This is a three-trail hike, hiked in the following order:
#1) Little Yeager Trail # 533, 2.1mi
#2) Yeager Cabin Trail # 111, 2.0mi
#3) Yeager Canyon Trail # 28, 2.0mi
Continuing on from Yeager Cabin Trail # 111
Trail #350! Where the heck is Yeager Canyon Trail #28? I studied the area a little, more aggravated than concerned. One of those rare times I did not bring a map. Nevertheless, I had an idea where I was and the direction I needed to take, so I hooked a left.
And in a short distance I ran into trail # 28, Yeager Canyon Trail. I began my downward trek immediately.
Also designated a mountain bike trail, I cannot imagine a mountain biker wanting to take this harsh, rocky, scrub oak choked trail; I can best describe as fast going down! Heck, a couple of times I slipped and fell, barely avoiding slamming onto my behind.
The view to the west is fine when you catch glimpses of Lonesome Valley and see the ribbon of black pavement of highway 89A. Looking at the view I then realize hiking down this trail in the early afternoon, the sun was beating down on me. And of the three trails I have hiked, this one is the most exposed; crowded only with bushes, mostly scrub oak.
Nonetheless, the trip down was quick, more than likily my doing. Shade trees in the dry creek bottom waited for me.
Once at the bottom you run into gate and the trail stops on an old roadbed, a cattle guard to the right. Passing through the gate I followed the old roadbed where it comes upon an old bridge. I have seen it often as I passed it on my way up to Jerome or Woodchute. I could easily travel to the past through my minds eye, say to the forties, and see old vehicles full of family members crossing it on their way to cool pines of Mingus. An exciting ride then, I am sure, as it is today.
Passing the old bridge it did not take long to arrive at the trailhead. Movement caught my eyes through the trees and I walked towards it. It was a biker gent picking up brass shell casings, his bike parked nearby under a tree which afforded it some shade. We chatted a while, he was picking up the brass to sell and we both marveled at the waste of the shooters, both agreeing gentlemen shooters would have picked up their own brass to reload later and save money. Such is not the case here.
Bidding farewell, I finished my hike arriving at my old Jeep.