having to pick our way around the shoulders because of rainwater pooling in the wheel ruts. We are looking now for a signpost which will show where the hiking trail to Apache Springs diverts from the jeep trail, and after a bit we find it. The veterans among us are very familiar with this spot because the signpost is one of those which has several different directional signs hanging from it, all pointing in different ways. And because some of the signs have fallen off, we had to do a bit of reconnoitering here last year to find the route to Apache Springs. Now, however, we know which way to go.

We follow the Apache Springs trail and make our way down toward Bear Canyon Camp, which is situated in a broad meadow bisected by a small stream. The rain has stopped now and the clouds have parted enough for the sun to peak out a bit, its warming rays turning the wet meadow steamy. We wade across the little stream, splash through the marsh and came across our sister crew stopped for lunch. We don't join them, however. We've decided to wait until we reach Apache Springs to eat.

The path winds around the meadow and then climbs a hill that for some reason seems much harder to ascend than it looks. It was the same last year, too. At last, the path tops out and then drops down the other side of the hill and into a meadow even broader than the one we have just crossed. A bigger waterway - Turkey Creek - flows through this meadow and it has been dammed at one point to form a reservoir. We circumnavigate this, follow the trail up another hill, plunge through a wooded area and emerge in a wide, deep field that is the lower part of Apache Springs Camp.

One of the first things we see is that the field looks as if it has been planted haphazardly with corn. However, this isn't corn. It's California Corn Lily and it is poisonous. Extracts from it are used in some insecticides. To our right, an Indian tipi rises from the meadow, encircled by a log fence. Up ahead is the rangers' cabin with its solar-powered shower.

It is 2:45 p.m. We have covered the distance in 1 hour and 45 minutes. Outstanding!

But something is not quite right here. Up the hill from the ranger's cabin, where the sweat lodge is standing, there isn't a single wisp of smoke. A fire is needed at the sweat lodge to heat the rocks which are then placed in buckets and passed into the tent. Obviously, no one has started a fire today.

The rangers greet us as we reach the headquarters cabin, where a colorful New Mexico state flag is floating in the light breeze. They say they haven't built a fire today because it's too wet.

We tell them we have been looking forward to the sweat lodge and ask if they will put it in operation if we get the fire going. They readily agree, but first, they offer us some hot chocolate to help take away some of the cold and damp. A nice, friendly touch and we let them know it is appreciated.

At this point, we decide to postpone our lunch a little further. Richard and Timmy volunteer to build the fire while the rest of the crew participates in the Indian lore program, which Richard and Timmy experienced last year.

While our firemen busy themselves with gathering and cutting wood, other crew members follow one of the rangers to the tipi - a replica of one used by the Jicarilla Apache when they lived in the Philmont region many years ago. Today, many of the Jicarilla live on a sprawling reservation west of here in a part of New Mexico that rivals Philmont in beauty.

The tribe was known for its beautiful woven basketry. In fact, the name Jicarilla - pronounced "he-car-REE-ya" - comes from the Spanish term for "little basket." Mainly, the Jicarilla were farmers and hunters. They were considered less war-like than the fierce Comanche or their one-time neighbors, the Ute.

We step into the tipi and sit on a buffalo skin as the ranger tells us a little of the tribe's history and displays several articles of clothing and tools of the hunt. There are several tomahawks - one with a head of stone wrapped to a stick with deer sinew; another made of steel, manufactured for trading with the Indians.

We also learn about tipi construction and how the top vent could be adjusted during wind and rain, and how an inner "skin" hung partway down the sides of the structure to keep moisture out. We learn there were specific customs about sleeping in a tipi, with prescribed places for mothers and fathers, grandparents and children. Tipis also were erected so that the entrances faced east. While that is done for religious reasons by some Native Americans, it was not necessarily so for the Jicarilla, we are told. Rather, storms out here tend to come most fiercely from the west; therefore, the entrances faced east.

Now the ranger leads us out of the tipi and to an area a few paces away where we get a chance to grind corn as Native Americans did, using a broad, flat stone for the mortar and a rounded, stubby stone for a grinder. Corn kernels were placed on the flat stone and then pounded, mashed and rolled using the smaller stone.

Next, we try our hand at flint napping. We first are shown how Native Americans used deer antlers to chip and grind flint into arrowheads. Then we are given an opportunity to try. Our flint source just happens to be quite handy, lying right there on the ground at our feet. Wearing thick gloves and protective goggles, our crew members managed to grind out some fairly respectable-looking points.

At last we see smoke billowing from the fire pit up the hill, so we assume things are coming along well up at the sweat lodge. Up the hill we go and find that all is in readiness, except for the water.

At Left: Tending Fire at The Sweat Lodge

So back down the hill we go, each of us carrying two empty pails which we fill with water at the spigot near the cabin, then hike back up to the sweat lodge. The buckets will be left outside until needed.

Now it's time to go in. As instructed by the rangers, we scan the surrounding meadows and hills to make sure the coast is clear, strip to our birthday suits and dash into the sweat lodge, taking positions in a circle around a hole that has been dug in the center. The ranger then passes in the first bucket of hot rocks, which we place in the hole. Then he closes the flap and we are ready to make some steam.

The sweat lodge is a fairly simple structure. A framework of saplings has first been lashed into a dome shape. Next, old Philmont tents have been wrapped around the frame. It is dark inside at first, but our eyes gradually adjust. Then Richard, who has placed one water bucket inside, dribbles a little water on the rocks. Steam rises immediately and begins heating the tent. Then he sprinkles a little more water, and produces a little more steam. The process continues intermittently for 10 minutes or so.

Inside the tent the mood is relaxed. We talk, laugh, take note of the sweat beads running down our skin. The temperature continues to climb, making our trail-weary muscles relax. But the heat never gets so high as to be overwhelming.

When the rocks no longer sizzle as water is dribbled over them, Richard asks for a second bucket of rocks. When, after another 10 minutes, they no longer produce steam, Richard decides it is time for us to make the mad dash outside.

He makes sure everyone is ready, throws the flap out of the way, and dashes outside, the rest of the crew following. The outside air, much cooler than inside, is a shock in itself. But the real shock comes when we grab the water buckets and upend them over our heads. Then, shivering, we towel off quickly and dress.

A relaxed glow soon sets in. We feel good. We feel clean. Some of the aches and pains from the trail are starting to fade. We're in high spirits as we saddle up, exchange pleasantries with a friendly group from California which has just arrived, and head out for Lost Cabin.

Previously, Mr. Hand had asked the rangers here to check with the health lodge via two-way radio for an update on Ruben. It turns out there is nothing seriously wrong and he will be able to join us Wednesday when we reach New Abreu. That is good news, indeed.

It's a short hike, a mile or so of mostly downhill hiking, to Lost Cabin. It is named, we are told, for a cabin that once existed here and perhaps still does somewhere. However, we never saw it.

The campsite, itself, is a sort of elongated park next to a gently-flowing tributary of Turkey Creek. A partially-wooded hill rises above us with picturesque rock outcroppings that make it look in places like a rugged rock garden. It is peaceful here and, for now, we are alone. Later, our sister crew will join us. They had gone fishing today and plan to hit Apache Springs first thing in the morning.

We piddle over dinner just because we want to. The crew is in good spirits and we've had a lot of fun. Now we've got a little time to talk, read or tend to personal equipment. Since it hasn't rained in a few hours, some of us hang a few clothes out to dry. There's also time to field-strip some of the Whisperlites to clean out clogged jets. Timmy finds time to get a sewing kit and repair a torn pocket.

When at last we eat, we eat well. Lunch and supper combined. Chicken and rice and spreadables and crackers. Who could want more? Darkness falls before we have located the bear bag cable, so we hike a bit up the slope and throw the rope over a high tree limb and suspend the bear bags from that. Chores done, we return to our tents and are delighted to find that after all the rain we have encountered recently, they are mostly dry on the inside. Sleep comes easily this night.