Desert Trip 2022: Day 3
Sunday, November 6th, 2022: 2022 Trips, Mojave Desert, Regions, Road Trips.
After that long struggle to get warm in the driving wind and plummeting temperatures, when I did fall asleep, I slept like a log. I woke at 6 am, feeling totally refreshed, as the southeastern sky was beginning to glow above the ramparts of rock surrounding my camp.
But the wind was still roaring unabated through the pinyon, juniper, and tall granite boulders, and even without wind chill, I realized the temperature had to be somewhere in the 30s now. There was no way I was going to crawl out of my tarp cocoon until sunlight reached my campsite.
That was another little detail I’d forgotten in my absence from this place. We feel protected camping next to a rock outcrop or under a high peak, but here, I was essentially down in a hole – at the western foot of a high ridge, where, still without the ability to build a fire in this wind, I ended up lying in shade for another three hours, until the sun finally topped the ridge and began to warm me.
While lying in wait, I remembered seeing a falling star before falling asleep last night – the second I’d seen so far out here. And I began pondering my plan for the day.
During my last visit to this area, a friend and I had hiked to a canyon just south of here, just over the crest that loomed above me now. Our goal had been to relocate a prehistoric olla – a ceramic storage jar – that he and other friends discovered under a juniper near the head of that canyon.
Our hike had been cut short by rain, so I still didn’t know exactly where that jar was, but it tantalized me as another part of the puzzle of our ancient cultural resources. Assuming I could make it safely down the dry waterfall, my hike back to base camp should only take a couple of hours, so if I could find a way from here over to the head of that southern canyon, and if I could make my limited water last, I should have plenty of time for a side trip before heading home.
After breakfasting on granola and an orange – no coffee today – I had less than two liters of water to get me back to base. Which depending on the side trip, could take all day. With the wind, it was still chilly, so I might be okay.
I believed the head of the side canyon was due south of me. I couldn’t see the actual crest, or a saddle which might be my point of access, because of intervening spurs of the mountain, but I could see a drainage that might be my way up. Much of it was boulder-choked, but I could also see some patches of bare, shrub-dotted ground that might provide an easier route. It would be an experiment.
As usual, the terrain proved much more complicated above than it looked from below. But after an hour of scouting routes, climbing over ledges, detouring around giant boulders, and crossing gullies, I found myself exactly where I’d hoped to be – on a ridge that formed the saddle directly at the head of the southern canyon. And there were junipers dotted all around, any of which could hide that olla.
What a place, and what a perspective! The wind was fading to a pleasant breeze, a majestic pyramidal peak rose a couple hundred feet above the head of the canyon, and I had views into the Lost World – the huge southeastern basin – as well as over Blockhead, the granite monolith on the south wall of our own interior basin, which we stare at from camp.
I ended up exploring the entire crest at the head of the canyon, peering under every juniper, but never saw the olla. I did find several great campsites – ridgetops in this range often feature level areas protected by boulders or low rock walls – and a few stone tool flakes. But my water was too limited to explore downward into the canyon.
So I found my way back down to the plateau campsite and packed up for the return to base. I had only about two-thirds of a liter of water left and would eventually start to dehydrate, but it shouldn’t be too bad.
I still wasn’t looking forward to the climb down to the bajada. But when I reached the rim, it didn’t look so scary this time. I took it very slow and careful, but still had a few near-falls – as usual, lucky to recover balance before getting in trouble. And before I knew it, I was back in the big wash.
On the way home, I tried to compare hiking here with the hikes I do back home in less arid country. It’s much more dangerous here. It’s not as hard on the feet, but with the slopes of loose rock and gravel, it can be hard on the ankles. And of course there are the long slogs through deep sand.
I’d finished my water halfway there and was just beginning to get a little dehydration headache when I finally dropped from the bajada into the wash below camp.
Back at base camp, I found a big tarantula nonchalantly strolling past my vehicle – it looked identical to the one I’d passed two days earlier farther up the gulch. My back was still hurting, as was my heel – probably a delayed reaction from the back down the sciatic nerve – so I took a pain pill. I was filthy and overdue for a shower, so I made further attempts to stop the leaking seam – I had a binder clip I use for bags of chips, and rolled up the taped seam, finishing with the clip, which slowed the leak to a slow drip.
All clean, the next chore was dinner. I’d used most of my catclaw the night before the backpack, grilling a whole chicken leg. That produced leftovers, which I would combine and reheat on the stove, but I still needed a campfire. I scrambled to the boulder above camp where friends had a stash of firewood, but the pieces were just too big for a one-person fire. I was taught the leave-no-trace school of fire-building – never use anything bigger around than your thumb. My catclaw fires use branches a little thicker than that, but I’m most happy with small-diameter firewood, and catclaw makes wonderful coals for grilling.
After sundown, as I was working, I was swarmed by clouds of insects that looked superficially like mosquitos, but didn’t buzz – and they bounced up and down like mayflies. The wind had vanished and the air was perfectly still.
I was pleased with my new gear. The folding chair had looked drab, even ugly, at home, but here the colors fit in perfectly, which had been my plan. People buy high-tech gear that looks great in the city, but it can make a campsite look like an REI showroom.
I was surprised and a little concerned about my water situation. I was running through 5 gallons – a third of my supply – in less than two days at camp. Yes, I’d lost a little in the shower leak, but I couldn’t account for the rest. In the old days, Katie and I had never brought more than 5 gallons for the two of us, for a 3 or 4 day stay. But then we hadn’t been hiking like I do now.
After dinner I mused about my fears and lack of confidence on the backpack. It was clearly all in my head, and my habit of pushing myself won out in the end.
Our campsite is elevated on a ledge above the wash, with a 180 degree view across the gulch and interior basin, ringed at the horizon by jagged ridges. Under the star-strewn sky, scanning that dark jagged profile, I was again reminded of how this landscape, which looks so bleak and monotonous to the novice, is for us filled with hidden magic – countless special places we’ve explored and shared, hidden to view until you’re upon them. Just gazing across this landscape triggers memories that span decades, flooding my head and heart. I thought about the desert journals lost in my house fire – all those details that might never return to mind.
In bed, I was soon joined by mosquitos, and got up to assemble the sleep screen I’d found on eBay to replace my burned original. Thankfully, it still allowed me to see the stars clearly: the early constellations of Cygnus, Cassiopeia, and Pegasus, and when I woke hours later to pee, Auriga and Orion. I saw three meteorites, including one that left a long trail.
