Roads Not Taken

ROADS NOT TAKEN

a long drive through a vast countryside

by The Old Trailmaster

Hard as it is to imagine now, there was a time in this land when roads did not exist, when the great expanse of exposed Earth that lies between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans was wilderness untouched by the activities of humans. Over the course of unimaginable time, people from many regions of the world began migrating to what is now called North America in an unending human quest to explore the unexplored. This adventurous exploration left in its wake pathways of the explorers, and little by little, organized groups of people established towns that were connected by roads.

In this progression of human development by people not unlike ourselves in most respects, history was in the making – just as history is still in the making by you, me, and the societies in which we currently live. The human drama has unfolded for eons, building towns, roads, cultures, and leaving a legacy of rich history, free for the study.

My remembrances of history in school were of a subject that was often dry and uninteresting. Despite a teacher’s valiant attempt to bring it alive, history just somehow seemed so remote to my young mind that it may as well have been some fictional tale heard at storytime. My life and all its problems were what mattered, not what unknown people long ago did. Well, I don’t suffer from that past lack of interest any more. Quite the opposite is true.

The Death Valley territory is so chock full of history that an area enthusiast can not help but learn of it, and all the roads in this National Park allow us to readily visit these times of yore. Roads that once were the major conduits of the era are now the roads not taken by the masses, and are all the more special due to their unpopular status. The adventurous among us can travel these little known byways today and feel as though we are living during a time long ago past. Not much has changed in this land of legend. History is alive and well in the Death Valley backcountry!

As tourist destinations go, Death Valley does not rank among the most prominent or fashionable locales for our culture. Relatively few make the journey to this territory each year. It terrifies most, even though paved roads make travel pretty straightforward. The accurate scope of this land, its geology, and amazing history however, is not fully revealed by traveling the National Park’s relatively limited amount of pavement, and therein lies one of the reasons for popular misinterpretation.

Those of us who seek the backcountry found only on earthen pathways not taken, and who sleep primitively with the land each night, tend to learn considerably more about the region than the majority of tourists in air-conditioned luxury sedans who frequent the fine motel accommodations. Three basic categories may cover it fairly well: 1) those who will never consider a visit, 2) those who will visit the main attractions at least once in luxury, and 3) those who will visit repeatedly all the places that are regarded as inaccessible by the crowds. I undeniably fall into grouping number three. The call of the wild remains strong within.

My primitive outback excursion commenced the morning of Friday, October 27. As is often the case, I left from the abode of the legendary Desert Gypsy of the Mojave high country. A tough old woman of eight decades, she lives in enviable proximity to America’s lowest and hottest spot, so I combine the two activities of visiting mom and then swinging back home by way of Death Valley National Park and the surrounding territory. It’s a great match because my backcountry exploration vehicle (BEV) and I can be fresh and ready to go for several days in the outback after a revitalizing stay at the Gypsy’s grand palace.

Other DV wanderers were scheduled to accompany me during the first two and a half days of this trip, however, as is unfortunately the case so often in these days of hurried society, career needs took precedent over the wilderness sojourn, and I found myself alone once again. Now, so as not to embarrass these fine souls who abandoned my pleasant company in favor of the almighty buck, their names shall not appear in this accounting, but suffice it to say that one of them drives a rig that is a spitting image of my own. She wanted to come, sure enough, but alas, living on DV wilderness time for a few days this year was not in the cards. Oops, too many hints there, I suspect, so I better shut my trap before I reveal any identities. Sorry Nadya. Well, there’s always next year. Death Valley will be around for a little while longer anyway.

All right, that’s plenty of rambling, so I’ll move forward to the trip itself. After all, you’re not reading this to wade through a bunch of scattered thought. It’s time to get on the road not taken. Here comes the stuff of legend.

Fall is a wonderful time of year to find yourself in this National Park. So is the spring, which is the season that I have often trekked here, but snow and mud still can halt one’s progress in the spring at some of the best spots to visit. Basically, by the mid-fall, this territory is essentially dry and pleasantly cool, however, some of the canyons can be tougher to negotiate since rocks washed down from the mountains during summer floods can make canyon roads impassible in places (can you say Hanaupah Canyon?). Hence, no season is perfect, but as I have always maintained, the only certainty about Death Valley is uncertainty, so you learn to take what comes your way, and have alternate route plans when Mother Nature says “no” to where you want to go. This trip, of which I write now, was a Fall frolic.

My hopeful accomplices asked to begin the safari on October twenty-seventh, to make it a long three-day weekend outing for them. Therefore, I set the date in stone. I find that when I put it on my calendar, it gives me a visible countdown timeframe in which to prepare, and helps me focus more clearly on pre-trip preparedness. Two days prior to our planned departure comes the news that they might have to work the first of the three days, so it might end up being a two day affair (with them at least, for I always plan on about a week for myself – if I can find other adventurers with the time, I’ll gladly go even longer). The night before the day to leave comes the news that, sure enough, I’ll be starting out solo for the first day. We agree at a meeting place and time (Furnace Creek, 10:00 AM) for the second day, and I will call to confirm that morning that they are on the road and schedule.

Another Death Valley enthusiast I met online is also scheduled to be in the area five of the same days I am going to be wandering about. Dean Thayer and his party of two rigs, have geared up for some fall adventure of their own. I have their itinerary, and am hopeful to meet them somewhere to say “hi” and visit a spell. Of course, finding someone in a National Park the size of Connecticut is no easy task. Three-point-four million acres is a tremendous amount of ground. So, I’ll use my knowledge of the area’s roads and my mind-boggling navigation sense to pinpoint them within the week sometime … or at least I reckon such things are possible. It is a fun challenge at the very least to find two tiny vehicles in this massive expanse.

BEV is ready to go by Thursday night. For those of you who don’t know yet, BEV is the name of my rig, and stands for Backcountry Exploration Vehicle. I finish up every last morsel of my specialized health foods for breakfast Friday morning because the Desert Gypsy has dietary preferences that do not align with The Old Trailmaster’s, so any food that I don’t eat will get the toss when I leave. By 8:00 AM, I am on the road to yet another high-adventure in the territory I love.

Day One – October 27, Friday

One goal this trip is to visit a few locales to which I have never traveled before, or have not been to in an especially lengthy time. In the Death Valley territory A-Z online chapter, I talk about entrances to DV that are extremes, and two of them are on my agenda this time out. The extreme southern and northern points with roads are a few of the acres of ground that I wish to pass above.

With that in mind, I head northbound on Interstate 15, through Barstow, and then exit at Baker, California, a wide spot in the Mojave Desert that most folks see only as they pass through on their way to Sin City or Lost Angeles. My only reason for stopping here is to fuel my BEV, because the party I am supposed to meet at the Burger King restaurant at 9 AM, as you know, has to w-o-r-k, an atrocious thing to be doing when so much uncharted terrain lay untouched and ready for exploration. I pay the higher fuel prices at this remote self-serve fuel stop (usually the lowest of the stations), reset my odometer to zero, and head north on the two-lane Highway 127 towards the forgotten town of Shoshone.

My modest backcountry exploration vehicle has averaged 22.9 miles per gallon from Apple Valley to Baker, driving at 60 miles per hour. Usually, I set the cruise control at 55, where more favorable mileages are realized, both to save on my pocketbook, and to support my environmental preservation paradigm of minimizing carbon dioxide contaminants in the air we breathe, but being eager to get into my safari mindset, I pushed it by five on the interstate. Later on this trip, I will achieve the encouraging figure of 24.4 miles per gallon at 55 miles per hour. I take our Earth’s health and fuel consumption seriously, as you know from reading other portions of my writings, so I am generally the slowest car on the highway, much to the vexation of 90 mph speedsters.

On Highway 127 this Friday morning, I am passed by many motorhomes (you heard right) pulling trailers with dune buggies and motorcycles, as they travel to Dumont Dunes for a three-day bash with that gigantic pile of sand. Their premise for excitement is predicated on a wholly different foundation than my own. These folks search out their fun in the form of getting massive adrenaline surges while driving around in circles at high speeds, whereas I, on the other hand, unearth my enjoyment exploring the natural world at very low speeds. I know that I will be departing from their route soon, as I exit on a lonely and seldom traveled road that will take me to the southern-most entrance to DVNP.

Harry Wade made a decision over a hundred and fifty years ago that could have ended in tragedy. He tagged along with others to find a shortcut to the gold fields of California near Sutter’s Mill. Rather than taking the longer, but well-established, Old Spanish Trail to the rich Sierra-Nevada mineral deposits, his family attempted a more direct route across Death Valley. Of course, once they realized the hard way that such a route did not exist, reality set in and Harry wisely decided to get out of the Valley before the Valley got him.

Others in the group eventually exited over or around the Panamints, but Harry found a relatively easy path to the south, exiting the southern tip of Death Valley, past Saratoga Spring, and back to the widely-used trail to the south. A memorial sign marks the southern exit on Highway 127 with a concrete and metal sign, where a long and dusty dirt road heads northwest. Twenty-nine miles north of Baker, on the left side of the road, you will find this sign. It begins, “Harry Wade Exit Route.” This is how to really learn history that sticks in the mind.

Mister Wade’s path will now be mine, but I will be driving the opposite direction. A few miles down this easy class-1 road, I turn off on another dirt road to Saratoga Spring. Upon turning right onto this road, I enter the extreme southern vehicle access to Death Valley National Park. This road is also generally class-1, yet it crosses a few very soft sandy washes of silt, so when you drive across, a large plume of fine dust is created behind the vehicle. After about three more miles, this road comes up against the colorfully striated Ibex Hills, necessitating either going right or left. I turn left, drive another mile or so, and park at the end of the road where a sign indicates that I have at last reached the Saratoga Spring. But I can’t see any water.

Under the bright and sunny blue sky, I toss on my old sweat-stained Aussie hat, slide the digital camera into my pocket, and walk over the rise to the spring, passing old rock foundations of a bygone era. As the little pebbles crunch beneath my feet each step, I recall all the history that lived here a few lifetimes ago, and am happy to be visiting. Death Valley is full of human history, and if you read books like Richard Lingenfelter’s, “Death Valley & the Amargosa, A Land of Illusion”, you may well enjoy your visits even more. My experience has demonstrated to me that the older I get, the more I enjoy old things like history … must be an “age thing” that I didn’t really appreciate in my earlier years of exploration. Quite a bit of talc was mined in this southern area of this National Park.

Saratoga Spring is a unique oasis in this dry country, where the Amargosa River surfaces enough to make an inviting destination for animals and people over the years. Way off to the northwest, I can see the Panamint Range, with Telescope Peak on top, and Death Valley proper immediately to the mountains’ east. It’s quiet out here, and if you’re quiet too, there may be feathered and other wildlife to view around the water. Few would imagine that so much water would exist in a land that is thought of as waterless by most people. Of course, who would suspect that Death Valley sits atop one of the largest aquifers in the United States that spans about 40,000 square miles, has been explored to a depth of 400 feet with no end in sight, and is home to the endangered Pup Fish of Devil’s Hole?

There are secrets out here! They forever call my spirit to return and learn more.

After spending time at Saratoga Spring, and opting not to take a swim in this huge pool, I head back to Harry’s road, turn right, and motor northward at 35 miles per hour, across the vast expanse to the east of the Owlshead Mountains, so named due to their shape if viewed from above. The road is easy this trip, the crossing of the Amargosa River is dry this Fall, and I am getting hungry this drive as lunchtime is slowly approaching. Thirty miles from Saratoga Spring, after passing Through Canyon, Granite Canyon, Contact Canyon, and Talc Canyon on my left, the dirt stops at Highway 178, at a remote place called Ashford Junction, southeast of Shoreline Butte and the old Ashford Mill. It’s now noon and I want to eat, but I opt to wait a little longer until I crest Salsberry Pass so that I can dine with a lofty view of the surrounding areas.

If you have read of my other adventures, you know that I eat light in the outback, just enough to fuel my body’s energy needs, and not so much as to require numerous human excretion rituals that necessitate sitting down. It’s just easier that way because I am not one who usually uses campgrounds with such facilities. I do have a portable toilet onboard, but it is rarely used because I find enough public bathrooms even out in the Death Valley territory to meet my needs most of the time.

So, atop Salsberry Pass, I consume my standard vegetable juice and health food bar before heading on my way. Salsberry Pass, along with Salsberry Peak and all other things Salsberry, were named after a man named, you guessed it, Salsberry. Jack was a very wealthy developer and promoter who wandered these parts making more money with other people’s money as he sought riches from what the Greenwater Valley had to offer, which actually was not much. The copper rush was a bust from the word “go” and left many penniless. He also speculated in Leadfield with Charles Julian, and then in the Ubehebe ventures.

Just before the Dublin Hills on the right in the valley below the pass, I point my tires left, and begin a northward trek on a wide class-1 dirt road into the Greenwater Valley. The Park Service has a small street sign at this intersection that reads, “Furnace Creek Road” but I always refer to it as the Greenwater Valley road. At a point about ten miles north of Highway 178, the dirt road narrows considerably and comes to two forks. The first heads northeast over Deadman Pass, and is a relatively easy class-2 road with a few washes to cross here and there. Progress on the Deadman Pass road is restricted to about 20 miles per hour if you want to avoid any nasty surprises from hitting a ditch or wash at thirty-five. I have driven this road several times in past years, but today my route takes me just beyond its entrance about half a mile to the Gold Valley road that exits to the west.

I have never been in Gold Valley before, and even though there is no through route that will allow me to travel on from there, I want to see and experience its remote solitude. This road is mostly class-2, with some class-3 along the way to keep things interesting as I climb up to the pass. The valley comes into view here, and not much farther on, a road cuts off to the left. Either one can be taken, as they make a loop. In other words, it’s pretty hard to get lost in Gold Valley even though it’s fairly expansive because there is only one way in and out, and the roads will eventually take you back to whence you began. Of course, someone without a map would not know this, and perhaps agonize unduly over which fork to take (better get Tom’s map).

Approximately 14 miles from the Greenwater Valley road, I can drive no farther, the road making a cul-de-sac at the densely wooded Willow Spring. Seems like all those old prospectors loved the sound of Willow Spring because you will find springs with that name all over the Death Valley territory. If you enjoy hiking through dense foliage and don’t mind getting all scratched up, continue on foot from the road’s end, on down Willow Creek, through the Black Mountains, and into Death Valley. I would not advise this hike because of falls in the canyon that can be somewhat hazardous. I love to hike, but not through long stretches of overgrowth. Willow Spring exits these mountains near a place called Mormon Point, far away in the parched valley below.

Originally, I had thought about making my first night’s camp here in Gold Valley somewhere, which would have been a good plan because of its isolation and beauty. I do find one sideroad that heads up another small canyon on the south side of Gold Valley. It is very intriguing, and calls me to explore it, so I do. The class-2 road enters into a cozy little bowl surrounded by small cliffs on all sides, and there it appears to end. On the west side of this hidden spot is what looks like a continuation of the road, but it degrades immediately to class-3 or maybe class-4 from what I could see at my vantage point. It heads up a steep incline between a large slab of sharp rock on each side, barely wide enough for my BEV, and then it mysteriously and sharply turns to the left in a very tight-walled space and heads south to some unknown destination … probably an old mine. It is now mid-afternoon though, and certain things occupy my mind that cause me to put this mystery on the backburner for another trip.

If my companions actually make it out to this area tomorrow as they hope, by staying here and exploring more I will not be in a suitable location to easily make contact with them at the designated time tomorrow. I like to explore leisurely and not be pressed by time commitments (wilderness time) and I want to be close enough to the designated meeting spot so that I can sleep late if desired and take my time in the morning. Not only that, but Dean Thayer’s group is also scheduled to be heading up Echo Canyon tomorrow morning, so, with any luck, I can meet everyone before lunch on Saturday! Reluctantly, I resist my urge to press on up this little inviting road, and maneuver my rig around to head back out to the main road. Actually, it’s always a neat thing to leave a few unknowns out here each trip so that there are little tugs and pulls on my wild side to return at a later date to learn the rest of the story.

Up to the low pass that leaves Gold Valley I now travel, and down the other side to the Greenwater Valley, clearly in my sight again, about eight miles ahead. On the way down the road, in a tight sandwash bend, I meet a couple of fellows in a dune buggy, loaded to the gills with gear strapped on top, followed by their pals in another BEV. I pull up onto the hillside slightly to let them pass, we exchange waves, and they proceed on, appearing that they might be spending the night in Gold Valley somewhere, based on the sheer amount of gear strapped to their rigs. At this point, I feel better about moving on, for I often enjoy the solitude of camping alone in remote areas. Although, meeting new friends around a camp is also pleasurable.

Northward as I drive up the Greenwater Valley, I pass Funeral Peak, rising 6,384 feet in elevation, and then the old sites of former copper mining towns … well, they were supposedly mining copper, but that is another story for you history buffs. First Greenwater, then Kunze, and finally Furnace. Northwest of Furnace, Coffin Peak pierces the blue sky, rising 5,503 feet above sea level. Just to the north and slightly west of Coffin is Dante’s View, at 5,475 feet. Normal people in normal automobiles can drive up there on its paved roadway to glimpse what the average visitor will see as the most spectacular view of Death Valley – it is awesome, to be sure.

The other views, which are equally good or better, are all attained by driving on dirt roads, so not accessed by most of the public. They include Aguereberry Point, Chloride Cliff, and Mahogany Flat. Aguereberry Point eclipses Dante’s View by an additional 958 feet, and Mahogany Flat exceeds it by a spectacular 2,658 feet. See the value of a backcountry exploration vehicle? And, if you are a hiker, then of course, Telescope Peak is the epitome of high views, topping out at 11,133 feet above Badwater Basin in Death Valley below, and exceeding Dante’s View by a staggering 5,574 feet!

Now, just out of the north end of Greenwater Valley, I am back on pavement (what a bummer), and my next goal is to explore the Hole in the Wall road, which two years ago had been so washed out where it left Highway 190 as to be unfindable (is that a word?). I could see the massive split in the rock way over there six miles in the distance, but short of cutting my own trail across the wash, and perhaps violating the Park rules and regulations, getting there was not going to happen. This year however, enough vehicles had traveled the route and the Park Service had done some work on it, that tracks, and a new sign, are clearly visible, so I turn eastward into the Funeral Mountains with the “Hole” in my sights. Back on a class-2 dirt road, I am again happy, my BEV is happy, and Tumbleweed is happy.

Tumbleweed? Who is that? Well, he is a tiny, but quite overweight, little teddy bear who accompanies me on my expeditions into the wilds, and he sits in a small flexible container that is strapped to my dashboard (meant to hold glasses or a cell phone, but teddy bears are more important of course). He went with me to the top of Telescope Peak on another safari, but because I carried him in my backpack, he received little, if any, caloric and cardiovascular benefit from traversing the fourteen miles, so his weight management issues continue to exist.

Nearly six miles to the massive split called the Hole, this road is pretty easy for most any BEV with high clearance and four wheel drive. Once at the gigantic split, I continue on, figuring that I can take a photo on the way out. The potential is high that I will locate a nice place to camp up-canyon from the gigantic slice in the rocks, and spend the night in here somewhere. As the road continues, it deteriorates slightly to a rougher class-2, or possibly an easy class-3 in places. Eventually, the road ends in the vicinity of the Red Amphitheater, which, as you might imagine, looks like what the name implies.

Finally, I come to where the Park Service has placed signs designating the area behind as a wilderness zone, meaning no mechanized traffic of any kind. Here, another road snakes due north at 90 degrees over an inviting rise. It is not shown on my Tom Harrison map (the best DV map) or the AAA map, so I wonder if it is still a legal drive-way or not. Well, it is clearly established and old, so I figure that if it were in the wilderness area, the NPS would have signed it also, or placed a barrier across it. I decide to go have a look-see.

Hole in the Wall road is fairly popular due to its easy access from Furnace Creek, the Park’s number one destination, so tons of people with BEVs come up here on a regular basis. One of the last things I want to do is set camp near a road that has potential for traffic, so I think that perhaps this side road might provide a secluded alcove to pitch camp. As I top the steep rise, about a hundred yards from the turn, it becomes obvious that the road is getting quite questionable as to whether it can be safely negotiated any farther. It develops into a shelf road, and branches, with the left fork heading down and across a deep gully that appears to be badly washed out and treacherous, while the right fork heads up higher on the hillside on ground that presents tough class-3 and some class-4 obstacles. After a switchback, it gets even worse, but it still looks drivable to me if I am real careful, so I decide to walk it a ways and see if I think suitable camping is a possibility. Fifteen minutes later, after climbing ever higher on foot, it is clear to me that no one else will be coming up here this late in the day, primarily because there are no fresh tire tracks on this old road, so solitude will probably be assured.

Yet, as I check out the surroundings, it seems somewhat inhospitable in appearance, looking like I am on a lifeless moonscape, and I know that there is more inviting camping not far north in Echo Canyon because I have camped there before. Not only that, but if I camp in Echo Canyon, I will already be in the very canyon that Thayer’s group will be ascending tomorrow morning, thereby making it more possible that we might meet in the tight confines of the canyon. Like I said earlier, finding someone out here in this country is not an easy task, so anytime you can eliminate variables, you increase your chances. All things considered, I opt to head on back down the road and camp in Echo.

The sun is making great views at the Hole in the Wall as I drive out, so I stop the BEV, get out my digital camera, and hike back up the road a bit to capture the colossal scale of the walls compared to the miniscule vehicle. I don’t take long however, because I want to set camp somewhere in Echo Canyon while it is still light and warm enough to do all that campers have to do each evening. I prefer not to get caught after dark in the cold while pitching camp and eating.

Less than three miles farther north on Highway 190, I easily find the sign for Echo Canyon, with its cute little iconic depiction of the legendary military 4×4 vehicle on the painted metal. This means that folks with standard sedans should stay out, and it is indeed true due to the high center of the road and the deep gravel and sand found on this road that would stick a normal passenger car up to its underbody. To get to this backroad, I have just passed Zabriskie Point and Twenty Mule Team Canyon, both popular tourist attractions that don’t require a specialized vehicle.

Echo Canyon is a very popular and fun backroad for adventurers with four wheel drive vehicles, and you’ll usually see others on the road. It requires care when negotiating the tight canyon turns, since the rock walls are high and the curves are blind to oncoming rigs. I generally put my BEV in 4HI through here since it is safest go proceed slowly, yet by doing so, the rig tends to wander in the deep gravel, and might have difficulty in 2 wheel drive.

On the way up the canyon, I see some folks in an older Suburban who have pulled off up a side wash to camp for the night. Not being one who prefers to camp right off a road with traffic, I continue east up the canyon, past the incredible Inyo Mine ruins, and to the end of the road where the Park Service has signed further travel illegal to protect ancient petroglyphs farther up the tight canyon. Here, as once in the past, I set camp for the night, as the sun is setting and I know it will be getting chilly fairly soon.

Charles Schwab, former President of U.S. Steel, invested heavily in these parts of the Funeral Mountains in the early part of the twentieth century. This area was mined for gold on and off up to around the early 1940s, and was profitable to varying extents. There is likely still gold here, but of course, extracting it is no longer allowed. Even if it were, all the easily mined gold has already been removed, so this is yet another of those Death Valley legendary locales. The Inyo Mine ghost camp is well preserved and easy to access, which makes it a favorite place for modern day explorers and historians.

The truck serves also as my tent, which makes things easier each evening. I just fold down my passenger-side rear seat, slide the passenger seat forward a foot, put my backpack on the driver’s side, and place my single-person air mattress in the space. On top of that, I spread out my down-filled mummy bag and I’m good to go (to sleep, that is). It takes less time than to pitch a tent for sure, and in the morning, I don’t have to worry about dampness on a tent, and putting it away in a condition that could lead to mold and mildew. I once had a very expensive three-season tent ruined by mildew, which tends to never come out, so I know the consequences. Basically, by sleeping like this, breaking down the arrangement the next morning is quick and easy. Nothing is dirty or damp, and it doesn’t require any thought. Plus, I am safely secure from any potential predators of any kind, whether they be scorpions, rattlers, mountain lions, or dangerous humans.

I have screens for the side windows that are held in place with magnets that I can put on during a hot night, but this time of year, the weather is definitely cold at night, so I just crack the windows to keep a minimal air flow going, thereby reducing condensation build-up during the night from my breath. I have those tinted plastic rain shields on each of my four windows, so if it rains at night, none will come in my window that is down about an inch and a half. They also serve to keep out most flying insects, since it would require a bug to make an “S” shape flight to access the interior. I don’t use the screens unless I open the windows wider.

For dinner, simplicity again describes my routine. Out comes the three ounces of tuna in those camping-convenient pouches, a rye and oat flatbread on which to spread the tuna, and another vegetable juice. For dessert, I mix a few raisins and almonds. Not your average camping cuisine, I suppose, but those who know me know that what goes in my body is determined by how it will affect my longevity and health. Not only that, but eating like this makes clean-up a snap, and minimizes trash disposal needs. Everything must be packed out.

Camping here at the end of the road, I am not disturbed by any passing vehicles, especially since most folks who come up Echo Canyon do so to see the remarkably intact Inyo Mine complex, about a mile west of the road’s end. I like this little spot. The stars are numerous here, and it feels very private. Noise does not exist, and even the dreaded Las Vegas light pollution doesn’t seem to affect this secluded canyon. The sleep is long and restful.

Day Two – October 28, Saturday

Waking early the next morning, as the mountain outside my window begins to fill with sun-warming detail, I realize that when on wilderness time, I become in tune with nature’s timetable. I go to sleep shortly after sunset, and arise shortly before sunrise. No alarms out here are needed. Sleep when it’s dark, be active when it’s light. That works out to nearly twelve hours of rest, so when the morning comes, I am ready and willing to get up and prepare for the next day’s worth of exploring the outback. For breakfast, I eat a bowl (or maybe two) of oat and raisin granola, and have eight ounces of vanilla soymilk from one of those small plastic/cardboard-type containers. And even out here in the middle of nowhere, I still floss and brush after every meal. Yeah, yeah, I know I’m over the edge with health habits, but at least I don’t worry about any grunge growing in my mouth as the days roll by without a shower.

Following a leisurely awakening and breaking of camp, I slowly head back on down Echo Canyon, past the Inyo Mine, past the cutoff to the very challenging Echo Pass (expert drivers recommended), and westward into the fascinating narrows of the canyon. The narrows of all these canyons out here are my favorite parts. I love being enclosed within the high towering walls of stone, with only the width of the road as my space through which to pass. In here is the Eye of the Needle, a natural rock formation that looks like a needle’s eye, with the large end at the bottom. The opening is about fifteen feet high, and if you are here when the sun is low on either horizon, some great photographs can be snapped through the Eye.

As I head west on the dirt road towards the pavement, I wonder if I’ll meet the Thayer group heading up canyon. The folks in the Suburban from last night are still parked in the same spot near the entrance to the tight canyon, and farther down the wash after the canyon opens up to the alluvial fan, is parked another rig with a camper shell that wasn’t there last evening on my way in.

Once at Highway 190, I turn south to drive a mile and check to see if Dean may be at Zabriskie Point, which was where he originally planned to go just prior to Echo Canyon. I figure that I did not miss him in the canyon since I had camped there and arisen early, so if his group wasn’t at Zabriskie, then they still must be around Furnace Creek where they had planned to camp. Of course, I don’t even know if their plans changed at the last minute. For all I know, they may not even be out here. Just the same, it gives an added dimension of adventure to my wanderings knowing that perhaps I might meet up with them. What would the chances be of that?

The petroleum industry provides petrol for my BEV at Furnace Creek, and then I drive to the Visitor’s Center to purchase my new National Parks Pass. By the way, this year the photo on the plastic card is of some Death Valley sand dunes (probably the ones at Stovepipe Wells, even though they are not the most majestic), so it is worth the fifty bucks to get one just for that. With this card, I can visit any National Park unlimited times during the year period. For me, it certainly is worth the investment.

My fuel mileage figure from Baker to Furnace Creek is 15.8 miles per gallon, and considering that it is a high percentage of dirt backroads over hill and dale that require four wheel drive here and there, that’s not too shabby. I have learned from my initial trip into Death Valley with this vehicle that around 16 miles per gallon is a reliable figure for general off-roading (by off-roading, I mean off pavement). That number can dip to around 15 if I end up using the low-range of the transfer case more, which still is far superior to Old Red or a couple of other BEVs that I previously had over the years.

It is now mid-morning, not long before Nadya, her daughter Leah, and friend Scott are supposed to meet me here at the main gate to the Inn. So, I get on the telephone to learn of their hopeful progress towards my location, anticipating a fun couple of days with company. The phone rings three times, and then with the answering of “hello” I know my hopes are dashed. Ever wake someone up with your call? Someone who was dead to the world in deep slumber? Well, I just did, so I now know I am not going to have any traveling friends today. Work load is heavy, and necessitates a full weekend of additional preparation for Monday’s demands, thus backroad “play” has to wait until some future time. All right, I know how things sometimes work out, so I begin mentally remapping my itinerary for destinations that I want to see, with no further alterations taking into account what others want to visit.

My route for them was planned for sights that they had not seen, but places that I have visited many times, and I am now free to make amendments to the schedule. I love the places they wanted to go, so much so that I am genuinely willing to take them there … places like The Racetrack, Teakettle Junction, Hidden Valley, White Top Mountain, Lost Burro Mine, Hunter Mountain, and the Lippencott Road. But now however, I decide to travel to locales that I have not visited in a long while. I am on my own, having struck out with two separate groups, so south I head to the West Side Road and the eastern Panamints.

Having hiked to the top of Telescope Peak a prior year, I would like to get as close to it as I can from the east, so that I can see what it looks like from just below. This means Hanaupah Canyon, an easy drive to the eastern base of the peak, or so I think. It is now day two, my first full day in the Death Valley territory this trip. My thoughts are that camping tonight in the eastern Panamint Range is a distinct possibility, yet I know that all things out here are flexible and nothing is certain until it actually happens. Who knows what lies ahead? Clearly not me. It seems fairly straight forward though: a leisurely and easy drive up the canyon to a nice camping spot, and then some hiking around the area until dinner time. No rush – easy mileage to do in the time given, even with seeing sights along the way.

South on the paved Badwater road (Highway 178) I drive, past Golden Canyon on the left, an excellent place to hike through to get to Zabriskie Point to the east. Neat things to see like the Red Cathedral pull people of all types in here to hike the easy wash hike. Having done it before though, I opt to drive on by, observing the parking lot to be nearly full already of cars belonging to folks who are undoubtedly getting some memorable morning photos of the spectacular scenery. I pass also the exit to Artist’s Drive, and begin to slow slightly as my road to the west is coming up shortly on the right.

My road is dirt. My road crosses salt. My road is less inviting to the throngs of tourists who are combing every paved curiosity out here. My road is not taken by most. That, my friend, is what it’s all about for me … pursuing the road not taken whenever possible, or as they said in the TV series Star Trek, “going where no man has gone before.” Of course, others have certainly gone here before me, but, due to the few that do, it always seems like I’m the only one who dares to follow this path. The pioneer mindset is important to me, to go where crowds do not tread.

This road was originally roughed-in by the developers of Chloride City way back when. Later, once William Coleman started his pursuit of riches with the borax deposits north of Furnace Creek at Harmony Borax Works, he hired car loads of Chinese laborers to take sledge hammers to the cracked salt flats and flatten the road to a higher standard so that his eventually-famous twenty mule team rigs could more easily traverse the area through the heart of Death Valley on their 165 mile haul into the town of Mojave. This portion of the famous road is now called the West Side Road, and can be driven in dry weather by standard automobiles since it is class-1 all the way. There are things to see out here too!

As an aside, there were only eighteen mules, not twenty. The two animals that were hitched the closest to the huge borax wagons were actually large and powerful horses. But, it would be somewhat awkward and less popular to have called it an eighteen mule and two horse team, right? Okay, you can read more and learn why they used horses in any history book about these massive freighters, one of the best being, “20 Team Days in Death Valley” by Harold O. Weight. Onward …

A couple of miles off the pavement, the first thing one notices is the imminent crossing of the Devil’s Golf Course ahead. Well, I just have to stop and try to capture the popular perspective of this area by putting my camera down on the grossly distorted salt contortions to get the salt in the immediate foreground with Telescope Peak and the Panamint Range in the background. Of course, this is best done when the sun is low, and when snow is capping the Panamints, but today, I have different conditions. The sun is overhead and the only white precipitant on the Panamints is a rather smallish patch on the 11,049 foot peak itself (looks small from down here, but not if you’re up there hiking across it). I snap a couple of shots, and even decide to document me standing here with my BEV, so that no one will ever think that I fictionally concoct all these stories. Digital cameras, with their large depth-of-field focus, are great for getting self-portraits when no tripod is available.

Continuing south on the West Side Road, my sights to see also include Tule Spring, Shortie’s Well, the Eagle Borax Works, and the Harris-Dayton gravesite, where two old prospecting buddies were buried side by side, literally in the land they loved. By golly, if salt preserves things, then these guys must be nearly as fresh today as they were then. If you are a aficionado of area history, as I attempt to be, visiting these places actually has meaning and causes you to stop and consider how life was back then. Out here, many folks are most taken by the remarkable geology, while others appreciate the geology and what happened amidst the geology, from ten thousand years ago, when the first settlers lived here (ancestors of the Timbisha Shoshone tribe that still have right to land at Furnace Creek), to the mid-nineteenth century when the wealth-seeking “forty-niners” began laying claim to the land, to the modern day when scientists, tourists, explorers, and adventure seekers make temporary haven in the region to enrich their personal lives.

At each of these remote attractions, the NPS has erected signage that gives a little information of what happened, and this is most notably so at the Eagle Borax Works, where Isadore Daunet got the drop on Coleman’s Harmony enterprise, making good money initially with his small operation. Once the big boys got involved though, things got tougher (as if they weren’t tough enough attempting to work the borax from the ground on Death Valley’s floor – no way in Summer).  Sadly, Isadore’s outlook changed for the worse when money began to dwindle and his female companion bid him goodbye, and he eventually decided it was time to stop existing as a functioning human, bringing to an end not only his life, but also his role in Death Valley’s history.

It is late morning, and time to begin my ascent of the huge alluvial fan that has its origin high in Hanaupah Canyon. Turning west off the West Side Road, the Hanaupah road is class-2 and pretty easy going, albeit rocky and bumpy in places. The elevation gain seems minimal as I am driving towards the canyon mouth, but glancing back over my shoulder, it becomes quite obvious that the salt pan of Badwater Basin is dropping away in vertical feet quite rapidly. It’s a steady climb that takes its toll in fuel economy, and along with the eventual four wheeling required farther up the canyon, brings mileage figures down from the twenties.

History tells us that this road was built by the hand of Shorty Borden, who also dug the well near what is now known as the West Side Road. This Shorty is a different man than Shorty Harris who is buried next to Mr. Dayton not far up the road. Mr. Borden, whose first name was actually Alexander, reportedly built the nine miles of this roadbed with the help of his two burros and simple hand tools. Six months, spanning portions of 1932-33, were required for Shorty to complete this daunting Herculean task. His silver find up the canyon was his motivation for the road building. Observing the thousands of rocks strewn everywhere, it is a wonder to me that Shorty completed the task.

Four miles or so up the fan, the road disappears from view as it plunges down a steep embankment into the canyon proper. Still in good condition, the road meanders across the wide wash below and sneaks into the well-defined confines of the Hanaupah drainage. The best camping is likely be near the base of where the road drops down the hill, prior to getting into the tighter canyon.

The reason for this becomes fairly obvious a mile or so farther on, as the wash becomes littered with rocks everywhere, including all over the road. There are more rocks up this canyon than you would probably care to ever see … little ones, medium ones, and big ones, along with a very fine selection of gigantic ones that defy your rig’s progress. I had originally thought about camping up the canyon this evening, but as I proceed upward and westward, that option begins to ebb from my mind. Perhaps there is a nice spot near the end of the road at the base of Telescope Peak, I hope.

It is clear that late summer floodwaters have moved significant and sizable stones down from above. I am now in four wheel drive, and eventually come to a spot that necessitates I shift into four-low. When even 4LO fails to get me over a sand and rock barrier in the roadway that the waters have formed, I have to engage the locking rear differential before my BEV successfully eases over the crest. Happy with that achievement, it is only moments until I realize that the obstacle is only the first of many, as I look ahead to see that the “road” is now making its way across one endless rock field, and in quite a few spots, it is exceptionally difficult to even tell where the tracks of prior vehicles have been. Only by careful scrutiny am I able to determine the trivial difference between the undriven rockbed and the area where tires have slightly depressed the rocks. It is like driving through a maze, attempting to make progress without damaging the underside of the truck, or cracking the expensive alloy wheels against boulders that line the road.

Fortunately, earlier this year I installed a complete set of 3/16ths inch steel skidplates under the BEV just for this very sort of nasty roadbed. The steel came from Jim Shrake’s Texas company, ShrockWorks. I had pretty much ruined the factory skidplate under the fuel tank on one of my trips up Goler Canyon a previous year. Traveling between 2-5 miles per hour now, I can hear the rocks sliding against the armor underneath, but I know I’ll be all right. One sizable boulder puts a nice crease on the leading edge of my front skidplate that protects the front differential and axle, but does no damage to the truck itself. A little black spray paint when I got home and it will be just fine.

The relentless sun is directly overhead as I literally inch my way onward and upward, and I become conscious of the fact that I am getting hot and hungry. Gee, I am hardly moving forward at all, so I figure why don’t I just stop and eat something? The only shade is over at the side of the mountain to my left, and while it is a mere 40 yards more or less, it may as well be a half mile, because it would be a nightmare to even attempt to drive it. I ponder walking over there, but even that thought is rejected by my logic. So, I stop right in the middle of what is posing as a road (no one around for miles, so I don’t need to worry about blocking traffic), get out a few morsels of my health food grub, go to the rear of the truck in the only shade I can conveniently find, and begin to replace all the calories that I have burned driving up here and thinking how to best maneuver the rig. Oh yeah, I also take (or leave, as the case may be) a pee (funny how no one ever writes about that kind of stuff) – had to find a rock that wouldn’t cause backsplash on my boots.

Eating lunch, I think about whether I should just turn around now or keep going. Looking down the canyon to the lowlands from which I have come, it seems a shame to trek so far to give up now just because of the rocks. After all, I am out here to explore, and exploring I am, and I generally am not one who terminates an exploration once begun. Therefore, I reinforce my determination to forge on after I brush my teeth. My driver’s seat is now dry and aired-out from the rigorous trek so far, having been in the direct sunlight during my dining, so I buckle up, start up, and head up Hanaupah.

Well folks, it turns out that this is not my day for reaching the traditional end of this road, primarily because there is no longer a road at all. Not more than another mile after lunch, as the boulders increase their unrelenting multiplication of numbers in my path, the front of the BEV is at a drop-off that requires me to get out and analyze the situation.

I am still on the rocks that others before me had used to drive, as evidenced by the only faint tracks in the pure-rock wash (no sand now), but no matter which direction I look, there is no obvious continuation of travel from other vehicles … period! Water has cut a deep swatch since the last adventurer has driven in here, totally destroying any evidence of which way to go. The canyon walls make it obvious where I want to go, and one can certainly not get lost, but further travel at this point is most clearly not worth the massive and tiring effort needed. Heck, to get even another quarter mile would likely take a good half hour, while risking damage to the rig. I finally have reached a point where I surrender my aspirations to reach the end, so I do what most others would have done two miles ago … I turn around.

Not much room to get turned around though – even doing this simple maneuver necessitates dragging the underside across several rocks. I have seen and driven enough rocks for today. I am out of here! The reality of it is that there is no single obstacle in the entire drive up Hanaupah Canyon that requires highly technical tactics to circumvent, no dangerous impediment that will scare a veteran backroad driver, and not a single thing that will absolutely halt forward motion. This is just a simple case of a never-ending sea of rocky waves that make driving so miserable that I opt to head off for other locales that I can have a heck of a lot more fun exploring! Knowing the rocky nature of this canyon, I have the utmost respect for what Alexander “Shorty” Borden did here over 70 years ago. Who today would even consider such an undertaking?

I am very glad to get back to the comparatively smooth West Side Road on the salt pan. As I effortlessly drive north towards the Devil’s Golf Course, my mind contemplates a suitable destination for Saturday night’s camp, for once I figure that out, I can determine where else I might visit on the way, and how long I can stay at those places. I decide not to head up anymore canyons on the eastern flank of the Panamints, figuring that both Johnson and Trail Canyons stand a good chance of similar conditions to Hanaupah once I got in far enough, and so I don’t want to spend the time to find out because it would require several hours more to determine this, and I might miss out on a great overnight location that is not so inhospitable. I have read in Roger Mitchell’s book, Death Valley SUV Trails, that Monarch Spring near Chloride City has some fabulous areas for camping, so that becomes my new plan for night two.

On the way, I drive the paved Artist’s Drive that every tourist who ever comes to DV explores in their sedan. It is a highly recommended side trip that anyone can do, on a narrow and curvy road of nine miles. If you enjoy driving your car in tight little canyons, you’ll like this easy paved drive. The colors in the cliffs are vibrant, especially later in the day. From there I stop at fuel my rig again in Furnace Creek (second time in the same day) even though I have only driven 69.4 miles on my Hanaupah Canyon trek. Out here, one learns to fuel often, for walking back from anywhere if you run out of petrol can be your demise.

Next comes the Keane Wonder Mine, north of Furnace Creek on the Beatty cutoff road. Jack Keane was a hot-tempered man who did quite well financially with his mining efforts here, but, as is often the case with those who experience difficulty controlling anger, he paid the price for his violence. There was an ingenious tram system at this mine, where the empty ore buckets were pulled back to the top of the long and steep tramway by the full buckets coming down. It was an all-gravity affair that required no power source to make it work. High above the Keane is Chloride Cliff.

Through Hell’s Gate I drive, with nary a worry about anything satanic occurring to me, because I am, after all, heading east out of the “hell” of Death Valley and still on pavement. I suppose the name came from the idea that proceeding west into Death Valley from there was like going to hell, heat wise, that is.

Three-point-four miles east of this escape from the underworld, is a little two-track dirt road on the right that is very easy to miss if you’re not going slowly. All that is here is a National Park Service sign that indicates four wheel drive advisable, but they fail to place on the sign where the road goes. Some unknown person, though, took a black marker pen and in small letters, wrote, “Chloride City” so that those without maps can figure it out. I turn south off the pavement here, feeling happy to be on dirt once again.

This road is an absolute blast to drive! I certainly recommend this entire area into which I am entering for anyone or group that loves to explore fairly easy 4wd backroads. There are small hills everywhere, and the road winds in between them. It is class-2, the road is soft (no rocks to speak of), and much of it can be driven in two wheel drive. The road goes up over small hills, around corners, and keeps you wondering what’s coming next. Recalling Hanaupah Canyon, I rejoice in the thought that I am again having fun out here. It is a steady climb upward the entire way, but not so dramatic that I even realize the extent of the elevation gain. This road eventually exits this corner of DVNP when it heads out into the Amargosa Desert of Nevada, but today I will not be going there. I know that somewhere in this delightful maze of hills, gullies, and canyons I will be finding the perfect camping location. If backroad exploring can ever be described as “cozy”, then this area is it. You’ll want to come in here!

The afternoon presses on, but it is still early enough that I do not worry about any time crunch. The weather is perfect. I pass a older married couple who have set up an early camp in their pickup truck with full-size camper on back. They are comfortably seated on their camp chairs next to the rig, reading books in the warm afternoon sun. We exchange waves, as I slowly motor by so as not to raise any dust in their direction.

A little more than two miles from the pavement, the road reaches its first of many forks. I have been wanting to explore this first fork for quite some time, having read various accounts of what is about a mile down it. So, I turn right on another very enjoyable class-2 road. I have the BEV in 4HI just to make all the little hills and turns easier, but one can do it in 2HI also. My destination right now is Monarch Spring, and as I proceed westward on this dead-end road, my interest begins to grow by leaps and bounds!

Cliff walls grow ever higher and tighter, a sure sign that water is at work in here during certain weather events … I am glad there are no clouds in today’s sky. One of my favorite types of terrain to explore, whether driving or hiking, is tight canyons with high walls. Basically, on the road to Monarch Spring, there is enough room for the road between the huge rock faces. Turns are tight and fun, and mystery is at a high point. You’ll really like coming in here too! It’s called Monarch Canyon.

I just always seem to sense when I am in an area that I really enjoy scouting. Certain regions of the Death Valley territory call to me more strongly than others, and the Chloride City/Monarch Spring vicinity is one of them. Others include places like Hunter Mountain, Echo Canyon,  Dedeckera Canyon, Pleasant Canyon, Butte Valley, Gold Valley, Mahogany Flat, Mosaic Canyon, Telephone Canyon, Red Pass, White Top Mountain, Lippencott Road, The Racetrack, and Steel Pass. There are more of course, but that is a start. Even the other places not on my “favorites” list make for some high adventure and great memories. There is a lifetime of exploration out here, to be sure!

Back to Monarch Canyon. The road comes to a spot where it widens and seems to end, and here I park, get out and walk around to see what’s up (or down, as the case turns out to be). This must be the place that is popular for camping, for it is surrounded by high cliffs, on soft sand, and has enough room for a small group to set camp for a night. Just ahead of my rig about twenty feet is a rock ledge, and as I walk over to it, I see that it is a long way to the bottom, perhaps a couple of stories to the wash below. It is a dry waterfall, and is not the type of thing that you can even climb down. It is clear that the water cascades over this fall, and would be spectacular to watch, but it is doubtful anyone has ever seen it happen. If you were in here during such a waterful event, you would likely not live to tell about it. This area is now in the shade because the high walls are blocking the sun’s afternoon rays.

Immediately to the left (south) of the dryfall, is what appears to be a continuation of the road I have been following, but as it crests a small rocky rise of about four feet, it deteriorates considerably. Wondering if it is okay to travel farther on the road, or if this is the end of what the Park Service allows for legal travel, I walk up and over the top. Sure enough, the road continues on down, very steep sidehill, to the wash below, towards a thicket of dense foliage, which, I presume, must be Monarch Spring.

It is an extremely narrow shelf road, long ago chopped out of the sheer embankment, and probably not wide enough for anything other than a compact BEV. In fact, it is so narrow and precarious, that one false move on it would spell disaster in the form of a demolished truck if you roll off the side. I walk on down towards the spring, but near the bottom, just before the road re-enters the wash below the huge dryfall, it does not exist anymore. Erosion has destroyed the lower portion of the road, and had I driven down here to scout it instead of walking, I would have been faced with the unnerving task of backing up to the top. Driving down would have been intimidating enough, but backing would have been a real nightmare!

I am clearly at the end of the driving portion. To proceed farther, I can hike, but not today. I will put that on a future safari as a goal to explore. This territory is rewarding in its exploration, so, I’ll definitely be back. Right now, I am thinking about setting camp somewhere and relaxing finally, after a long day of adventure. This would have provided a great place to camp, but the sun is still fairly high, and if I want to make a cellular telephone call, this will be a poor location choice. Family enjoys hearing my sweet voice at the end of each day, a reassuring comfort that I indeed did not perish in the “dreaded” Death Valley, so I choose to find higher ground before calling an end to day two’s travels.

Besides, there is still enough daylight left to have a few more kicks on this great backcountry road system on the eastern side of the Park. It only takes a few minutes to retrace my path up Monarch Canyon to the main road. Turning right at the intersection of the two class-2 dirt roads, I head in a generally southerly direction once again towards the famous old ghost town of Chloride City. The road begins deteriorating to some easy class-3 now and then as it climb higher into the mountains, but nothing radical that will strike panic in most outback explorers.

On portions of the road that turn due west, and are heading up a slight incline on a hill at the same time, the full rays of the sun cause a considerable visual blockage of the roadway, necessitating the use of my hand to shield my eyes, in addition to the sun visor. Every once in a while, the road is off-camber on a little rocky ledge, which means slow going when the sun is in my eyes, but fortunately, there aren’t any portions that spell disaster if I miscalculate my wheel placement slightly.

Old wooden and stone structures are now coming into view, scattered about the hillsides, as I enter the once-bustling town of Chloride City. Dirt roads head off in all directions to old mine sites, some quite steep up the hillsides, and others along ledges where the miners had to creatively construct the road with rocks, in order to have a passable surface, where there was no way to cut the road entirely into the land. Most of the many roads however, are easy class-2, and present a day’s worth of fun if you ever choose to explore them all. As I climb ever higher towards Chloride Cliff, high above the town, the roads are mostly on steep hillsides, and it is becoming obvious that I am making some serious altitude gains. Still though, the roadways are easy four wheeling for the average backroad traveler.

It was in these cliffs near town that silver was discovered by a fellow named Franklin in the early 1870s. From then on, the area went through times of boom and bust, depending on the financial markets and the price of silver. Work in the area continued through 1918, as some still thought they could strike it rich in these hills. Mines such as the Frisco, Chloride Cliff, Gold Dollar, and Big Bell played their part in the abundant history of the Chloride City area, but only the Keane Wonder really paid off big. If you enjoy exploring old mining operations, here is a good place to start.

At 5,279 feet, the road finally reaches an abrupt end. There is no where else to go but down … way down! This is the cliff overlooking Death Valley to the south and west. The final few yards of this road are best walked, because they are very steep with large ruts and protruding rocks, certainly class-4 due to the extreme steepness and rollover potential. The last of the road here is torn up from guys who want to push their rigs to the max and see if they can maneuver up this precipitous little ridge to the open area at the top. It only takes about forty seconds to walk this final bit, so my recommendation is to not drive it and save tearing up the terrain any more than it already is. It is the continuation of the ridge that the class-2/3 road is on, but at the last mine site is where it gets really quite a bit steeper. You can easily park and turn around at the last tailing prior to the end of the road.

In fact, the mine tailing is exactly where I decide to pitch camp for the night. It is flat with enough room to feel right at home, and the views into western Nevada are spectacular. First up goes my sleeping arrangement, which by now I am very adept at creating, having done so many times on a few safaris. Then, out comes the grub for night number two, a repeat of the first night’s, but that’s okay with me because I am out here for the adventurous exploration of this wonderful land, and being a connoisseur of multiple dietary menus in the outback is very low on my priority list. I do though decide to have a second veggie juice since the day has been warm and my fluid level is lower than yesterday. Pay attention to your thirst out here … they say that if you are thirsty, you are already up to a quart low!

As I eat, I glance over at the open horizontal mine shaft just to the west of my BEV, and wonder if bats will be coming from it once the skies get darker. Just in case, I decide not to have my windows open very far. It will be cool/cold again tonight, especially since I am at a much higher, largely unsheltered elevation than I was last night in the upper reaches of Echo Canyon, so the window gap is okay. The wind, slight as it is, comes from the southwest this evening, so the hillside between me and it provides sufficient sanctuary to keep the temps from dropping too far. Several times I walk up to the top of the cliff, up the rutted road, for the view as the sun is at varying levels of setting. There is an official geological marker embedded in the ground up here. It would be interesting to know why.

I also make a phone call to assure others that I am still alive and well. It is still amazing for this old desert rat to think that such communication can actually be realized out here in the middle of nowhere. Technology certainly has come of age. But unlike others such as my friend Nadya who follows the popular trend, I have no desire to use GPS navigation out here. For me, a meaningful part of the adventure comes with map-reading and personal navigation skills, so I have no intention of removing that portion of the challenge from my lifelong safaris. They can have their satellites. Give me an inked paper, terrain, and the sky.

Darkness overtakes the skies and I am cozily inside my mummy bag on the passenger side of the rig. The stars are plentiful again, but from this lofty perch of a mile-high camp, the massive electrical output of Las Vegas is wholly visible to the southeast. It overtakes a large share of the horizon down there, and causes me to think of all those gambling and drinking and doing whatever else they do all night long.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, they say, but the light sure doesn’t stay there. It spreads across the vast desert landscape at 186,282 miles per second, robbing the natural world of some of its gifts. Even the tiny town of Beatty to the northeast produces its share of light, but of course, it is so trivial compared to what’s down Highway 95. Beatty’s light show does little to blot out the starry displays of nature’s night. I even can see the headlights of miniscule autos as they proceed along the pavement several hours away in Nevada’s stretch of desert. Cars can also be spotted in Death Valley, although few are out at night on the western side of the Amargosa Range.

There is no noise. I fall into a deep slumber quickly, and my body begins its rejuvenation process to ready me for tomorrow’s quest of adventurous exploration.

Day Three – October 29, Sunday

Dawn awakens me earlier than yesterday, because up here at this elevation, it gets lighter sooner than when parked in a narrow canyon with high walls. This is my absolute favorite time of the day, a time of great expectation and a time where everything feels fresh and new. From the time I was a kid on these excursions with my dad, I have loved the mornings, especially when with a group where you can watch everyone go through their own preparation rituals. Alas, I am alone, but it is still invigorating. Out comes a down vest, jacket, and hat for the first hour, until the sun does its warming thing. Breakfast tastes great, and I have a second bowl of granola to satisfy my ravenous appetite.

Last night, while getting ready for bed, I discovered that my emergency two-gallon water jug had sprung a hairline leak from all the bouncing in Hanaupah Canyon, and it was beginning to saturate my gear, so in the moonlight, I placed it out on the edge of the mine tailing on which I am parked. This morning, the level has dipped another couple inches overnight, and the rocky ground is damp underneath. I certainly can no longer have it in the car, so I use the water as judiciously as I can, including cleaning off the back hatch of the rig of all the dust that has accumulated in the past two days. I place the empty plastic container on the floor so that I can dispose of it at my next fuel stop. I carry enough water that these two gallons will not likely make the difference between life and death, so I do not worry. Losing this water jug also has the added benefit of shedding about 18 pounds of cargo weight.

Today I will explore territory in which I have never found myself before. You know that large triangle of Death Valley National Park that juts out into western Nevada? The part that hardly any of the tourists ever visit because there are no paved roads there? Well, that is precisely where I just have to go today. That triangle has remained a mystery to me long enough! My map-reading skills are about to be tested.

The easiest entry point to the triangle is located off Nevada Highway 95, about 12 miles north of Beatty. Therefore, once I am back in downtown Chloride City (ghosts must still be asleep), I turn right on the dirt road that heads into Nevada. It’s all downhill as I proceed across the state line (no marker by either state on this dirt road), and out across the northern end of the Amargosa Desert. The road is long and dusty, but generally class-1 with few ruts or other things that tend to pop up and send your vehicle airborne. I keep the speed at about 35 miles per hour, my standard practice on this type of road. I am not one of those guys who flies across such vast straight stretches at unsafe speeds. Experience as a law enforcement officer has shown me that people who do so sometimes end up in the hospital or coroner’s office – kind of ruins one’s vacation, doesn’t it?

Thirteen miles later, the dirt ends at the highway that connects Beatty to Vegas. I turn left and head north. At the sleepy desert village of Beatty, my BEV takes on a fill of fuel, I use the restroom, and dispose of my trash, including my ruptured water container, in the dumpster behind the station. Petrol prices here are reasonable, so when in the neighborhood on your own safaris, get as much as you can here to minimize having to purchase it in DVNP somewhere. Besides, the stations in the Park are known from time to time to not have fuel available, and that can be a real bummer for the backcountry buffs like me! I guess you’d call it a BBB, or Backcountry Buff Bummer (sorry).

I think about entering my next destination from the Rhyolite side through the Bullfrog Hills, but my two maps show a number of crisscrossing roads in there, and my experience over the years has demonstrated that however many roads a map shows is really only about half of how many are really there, so you can’t always count on turning a certain direction on the second road to the right. Therefore, to avoid a potentially dreadful labyrinth, I opt to take the route that looks more straightforward, and that is a dirt road reached after an 11.7 mile drive on pavement north of Beatty. As the odometer gets close, I slow down. The only road I see in this vicinity is one that looks like a rancher’s driveway, proceeding northwest through a barbed wire fence and gate. I am always wondering if a gated road means private property, but since this is the only one here, and all maps show it right here, I figure I’ll give it a try and see if it heads where it is supposed to head.

Through the gate I proceed, shutting and securing it behind me. The road is a two-track class-1/2  affair of easy driving. It heads up over some small hills and then shoots straight as an arrow west/southwest across the southern end of Sarcobatus Flat. Don’t you just love the sound of that name? Sarcobatus Flat (had to say it at least one more time) is a huge flat area of sage and other desert bushes that lies in a somewhat northwesterly fashion when seeing it from the southern end as I am.

On the way down the hill to the flat, I meet another fellow in a pickup truck heading out. Being that the road produces quite a bit of dust when driven over by cars, we each slow to a stop as we meet. He asks if I am hunting Chuckwalla, and I say that I am not. He informs me that others have found them plentiful out here. I tell him that I am heading up into the Grapevine Mountains across the flat, and he says, “Oh, way out there.” We bid farewell to each other, and I head west again.

Two locales I want to see out here today in this remote and seldom visited triangle of DVNP. The first is the Strozzi Ranch and the second is Phinney Canyon, a land forgotten by time. Halfway across Sarcobatus, I cross the National Park boundary line, which places me precisely on the northeastern corner of the triangle. Roads head off this main straight road now and again, but it seems pretty obvious from what I see where I want to go, so I remain on the main road. It makes a jog at the DVNP line, but then heads straight for the Grapevine Mountains again. Just over ten miles in from the pavement, I cross the road that traverses Sarcobatus Flat north to south, and then a little over a mile and a half later, comes the fork that requires a decision on my part.

The main road that I am on continues straight, while to the right there is a very slight jog where another main road heads roughly parallel to this one, but veers slightly towards the north more. Since I am figuring on camping tonight in Phinney Canyon somewhere, which is the road to the right, I decide to drive to Strozzi Ranch first, being as how there is still a lot of daylight left in which to explore. Heck, it isn’t even lunchtime yet, although it will be soon, so my exploration takes on a completely laid-back feeling, without a rush in the world. It feels good to be on wilderness time, and not be rushed. I appear to be the only soul out here, so the grand breadth of the land is mine to explore to my heart’s delight.

Now the road is becoming class-2 entirely, which is always a fun drive. The ground is soft, the road meanders through tall desert bushes, and as it gains elevation at the foot of the Grapevines, Juniper and Pinyon Pines begin to dot the landscape. The hills start to close in towards the roadway as I leave Sarcobatus Flat behind, and I am in explorer’s heaven. Part of the road climbs onto an old railway bed that was used in the early twentieth century when folks expected this area to really boom and produce millions in valuable minerals. Fascinating large rock formations pass by right and left, and make me want to get out and climb on them. But, I press on up the canyon towards the site of the former Strozzi Ranch, where Caesar Strozzi had a summer retreat for when the weather got too hot in Beatty, where he lived. His son apparently still lives on today in Beatty, but now the National Park Service controls dad’s incredible piece of land.

Plant and tree vegetation is abundant as I pull into the tight forested canyon where the remains of the ranch sit. The Park Service is apparently in the process of restoration here, or so the sign says, but it seems to be intermittent at best, for a lot is still in need of fixing-up. There are several wooden buildings scattered about the area, and at the main one, which may have been the original house, I find part of the body of an old Ford vehicle from a time prior to the Great Depression. Well rusted, but quite quaint, it sits proudly just outside the door of the central house.

Up the road another hundred yards is a spot that the NPS has made into a primitive campground, with tables and an outhouse. There are several shade trees along the tables, and this time of the fall, the trees are all gorgeous with their vibrant red and yellow leaves. A slight breeze whispers through the trees, and is the perfect topping for an already lovely and picturesque paradise.

Around the corner in a side canyon, a road takes the explorer to an old corral area that uses a huge rock undercut area for containment of the animals, with a wooden fence built to complete the enclosure. It seems quite apparent that this was once a beautiful living arrangement for the Strozzi family, and I can easily see myself living somewhere just like this even today. It is well worth your visit to come out here this far. There is nothing else quite like it in Death Valley National Park. You certainly won’t find Strozzi Ranch listed in many area brochures because it is so far off the beaten path. And the fact that you can’t get here from the California side only serves to keep it even more special. I love this place because it is so peaceful and serene, so this is where I take a completely relaxed lunch break. Tumbleweed loves it too, and chats nonstop about it for a while. Remember Tumbleweed from Telescope Peak?

On the way down canyon, I drive slowly because I prefer not to leave, but I know that my journey up neighboring Phinney Canyon just to the north will bring similar breathtaking scenery within the next hour, so I don’t give it much further thought. At a point a little more than three miles east of the ranch, a quarter-mile shortcut road, which has a small but steep class-3 pitch halfway through, connects me to the Phinney Canyon road without having to return to the main fork three and a half miles farther on. The road passes over some higher ground that separates the two drainages, passes a scientific station of some kind (with a solar photovoltaic cell) that is chain-link fenced off, and then drops steeply over the edge of the hill onto the Phinney Canyon road, which is again a fun class-2 drive.

It is not long before I once more find myself entering a heavily forested region with Pinyons and Junipers. Soon, the road begins to narrow and the trees close in. It is becoming evident that the traffic up here is sparse because there are many small branches appearing on the roadway that are unbroken, along with intact pine cones and other natural debris that would be flattened if many vehicles came this way. At a point where the branches of the trees start painting designs in the dust on my BEV, the road develops into a class-3 journey, with tighter turns, a few switchbacks, and other surprises that make it so darn interesting that I can hardly contain myself. I feel as though I am driving through a tunnel much of the way now, with some branches even scraping along the top of my hood and windshield. Wow, it’s like I am an original explorer here, and that is exciting!

There is a short class-4 rise that necessitates 4LO and the locking rear differential to negotiate easily. Then, not far beyond that, in a canyon that is now just barely wide enough for a vehicle, is a gigantic boulder that is squarely in the roadway. This thing is big, real big, and it seems to have rolled off the wooded hillside to my left, who knows how many years ago. The rock is about the size of my truck’s interior seating area … obviously requiring a drive-around strategy if I am to continue. It just keeps getting more exhilarating as I go, with the forest thick enough now that the road cannot be seen but a few yards ahead at any one time. There is no doubt that this road is unquestionably the road not taken!

To the south of the mammoth boulder is hillside, too close and steep to get around it. To the north is just enough room for my narrow BEV to squeeze by, with only inches between my driver’s door and the immovable stone. A larger full-size rig could experience a problem here. I make it past the gigantic rock and continue to find out where this amazingly remote and primitive road goes.

Not far past the boulder, the switchbacks begin getting me up there quickly in elevation, on a road that is purely delightful for any adventurous explorer who wants a comfortable challenge far from the crowds. About a quarter mile back, I came across an area that had several primitive camp spots cleared on the north side of the trail, after which the road really becomes more challenging. Folks with larger BEVs probably camp there and then hike on up to the pass because they can see that to proceed farther will leave light scratch marks in their paint (no big deal for me, but a major one for folks who are semi-adventurous). Most of the road is cradled in the narrow canyon, except for the switchbacks, which are on the more open hillside. Then, the road just goes straight for a relatively long way (compared to what it has been doing), with blue sky visible ahead and above. The trees are truly tight in this very narrow canyon.

Two in the afternoon, or thereabouts, I at last break out onto Phinney Pass at the top of Phinney Canyon. Although the mountains on either side of the road continue to soar higher, the road is at its peak. There is a small open area, with a campfire ring (illegal according to NPS regulations), so here I park to get out and see what is in the neighborhood. The elevation is high and the air is certainly cooler. To the south on my left, are great red rock formations that invite a climb. To the west straight ahead, I can see the Death Valley Wash that separates Death Valley proper from the area near Ubehebe Crater. Phinney Canyon is only a few canyons north of Titus Canyon, but a world apart. I want to camp here, just because it is so remote. I want to spend the night were even the DV regulars do not often go. It is early in the day, for sure, but I can keep myself well entertained in this natural wonderland until it’s time to go to bed.

The road I have taken thus far actually continues down the west side of the small pass saddle, however its condition is markedly different than the road on the east side of the pass. Looking down the roadbed, I  notice that it is overgrown much more than what I have just been on, and that is overgrown quite a bit itself. This continuation appears to have not been driven upon for many years, with large bushes growing in the center between where wagon wheels and tires used to tread. I decide to walk on down it and see if it is passable or heads to any auxiliary destination that merits my exploration. Even walking on it is slow going due to the extreme growth of what I would guess as several decades of non-use. About a half mile down, it is obvious to me that to drive down here would not be worth the effort or scratches in the paint, not to mention that by now, I figure that the pass must mark the Park Service’s boundary for the wilderness area. Although not signed, this must be wilderness designation, and in fact, the next day, upon speaking with a Ranger, I learn that my supposition is correct.

Back at the pass, my curiosity and need to climb takes over, and I head off on foot (with hands occasionally) up the steep rock precipice that forms the southern portion of the pass, just a few yards south of my rig. These large rock outcroppings have a nice reddish glow to them, and as the sun gets lower over the next few hours, the colors are enhanced even more. Intermixed within the stone citadels are Juniper and Pinyon pines, along with a host of smaller brush. The views get even better up here, and the rock climbing is a fabulous method for enhancing my appetite and soaking up a few hours after sitting in the BEV for so long.

I bring a knife along because this country looks like it could be prime mountain lion habitat, and although I have never had a run-in with one, being alone so far from anywhere, I want to play it safe. I love the wild animals everywhere I go, and my interactions with them all my life have been favorable, so I really don’t expect any trouble this hike. Yet, having read of cougar attacks in outdoor magazines over the years, there is always this wee lingering doubt that rests in the back of my mind. Today is another positive experience that reinforces my love of the wilds.

To the northwest is Grapevine Peak, at 8,738 feet above sea level, and to the southeast is Wahguyhe Peak, poking up 8,628 feet. Either peak can be hiked from this camp quite enjoyably, although the route to the top of each will be cross country and trail-less. After my hikes, I unfold the camp chair and sit down to contemplate Tom Harrison’s Death Valley National Park Recreation Map, the best I’ve found so far – make sure you always carry his map too.

I have always loved looking at maps since boyhood, and get pleasure from figuring out where I will go based on how what I see with my eyes in the terrain corresponds with what I read on the map. The wind is picking up some here on the pass, where the canyon to the west acts as a wind-funneling device, increasing its speed over the surrounding areas, so it becomes difficult after a bit to view my map, even though I have my back to the wind. Enough of that, think I’ll prepare my sleep quarters and then eat some supper.

Significant time for map reading is appropriate this afternoon because I am unsure of tomorrow’s route from here. I know that I still desire to investigate the unexplored regions northwest of Phinney Canyon, an area that I have never driven before, up around Gold Mountain, Oriental Wash, and Cucomungo Canyon. This region is laced with fascinating history that I have studied, and I must see where it all played out so long ago. The area is also laced with a maze of dirt backroads, in country that few ever travel, so careful planning is in order because running out of gas in these hinterlands would not be a happy event. I should be with a group to go where I plan tomorrow, but since it has not worked out, I will make the best of my solo situation.

My map questions arise regarding which way to turn once I get back down to Sarcobatus Flat. I am leaning toward the north, across the Sarcobatus Flat road, which the AAA map shows as non-existent for a number of miles in the center portion of the Flat, but which Harrison’s map shows as a 4wd road. I don’t want to get out there in the middle of the Flat, only to find no road exists, but since Harrison’s map has so far proven nearly perfect in all details, I figure that the AAA map is in error or oversight.

It is nearly 20 miles across the length of Sarcobatus Flat, and then the road crosses the pavement of Nevada Highway 267 that runs east from Scotty’s Castle. From there, I can head on north to Gold Mountain, but it will be wiser to make a side-trip and fuel at Scotty’s first instead of heading into the remote unknown with only a partial load of petrol. Generally speaking, I try to avoid backtracking over the same ground, attempting instead to make loops out of trips, so I think about another possibility.

That will involve turning south when I reach Sarcobatus Flat rather than north. From there, I can find my way south through the Bullfrog Hills, past the old ghost city of Rhyolite (at one time a hopeful for the capital of Nevada, before the gold ran out), and then head due west over Red Pass and down through Titus Canyon. Even though I have driven Titus in the past, I always enjoy the road and scenery. This route configuration will put me in a loop where I can then head up the pavement in northern Death Valley to Scotty’s Castle to fuel, prior to my journey up Oriental Wash to Gold Mountain.

It is “six to one, half a dozen to the other”, as the saying goes. After much internal deliberation, since there is no one else with whom to consult, I eventually figure that I’ll get an early start tomorrow morning and do the Titus Canyon option, which is more mileage, and thusly requires more time, but since I will get fuel at Scotty’s Castle, the extra mileage is not a concern. I look forward to the trek through Titus, and the Red Pass switchbacks leading to it are always exciting. With that, I put the map away for the time being.

All chores are completed just as the sun begins to set behind the Cottonwood Mountains, the northern portion of the Panamint Range, to the west. If I look straight down the canyon to the west, I realize that to draw a line from my sight would intersect a place I really like a lot, Teakettle Junction. The views, while limited on the periphery, are nonetheless fairly expansive in what is actually visible. Off to bed I go, the earliest of any night so far, because the wind has helped me decide that it will be more pleasant in my sleeping den than out here right now. Of course, hitting the sack this early will mean that I will likely get a very early start tomorrow, but that’s okay with me. Titus Canyon is best viewed in the early morning or late afternoon’s light.

Ten hours pass as I sleep soundly under the millions of stars, with no predatory cats lurking about my truck as far as I know. The moon remains in the sky until the wee hours, and then sets on the western horizon as the sun had done about six hours prior. No light pollution is visible from atop Phinney Pass at night. Around 4 AM, I awaken to find, obviously, that it is still dark outside, and definitely too early to get up because it is cold up here! I am no longer sleepy after having gone to bed so early last night, and I can get a super early start now, but something inside me insists on remaining in the warmth and coziness of my mummy bag another hour at least, when perhaps the first few rays of light might make it easier to start my morning practices. So, I try to sleep, but only doze sporadically between my glances at the heavens through the windows, my thoughts of today’s travels.

Day Four – October 30, Monday

Not long after the hour of five, it is a tad light out, so I decide to start making progress, but it is definitely much colder this morning than the prior morns. I don’t want to get into freezing clothes, so I put the pants and shirt, that I set out last night ahead of time, under and in my sleeping bag for a few moments to warm them, along with my down vest. I get dressed in logical progression, by starting with placing a sheepskin hat on my head, putting on my warm shirt and vest, and then once I am sitting up in the bag, I reach to the back of the BEV near my feet (easy because it is such a compact vehicle), and grab my holofill hooded jacket, which goes on next. Now, I am warming up quite nicely, so on go the pants as I get out of the bag. Next, it is an easy and painless donning of my socks and boots before I get out of the car to empty the excess water from within my body.

Breakfast comes today prior to breaking down my sleeping quarters because it is too cold to be outside long enough to do so. On the backseat, I eat my granola and have my soymilk as the eastern sky continues to brighten, and then brush my teeth inside to the extent possible, but of course, I must get out eventually to clean my dishes and toothbrush. So I do, with only my hands feeling the sting of the temperature since I can’t wear gloves while doing these things. Next, I secure my sleeping stuff, and ready the gear in my truck for travel.

Not much need to warm the BEV up, since the first few miles are easy and slow going back down the 4wd road, which allows the engine to come up to operating temps gradually. There is just enough light poking through the dense forest to see the obstacles of yesterday’s ascent of the pass, and once I pass around that gargantuan boulder again, I know that it is smooth sailing on down to Sarcobatus Flat.  Turning south, I find, sure enough, that there are many more roads out here than appear on either of the DV maps I have, but since I recognize the terrain and know where I want to end up, I use my sense of direction to supplement where the maps fall short. It all pays off, for soon I am through the Bullfrog Hills, covered with many old mining operations like Bob Montgomery’s Montgomery Shoshone Consolidated Mining Company, where he made a fortune in gold. I pass by the western edge of the Rhyolite territory, and then head back into DVNP as I am now on the Titus Canyon Road.

The sun is shining on me once again, and the timing is going to be perfect for some of the best views of Red Pass. On the long straight dusty stretch before Red Pass, a small all-wheel drive station wagon pulls over to let me pass. I am only going 35 miles per hour, but this older couple is traveling around 25, so they opt to yield. We have a momentary discussion about the beauty of this morning, and I learn that they are from a couple of states north, having driven down from Washington to see the Park. I tell them a little about the upcoming sights that are up ahead, and then depart their company.

This is now day four of my safari, a Monday morning when not too many people are found driving these roads. This road, popularly driven by many adventure seekers every year due to its relative ease compared to true 4wd roads, is washboarded the first six or seven miles, but not nearly so bad as the road that connects Ubehebe Crater to The Racetrack. Once it starts the climb into the Grapevine mountains, it becomes very pleasant, and the views become progressively more magnificent. The switchbacks, even though they appear frightening to some, are steep but not so narrow as to be hazardous. The road is one-way because the NPS figures it’s just safer that way. I agree … little need to worry about a car coming around a blind corner, like I have to consider on all the other wild backcountry dirt roads I take.

At Red Pass, I park my BEV on a small turnout, with excellent views in multiple directions. To the east, I can look back down the steep incline and see the couple I passed earlier far below, motoring along the winding road like a tiny toy car on a track. To the west, I am face to face with the incredible mountain that dominates this scene for all travelers as they crest this final rise before descending into the ghost town of Leadfield, and then on into the depths of Titus Canyon. The mountain is red. The view is great!

Digital photo number 127 is taken here, and then I put it away and save the few remaining for the new country that is yet to come. My Washington friends catch up, and we have another discussion at the top of the pass. They are listening to appropriate classical music on their CD player as they experience this lovely trip. At the old mining town of Leadfield, I stop and hand them an extra AAA map I have, for I noticed that they only had the DVNP map handed out to tourists once they pay their Park entry fee, and that map shows the least detail of any of this region, unfortunately. I then go on, figuring on never seeing them again, because they are taking in this history for the first time. I need to press on to get some fuel at Scotty’s Castle and head out to the farthest reaches of the northern Park.

The Leadfield story is a sad one. Unscrupulous promoter Charles Julian hired a train and fleet of automobiles in 1926 to bring eager wealth-seekers out to see his lead mining operation, wining and dining them as a means to get at their pocketbooks. To get everyone to his fraudulent claims, he had to construct a road in these Grapevine Mountains over Red Pass. It’s quite a fascinating story, and it ended with Julian being legally investigated when mining experts seriously began to doubt the validity of his claims. After much damaging litigation, Julian backed out of Leadfield and convinced most of his investors that he was framed. Ultimately, justice triumphed, after he had cheated many out of millions, and he ended his existence as a living human.

Titus Canyon, like always, is utterly impressive, and I feel like a miniature creature within its towering walls. This is the first time Tumbleweed has seen it however, and he really feels little because he is little to start with (well, not compared to an ant). All too soon however, I exit the enclosure, meander down the lengthy alluvial fan, and turn north onto the pavement heading towards the Death Valley Ranch, commonly referred to as Scotty’s Castle.

Dust is blowing off the truck for a bit once I hit 55 mph, but then it stops. Up ahead, not far from Mesquite Springs Campground, the sign demands that vehicle speed decrease to 25 and then 15 miles per hour as the guard booth and information center for the northern end of the Park approaches. No people are anywhere to be found here today, a Monday morning, so I begin to creep on through. But then, as I read a handwritten notice on an 8×11 piece of paper, my heart sinks. “No gas at Scotty’s Castle until further notice!” it shouts to me. What? Gads, I’ve always depended on this as a fuel stop, which is essential out this far, especially if going to Teakettle Junction and the Saline Valley, or into the Gold Mountain area. Perhaps it is an old sign that someone has forgotten to remove, I hope, so I drive on a few more miles to Scotty’s oasis to make sure.

But, when I turn off the pavement into the palm tree lined parking lot with all its needed shade, I see the two fuel pumps surrounded by yellow police-type ribbon, and a sign that restates the no-gas issue. A maintenance worker tells me that there is some mechanical safety problem with the old pumps, and it could be a long time before they are upgraded.

This is not welcomed news for me, even though this is always some of the most expensive petrol on the Planet. I am already down a quarter tank, having last fueled in Beatty, Nevada yesterday, and I have driven many miles of 4wd backroads since. Mental calculations begin flying in my head, my mileage notes from previous trips come out, and I try to piece together a strategy that will align as closely as possible to my original design of this safari so that I can see as much as possible. I can head down south again, into Death Valley to Stovepipe Wells to fuel, assuming they have it, but it’s such a long haul on that paved road there and back that I decide it is out of the question today. A year ago, Stovepipe Wells was fuel-less for months while they upgraded their pumps. I  just don’t feel like retracing my steps that far south. I am in the northern territory where I want to be today, and so I will make new plans.

I always maintain that the only certainty about the Death Valley territory is uncertainty, and here it has certainly proven to be the truth. Murphy’s Law or whatever. At least I have options. I am sure that others are also reconnoitering here like me. After using the restroom at this sanctuary, I return to the BEV to see the Washington couple’s car a few parking places to the east. They must be taking the worthwhile tour of the Castle, I think to myself. I have been on this tour, and the history learned is amazing, captivating any person who loves this land. The guides dress in period costumes of 1939, making the experience one of a kind.

This remarkable castle, out here in the most unlikely of remote settings, was built by Albert and Bessie Johnson. He was a Chicago insurance investor who attempted to improve his frail health by spending time each year in this dry climate. Albert began work on the structure in 1924, and invested over two million dollars in it before the construction ultimately came to a halt in weaker financial times. It appears that he was successful in finishing most of the castle. A charismatic and egocentric conman named Walter Scott (Scotty) “borrowed” money from Albert, and eventually became his friend. Albert allowed Walter to live at the ranch as he desired. Walter told everyone the castle was his, and that it stood directly over his hidden gold mine. I highly recommend taking this tour into history.

My decision this afternoon is to press on northward, despite my lack of a full fuel tank. I figure that the absolute least fuel economy I’ll achieve is 14.5 miles per gallon if I include a lot of 4wd backroad driving up and down mountains (this rig has never averaged less than that under any backcountry circumstances), and I will likely get 20 or better on paved or flat dirt roads in two wheel drive, so it seems I have a sufficient range to see some of the locales I have planned on, if not intimately, at least at a distance.

Oh well, one has to be ready to roll with the punches out here. Enough rolling … time to leave Scotty’s for the wilds once again! Lesson learned: check with Rangers ahead of time regarding fuel availability.

Originally, I was going to head east on Nevada Highway 267 and pick up the northbound dirt road from Sarcobatus Flat to continue on to Gold Mountain. My fuel level would probably allow for this if I did not plan on heading up into the White Mountains tomorrow at over 10,000 feet of steep road. But, since I most definitely want to see the oldest living thing on Earth tomorrow, the Methuselah Tree, an ancient Bristlecone Pine, the plan will now have to change. I have to trim off a bunch of miles today to make room for the extra miles I intend to travel tomorrow. Consequently, I take the road back down from Scotty’s to the Ubehebe Crater road, and turn northward. Two point eight miles farther, I leave the pavement on the long, washboarded, class-1 “Big Pine Death Valley” road. Few drive this far north … it’s too far from help for most. And here I am driving it with only three quarters of a tank.

This is where I chat with a Park Ranger who is walking back to his van after placing a vehicle counting device across the roadway to track the number of cars that drive the road. Nice guy. Loves to go four wheel exploring out here. What a great job! Get paid to help folks like me during the week, and then gets to have this wonderful National Park all weekend long in which to play and explore. I wonder silently, as he talks about his adventures, if I’m too old to get hired on by the Park Service in Death Valley.

He tells me that earlier a guy in a small white truck with a camper shell headed out before me on this road, with the same fuel concerns as mine. Fourteen miles later, the class-2 Oriental Wash road heads east from this one. It is a road that I am dying to take, to see all the old mining operations and the wild hills and mountains that are all about. Do I have enough fuel? I know that there are always many more roads in areas like this than the maps usually show. Even with Tom Harrison’s map, the AAA map, and the NPS map, there are likely more.

Three maps are better than one (sometimes), but a virtual maze of roads exists out in this isolated and foreboding country, and with me now running slightly less than three-quarters full, I don’t have room for getting lost and traveling in circles. My next fuel stop will be Big Pine or Bishop, depending on how things work out, and with the White Mountains on my agenda, I realize that something will have to give, so I resign myself to see the Oriental/Gold Mountain region in detail on a future safari. Remember, it’s always best anyway to leave a little unexplored so that there remains a strong pull to return … have to see what I missed!

Off in the sage and creosote bushes to the west of this intersection to Oriental Wash, I spy that other fellow the ranger told me about … guy looks like he is having lunch … doesn’t try to signal me or anything, so I assume he is okay still, with plenty of petrol to make it to a station somewhere. I head on north, longingly glancing back at the fun Oriental road as it becomes a distant memory. A few gray clouds are forming overhead, giving the vicinity an eerie feel.

One of my fascinations with this area comes from what was described by successful pocket-miner Tom Shaw back in 1868. He made money here when others failed because he mined small pockets of ore as it came available, without heavy investments in expensive methods that could prove inappropriate for a limited amount of valuable minerals.

Immediately northwest of Gold Mountain, on a ridge lining the north side of Oriental Wash, Tom found a gold-bearing quartz vein that was reportedly 12 feet thick and over a thousand feet long. As historian Richard Lingenfelter writes, “… at a depth of 20 feet, they cut into the lode, opening a dazzling crystal grotto with gold-studded walls that rivaled the fabled cave of Aladdin. Tom Shaw was so awed by it all that he leveled the floor, knocked a chimney through to the surface, and made it his cabin! Although it measured only 9 by 10 feet, it was warm in the winter, cool in the summer, and an inspiration year-round as he sat each evening with fire and candlelight mirrored in the myriad golden flashes from every wall.”

Seven or eight miles farther north, I finally come to a landmark that I am to behold for the first time, one that I have read about and always wanted to see. I am well familiar with Teakettle Junction far to the south, with its multitude of teapots all over the sign, having received its name way back in the old days when a single teakettle marked the intersection for the miners. And now, I am viewing a similar odd intersection. Called Crankshaft Junction on some maps (AAA), and Crankshaft Crossing on others (Harrison’s), I now park and stand at the very sign, and see that it is indeed a crossing, and not a junction. And guess what! Yes, just like Teakettle Junction with it teakettles, Crankshaft Crossing is awash with … crankshafts! All rusted, some on the sign, some on the ground, with even two engine blocks thrown in for good measure so no one can doubt where they are. There are two destinations marked on the sign, Gold Point and Death Valley.

Time for lunch. I’m starving – too much brain activity from attempting to calculate my driving range and options. While beholding the crankshafts, I drink my vegetable juice and eat my health food energy bar. Oh yeah, boy does it all taste good. Brush the teeth and time to go somewhere. I’d like to take the road north to Last Chance Spring, but again, forego it for tomorrow’s lofty ascent of the White Mountains. Through Hanging Rock Canyon I travel, past the northern entrance to the Eureka Sand Dunes National Natural Landmark (where I often have emerged from other safaris in past years), and another mile farther to the North Eureka Valley Road, a desolate class-1 affair that heads directly to the northern-most extreme entrance into Death Valley National Park.

I came into the Park this trip through the extreme southern entrance, and I want to exit through the extreme northern entrance … both on the same safari. According to Harrison’s map, I am about to do just that in a few miles. According to the AAA map, I am going to miss it by a few miles. The dispute comes in the form of Cucomungo Canyon that borders the extreme northern edge. AAA shows that the dirt road entrance is on the Nevada/California line in eastern Cucomungo Canyon, while Harrison’s shows the dirt road entrance at the western side of Cucomungo Canyon. Well, one way or another, I am close enough to be able to claim this distinction today, and since Harrison’s map has been right so far, I think I’ll use it for my claim. How’s that for a convenient personal rationalization to support my own needs?

A minute later, I remember that I have the NPS map too, buried deeper in my glovebox since I rarely read it, so I consult that as a third tie-breaking judge. The Park Service confirms Mr. Harrison’s map, so it seems that I will be doing the northernmost entry/exit point shortly this afternoon. Albert Einstein once said that a man with one watch always knows what time it is, while a man with two is never quite sure. That’s because with a second watch to counter the first, how is one to know which is correct? But having three maps, rather than muddying the waters as three watches would do, actually serves to boost my confidence that I understand the boundary line. Mystery finally solved!

Cucomungo Canyon has a huge granite wall on the northern edge of it, that is visible for miles away as I approach. It is so impressive with its unmatched height and miles of length that it almost seems fake, like some movie set, but it is not. It’s real, and it’s awesome, and it’s not on my route today because of the mess at Scotty’s! In any event, I am witnessing it first-hand, passing so close I could almost touch it, and know that it is clearly a place where I hope to return in my journeys to this region. And, yes, I just drove out through the most northerly road of Death Valley National Park! I did it … both extremes in one trip. Sorry Triple A.

To the north and west of me is the Piper Mountain Wilderness. To the north and east of me is the Sylvania Mountains Wilderness. On the road ahead, which is easy class-1 with a few minor washouts, is the way to Fish Lake Valley, a land I come to learn is inhabited by folks with farms. On the right I pass a grand windmill, a landmark from older times, and then come eventually to a little road that forks left off this main road. In about a mile, I find myself at paved Highway 168, about two miles south of its intersection with Nevada Highway 266, and only about 37 miles east of Big Pine, California. As far as fuel goes, I have plenty to get into Big Pine if I take this pavement directly there, but, as you know by now, my goal is the earthen byways of this isolated land, so as I drive, I mentally begin calculating again my backroad options.

I am cruising west through the Deep Springs Valley, at the southern fringes of the magnificent White Mountains, not far north of Death Valley National Park. This is beautiful land out here, land where I can easily imagine myself living. Remote and inviting, it is difficult to concentrate on the matter of vehicle fuel level when the vistas are gorgeous in all directions. I want to get off the pavement soon, back into the wilds that call to me.

The only question now is, into which backroad canyon should I head north to explore and camp? I could four wheel up the popular Wyman Canyon road, which comes out near the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest, and camp somewhere in that canyon along the way. I am determined to see the Bristlecones. Wyman Canyon would be the most direct, yet it would also use more fuel than proceeding to the heights of the White Mountains via the main paved road. Consequently, I opt to avoid Wyman this time, with its numerous stream crossings.

Instead, I will proceed towards the main entrance road, and hopefully find a side canyon in which to pitch camp this evening. Based on my knowledge of the distances involved and the conditions of the roads, including their steepness in ascending the Whites, I reckon that I should be able to barely make it to the town of Bishop, via the Bristlecones, with the fuel currently onboard. Sure, the drive up to 10,000 feet tomorrow will suck up the petrol, but going down the other side will hopefully ease the drain enough for me to roll into town later tomorrow on more than just fumes.

Passing the inviting Wyman Canyon road, I continue on a few more miles to where Highway 168 begins to climb out of the peaceful Deep Springs Valley and into a narrow canyon. Around a couple of turns, there comes into view a canyon to the right of the pavement, with a two-track primitive roadway seeming to be visible. This canyon is rocky in its wash, but the rocks are small, and look easily drivable in my BEV. I pull off, put the rig in 4wd high range, and begin keeping an eye out for a nice place to sleep as Tumbleweed and I travel higher with each turn of the tires. Yes, I am aware that since this canyon will only be my camp, and that I will have to return back down this same route in the morning, to go any farther than I have to would be unwise due to the fuel consumption necessary to do so. Yet, I want to go in far enough to not hear any highway vehicles tonight, and to be assured of privacy.

My Automobile Club map of the eastern Sierra region names this serene wooded route Mollie Gibson Canyon. Hmm, there must be some history here. Who was this lady? Why did they name this canyon after her? The map fails to even show this road though, so I have no idea where it eventually leads, but it’s possible that it could be a lesser-traveled four wheel drive route to the top of these mountains. Of course, I’m in no position this trip to find out, but I would love to come back some day and explore Mollie’s canyon to its terminus. If it did have a through-route to the top thousands of feet above, it would be a fantastic primitive backroad for high adventurers.

Approximately two miles in, the canyon forks, with the same type of tracks going in both directions. I stop, try to assess the best route, and decide to proceed to the right. This canyon is very tight and windy, so there is no hint of the highway I left about ten minutes ago. The tightness also makes it difficult to locate a flat area large enough for a suitable camp. A quarter mile up the right fork, I don’t like the potential, so I return and take the left fork instead. Not far past the fork, I finally decide on a small spot off the track that will suffice for tonight. It is quiet, and no one seems to be around on this Monday evening. I believe I am the lone wanderer in this wild country tonight, and will have no visitors.

Subsequent to pitching camp and eating my evening meal, I go for a nice hike up the hillsides through the trees to see the views of the valley to the southeast that I left earlier. It is just warm enough that the shade of the trees feels good, even this late in the day. The sun will be bidding me goodbye in a while, so I depart from these slopes back to the canyon, and the metal tent I call home in the wilds. Tonight will be cold again, but not as cold as last night on Phinney Pass, for tonight I am in a wind-protected spot, and the elevation is not quite as high. I fall asleep easily after my exercise, and awaken early the morning of day five, ready for my chance to hike to the oldest known living being on Planet Earth.

Day Five – October 31, Tuesday

The sun is not yet upon me because of the snug canyon in which I am parked, so I use my same dressing and eating technique that worked so comfortably yesterday morning on Phinney Pass. Not wasting any time, and conscious of my need to drive conservatively to save fuel, I head out to Highway 168 and then westward about three miles to the main visitor entrance to the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest. No Ranger is at the entrance gate, so I proceed on up the paved road to the Shulman Grove at the top. The views are becoming increasingly more spectacular, especially of the Sierra Nevada Mountains to the west, as the rising sun highlights the craggy, snow-capped peaks. Just past the 10,000 foot elevation marker, reads another sign that says, “Good cell service next turnout.” That’s the first time I have ever witnessed a sign like that. Cell service down below on the high slopes in Mollie Gibson Canyon was nonexistent. It’s too early to make a call now … I keep on driving.

Thinking back, I recall that the Thayer safari was scheduled to also be up here in the White Mountains today, but their original itinerary had them overnighting southwest of Steel Pass, so even if they did remain on the schedule, their arrival up here wouldn’t be until later in the day. It would be nice to meet the folks, and even incredible at this point after so many days where plans can certainly change, but I figure the best I can hope for is to email them upon my return home in a few days. Then, I’ll know the rest of the story, and where they eventually went.

At last the road breaks out onto fairly level ground on Reed Flat, and in another quarter mile or so, I pull into the Visitor Center at Schulman Grove. There is not a car in sight anywhere, and I find the buildings all locked with lights out, that is, except for the restrooms fortunately. Looks like I will have the pleasure of this hike to the Ancient Ones all to my self. The weather is deceiving this morning. From inside the warm confines of my truck, I see brightly shining sun, with the appearance of a fine warm day outside. That belief is quickly dashed upon exiting the interior of the BEV, where it immediately becomes obvious that I must go the rear hatch of my rig to retrieve my down vest, sheepskin hat, holofill hooded coat, and gloves – amazing, considering how folks at Furnace Creek Ranch in DV are probably walking around rather comfortably right now with none of these additional clothing items. The wind is blowing quite stiffly here, making the cold Halloween temps feel even more frigid.

I strap on my small fanny pack with two one-liter water bottles, a few energy bars, and some minimal emergency gear. Out come my adjustable hiking poles, which I set to the length that works for me (I keep them retracted for storage in the compact rear area of the rig). If you read my account of the Telescope Peak hike, you’ll recall that I have learned that two hiking poles make a huge difference in ease of hiking these narrow and steep mountain trails. They will always be a part of my hiking gear from here on out, even though it took up to midlife before I became convinced of their merit. Prior to that, I had never used them in my life. And no, it has nothing to do with age (am I being defensive?) because I am in better hiking shape now than even in my twenties. It’s all about stability and safety, and getting a more full-body workout since the upper body muscles come into play with the poles.

Walking past the introductory signs to the 4.5 mile trail, I read a hand-written sign pleading that everyone who takes this hike should use poles due to the icy snow banks that cover the northern and shady portions on the precipitous mountainsides. It is only about fifteen minutes later that I realize the Ranger’s recommendation is extremely accurate. The trail is narrow, and somewhat off-camber in spots, and lengthy stretches of hard-packed snow cover the footpath here and there, making progress without poles a highly hazardous affair. Even with my lugged hiking boots, I slip occasionally, and it is the poles that arrest my fall. I am very happy to have them … it’s a long way down!

I am proceeding to the Methuselah Grove of Ancient Bristlecone Pine trees. It is here that the oldest living creature on the Earth lives, the 4,772 year-old Methuselah tree. To a natural spirit such as myself, this is a special place with a strong emotional draw. To be in the presence of these Ancients humbles me, and helps me sort out my place in the world and universe. Their dense and twisted wood bodies, ravaged by the strong winds of this exceptionally high elevation, glow with yellow and orange tints. They cannot speak in ways understood by most of my species, but I sense a sort of wisdom in their existence, so I speak to them, respectful of their age and history. I am interacting with many of these trees on this hike. Odd as it may sound to some, when I encounter exceptionally old or huge trees, I actually enjoy touching them, as if to gain from their existence something that might help me with mine. I feel great this frosty Tuesday morning, and am pleased that I made the effort to get up here.

Governmental authorities in charge of protecting this unique alpine land have determined that it is best to not inform visiting humans of Methuselah’s precise location in the vast grove that spans several hillsides overlooking the deserts of the southeast. I suspect their thinking is that if Methuselah’s identity is revealed, the tree would soon become a helpless victim of folks who feel compelled to take with them a small souvenir of their visit, namely a piece of the Ancient Tree. Of course, they are correct in this assumption, yet I am sad that I am not able to capture the precise image of the Revered One with my digital camera, which would at least be something tangible to take home. I could get the photo if I were sufficiently intent, by shooting every tree up here, but that would require days’ worth of effort, and even then, no one would know which tree was which. Only the academians who study this tree through special permission know the truth of identity, and I, unfortunately, am not in their circle.

An even older Bristlecone Pine named Prometheus on Wheeler Peak in Nevada used to exist in the high mountains there. However, through an unfortunate situation where the governing agency gave permission to a graduate university student to study the tree’s age through the dendrochronology of the rings, it was cut down, and only then was the incredible age of Prometheus exposed, an unbelievable 4,950 years! It was too late at that point to undo the awful mistake, and so this particular person, who did the deed in the name of research, has to forever live with the thought that he put an end to the Earth’s oldest surviving inhabitant (as currently believed by scientists). Those in charge of protecting irreplaceable natural residents of the Earth have since learned a valuable lesson.

On the southern slopes of the hike, when the wind dies somewhat, the sun does begin to warm me, and I must unzip the coat and unsnap the vest underneath. But just as quickly, when I round the corner of the hill and enter another shaded northern slope, the air chills, and if the wind picks up again, as it does from time to time, it necessitates a rewrapping of my clothing to retain the warmth. Never though, do I feel overheated through the duration of the hike.

When I return to the parking lot, a lone station wagon is parked there too, but no people are anywhere. They must be on the very trail that I just completed. It seems like these new all-wheel drive passenger cars are the thing to have out here, since I keep seeing them on my travels. I am quite satisfied with my new BEV though, so will not be making the switch. Packing away my stuff, again I head out, north on the now-dirt road that heads to White Mountain.

Farther north is the Patriarch Grove of Bristlecones, but the road is impassible this time of year due to snow. At road number 6502, I turn left towards the Sierra Nevada Mountains on the other side of the Owens Valley, which separates them from the White Mountains. I stop to talk to a lone cowboy sitting on a wagon at the intersection, waiting for his friend who is still coming up from Bishop. Partially toothless, with a raspy voice, the rugged tobacco-chewing man is a friendly influence after so many days lacking human interaction. We speak for a while, and then I bid him farewell, never to see him again.

It is here that the road makes an unbelievably dramatic plunge over a seemingly disastrous edge, heading down about 6,000 feet in a mere ten miles, more or less. This is Silver Canyon, and going up it will heat up your engine, while going down it will heat up your brakes. The switchbacks are numerous, as are the stream crossings (that cool down your brakes). If you are still driving an older rig with drum brakes, make darn sure that you apply light pressure through each water crossing if you want to stop any time soon (which you most undeniably will). With the four disc brakes on my newer rig, this is no longer a problem.

The road is too steep to not use brakes with my BEV in 4HI, but not quite steep enough to require 4LO. Low range would make the brakes largely unnecessary, but it would prolong the duration of the descent due to the ultra low crawling speed. Not only that, but low range would keep the RPMs of the engine much higher, which in turn would consume more fuel, something of which I now have preciously little; in fact, my “low fuel” light comes on about half way down the canyon. Turns out that the steep forward incline of the vehicle caused the lamp to light because the fuel was sloshing forward in the tank, for once I hit level ground near the bottom, the lamp extinguished itself, fortunately.

Back on pavement, I at long last pull into the Shell station on the northern end of Bishop … doesn’t matter what it costs, I need it for the journey northward on Highway 395. As it happens, from Beatty (my last fuel stop on Sunday, day three), to Bishop via my circuitous route is 230 miles, and the tank requires only 16 gallons of petrol. This means that I have just over 5 gallons remaining, which, at the 14.37 miles per gallon I average on this fuel-intense portion of my safari, would have gotten me another 73 miles. Well folks, that also means that I could have comfortably explored Oriental Wash, Gold Mountain, and Cucomungo Canyon yesterday, and camped in the northern reaches of DVNP last night instead of Mollie Gibson Canyon. Like I have said before, if you don’t leave some mystery out there for next time, you may not be as motivated for a next time, so all’s well that ends well.

Bodie ghost town in eastern California near Nevada is a must-see sight that I have not seen since childhood with my parents, so that is my next destination. Rather than using the common way to get there, I make it a point to take dirt backroads from Mono City on Mono Lake. I like the challenge of finding a route that requires my map-reading skills, and traveling roads that few others take – there is always this sense of real adventure when doing so, and the thought that maybe you’ll get lost.

Bodie is well-preserved and well-worth your time if you enjoy a living history setting. You will swear that the town is in full existence, as all the visitors walking around give it a very real feeling. Were it not for the dirt parking lot on the north side, and the fact that the people are wearing modern clothing, you’ll likely not know the difference. Of course, there are no horses walking about though, so that’s another hint if you find yourself suffering from amnesia out here.

As the day presses on, I leave the Bodie ghosts behind, and head up through Bridgeport and other points north. Bridgeport, California is in an absolutely breathtaking natural locale, and gives the small town feel. Views of the Sierra Nevada Mountains to the southeast are incomparable. I could easily live here, and in fact, many years ago, I put in an application for the Sheriff’s Department, but was not a successful candidate. After many hours of pavement driving on the way home, I decide to call it quits for this fifth day, and begin thinking about a likely place to bed down for a few hours of shuteye. Since daylight savings time has just ended Sunday, it is now dark, and I cannot discern from my visual inspection any likely camps off the highway in the deep woods. From past years, I recall a vista overlook, so at around 7:30 this night, I pull into it.

Since it is not a roadside rest stop, it has no improvements of any kind, and that is good in my judgment, because it will mean that the likelihood of anyone else pulling in here is very low. I eat dinner, set up camp, and go to sleep. It is a very cold night, with a full star-studded sky, and not a soul even drives in off the highway, all the way through to when I leave on Wednesday morning. The view to the northwest upon awaking is certainly stunning, as the pre-rising morning sun’s light illuminates the massive Mount Shasta in a reddish glow. Day six is dedicated to highway travel back home, and as such, will not be detailed here. While I enjoy roadtrips also, they are not quite as exciting as a backcountry safari on primitive roads of yesteryear.

Turns out that Dean Thayer’s group never crossed paths with me due to mechanical problems on their second day out. A front suspension breakage on one of the vehicles disabled it enough that rigorous backroad travel was not possible for safety reasons, so their route was altered significantly. They still had a good time and saw many sights, but stayed more on the pavement so that if the problem got worse, at least the vehicle would be relatively easily recoverable, which would not have been the case had they driven the notorious Echo Pass road over the dryfalls (where I had originally hoped to see them back on Saturday morning of day two).

Six days without a shower, and I am ready to luxuriate for a bit. Living in civilization has its perks, and yet I prefer being in the wilds. Each has things to offer the other does not. A week  or more away from the crowds is my kind of quality time. I am always eager to go, so it doesn’t take much prompting from kindred spirits looking for a traveling companion to find me gearing up for yet another one of my lifetime safari adventures.

Did you hear that? It was a call! And it’s not wasting any time. The call of the wild for the road and trail not taken is a foundational aspect of my existence. It propels me into my dreams, which then move me forward into my reality, which, consequently become the basis for new dreams. It is my circle of life that will ultimately lead to my final call into the wild and mysterious journey of eternity.

I don’t think Tom Harrison has mapped that one yet.