Done a day early, we slept in inside the tent, away from bugs, late into the morning We woke in full-body tiredness and the humid dankness of sweat inside a hot tent. We hand bathed in the creek, kicked around the campground, and hiked (without our full packs, for the first time in a week) up the trail a mile or two into the steep canyon towards Mt Jefferson, just to see the sights and gain some vantage on the last few days walk. Spent some time walking in the cold creek to cool off and pamper the feet trying to catch trout in a mosquito headnet and mesh stuffsack. Failed at the fishing but had great success in the pampering.
The day of leisure was full of reflecting upon the 70 rough, exciting and breathtaking miles of Great Basin landscapes we had witnessed in the last week. We also marveled at the nearly 200 miles we had come in our journey across Nevada. Sitting at the future head of leg IV, we knew we would be back sometime to continue the experience.
Around 3:30, a suburban rolled up the road and circled the campground. It was Mr. Bath, our ride home. We exchanged salutations and chatted as we loaded our packs into the vehicle.
The ride back was quiet. We stared out the window at the passing valleys and mountain ranges, gauging the distances and sizes of mountains in a hard-won sense of bipedal reality that was at its sharpest after a week of honing. The several hour drive was a salute to how fare we had walked from our home in merely two trips. I did not feel that I had conquered the distance. Rather, I was grateful to have experienced it and humbled by the vastness of the country we had made our way across. It was then that I came to the realization that a good life is filled with real adventures. Real adventures are dangerous, trying and sometimes questionable. The good life is a life to be proud of when it ends, whenever that might be. It is a life that, in its darkest and saddest hours will illuminate and uplift itself with the treasures of past experiences and the prospect of more to come.
That night we were treated to showers and a meal at the Historic Hotel Nevada with both sets of our parents. Greasy casino food and good company is just what we needed.
***
The rest of the summer was a good one, at least for my brother and I. That fall, we returned to our respective universities in the Northwest and Paul to Reno. The following summer of 2008 found everyone in different places and sadly no progress was made on the trail. The continuation of the Trail remains a goal for all of us. Until then, we wish that you, fair reader, will endeavor to take some chances and embark on that journey you have been thinking about. It will be worth the ride.
We all slept in late because we only had 6-7 miles (all downhill) slated for the day. We arose at 9:30 and had bland oatmeal; the breakfast of champions. Packed up our camp in the ravine and left around 10:30 to climb to a nearby saddle. We soon hooked up with the trail we needed on top and followed it to a main trail for the area. We followed it a bit too blindly and ended up taking the wrong fork for about a half of a mile. Slowly, we began to realize we were not really heading down the drainage we needed to. We turned around and backtracked to the proper trail that had been obscured by the young undergrowth of a recovering aspen stand. The trail was the main artery into the area and was pretty well traveled and studded with piles of horse dung. It lead through some thick and rocky pinyon and juniper forests to a cliff.
From here, we could look out over the Mosquito Creek drainage and see where it met the floor of MonitorValley, behind a long ridge pointing northwest that slowly eroded into the valley. Out plans had us camping along Mosquito Creek where it met the valley, and finishing the trek the next day. We stopped for a break along the cliffs, contemplating the landscape, and collectively decided to finish the trek that day by crossing Monitor valley in the afternoon. We would end up at Pine Creek, the rendezvous, in the shadows of Mt Jefferson and the Alta Toquima range.
We hiked down to the creek and tanked up on water, saving a liter or so each for the jaunt across the valley. We also had lunch and took a nap in the grassy meadow to the bubbling background of the clear cold creek. I did some important foot maintenance work, letting them dry out a bit and popping a few small blisters. After nearly a week in the moist confines of thick leather or nakedly strapped to sandals in the parching alkaline dust of worn out roads, our feet were beginning to require attention if they were to remain willing participants in the trip. As I worked on my feet, we enjoyed the warm sun and a stunning Ruby Throated Hummingbird mating display. It consisted of the male making an unending and wildly fluctuating string of calls, spiraling up into the air. Once it was high enough that we could barely see it as a noisy dot in the sky, it would fly straight down at extremely high speeds, making a dive-bombing sort of noise, narrowly missing the ground. We were impressed, but there was no sign of a fellow hummingbird in the audience.
Around 2:30, we figured out that the valley crossing was to be in the neighborhood of 9 miles. This figure motivated us to get started, in a demotivating fashion. We left the presence of the foothills, crossed and left the creek, and fought our way through some very thick and tall basin big sagebrush. Two antelope watched us from a salt crusted mound that sported a warm and stinky hotspring and lush green grass. We deviated a bit to check it out, but being only the size of a bathtub full of mud and sewage, with ankle-swallowing mud surrounding it, it did not provide much excitement. We continued across some very alkaline flats and horsebrush for about 40 minutes, making our way eventually into some sage and gravely hardpan. The sun was still decently high and stealing appreciable quantities of motivation from our overheated and overworked bodies.
Looking across the valley, we could see that the next tree was all the way across the valley, miles away. There was no hope for a shade break unless we endeavored to huddle under larger sagebrush or behind our packs, which was sounding better and better and we marched along, staring at the impressively massive Mt Jefferson. To our delight, we came across an old stream bed cut into the valley floor and after only a few minutes, we found a section that was just deep enough and with walls just steep enough to immerse ourselves in the shade. We sat in the cool gravel of the stream bed in the shade and dozed off, looking back at TableMountain. The cool and shady area in the mid afternoon heat was prime habitat for sharks, and sure enough, within a few minutes, a shark attack ensued. The pack of sharks made its way around, boosting moral and providing immediately available energy. We consulted the map and discussed how we would hook into one of the many roads in the valley.
Revived, we crawled out of our spot around 4:00, as if emerging from some subterranean underworld onto the flat and expansive valley floor. We tipped our hats down to catch more sun and trod on for over an hour. Walking with a pack through the sagebrush at this point was becoming second nature. After 6 days of immersion, the art of living on my feet was finally beginning to be habitual and nonchalant. In the respect, it was a shame that it was to be the final day. If we had the time and the supplies, I have no doubt that we would have decided to continue for several more days, over Jefferson and Arc Dome, into the vast 40 mile stretch of dry low hills south of Tonopah, and perhaps on past Walker Lake. However, it was not to be. Today was it.
We connected with a series of roads that would lead us to our destination. I stopped to put on sandals for the road walking. We zig-zagged along various paths, separating a bit, heading to the main bench road, then cut a corner through a healthy and forb-ridden patch of Wyoming sage. In the lowering light, with the shadow of the Alta Toquima range almost upon us, exhausted, we stumbled onto the main road heading straight up into the pinyon and juniper to the Pine Creek campground. This was the final push. The end of the road for leg III of Trail 22. We were a day ahead of schedule and over 24 hours from our scheduled pickup time. We rested a bit, ensuring that we enjoyed the last steps of the journey we were still beginning to realize that we had actually undertaken. We took a few pictures in the setting sun and walked together up into the trees along the road.
The familiar smell of campfires and the unfamiliar sounds of other humans than ourselves greeted us, and after circling the campground to make sure no one was waiting for us early, we found a campsite, started a fire, and cooked the last supper.
The silence of the Great Basin night is without compare. The breeze dies down, but persists enough to make you sure that if you were anywhere else, the rustling of leaves, grasses, wind chimes, twigs or other things would break the soundlessness. It seems like a crime to break it. Scraping my metal bowl to clear its insides sends harsh waves into the night, never to return, all to die somewhere in the robust shrubbage that surrounds me for miles in every direction. Some may be lucky enough to raise the head of a coyote, a rabbit, a meadowlark, or the ass-end of a tank-like stinkbug on its mission into the night.
I dare not break it intentionally. I've got a harmonica, in the key of D, packed away in my stuff somewhere. The thought of becomming audibly blind to the silence is intimidating. I don't have the guts.
It's a silence that is so complete that all you can hear is the humming of your head. The ringing whir of who knows what. Brain static.
I can only hope some creature doesn't breach the moonlit peace with a howl, squak, roar, quack, or gurgled groan. I'd likely jump out of my skin or blow a hole in an artery.
I don't have the guts to bare witness to such a breach.
--From a camp in the expansively empty Eden Valley in Humboldt County northeast of Winnemucca, NV
