A bike ride down in the Owen's valley with The Inyo White Mountains as a backdrop
A Desert Walk
Spring 2004
The Inyo White Mountain Range in California, USA
It’s been too long since feeling the weight of a pack on my back. It’s liberating to be self-contained in the way one is for a distance hike. The morning was spent dropping caches at specific points of our planned route: two of water and another of water and food. A small note humbly asks any potential discoverer to respect our need for the re-supplies, begging for the goods to be left for when, in a week, we may desperately need them. We’ll soon know how well the menu was planned.
Loaded with gear, we’ll traverse the Inyo-White Mountain range that has intrigued us for some time. Like packhorses burdened with a heavy load, we’ll walk for the next two weeks, serving as both guides and clients. Day hikes and mountain bike rides have only strengthened the desire to explore further this often over-looked range. With the jagged Sierra to the west and its user-friendly trails and obvious beauty, it’s easy to overlook the seemingly modest Inyos. They will be our home for the next two weeks. I’m sure this won’t be our last foray because the possibilities seem endless when talking to locals who have ventured in for decades.
The seldom used range will surely change in the near future with more and more books published on secret places like those we are about to explore, removing any mystique by way of over-use. We feel lucky to be here, now, with the time and patience to make our own path to Beverage, known as the ‘Shangri-La of Ghost Towns,’ then north along the range.
SOMEWHERE ABOUT ONE MILE FROM THE TRAMLINE IN THE INYO MOUNTAINS
After driving one treacherous mile on the off-camber road cut into the side of the steep cliff, Kathleen Nelson tilts her lightweight body as much as she could to fight the gravity of the off-camber pitch of road while creeping along the shale covered path. The massive SUV we travel in makes it feel like an animal trail, rather than road. The first opportunity to turnaround, which changes our plans yet another time, forces us to walk the eight miles of dirt road we had planned on driving. It’s Kathleen’s decision to make. She’ll be driving out in three days time, alone, and we want her to feel comfortable with the situation.
She opts for the trek. Peter volunteers to drive back, and then catch up with us along the road. He stashes his pack and makes his was back while we slowly began to walk. The first few miles pass quickly while creeping along the mountainside. An animal trail eventually leads us to the road we had intended to drive. Two arduous hours pass before stopping for lunch and still, no Peter.
As if to reject the backpack, my shoulders, back and butt scream out in burning pain, alleviated only when the burden is lifted at this first rest stop. My memories of hiking have always been pleasant ones, especially those reflections involving my beloved pack. I can’t recall in the most honest of efforts the pain I’m experiencing. Still, it feels good to walk and I enjoyed the mild exertion. Good to spend time discussing matters of choice with Kathleen.
The view from our picnic spot leaves us in awe. Two hours from our parking spot finds us in another world. Rugged cliffs drop sharply into the dry, salty valley below. A chilly breeze flows, cooling our cheeks. We sit and savor the glorious vista.
Finally, Peter comes into view. He shares his adventure getting the vehicle back to the parking spot. Halfway back to the area where Kathleen wished to leave the SUV, a small convoy of jeeps met the bulky vehicle Peter was maneuvering with skill along the tilted road. The drivers of the agile mountain machines were skilled and took over the situation, reversing Kathleen’s truck up a make-shift ramp up the mountainside, leaving just enough room for their better suited vehicles to squeeze by without tumbling down the abrupt drop to the road far below.
Hours later we reach home for the evening. Surrounded by a forest of Mountain Mahogany, we make camp just off the road. No worries for disruption there, we’re in legitimate backcountry where few dare to venture. A short hike through the trees leave me with a perfect obsidian point with its tip just barely showing out of the sand. It’s the only shard of the volcanic matter of the surrounding area, a treasure in the desert.
After a dinner of couscous, sun dried tomatoes, zucchini, dried mushrooms, spices and olive oil we clean pots and pans, exhausted and ready for bed. A delicious end to our first day of walking. The road that led us here was a nice, steady series of climbs and descents through the desert range. The only vehicles seen were the jeeps Peter met on his way back to the parking, and those only from a great distance. The four quad-drivers and their raucous machines were on their way out after a short stint deemed an ‘adventure.’
The sun slips below the Sierra crest out of sight from our mountain mahogany camp and Saline Valley is barely in view from the rolling smooth hills littered with pinion pines. The drop-off into Saline is rugged and steep. Silence, beautiful silence fills my being.
For us it was a pathetic day-trip, and I can’t imagine sitting through the roar of that motor, missing out on the abundance of silence and beauty the range offers. We’re slow but our mode of travel allows for the senses to be filled. It feels good to sleep under the stars. Peter looks happier than in months, in his element, under the starry mountain sky. We’re snoring by 9pm.
Clara and Kathleen Nelson, with the Inyo's in the background
CAMP ON NARROW SADDLE SEPARATING OWEN’S VALLEY AND DEATH VALLEY
Sleep finds us bundled up on a narrow ridge separating the Owen’s Valley from Death Valley. A sharp drop to the west looking at Mount Williamson on the Sierra wall; drop to the right (east) displayed an ancient bristlecone pine forest.
Sitting on the rocky ridge I’m grateful for one thing: to be out of my damn hiking boots. After binding my swollen, hot feet for at least six and a half hours, the boots are the enemy. Yesterday it was the pack, which never seemed to feel quite right, and today it’s the boots.
The sun slides like molasses behind the sierra, dipping out of view. The early night air fills with calm save for the buzz of the cook stove. Clean after a water-bag shower that almost sent me tumbling down the slope to the east, it’s a luxury to relax. Naked Bristlecone pine trees glow in the late day sun, alive again in illumination. Peter prepares snow to melt as we sip tea, all three of us enjoying the space, the silence. Kathleen talks of her planned exit the tomorrow, heading back to her ‘real world’ of job and family. It’s been so good hiking with her, yet I look forward to being on the trail with only Peter.
Much of the day was spent above 10,000 feet, like our camp. My head ached in defiance of the thin air. After leaving the trail, we headed for the ridge in order to get Kathleen out in time tomorrow. The navigation was easier than anticipated, save for the fatigue.
Much of the land is native land, made obvious by the obsidian scattered all over the road. Broken arrowhead points were in abundance, even on the road. There’s a special feel here, and I cringe at the thought of what further damage we- man- can do to a place so beautiful. We’re lucky to be here, now, experiencing it the way it is. As all things do, it too will change.
CAMP ON RIDGE ABOVE BEVERAGE AT 7000+ FEET
Sounds of the night echo hauntingly off surrounding cliffs and if it were light we’d see the Saline Valley floor to the east; hovering to the west would be our camp from last evening, blocking the Sierra wall from view. But it’s dark, and the only light is the glowing flames from our meager fire, flickering radiant like the desert sun under the bright, almost half moon. Bare feet enjoy the warmth of the burning hot sage and our bellies are happy with the soothing brew of tea from the first batch of boiling water, liquid we carried 3,000 feet vertical. We wait patiently for the rumble of another pot to cook a modest dinner.
We add a notch in the travel log with another long, exhausting and exciting day complete. The pilgrimage to ‘the Shangri-La of ghost towns’ was an epic one. Never did I think I would be searching for handholds while rock climbing with a 50+ pound pack trying to pull me off the rock. Such was the case today, and I can vehemently say I don’t ever want to be in that situation again.
The trip, however, was worth it not just for the sight of the dilapidated ghost town, more so for a magical afternoon at Frenchy’s Camp.
We’re surprised when we turn the corner and see the rock cabin sitting peacefully in the blinding sun. Wooden benches grayed from years of hot, dry sit in front of the large but clean fire pit. The windowsills proudly display crystals and quartz with a backdrop of rusty cans and old bottles housing fresh desert blooms. It’s as if someone’s home, and I want to knock on the door so as not to intrude. Old rusty tools lean proudly against the front of the cabin, an array even the most fickle collector would approve.
A shaded path leads us to the magical desert hymn: the flow of fresh water, gurgling from a ground source, a miracle in the sand. A spring laden with foliage flows heavily, each splash of water brings my tired head back to life. A walk across the board spanning the flow leads to a flowering cactus, glowing in shades of red, as if screaming ‘I’m alive!” to the arid surrounds. And there are people who say the desert has no life…
Back inside the cabin there’s a cooler full of food, a small book collection and a journal for visitors. Bunk beds line the dark, dusty confines and it has a good feel. Someone took the time to care for the place and we soon discover the most recent caretakers were the couple we met the previous day on the trail, just before New York Butte. The journal told all, and we soon realize they were responsible for the flowers on the sills.
I sit on the shaded bench absorbed with the stories in the chewed up old journal from hikers past. The common theme was the exhaustion felt when reaching Frenchy’s. We cannot relate because we both feel pretty fresh at this point. Little do we know what lays ahead.
Peter washes his clothes in the spring-fed creek as I read the most interesting entries. What strike me deeply are the few pages graced with the insights of a woman we heard of before leaving Bishop. She attempted to climb a near bye peak in bad weather. When attempted to climb Keynot Peak, breaking her ankle and becoming marooned on the mountainside in the heavy winter storm. Because she was solo, all she could do on the mountainside was pitch her bivy-sack and lie, facing possible death, for two long days. Another female hiker happened upon the same mountain day two of the ordeal and soon she was rescued after a tricky helicopter evacuation.
Her entry brings tears to my eyes it’s so vivid and real. She writes of the man, her friend, who said the nicest thing anyone has ever said to her, “don’t let anyone tell you that you didn’t belong on that mountain,” and then continues on to share the insights of someone that has faced death:
“And if I’m going to take physical risk like that, why not take emotional risks as well to get my life working the way I want it to, people it with people who mean the most to me, etc.? If something or someone’s not working then chuck it and reach out for new things what will. What’s to lose? You may not be here tomorrow.”
I’m grateful Marty Dickes decided to generously share her private thoughts. I feel fresh with ideas that evolve into solutions for my own frustrations in life. This is exactly how I attempt to live my life: weeding out the bad energy, cultivating and sharing the good. I’m just not always very good at applying these ideals.
After a long, three-hour break, we head out for what we believe to be a pleasant one-mile hike to the mysterious Beverage. We soon lose the trail and alternate between tearing through the thorny over-growth of the spring flowing canyon floor, to rock climbing with our water laden heavy packs. It’s a slow and frustrating section as imaginable and soon my legs are bloody with scrapes and bruises. I manage moves I never believed possible, without a pack, let alone with the mass of weight pulling me back each technical move I make. All out of fear and frustration. Where was the elusive mining town we detoured over 5000 feet down to find? Soon we begin to see rock walls here and there, mining paraphernalia and the like of such a place. There is water all around but still, no Beverage.
Finally we break down and force ourselves to cross the thorny creek. With a rusty old machete Peter tries to chop a path through, to no avail, it was too dull and decades away from its prime.
At last, we reach what’s left of the town. Historically interesting, we marvel at how such a place was built in this secluded, rugged local. The bugs make our decision to move on an easy one, and after stuffing some dried fruit, cheese, nuts and chocolate down I head up the trail loaded with water while Peter fetches what we fear to be sionide-laden water from the creek. I head up the wrong side of the rocky ridge and soon we have to scale the massive boulder wall to reach the other side, and hopefully the trail. About two-thirds of the way, I begin to fall apart, wanting to stop out of fear and exhaustion. Peter urges me to continue on and I realize I must, there was no other choice as we have already passed the point of no return long before. It’s almost 7pm and with only an hour or so left of light, time is precious.
We push on and soon enough there’s no more rocks to scale. The worst is over and we contemplate our next move. A peek over the ridge shows a faint trail and we trust it with the blind faith natural in those as desperate as us.
The trail weaves up the ridge and I am thankful for its line. I’ve had enough cliff scaling for one lifetime. At least with a pack. A small rattlesnake guards it’s section of the trail and we’re careful when we pass. A sort of reminder who’s turf we are on.
Just when thoughts of camp creep in we reach a flat spot on the ridge. It’s like a miniature national monument- here just for us- and we unload our packs for the night. For the time being, my imagination cannot stretch to a more beautiful place to spend the night.
CAMP ON RIDGE JUST BEFORE KEYNOT RIDGE
The annoying roar of fighter jets blasting across the starry desert sky disrupts our wilderness experience. We’re huddled on the south side of the ridge, warm only because of the most meager of fires. I finish scrubbing the burnt couscous from the bottom of the charred cook pot, the result of insisting Peter cook it ‘a little bit longer,’ ignoring his warnings that it would scorch.
A north wind howls over the ridge and a stormy sky threatens. Peter sets up the tarp in case of emergency but I hope to sleep, once again, under the glimmering night sky.
We began counting our remaining meals because it’s taken much longer than expected to cover little distance. Today was another six-hour uphill slog, ending in a series of post-hole snow traverses.
We lost the trail when the patches of white blanketed the entire slope, deciding to head for the ridge and hoping for clear ground. With heavy legs we found our camp on this dolomite-topped ridge. In a spectacular contrast to the blue sky above, crops of glowing dead trees shine in the late day sun. With our water supply almost dry it was time, again, to melt more snow. A lunch break at a well-kept miners cabin provided our last source, and even that we had to boil in fear of contamination.
A one hour and forty minute sidetrack led us to ruin after ruin from the mining days. The sites are interesting, but what’s most special was seeing a fox gallop up over the rocky ridge. Our first sign of wildlife, other than birds, lizards and snakes, and all we manage is a glimpse.
Again we prepare to sleep with aching tired bodies. This unforgiving range has worked us over each day traversing the rugged landscape. Somehow we want more, and silently hope the good weather continues.
CAMPED IN THE CLIFFS LIKE ‘DWELLERS’ FROM ANOTHER TIME, IN OUR SPECIAL ‘PAPOOSE-LIKE’ FLATS.
The irritating roar of fighter jets turns into the raging roar of the wind as we set out on day #5 of the Inyo traverse. After waking up with screaming quadriceps, I felt like I could not walk a foot, let alone miles, that day. After stumbling around our ridge-camp, the blood finally returns to my aching legs and the pain subsided, at least a little. Enough to give me hope for the day ahead.
With our camp up at 10,200 feet and both mountains we scale over 11,000 feet it’s an arduous day slogging our backpacks over massive boulders, up and down contour lines that, on the map looked so gentle.
Just when things became too difficult to handle, something inevitably occurs to make the situation bearable. Today it’s the two-mile section of ridge walking that has a trail worn into the smooth slope. After struggling though frighteningly steep slopes covered in snow, with only sticks to serve as ice axe, the trail is a welcome sight. Yesterday, it’s something as gentle as the elegant flow of lupine shadow on the steel gray granite rock lining the trail. It makes the hot, dry ascent that to last forever more bearable.
After another five-hour day, we camp in the rocks along an area of magic energy we believe to be native land. There’s a special feel here, a certain quality that lends one to suspect a lot of history took place in this very area.
As the wind dies down and the jets took over, once again, roaring across the clear night sky. I wonder what the next week holds. Our 6-day ration of food that was allotted to take us over to the cache will soon be empty. We have at least four more days of walking before reaching a road. Only then will we have the chance to go down to Big Pine for a shopping session. If we ration, that is, and stretch what would be no more than a comfortable amount for two days into a four-day hunger march.
In most situations, this wouldn’t be a difficult adjustment, but while walking seven-eight hours a day in the rugged, thin mountain air, where alertness is key, this situation becomes not only difficult, but dangerous, too. We’ll see how far we get tomorrow and re-evaluate from there. I sincerely hope we make it to the road, thus only losing a day, at worst, to get back on track. It will give us a chance to get ice axes as well; we direly need them if the snow conditions become worse, which they surely will, to the north. The adventure is only beginning.
CAMP IN WASH (OLD WASH) JUSRT SOUTHEAST OF BETTY JUMBO MINE.
Where f*/#k is the Jack Key Trail and who the f*#@k is he anyway? Peter’s answer was ‘we missed it ‘ and ‘he was some old miner who loved to hike into the Inyo’s, and only he could find this trail.’ And so goes much of our day, not knowing where we are on the map.
After a rough night that saw us up at 1am, when we realized it was snowing, we hope for an easy day of walking. Easy is not a word synonymous with this mountain range, but still, I hope in vain the terrain will give us a break, if only for a couple of hours.
Peter is even more exhausted because it was he who had to set up the tarp shelter at that ungodly hour, somehow rigging the water proof sheet allowing a claustrophobically small amount of headspace, protecting us from the snow. His maneuvering of the tarp is so advanced he could have an infomercial, selling millions on skill alone. I thought better than to share this thought with him as he struggled and cursed rigging it late last night. His exhaustion became clear when he woke during his fitful slumber with frightening sounds, as if someone was strangling him.
The break in toil we hoped for eludes us. After crashing and tearing our way through thickets of mountain mahogany and sage, we maneuver around more massive boulders. It becomes obvious this is the most torturous day yet. The first three hours bring us less than a mile. It’s slow going and we want to be moving fast, or should I say I want to be moving fast. With Peter’s patience my tensions rise and red hair rage kicks in. The fury builds with each bite of mahogany thorn into my skin.
We’re rationing food and it feels like my brain is not functioning. All I can think about is chocolate, calories, anything that will kill the throb of hunger in my stomach and head. The heed of warning from our friend Brian Nelson, Kathleen’s husband, was ‘If anything goes wrong, make sure she eats something; if you start to argue, make sure she eats something; if she’s looking at you and you see in her eyes that she wants to kill you, make sure she eats something- throw some chocolate at her- then everything will be alright.’
Back when I was a racing cyclist a, a teammate of mine told me ‘You’re like a pregnant woman when you’re hungry’ and suggested I carry candies in my pockets at all times, not so much for my own sanity, more for the peace of people around me. I don’t fare well with low blood sugar at the best of times, let alone in such a trying situation.
After the first three-hour slog I crack. I don’t know if it was the hunger, the frustration or what, but I unleash my fury on poor Peter. It’s easy to blame the other person for everything when he’s the only other person there, and he’s my husband. The food shortage, the terrain, the slow pace, the cramp in my calve, the twig that went down the back of my shirt- these, and many other things I known and they are of course all Peter’s fault. I continue to list them off as we begin walking; all the while knowing I’m being completely unreasonable, yet unable to stop. I’m lucky he doesn’t leave me in the middle of the mountains. Hours later I apologize, promising myself not to be so irrational and mean in the future.
In the last hour of this seven-hour day the landscape finally eases. Weaving our way thorough the sage meadows and pinion pine stands, it feels as if we walked on the most groomed of trails, though not even the faintest of such exists.
Never have my hands been so dirty. They don’t look like they belong on my arms. And my feet, at this point, after wearing the same socks for six straight days, look like they are rotting. Seams of dirt emphasize the lines in my face and I can barely get a brush through my dirty, greasy hair. This is how it feels after each long day of hiking in the desert.
A meager water bottle shower helps, especially when there is enough water to use soap. Each morning it’s back into the same, dirty clothes, and the grime builds on my body all over again. Socks included. Yet, the thought of carrying any more clothes than absolutely necessary is not an option. And the late-day rinse, even when it chills me to the bone, is worth each deep shiver when freshness is felt. Being in the backcountry allows one to scale down to the bare minimum and there’s no room for clutter. Even the smallest of luxuries are so greatly appreciated. When you carry all that you think you need on your back, over a land as rugged as this, that moderation is scaled down again and again.
CAMP OFF WINADUMA ROAD
We chose the path of least resistance when all maps are set aside. By following the ever-changing flow of the landscape, we began to find the way. And so our day began, following the maze of gullies lined with dry arroyos. Down one, climb a sage covered ridge, down another, and into the next. Compared to what we just traveled through this is easy terrain. It’s all relative now but I can’t help but note that on it’s own this would be very difficult.
Each rise we ascend lends glorious views of the Sierra to the west. It’s difficult to believe we are in such a dry landscape, being only a few miles to the east. The snow-covered crest in view, just across the valley, tempts us on our thirsty walk.
It feels like flying compared to the snails pace of the past days. Still rationing food, I feel hungry less than an hour after the small breakfast allotment. Already I feel more able to push through the hunger, both mentally and physically. It makes me think about eating, and how often I, like most other people, eat simply because the food is there. The body can be trained to run off very little fuel. It becomes efficient on less calories and I wonder why, only when we are forced, do we begin to eat in moderation.
The much-anticipated dirt road appears before us with only one more sage scattered ridge remaining to crest. It feels easy to walk the vein of sand winding its way through the land that we struggled so greatly with for days. Easy until the pitch becomes so steep we can barely put one foot in front of the other. When the road finally levels out, it comes to a dead end. Exhausted, we decide to take a beak in the shade of a pinion pine. Again we take out the maps; again, we’re lost.
After a short snack from the ever-dwindling supply of food, Peter gathers toilet paper and heads for privacy. I stubbornly vow to find out where we were as he disappears into the trees. On a whim I take out the next map. I soon realize we’ve erred on the cautious side after such slow going, when gauging distance, not daring to assume we could have been gaining decent distance.
The moment I look at the map I know where we were. Exactly where we are. The landscape displayed before me matches the markings on the map like the fingerprints of a criminal to the police file of the respective hand. When Peter returns I shared the good news, to my delight he agrees, we’re no longer lost!
We’re precisely at the end of the road; the place on the map where, back at the Nelson’s house while eating ice cream and looking over the maps for possible routes, we looked at the steep ridge and noted the cliff we sat above would be ‘a tough one to descend.’
And here we are. One look down and it’s obvious the rocky ridge is too dangerous to scale. To make matters worse, no snow patches glisten in the vast range of view. With only minimal water left, we will soon be desperate. Intense heat crept into the already warm, dry day. We note springs on the map and wonder what they will offer. Spring does not translate to water 365 days a year in the desert, if at all.
After a few pieces of crystallized ginger, we set out to find the safest route, or the least dangerous route. Any route would suffice after seeing the terrifying drop off to the valley below. Rock carnes piled at the top of the ridge just a short walk from where we sit lead us in what we hope to be the right direction. A rough trail traverses the loose rocky slope. Inside, we wonder how long it will last. Down to the next ridge and the trail inevitably ends. Some wandering leads us to a wash. I developed an affinity for these washes: they were our passageways through such treacherous terrain earlier, so down we go, in the blindest of faith hoping that again, it’s a good route.
The assumption that it would be just like the portion of mountain we just passed through is direly wrong. Less than a third of the way down the gentle slope turns into sheer cliff drop-offs where water once gushed with great force. It’s a rock climbers dream, but we’re back packers, and had enough cliff scaling at that point to even contemplate attempting any more dangerous moves.
Before the first wall, Peter finds an old, decaying big horn sheep horn. It looks like the bark of a tree in its stage of decomposition. We’re definitely in sheep country, but unlike the sheep we lack the agility and skill necessary to scale the slopes. Not wanting to turn back, after cautious analyzing we decide to turn left and inspect if the possibility to skirt the wash exists. Our prudence pays off and with great patience we begin to pick our way down another mountain of loose rock. Everything is relative, and after seeing the successive drop-offs in the wash after our semi-safe descent, our scree-slope descent doesn’t feel so bad.
The vibrant green foliage against the dry brown and gray of desert sky means one thing and one thing only: WATER. Excited with the possibility of liquid life source, Peter picks and thrashes his way through what he hopes to be the source. Nothing. A little further down, still nothing. How can it be so green and there be no water? I search the area from up high on a ridge and see nothing. We agree to meet further down, because Peter’s too far into the bush to turn back and it makes more sense for him to move forward.
The pipes along the opposite ridge spark my imagination. Can it be from a spring? So old and rusty, I’m sure they’re dry. Peter is nowhere to be seen as I approach the spot. First I hear the gurgle, and then I see the wet, lush ground. It’s water! As if by miracle it flows over the desert floor, cool and clear. I begin to whistle, still no Peter. After what feels like an eternity because I’m excited to share the discovery, Peter appears higher up stream.
Through inaudible yells and hand gestures I realize he, too, has some exciting news to share. He wants me to come up. After sorting through my pack, I reach his spot and hear the powerful flow. It sounds like a lion compared to a meow beside the trickle I found. Water, sweet water, roars and rushes through a trough and forms a heavy stream. Well, maybe it’s more like a gush, but when one is this thirsty and has ingested nothing but smoky, murky melted snow for days, the thought of clear, fresh and cool liquid is elevated to a new level in one’s perceptions.
The trough-like structure gushes with our liquid gold. Like miners staking their claim, the most valuable to the walker in the desert is water and we greedily stake our claim. We struck it rich and inside I felt like dancing around to express my joy. Only my feet are so tired and hot, I’m obsessed with getting my sweaty, smelly hiking boots off and soaking ten tired toes in the cold creek.
Out with the smelly, dirty excuse for water from the Nalgene bottle and in with freshly filtered spring water. Quart after quart we drink like alcoholics binging after being on the wagon for too long. Before we know it, the bursting point is reached, and we both feel bloated, ready to explode.
We soak our feet, rinse our rank shirts, wet our over-heated heads and then load up and begin to make our way to the dirt road. It’s agony even with fresh feet to have over seventy pounds on my back due to the two gallons of water contained in the water bags safely stowed. I realize how fortunate we’ve been, murky water and all, to find the snow to melt along the way. I resent this weight on my back but am grateful not to have to worry for a few days. My feet continue to be the most vocal disapprovers and scream out with searing pain each step of the way.
The unfamiliar sound of an automobile takes time to register after going so long since seeing a road, let alone a vehicle. At least it feels like an eternity. Time in the backcountry allows for the removal of many ordinary things: noise, pollution, and people. Time spent removed from this makes the most ordinary things seem like an intrusion.
The pick up truck approaches, pulling beside and stopping. The friendly older gentleman who drives asks if we need water or anything else. We’re set for the time being and graciously refuse. In a day we hope to get down to Big Pine, to re-supply at the store, and water was definitely not an issue. He bids us farewell and again we set out along the upward slope, taking pleasure along with the pain in that late day sun. The land glows in the soft shades of desert made even more beautiful as the sun dips to the west. After over two hours of this steady pace we stop for a break. When we finally set camp it’s been over seven hours of walking.
When thinking of the day and where it led us, how we set aside any need to know exactly where we were and went by instinct and sense, I realize how much we learnt during this long day. Where the obsidian chips lay heavy on the desert floor is where we want to be. This natural glass has become a sure sign of Native American migration and surely the best route. In the days when they traversed these mountains it was for sustenance, not adventure. They did not have the luxury of ‘side trips’ and day hikes, it was in search of food and the animal trail that pushed them forward.
The beauty of the landscape sets a sense of peace in my inner most being. I feel connected to the terrain, no longer looking ahead, instead remaining in each portion I carry my pack through. Each day is made up of a series of these portions, equaling one unique experience. When I think of the ‘real world’ and its gauge on wealth, the top 100 wealthiest people lists, I cannot help but think the gauge society uses is completely off track.
On this mountain traverse, I believe us to be amongst the richest. Instead of dollars and equity, we have peace and balance, of spirit and mind. We earn this amount through physical exertion and deprivation, both of which only heightens our senses to what is around us; to the experience we pass through each moment, not looking to the future for retrospect and understanding, but feeling the rapture of each passage. My bank account lies in memory and spirit, each bursting with content after only one week.
As the soft morning light reaches the camp I am ready to begin, once again, this desert walk. Ready for the magic the trail, or lack there of, offers.
CAMP NEAR WAUKOBA ROAD
I wake to the sound of Peter’s voice, ‘Where’s the chips? I think a coyote took them.’ I realize two things: a) that we were camping outside, and b) we had food. Though we traveled on roads all day yesterday, it remained difficult because though we were not lost, this vein that guided us also meant we picked up the pace. The result: very sore feet, and a ravenous hunger.
If this re-supply was a dream, it went something like this. We finally get cell phone reception after three days of trying and a call into the Nelson’s. We agree to meet them on the main road twelve miles ahead to bail out and replenish our empty supplies. Our conversation immediately turns to food and we fantasize about all the food we’ll buy down in Big Pine. We’re tempted to go to Bishop and the comforts of their home for the evening but instead agree to stick to the trip and not break the continuity we’ve developed. To be clean and comfortable in the luxuries of a home would surely make a return to the dusty, dirty trail extremely difficult.
But there’s at least four more hours of walking to reach our point of pick up. At 2pm we can’t wait any longer and stop to cook the last of the food supply. The last of our water is boiled to cook the two packets of Raman noodles and small cup of soup. At 25 cents each they’re hardly gourmet, but in the desert they are exquisite. It’s hard to get going but we’re now on a schedule and force ourselves back on the road.
A caravan of jeeps and amped-up Toyota trucks laden with spare wheels, gasoline cans, water and coolers approach on the open dirt road. The first vehicle slows while rolling by, allowing me to take advantage of the rolled-down window to beg for water. The driver looks at me as if to refuse, then says with a sly smile ‘It’ll cost you!’
Most of the guys are from LA, some of them on their 15th annual trip, more adequately described as ‘adventure’. It is an adventure for them and they look to have been out there longer than us, the walkers. The extra water, if only a quart, is greatly appreciated. I’m so busy talking and asking about their ‘adventure’ that I don’t realize the massive line of vehicles waiting. We’re holding them up but this leader of the pack doesn’t seem to be in any kind of rush. When they finally do go, each one waves or smiles as they pass, en route to Papoose.
Two more jeeps pass. They are some old timers and stop to chat. They’re heading to the same destination. We begin to realize why Papoose felt different. Five years ago, Peter and I hiked into Papoose and had the entire area to ourselves. It was magical and we vowed to return. As we approached the special area and our excitement built. Instead, it looked worked-over and is now a destination for many- too many for our liking. The magic we felt previously was gone, worn tired from too many tourists. With all the traffic, we still see arrowhead pieces, albeit broken, on the road.
About 3 miles from the pavement the Nelsons white trooper shines brightly in contrast to the late day shades of desert. It’s well after five and we’re late for the rendezvous. There is always at least a two-hour window of error needed when guessing how long it will take to walk somewhere; sometimes a two-day window.
They drive up the snaking dirt road towards us and we’re so happy to see them. Kathleen shares the epic tale of struggling out of Forgotten Pass in the desert heat when we parted ways days earlier. What was to be a simple drop down to the valley floor was a test of her endurance with no map and a washed out trail. With the help of a hiker, she found the way, parched, to our friend Jeff Putman’s truck. It was a relief she made it out relatively OK.
After pizza, sodas and ice cream in Big Pine, we leave the small town loaded with 3 days of groceries for the Papoose Rd. It’s so tempting to go in for the evening with the Nelsons, to shower and wash clothes, but reluctantly we stick to our plan of keeping the flow, sticking to the trail.
The virtually full moon illuminates the desert while we set camp in a dry gully. Fruits and vegetables are stored in packs, with the hope they won’t freeze, water is laid carefully on the tarp. It feels good to be in the outdoors, back on the trail, to continue our path through the Inyo’s. Though dirty and exhausted, we’re excited to walk a few more days to our food cache, and wherever this trip leads us from there. The silence of the desert sky shares sage wisdom, telling me all is right, all is good, and that we’re home, where we belong.
CAMP ABOVE DEEP SPRINGS
What begins as our most productive day of hiking soon turns into a non-stop slog through pinion pine laden hills. After two hours of pavement it feels good to pass over the ridge into the real wilderness we’ve come to know as the Inyo mountains: that ever-changing landscape with the snowy Sierra rising in and out of view to the west, taunting our thirst. The pavement offers a new bird sighting. If we had a bird book it would be identified as the Horned Lark, its most obvious physical trait seen through our small binoculars.
With sore feet and heavy packs we’re sure to see the turn-off after cresting the last hill of pavement. Instead, we see the salt-laden pool of Deep Springs. We sit in shock, not believing it possible to be as far off-track as we seem to be.
Too tired to walk another step, it’s a unanimous decision to set camp on the lookout. This ridge camp will be our home for the evening, mosquitoes and all. Only the smoke of the fire and impeding cool of evening deter these annoying bugs.
Studying the maps allows few clues as to our exact location. One thing is clear: we’ll have to back track and then try to figure out where our direction turned wrong. After such a taxing day it’s demoralizing to be lost.
With chafing everywhere, scratches and rashes from my dirty, sweaty socks, I feel ready to get out of the mountains. Yet, there’s something inside of me that has to push on. I cannot abort this trip in defeat; cannot end the trip without some feeling of closure.
The need for a rest day is desperate, yet we can’t afford this luxury with little food and water, even after the re-supply. Again, we misjudge the time needed to span the section we’re on. Continuing with the flow of the trip, it’s again a race to the next re-supply. The fatigue we are enduring is a direct result of pushing too much, everyday, yet there’s no choice in this situation.
The time spent moving through the landscape dulls the feelings of frustration. The sage blankets the rolling mountains in the distance and seems symbolic of the wisdom those mountains offer to those patient enough to look; to listen.
7c AT 7AM- GRANDVIEW CAMPGROUND
The white haze my eyes open to is not that of fatigue. The mosquito netting draped over the sleeping bags protected us from the blood-sucking swarm enveloping camp last night. Either it’s too cold, or they slept in, but I can’t hear a single bug at 6am.
After the last of the coffee and cereal, the food supply is again virtually empty. A handful of GORP, three Ramans, an apple and a few ounces of cheese are all that’s left. With over seven hours walking before reaching the food cache, it will be another hunger march.
Peter’s fresh eyes spot a trail below, to the west. Through the fog of fatigue last night, it seemed like at least five miles off track. In reality it’s only a half-mile detour. Through the binoculars I see a road winding up and over the hills above the fainter trail. We’re back in business.
As if punching in for work, the mosquitoes appear en masse at precisely 8am. Sunscreen on my skin acts like pollen to a bee for the vicious bugs. Again, I’m swarmed. Briskly, we walk out of camp, in hopes of leaving the annoying bugs behind.
Summit after summit we scale, weaving our way through the rolling foothills towards the road leading into the higher mountains above. It feels good to move deeper into the landscape that left us baffled last night. We’re no longer lost and it’s liberating. With confidence our northward journey continues.
It takes a two and a half hour break to get going after reaching water cache #2, located at the Sholman Grove turn-off. Content to rest in the shade of a juniper tree after eating the last of the Raman noodles, neither Peter nor I can muster the nerve to move on. The impending five mile road walk to the campground feels like a death sentence in our state of deep fatigue. Our feet are aching after nine days of walking. The brutal hard paved road only adds fuel to the flaming pain after days of off-road walking. After our last instant coffee, loaded with sugar and milk powder that served as a feeble attempt to mask just how bad the brew is, packs are loaded and as lethargic as we are, it’s time to set off, onward and upward.
I’m not sure if it’s the walk to camp or the location of the food stash 6 miles round-trip from camp that dampens our spirits. All anxiety is lost after we begin to walk the quiet road towards White Mountain. A cool breeze makes for ideal walking temperature and the forest beckoned all around. It’s beautiful to walk in the silence of the late day sun, with feet surprisingly fresh and spirits rising. Somehow we know it will all work out: that we’ll get our food, and get to camp in the place we want. Still, we can’t help but feel a twinge of anxiety about the 6 miles to retrieve our food.
And then we meet George and Nadine ‘From Santa Barbara, California’ at the campground. A friendly, retired couple, they look content sitting by the fire in front of their 4X4 diesel pick-up, shining and new, matching RV, modest by American standards, but still a gas guzzling mass in terms of fuel efficiency. When we ask if they could help us by driving us up to the cache, there’s no hesitation, even considering the chicken’s on the BBQ and it’s dinnertime. ‘Now’s a good time’ says George, and up the steep gradient we drive, at break-neck speeds, in the hunt for our precious food stash.
Climbing the rocky ridge to the secret spot, we both feel a sense of apprehension in fear that an animal has discovered our loot. But there it is, just as we’d left it eleven days earlier. Even the water is cool.
Back in the truck with George, we grasp the dash with white knuckled fear as he races back down to camp. We feel badly for rushing him but he seems not to mind. After a quick good by, he disappears into the RV. We make our way to a nice camp spot in the nearly deserted campground and proceed to eat an entire container of gingersnap cookies. So much for moderation.
What the future holds, in terms of this trip, is uncertain. We agree to look over the maps over coffee in the morning and base our decision on whether to continue north or bale after a realistic view of the terrain ahead. Inside, I think we both want to continue. Unfortunately we are now on a timeline that may not allowed us the window to scale the high northern White Mountains of the range.
With tired feet we crawl into the tent, swiftly falling asleep into dreams of mountains past, present and future.
CAMP IN ANCIENT BRISTLECONE PINE FOREST
Fifteen miles later and it’s as if we are on another planet. At almost 11,000 feet it feels like being surrounded by the tundra in the far north. Considering we only felt at noon, it’s a small miracle we’re here. The tent is set up and snow melts on the cook stove in preparation for the large bottles of tea. It’s just us here because the road is closed and we realize the special nature of our presence. For us, that is, it’s like being on the moon.
The wind blows from the west, blowing the tent in soft guts. Tomorrow we’ll find out if we can go any further. Or if snow will send us back south. Whatever the case, at least we’ll know, having taken the chance to see for ourselves, and won’t forever wonder ‘what if…’
CAMP IN BRISTLECONE
Forty-five minutes of frustration produces the best cup of coffee this trip has offered. Peter continues his battle with the MSR cook stove and I ‘m afraid he’s turned to abuse as he curses and shakes the seemingly fragile mechanism. For $100.00 you’d think it would work. When our water source relies on melting snow, it is a bit of a concern the melting source is on the brink. Again, peter dismantles the stove hoping wit will improve, if only a bit, on its 45 minute boil time. It doesn’t help we’re almost at 11,000 feet. Still, this is the lowland compared to what lays ahead.
I’m ashamed to admit the urge to pull out when passing trails and 4×4 roads leading down to the valley below. After making good time yesterday we’re still thirteen miles from White Mountain and the beginning of the cross-country section to Boundary and Montgomary, the last peaks of the range. It’s been a grueling trip in many ways and fatigue weighs heavily on my spirit. However, it’s amazing what a good cup of steaming coffee will do. After half a quart of strong joe I’m finally ready to pack.
Soon we’ll know where this trip leads- back from where we’ve come, or ahead to the unknown. Like nerves before a race there’s a fear driven hope that perhaps it will be cancelled- in this case, there will be too much snow to move on- but like every race, it will go on, and never be as bad as anticipated. At least I hope.
What begins as a continuation of our northward walk turns into a round-trip twenty-mile day of walking. Upon reaching the point of no return, I realize three days is not enough time to complete the traverse in full. Even if it is sufficient, to have such a daunting terrain, completely lacking of trail or road, all within a timeline is asking for trouble. It’s not possible to do a trip like this with the weight of a deadline and we decide to turn south.
The decision to end a trip early is never an easy one, even after twelve days of difficult walking. Peter won’t let me turn back on my own and continue on, at my insistence, knowing it’s not safe to let me head back alone. It’s a fifteen-mile walk back to a possible pick-up, or hitchhike to get to Bishop. This means the end of Peter’s trip as well and I feel so guilty that I am the reason we have to stop.
Slowly, we make our way back. The snow that was so easy to walk over in the mid-morning warmth has turned into a series of frustrating and exhausting post-hole steps.
One such leaves me in tears. I’m sure I’ve blown out my knee. Luckily, it’s only the sharp pain likened to that of hitting the funny bone. Here I am, lying in the snow, rocking back in forth while alternating with howling pain and hysterical laughter. The ice under the snow serves as a reminder of the dangerous path we tread. The reality of calling my coach with the news that I’d be out for months over something as stupid as this type of accident makes me glad we’ve turned back. I’m relieved it’s almost over. The point of strain, mental and physical, is beyond my level of tolerance and my days in the mountains are over. Over when we get out of here.
We move on after I calm down and continue to bust through snow patch after snow patch. After ten minutes my shoes are soaked. My filthy socks make my tired feet itch so much they feel like they are rotting. The itch becomes so uncontrollable, in a panic I rip off my shoes and socks and begin to scratch like a dog covered in fleas. Deep breaths calm me down and after some time the scratching ceases.
A few miles down the road I begin to feel nauseous. Dirty melted snow, fatigue, or perhaps the altitude and exertion cause feelings of impending vomit. I want to curl up in a ball on the ground; close my eyes, and wake up clean down in the valley. I lie down on the dirt road like an animal recently struck by a car, unable to move. With the horizon vertical in the distance I lay there, thinking, in another situation, there was so much beauty to be appreciated, only not here, not now. After fifteen minutes or so Peter convinces me to get up and move. He wants to find water to make some soup, melt some snow to filter for water, relax and then make the decision to move on or stay the night.
While I sleep, Peter melts more snow. Passed out on the grass I think back to earlier that day, when I felt so exhausted and laid on the road. A pitiful chuckle whimpers out of me while wondering what inspires us to push so hard, day after day. Yet, even in that state of nauseous discomfort, I realize we do these trips because they make us feel most alive. The satisfaction of finishing a day, exhausted, then waking up having forgotten the unbearable foot pain and aches that kept me up most of the night, seems nothing short of miraculous or insane. That the body can repair itself, only to become progressively stronger, is motivation enough when I know the feeling of the super-human strength and endurance allow for after such a massive block of exertion.
It would be a total of twenty miles that last day in the mountains. The sun was all but set when we finally found an adequate place to camp, yet there was no longer a rush. We would leave our mountain home, the Inyo/White range, the following morning, and after the 6000-foot descent, be left with the gift of knowing each time we look up, high to the east, what magic the massive range holds.
We knew that we would one day return, to start from the beginning, and reach the end.
