It's 35 degrees this morning here at Casa Santa Fe—a bit too brisk for my usual patio ritual of sipping coffee while watching the sun paint the eastern sky. So instead, I'm inside scrolling through old video footage on my laptop, and I've stumbled across something that brings back a particular afternoon adventure. There's Paulette and me in the Yamaha Rhino, dust clouds trailing behind us as we bounce along a wash heading into the Black Mountains. That was the day we discovered the old corral.

You know how it goes when you walk the same route every day for months—you start noticing things. Details. Little side trails you've passed a hundred times without really seeing them. That's what happened with our daily four-mile loop out to the Old Wagon Trail Ranch.

The Daily Walk and a Lingering Question

Paulette and I make that walk most mornings when we're down here escaping the New Mexico snow. It's become our routine, our exercise, our way of greeting the desert day. The ranch itself—well, "ranch" is a generous term these days—is really just the skeletal remains of what must have been someone's hardscrabble dream. There's a single-room tin structure so shot full of bullet holes it looks like Swiss cheese (desert folks do love their target practice), a stone outbuilding cleverly built right into the wash bank, and an old stone water well that still catches and holds a bit of precious water when the rains come.

But it's what we pass before we reach the ranch that had been nagging at me. There's this trail—more of a track, really—that branches off and heads up a wash straight into the heart of the Black Mountains. Every time we walked past it, I'd wonder: where does that go? How far back does it wind? What might be up there that made someone carve out that route in the first place?

Growing up on a ranch in the Kansas Flint Hills, I learned early that trails don't just appear. Someone made them for a reason—cattle drives, supply runs, water sources, or sometimes just the stubborn human need to see what's on the other side of that ridge. Out here in the Lake Mead National Recreation Area, these old paths tell stories if you're willing to listen.

Yamaha Rhino UTV Trail Riding: The Perfect Desert Explorer

One warm winter afternoon—the kind where the sun feels like a blessing instead of a threat—we decided it was time to answer that question. We'd take the Yamaha Rhino and see where that mysterious trail led.

Now, for anyone considering UTV trail riding in the desert, let me tell you why the Yamaha Rhino became our vehicle of choice. At our age, eighty-something and still going, we need something reliable, something that can handle rough terrain but isn't going to beat us to death in the process. The Rhino hits that sweet spot. It's nimble enough for tight canyon passages, stable enough for boulder fields, and comfortable enough that we can spend hours exploring without feeling like we've been in a prize fight.

Before we headed out, we did what any sensible desert explorer does: we loaded the Rhino's bed with extra drinking water, tucked the GPS in one pocket, cell phone in the other (though signal out here is more hope than certainty), and made sure we had a full tank. The desert is beautiful, but it's unforgiving to the unprepared. In my years photographing and filming the American Southwest—from the alpine valleys of Angel Fire to the Sonoran bajadas—I've learned that preparation is what separates a great adventure from a dangerous situation.

Into the Wash: Easy Miles and Growing Challenges

The trail started out friendly enough. For the first three miles, we cruised across a wide valley, the Rhino humming along contentedly as we dipped in and out of the wash that passes by the old ranch. The path was well-defined here, and I figured this must have been the route the old ranch hands used for their daily work—moving cattle, checking water sources, or hauling supplies in from wherever the nearest town might have been back in the day.

But as we neared the base of the Black Mountains, the character of the trail changed. The wash narrowed, and suddenly we were navigating what I'd call a "geological obstacle course." Boulders—some the size of hay bales, others bigger than our Rhino—littered the wash bed. This is where Yamaha Rhino UTV trail riding shifts from casual cruise to technical challenge.

We slowed to a crawl, picking our line carefully. Too far left and we'd high-center on a rock. Too far right and we'd be climbing a bank too steep for comfort. The Rhino's four-wheel drive earned its keep here, finding purchase where two-wheel drive would have left us spinning. For a mile, maybe two—time gets stretchy when you're focused on the next ten feet—we boulder-hopped our way deeper into the mountains.

Then, as if the desert had decided we'd proven ourselves, the wash opened up again. The boulders gave way to sand, deep and soft but manageable. The Rhino's tires found their rhythm, and we were moving again at a decent pace.

Elevation, Cedar Trees, and an Elusive Trail

As the wash led us deeper into the Black Mountains, I noticed we were gaining elevation. The air felt slightly cooler, and then I spotted them—cedar trees. Just a few at first, clinging to the wash banks like green flags marking our progress upward. In the desert, trees mean water, even if it's deep underground or long since vanished.

Then something caught my eye. An obscure trail—barely visible really—jumping out of the wash and heading up onto solid rock. Now, I've been exploring backcountry long enough to know that curiosity is both a gift and a risk. But we were here to explore, so we followed it.

The rock formation was impressive, probably a few hundred yards of solid stone that had been there since long before anyone thought to drive a UTV across it. The trail was hard to follow on this surface—no tire tracks in solid rock—but I could make out the faint evidence: a slightly smoother line where countless passages had worn the roughest edges away, the occasional cairn or rock marker left by previous travelers.

The trail led us up and over a ridge, and at the top, I shut down the Rhino. When you're my age, you learn to appreciate moments. This was one of them.

The View from the Ridge: A Photographer's Paradise

The view spread out before us like a gift. Below, the trail snaked down through terrain painted in those colors that make the Southwest unlike anywhere else on Earth—rust reds, ochre yellows, purple shadows in the folds and creases of the land. In my years of drone videography and desert photography, I've tried to capture this palette, but cameras never quite do it justice. The light here has a quality that seems to come from inside the rocks themselves.

About a quarter mile down the trail, something glinted in the sun. Metal—definitely metal. It looked like a water trough, which seemed wildly out of place this far back in the mountains. We were at least ten miles from the old ranch by now, deep in country where you wouldn't expect to find ranch infrastructure.

I couldn't pass up the opportunity. Out came the camera for some still shots, and then I sent up the drone. If you've never tried drone videography in the desert, you're missing something special. The birds-eye perspective reveals patterns in the landscape that are invisible from ground level—ancient flood channels, rock formations shaped by millennia of wind, the surprisingly geometric patterns that erosion carves into mountainsides.

I spent a good hour working the drone, capturing the colorful rock formations, the trail winding through them, and that mysterious metal object below. The footage would be spectacular—the kind of thing that reminds me why Paulette and I chose this life of exploration and documentation in the desert Southwest.

The Corral Discovery: Old Wagon Trail Ranch Lives On

When we finally fired up the Rhino again and carefully picked our way down off the ridge, we moved slowly. This isn't the terrain where you want to rush. The trail was steep in places, loose in others, and at our age, a rollover isn't something you shake off like you might have at twenty or thirty.

But we made it down safely, and as we approached what I'd thought was just a water trough, the full picture came into view. It wasn't just a trough—it was next to a complete corral. Not in great shape, mind you. The wooden rails were weathered and broken in places, but the structure was unmistakable. This was part of the Old Wagon Trail Ranch, an outpost that must have been crucial back when this operation was active.

Exploring abandoned ranches is like reading history written in weathered wood and rusted metal. This corral would have held cattle, horses, maybe both. The trough would have been the lifeblood—without reliable water, you couldn't use this location. It made me think about the ranch hands who worked this remote spot, probably spending days or weeks out here away from the main ranch, tending stock in this isolated mountain pasture.

Following the Water: A Desert Detective Story

While we were investigating the corral, Paulette spotted pieces of old water pipe on the ground, leading from the trough up the wash. Now that's a trail worth following on foot. We shut down the Rhino and started walking, following the scattered remnants of what had been a water delivery system.

A few hundred yards up the wash, the clues came together. The vegetation changed—lusher, greener, the kind of plants that only grow where there's more moisture than the surrounding desert provides. But we found no standing water, no flowing spring. The pipe pieces stopped here. This must have been the spring that fed the trough, now dried up or gone underground.

It's sobering, really, thinking about how precarious water sources are out here. A spring that might have flowed reliably for decades could suddenly stop, and with it, the usefulness of an entire ranch outpost evaporates. The desert reclaims what the desert giveth.

We decided to push a little further up the wash, our curiosity pulling us forward. The terrain changed dramatically within a few hundred yards. The canyon walls began rising on both sides, climbing fifty, then seventy-five, then a hundred feet or more. The wash narrowed to just a few yards across, creating that distinctive slot canyon feeling—intimate, almost claustrophobic, utterly unlike the wide-open spaces we'd been traveling through.

We continued for another mile or so, the rock walls hemming us in, the sky a ribbon of blue overhead. Then we hit the limit—a series of dry rock falls, stepping upward at angles that would have been challenging for us to climb safely. At eighty-something, I know my limits, and Paulette and I have an understanding: discretion beats valor when you're deep in the backcountry. We turned back.

The Return Journey: Desert Gold Hour

By the time we made it back to the corral, the sun was beginning its descent toward the western horizon. We fired up the Rhino for the return trip, and I'll tell you, there's something magical about heading home through the desert in late afternoon light.

The shadows lengthened, the colors deepened, and every ridge and wash seemed to glow. This is what photographers call the "golden hour," and out here in the Lake Mead National Recreation Area, it's pure gold indeed. The Black Mountains turned purple-black against the lighter sky, and our trail—which had seemed so challenging on the way in—felt almost familiar on the way out.

We retraced our route: down the wash with its boulder field now cast in long shadows, across the wide valley as the temperature began to drop, past the old bullet-riddled ranch structure, and finally back to Casa Codorniz before full darkness settled in.

After the Adventure: Capturing the Memory

Back home, our roles fell into comfortable rhythm. Paulette headed to the kitchen to start dinner while I put the Rhino in the barn, brushing off the day's dust and checking it over. Then came one of my favorite parts of any adventure—downloading the photos and drone video footage to my laptop.

This is when the day's exploration becomes something I can share, something permanent. The still images captured those spectacular rock formations, the corral in its lonely mountain setting, the patterns of the wash spreading out below us from the ridge. The drone footage revealed the scale of the landscape in a way that ground-level photography never could—the vast stretches of desert, the intricate folding of the mountains, the ribbon of our trail winding through it all.

Sitting there reviewing the footage, dinner smells drifting in from the kitchen, I felt that deep satisfaction that comes from a day well spent. This is why Paulette and I chose this life of seasonal migration—summers in the mountains around Santa Fe, winters in the desert near Lake Mohave. It's why we spent seventeen years in that log home we built in Angel Fire, watching Wheeler Peak's moods and the wildlife moving through the Moreno Valley. It's why I've dedicated so much of my time to photography and videography of the American Southwest.

The Allure of UTV Desert Exploration

You know, when we first got into Yamaha Rhino UTV trail riding, I wasn't sure it would become such a central part of our desert experience. I grew up around horses and pickups, and at first, a UTV seemed like maybe cheating—too easy, too much machinery between you and the landscape.

But I've changed my thinking. The Rhino doesn't isolate us from the desert; it opens it up. It lets us cover distances and terrain that would be impractical on foot, especially at our age. It carries the equipment I need for serious photography and videography work. It provides safety—a way to get back home if one of us takes a tumble or the day turns unexpectedly hot or cold.

And most importantly, it extends our range of exploration. That corral we found? We'd have never made it there on foot—not safely, not with time to explore and document, not at our age. The UTV is a tool, and like any good tool, it enables you to do things you couldn't otherwise accomplish.

A Note on Desert Off-Roading Responsibility

I should mention something important for anyone inspired to try their own Yamaha Rhino UTV trail riding adventures in the Lake Mead National Recreation Area or anywhere in the desert Southwest. This landscape is both more fragile and more durable than it looks.

Stick to established trails. That trail we followed? It was clearly a long-used route, worn by decades of passage. Creating new trails damages desert soils and vegetation that can take decades or centuries to recover. The abandoned ranches, the old corrals, the structures we explore—they're historical artifacts. Look, photograph, appreciate, but don't disturb. Take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but tire tracks on existing trails.

The desert looks tough—and it is—but it's also delicate in ways that aren't always obvious. Respect it, and it will reward you with experiences like the one Paulette and I had that day.

The Long View: From Kansas to New Mexico to Arizona

Sitting here this chilly morning at Casa Santa Fe, warming my hands on my coffee mug while watching that old footage, I can trace a line through my life. From boyhood on a Kansas ranch in the Flint Hills—where I learned that the land has stories to tell if you pay attention—through all those years building and living in our Angel Fire log home, watching the seasons change the face of Wheeler Peak and the Moreno Valley, to now, splitting our time between Santa Fe's summer splendor and Lake Mohave's winter sun.

At every stop along that journey, it's been about the same thing: connection to place. Understanding the landscape, reading its history, documenting its beauty, and sharing those discoveries. Whether I'm capturing the play of light on alpine lakes near Eagle Nest or flying a drone over colorful desert rock formations, it's all part of the same conversation with the American Southwest.

That afternoon exploring up to the old corral, covering maybe twenty-five miles round trip in the Yamaha Rhino, was just another sentence in that ongoing conversation. But what a sentence it was—full of discovery, challenge, beauty, and that profound satisfaction that comes from pushing just a little beyond the familiar into the unknown.

All and All Another Great Day in the Desert

As I finally close the laptop and head to the kitchen for a coffee refill, I'm already thinking about the next exploration. There are other trails we haven't followed, other washes leading into the Black Mountains, other traces of old ranch operations waiting to reveal their stories.

The Yamaha Rhino sits ready in the barn. The GPS is charged. The drone batteries are full. And somewhere out there in the vast backcountry of the Lake Mead National Recreation Area, there are more abandoned corrals, more springs both flowing and dry, more stories written in stone and sand and weathered wood.

For an old ranch kid from Kansas who fell in love with the mountains and deserts of the Southwest, who learned to capture it all through the lens of a camera and the eye of a drone, who found a partner in Paulette willing to share these adventures—well, life doesn't get much better than this.

Even on a 35-degree morning that's too cold for the patio, looking at footage from an afternoon's Yamaha Rhino UTV trail riding adventure is enough to warm the soul and make you grateful for every mile, every discovery, every day spent exploring this magnificent desert country.

All and all, another great day exploring the desert.

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Have you explored the backcountry trails around Lake Mead or the Black Mountains? Share your UTV adventures in the comments below. And if you're planning your own Yamaha Rhino UTV trail riding expedition in the desert Southwest, remember: bring water, stay on established trails, and always let someone know where you're headed. The desert rewards the prepared and the respectful.