Round Two - With Wingman Paul (Day 3 & 4)

The morning of day three found me groggy but alive. I checked my watch and was surprised by its reading. 9:00 am. I popped the door open and crawled out of my sleeping bag and stumbled over to a Forest Service bathroom in my socks. My feet, legs and hips were sore and stiff from the past day. I came back to the car and sat around until Paul woke up. As we made breakfast a man came over from the camp that we had driven our car out of the past night.

“Morning”, said the man.

“Morning”, Paul and I mumbled back.

The man was dressed in a well worn undershirt and a pair of grey sweat pants. His receding hair was cut short and his face aged him to be about forty-five or fifty. The man made me nervous. He looked like the kind of person that it is best to avoid less you get caught up in their troubled lives. The man continued.

“Hey, I just wanted to apologize about setting up in your spot. We figured you guys were parked there for the day”

“Oh, not a problem”, I responded. “We’re fine right here.”

“Alright, just wanted to make sure. Hey, do you guys party?”

I was a bit confused by his question. Why does this guy care if we party? We’re as far from the party scene as you can get. Being simple minded a slightly out of the loop, I took his question literally.

“No, I don’t”, I said in all honesty for I had never gone to anything that I considered to be a party of the type I thought this guy was referring to. “But this guy does”, I said, pointing to Paul who I knew had gone to many a party in his high school days. The man shifted his attention to Paul.

“Actually, I gave it up. Just not my thing”, said Paul

“I’m freakn’ confused”, I thought.

“Ok, I was just wondering” said the man. “Well, you guys take it easy”

Paul and I said goodbye and with that the man turned and walk back towards his camp. After he was out of ear shot I started trying to figure out what the guy was all about. Then Paul turned to me and said, “Hey man, when someone asks you if you party they are really asking you if you smoke pot.” I felt about as bright as bat shit in the bottom of a cave. We still managed to laugh about it and agreed that the sooner we left the better.

After a light breakfast of instant scrambled eggs, we were about ready to move on when our sketchy friend came back over. This time he told us that they were there because they were traveling the country and that they had run out of gas and money. He asked if we had any cash to spare. Now I was really feeling nervous. His story wasn’t making much sense. The camp ground we were at was well off the main highway. If you were running low on gas it would make much more sense to press on towards Ely rather than drive into Cleve Creek. I had twenty bucks in the glove box but had no desire to give it to him. We simply said we didn’t have any cash because we were backpacking.

The days walk would take us 6 miles up Cleve Creek and then another 6 miles up to the top of the Schell Creeks where we would camp for the night – a 4,374 ft. elevation gain.

As we walked up the canyon, leaving my defenseless Suzuki with the pot smoking road tripper I couldn’t help but think that I was going to return in a few days and find my car’s windows smashed in and its insides gutted.

The road up Cleve Creek was easy going besides the fact that it crossed a broad creek several times. We ran into a brood of Blue Grouse and stopped to eat some ripe elder berries. We also ran into our first rattler. I heard it hiss as we approached. The ol’buzz-worm was of fair size but like most snakes wanted nothing to do with us. I poked at him with a stick just to get it to rattle then we left. The further up the canyon we went the smaller the road got. Maybe four fifths of the way up the road, some movement caught my eye. It was big and close and standing in the trees. It wasn’t spooking like a deer or an elk would have. It was silent except for its footsteps. I was so puzzled by the creature that I had trouble focusing on it for I didn’t know what to look for. Finally after a few seconds I realized what it was. A horse, a tethered horse nonetheless, seemingly materialized in front of my eyes. Then I looked up the other side of the road and right before us was a sheepherder’s camp.

The camp looked like any other sheepherder camp. The iconic covered-wagon-like trailer sat off to the side of the road with provisions scattered about. Unlike other camps this one had a vehicle parked near it. Most camps lack a vehicle for two reasons. The herders, immigrant workers from South and Central America as well as South Western Europe lack the financial income to purchase and maintain vehicles. Secondly, even if they could afford a vehicle they could never use it for their job entails being stationed in the backcountry with the sheep for months at a time. Their job is to watch and move the sheep which leaves little time for joy rides except on the back of a horse. This of course explained the horse in the trees. My mind jumped and played in the field of logic.

With the camp set right next to the road we couldn’t help but walk through. As we passed the trailer the occupants came into view - two men and a woman. Being the only humans for miles we were all intrigued by one another’s presence. Paul and I stopped to say hello and were met with unexpected hospitality. The herder, a young man not more that thirty stepped forward and introduced himself as Caesar and told us he was from Peru. We introduced ourselves and told him where we lived and briefly about our hike. He spoke broken English but smiled with interest. He introduced the other man and woman, actually a mother and son who turned out to be visitors from Las Vegas.

Caesar ran back to the trailer opened a chest cooler and pulled out two ice cold bottles of water and gave them to Paul and I who were happy to have the water after the long walk up the road. We talked some more about the area. We mentioned elk and Caesar again ran back to the trailer and pulled out his prize possessions - two elk dead heads he had found while riding his horse in the area. Someone thought of taking pictures and so I took pictures of Cesar and Paul each holding a head and then had Paul take my picture with Cesar. Wishing each other good luck and farewell we parted and Paul and I resumed our walk up the road.

In a short time we reached the end of the road. Caesar’s sheep had been hard at work grazing the forage to stubs. The water, ground and air reeked of sheep crap. A perfect place to break for lunch and pump water before entering the high country. As we sat in the shade, the ruckus of a car engine could be heard making its way up the road. Before long a silver heavy duty pick-up truck rolled up the road. It was turning out to be a people filled day. The truck was no regular civilian truck. It had state license plates, and as it veered to the right a familiar emblem could be seen stuck to the door. It was that of the Nevada Division of Wildlife, the same agency my father worked for.

Anxious to see who it was, we approached the cab of the truck. The face of the driver was unfamiliar to me. So was the name. But he knew my Dad. We talked about our hike, what the biologist was up to and what we thought of the creepy people back at the camp ground. With yet another farewell Paul and I shouldered our packs and headed up Taft Canyon - a side canyon of Cleve Creek. We had been watching for the canyon on the map all day and now, around mid day we were fairly confident that we were at its base.

According to the map and what we had heard there was a trail that led up Taft Canyon to Cleve Creek Baldy, one of the local peaks in area. From the peak, a foot trail led back to Success Summit where we intended to camp that night.

We found a trail that led out of Cleve Creek and up Taft but it wasn’t apparent whether we were on a human trail or a deer trail. As time went on it became more and more clear that it was of the latter type. The trail led up the bottom of the canyon, passing under and over fallen trees. The duff from unknown years of needles and droppings made our trail beaten feet a little happier. In the dense pines we lost sight of the surrounding topography and began to loose track of ourselves on the map. Obviously we were still in Taft Canyon but we were unable to tell what part of the canyon we were in.

“See this little bump in the topo lines?“

“Yeah?”

“I think that’s this ridge to our left”

“I don’t know man, are you sure were not over here? That looks kind of funny”

“Yeah, I can’t tell”
“So where to?”

“I don’t know. Let’s keep going up. We’ll have to climb no matter what way we go.”

“Sounds good.”

In the end we ended up taking the wrong route which led straight up the northeast side of Cleve Creek Baldy rather than the slightly less steep route which approached the peak from the north. The climb up the peak was probably the hardest of the whole trip. On a slope close to 45 degrees with sage brush up to your thigh, every step was a struggle. Our feet were in great pain but there was nothing we could do about it. The rewarding aspect of the climb was that we could look back all the way across Spring Valley to Mount Moriah and the table. A total distance of 30 miles and 56 percent of our entire trip lay in one view.

Late in the day after several false summits Paul and I climbed up and out of the steep slopes of Taft Canyon. We were beat from the climb but we had another 4 miles to go before reaching Success Summit and camp. The hike off of Cleve Creek was aided by a trail that I had been on before. Finally we reached Success Summit and found a suitable camp site in a small gully filled with scattered aspens. We walked under the light of dusk and set up camp as the sun left the glowing sky. That night, after dinner, Paul led us down a road that took us to Camp Success, a place which I had heard about but never been to.

Camp Success is a collection of cabins and bunk houses that has been used by youth groups, scouts and the general public whenever someone wants to hold a shin-dig up in the mountains while maintaining certain civilized standards like running water, electricity and refrigeration. The camp is nestled in a thick forest of firs of a north facing slope. I must say I was impressed. Besides just wanting to check out the place, Paul and I had empty water bottles which could be filled at relatively lightning speed with a hose. Paul was disgusted when he found that the main door to the main lodge was unlocked. It is a relative of his that has become the prime care taker of the camp. We went inside and looked around.

We were standing next to the kitchen filled with grills, refrigerators and utensils. We looked out into the dinning center that was filled with tables and chairs. Curiosity got the best of me and I took a peak inside one of the refrigerators. Expecting to see nothing more than the typical empty mayo jar and a box of baking soda, I found the exact opposite. The fridge was packed! Bread took up most of the space but the regular non perishables were all there. Crackers, chocolates, even ice cream in the freezer! I wanted to tear into it all as I was still hungry after dinner. I managed to keep my composure. I did however find a jar of jelly that had already been opened along with a jar of peanut butter and proceeded to make myself one of the best tasting PB&J sandwiches I had ever eaten.

Water bottles full and curiosity satisfied we plodded back up the road which took nearly a half hour. It was pretty late when we got back to the camp and a smoldering campfire. We crawled into our sleeping bags for the last night of our trip. Tomorrow we planned to hike out of the mountains and into town whose lights could be seen from just over the hill.

The morning came. Bright light, clear skies and crisp air. Tucked in this package of mountain joy was a whole slough of aches and pains. My feet, specifically the heels, were swollen the point that any up hill walking caused my boots to compress my heel which was very painful. There were no blisters, just pain. Paul’s feet were hurting a bit as well but had held up surprisingly well considering he was in running shoes. The packs had left their marks as well in the form of sore shoulders and raw hips. The camp which we had selected in the fading light the past evening had proved to be a little more sloped than was comfy. Thus the night had been interrupted with adjustments and repositioning. But all of this didn’t matter much as we knew we were on the last day and would be home by dinner.

After breaking camp we hiked up and out of the tiny gully that held our camp and onto a two track that led to the local apex of the mountain ridge. All the uphill walking was a terrible way to start the day but after a while our feet, boots and motions fell into somewhat of a harmonious state which slightly dulled the pain. As the road climbed to the top of the ridge it became steep and heavily rutted which would have made it a challenge for anyone in a vehicle but for us it was still easy walking after the miles of bushwhacking. This made me realize the true versatility of backpacking.

Other forms of recreation have their merits but most are strictly limited by their fundamental elements. You can go a lot of places on a mountain bike and even more on a four-wheeler or dirt bike. The degree of comfort one can experience in the wilds when riding inside a climate controlled air tight bubble of an SUV is unreal. And yet with every one of these mechanism one flirts with total disaster. One bad belt, one pesky sparkplug or bent frame and you’re up a creek. Not so with backpacking. Compared to the complicated forms of short term recreation, backpacking is beautifully simple and always adaptable. If you pack smart and keep your wits about you there isn’t much that can go wrong that can’t be dealt with successfully. When the shit hits the fan, when you are forced to offer your pack to the bears, when your tent blows off a cliff, your walking sticks break in half or your water pump is smashed to bits with a rock, there is really no problem because all you have to do is walk home because you, being a backpacker, will have no problem walking for a day or two to extract yourself from a predicament. Better yet you are presented with the opportunity to make your own repairs, sleep under the stars, christen a new walking stick or drink from water boiled and smoked over a fire.

Why is backpacking so adaptable? Because the sport is based on human anatomy. What is backpacking besides walking with a heavy load? Not much. But what is walking? Walking upright, my friend is a characteristic not shared by many creatures on this planet. Even fewer are capable of the level of efficiency that we humans possess. And this walking is an age old tradition. Over three million years of practice has gone into walking bipedal and to not take advantage of it, to not put it to use whenever possible seems a waste. Any dog, pig, dolphin or jellyfish can perch upon a four-wheeler and go for a spin. But it takes a human to go backpacking.

Cresting the ridge, Paul and I cast our eyes on the all too familiar Steptoe Valley nested under the foothills and benches of the Egan Range. Ely sat quietly to the north, too far to see or hear the details of its existence. Its dusty summer-roasted streets and buildings blended nicely with the sage and juniper. I felt an urge come over me and wandered off into the woods to take a crap.

Paul and I debated over which route to take. Again we had the option to descend directly into the canyon (Mosier Canyon) or take a slightly longer and less steep route along one of the ridges. With all our aches and pains in mind we opted for the gentler but longer route. We decided we would side slope under Camel Peak which rose directly to our south. After reaching the other side of the peak we would take the main ridge down which was in view and looked fairly easy going – limber pine and aspen that ran into open grassy slopes that dropped into the mahogany forests which slowly transitioned to pinion-juniper. By the time we hit the mahogany it would be hot and dry but it’d be down hill. Paul and I posed for one last picture, he and I with our backs to the camera looking out over Steptoe Valley with Ely in the distance.

The walk down the ridge was long and tiresome. To be honest I don’t remember much of it. We followed deer trails and passageways through the dense mahogany. For a while we were on some form of a trail that was more than deer. Paul thought it was an old pack trail that he had heard about once. We bottomed out in the bottom of Mosier sometime in the afternoon. An old sheep trough was overflowing with water that watered a gassy meadow. Paul and I took five under the boughs of a chokecherry tree.

The signs of civilization were becoming more and more apparent. Beer bottles and cans of every kind could be spotted while walking around. The road out of the canyon, which is a popular drive for locals, was littered with cans. Scrap tin lay further off the road, slightly more interesting that Coors and Bud but still unsightly.

We could see the end of our trip was going to be the hardest. So far the endless stream of curiosity had kept us going. Every bend in the road or crest in the trail held the possibility of surprise. But now we were in known territory. We knew that what lay ahead wasn’t anything exciting or grand. The only prospect was final relief from the trail.

The walk out of Mosier canyon was on a hard-packed two track. The sun shown brightly and the air was hot. My feet were throbbing with pain on every step. We broke out of the canyon and onto the bench where we followed another road. I opted to walk on the shoulder or out in the brush where the ground was softer. Paul and I didn’t talk much. He stayed on the road while I wandered out in the brush. The distance between us grew and shrank. We were beat from the trail. We took another break under the shade of some spindly Juniper. Sausage and cheese washed down with water then back on the trail. It was probably another three or four miles to the house from where we sat. The town sat in the distance busy with nothing in particular. I wondered if anyone would see us two lone souls walking in from the mountains. Would they be curious? Would they even enquire as to where we had been? If so I’d happily (and proudly) tell them. If not, it wouldn’t make a difference.
We polished off the last four miles in a single run. The less breaks we took the faster we’d be home. The whole way was on roads. The last mile was on pavement which I found excruciating and again, opted to walk where it was softer. Being in the suburbs, this meant strolling through lawns. Paul and I did take one little break in a park three blocks from my house, where we let ourselves fall into the cool grass where we lay until we were ready to finish. Even in the urban setting we were still on our hike. If we ate, we ate trail food. When we drank, we drank warm water from old plastic bottles. We did pass a pair of women out on an afternoon power walk. We passed each other in silence.

We walked the last few blocks to my house, the same walk I had made a hundred times in the course of my life. We walked into my house, I dropped my pack said hi to my thoroughly confused little brother and then out to the VW to give Paul a ride back to his house. I dropped him off and our trip was through.