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Start: Parker Dam, CA
End: Fenner, CA
Miles: 110
Days: 4
Note- Jet Fighter and I had started this hike in Tonopah, AZ, a week prior. About 30 miles in, Jet Fighter hurt her IT band when a wash wall crumbled apart. We made it about 60 miles total on this route before calling it, both to let Jet Fighter heal and to reassess the water situation. I did not feel comfortable doing the next section along the Bill Williams River alone, so I skipped forward about 80 miles to Parker Dam. This is where the account begins.
Day 1: The Burros know something I don't
Start: Parker Dam
End: Whipple Wash
The previous day, Jet Fighter and I had gone for a short hike around Phoenix with packs on to test out her knee. It was still hurting quite a bit on the downhills, and so she decided to wait. Even a fairly minor injury delay could be disastrous through the next stretch; it just wasn't something we could risk. I braced myself mentally to do this trip alone. Heading out alone on a route that I had planned with company in mind was quite a daunting task, but our first two days had been successful other than Jet Fighter's hurt knee. This made me confident in the route (horrendously overconfident, as I would find out). Thus, the next day I found myself being driven out to Parker Dam, facing the prospect of three weeks alone in the desert.
Jet Fighter drives me to the post office in Parker Dam, where we pick up the resupply box without difficulty and I pick out my four days of food. This box had originally been a six-day carry before covid, and I am quite relieved at only taking four days of food-- eight miles into this section I hit Copper Basin Reservoir, and from there it's a daunting 42 miles to my next water source, at Mopah Springs. Things are gonna get heavy.
The route after the post office is a couple miles' road walk, so I get a courtesy drive to the start of the cross-country section, at Minnick wash. As we approach, however, I see a massive gate adorned with no-trespassing signs blocking the wash. What I had thought were houses in satellite imagery were actually mining buildings, and what I had thought was the wash was actually a dirt road. Mistake #1. How did I not realize this was private property? How was I so dumb? Nonetheless, I haven't come this far to only come this far, so, with a mounting feeling of pure dread, I depart.
I start at the next wash over from Minnick, with the intention of gaining the ridgeline over the wash and then descending back to my route just past the mine. I head cross country up the side wash before gaining the ridge to my left as planned. The steepness of Minnick wash thankfully hides me from the view of the mine. Not that it matters much- within minutes, I have gained enough elevation that the buildings below me are mere specks. You'd have to really be looking to spot me.
I am lucky to only have a litre and a half of water on me, but the four days of food in my pack still weigh heavy. And the going along this ridgeline is tough. I begin by trying to stick to the ridge proper, crossing over faint burro trails that always seem to be going in the wrong direction. But after several falls and a small rockslide, I realize that I'm getting nowhere. Mistake #2: the burros know this place far better than I could ever hope to. I take the next burro trail that I find that seems to be headed west, though it takes me north of Minnick wash. The going instantly gets easier, turning from a Colorado 14er-caliber scree slope to just some loose cross country. I pick my way through the network of trails, eventually joining one that gives me a view back into Minnick wash. I watch the mining road recede as I head along the trail before a final, jarringly steep descent into Minnick Wash. It has taken me a full hour to travel one mile of planned route.
But still, I'm back on route, and that's something. The cliffs rise on either side as I head up the wash, forming beautiful orange spires and carved walls. It's really a shame that this area is so logistically difficult to see because of private property-- the scenery is stunning. I round a bend in the wash to see a sheer 15-foot wall blocking my way. Well shit, this isn't supposed to be here. I was fully expecting to encounter a couple dryfalls on the descent to Copper Basin, but ascending wash had looked so gradual! Mistake #3: any wash is liable to have a dryfall that can hopelessly frustrate you, at any point in its course. I try to scramble up the canyon wall to my left and have my first experience with joys of acacia thorns. The crumbly walls quickly leave me with nowhere to go, and I have to turn around and descend back through the acacia. Frustrated, I backtrack a bit to where I saw the last burro tracks heading up the wash. I couldn't imagine the burros climbing that dryfall any better than me. Following the tracks, I'm able to gain a well-trod trail that takes me up, up and around the steep walls to the top of Minnick Wash.
Looking up Minnick Wash
The dryfall experience spooks me for two reasons. First of all, I was expecting this wash to be a breeze. Hitting an impassable dryfall here makes me very nervous for the much steeper and narrower descent. Secondly, I'm realizing how much not having Jet Fighter changes the dynamics of everything I've planned. The dryfall wasn't the worst thing in the world, maybe 2 or 3 moves at 5.8 or 5.9 difficulty that I absolutely could have done. But it felt like too much of risk to do out here alone. A pit in my stomach weighs me down as I climb the final slope to the unnamed pass that should be the day's high point.
Out in the open again, it's surprisingly hot up in the sun. I'm running low on water, too. At least I'm hydrated right now. I start the descent into this unnamed wash, quickly finding shade under its steep walls. Up ahead, the wash cuts through some slick-looking rock, and I can see nothing but openness beyond that. Fuck, am I about to be turned around already? I approach the dryfall with trepidation, the wash bottom slowly appearing below me. But no, this one is quite passable. I drop down a pile of chokestones, and the canyon good and truly swallows me up. Massive walls, gouged smooth by flowing water, tower around me. Even in my current nerve-frayed state I can appreciate this.
Down and down I go, hitting another half dozen dryfalls. Approaching each one, I can't help thinking this is it, this one will be too big to climb down, only to get closer and discover that it's 10 or 15 feet high, with good handholds. Ahead of me I can see the canyon open up on both sides, with light spilling in from the east. This must be the end of it ahead! Wow, I might actually make it down!
And then The Dryfall appears.
This thing is a big one, maybe 30 or 40 feet high and crowned with a chokestone. I know before even making it to the edge that there's no way I'd be able to downclimb it. Nonetheless I approach and look over the edge before quickly backing away.
Fuck I say, quietly at first, then louder, FUCKING FUCKING FUCK. WHAT AM I DOING HERE.
Deep breaths. You can figure this out. I backtrack to a spot where the walls aren't quite as sheer and try to climb out. Ok. Up to the left, traverse to the right, here's a good foothold. I suddenly find myself twenty feet off the ground, on sketchy rock, with a loaded pack. What am I doing? Stop being an idiot. I pick my way back to the wash bottom and face reality: I'm hopelessly out of my element here. I'm utterly unprepared, laughably inexperienced. I decide to climb up out of the wash and try to catch some service, call Jet Fighter, tell her that I'm done and that I need to get out of here. What an embarrassment.
I climb back up 10 foot dryfall after 10-fucking-foot dryfall, back up to the pass at the top of Minnick Wash. I'm not hungry at all, but I know I need to stop and eat lunch so that I don't make any dumb mistakes. Eating my lunch- two globs of peanut butter on a spinach tortilla- I check Gaia.
Hmm, the walls of the next wash over look a bit shallower. I've got to give it a try before giving up. Honestly, at this point I would love to just stop. Turn back, see Jet Fighter again, forget this stupid hike and just hang out for three weeks before classes start back up again. Sheer embarrassment at the thought of quitting so soon is all that keeps me going.
I pack up and head up the mountain to the South, towards the next wash. Up on the slope I pass by a massive, lonely cairn. Who knows when it saw its last human, and when it will see its next. At least it has burros for company. I cross another, higher pass before skittering down into the next wash. Within a few minutes, I am once again enveloped in the shade of the canyon's rocky arms. It's a relief- I'm getting pretty thirsty.
I descend the wash, filled with dryfall dread as I round each bend, but secretly hoping that I'll get stopped and have to call it quits. I hit my first dryfall, a big 30 footer. But the canyon walls here are much more gentle, and I'm able to traverse along the side around the fall with only a few sketchy 3rd-class moves. I hit another dryfall of similar character, and then another, a big one of maybe 60 feet. I scrabble down its side wall and turn a corner. And suddenly I'm in the jungle.
Huge palm trees tower around me, fighting for space with a solid wall of cattails. Somewhere in the mess, I can hear water gurgling. I made it. I made it. I MADE IT! This is Copper Wash.
Pure, dehydrated elation
I crash my way through the thickets, up towards Copper Basin Reservoir. The going here is probably even more difficult than the scrambling around the dryfalls, but I don't even notice in my elation. I make it to a dirt road branching up from the wash and practically run up it. The sign at the top hits me like a thicket of acacia.
NO TRESPASSING- MINIMUM $500 FINE AND/OR 6 MONTHS IN JAIL
Mistake #4- I guess I was supposed to just know that Copper Basin was off limits. Honestly, after this trip I did more research because I couldn't believe that my planning had failed so miserably, but I can still only find a briefest mention online that the reservoir is off limits to fishing. There's nothing at all about public access.
In the moment, however, I know that I don't really have a choice. I'm mildly dehydrated at this point. Forgoing water and abandoning the hike would be very dangerous, while forgoing it and continuing on would be impossible. Either way I need water, so might as well get water and continue on. Hopefully if I get caught, I can explain my situation and they'll... be nice?
I decide to sneak the water I need from the reservoir and take the dirt road on the reservoir's southern border, but then parallel the road on the western side cross-country. I descend to the water's edge and hastily grab what I need- 8 litres, to get me the next 42 miles to Mopah Springs. I try to put on my pack and it flips over one arm, tangling me up. I finally get it right. It is heavy. I can't wait around here, though. I follow the dirt road along the reservoir, painfully aware of how exposed I am to the nice-looking caretaker house that sits on a point on the opposite shore. I'm expecting to hear the whine of a motor, or shouting, or alarms going off at any moment.
Nothing of the sort happens, though, and I turn off the road to head cross country and get a set of hills between me and the reservoir. No longer stressed about the trespassing, I realize how thirsty I am. In grabbing water, I took as much as I would need for the rest of the afternoon and the next full day. But I hadn't factored in my current dehydration. That was a mistake. It's agonizing, hiking along thirsty, with 20 pounds of water on your back that you can't drink. Adding to the agony is the fact that I'm going perpendicular to the washes, endlessly climbing and descending loose little hills where every footstep sends small pebbles sliding down the wash.
I escape this terrain and rejoin my original route as the sun starts to set over the mountains. I trudge on across some mining roads and easy cross country, heading towards Whipple Wash. It's a relief to hit the shade of sunset, to take off my sun hat and strap it to my pack. About an hour later, just as it starts to get dark, I navigate a final dryfall down into the massive Whipple Wash. Reaching back to get some water, I realize that my sun hat is gone. I'm too tired, too thirsty, too worn out and stressed to even care.
Darkness falls fast in the steep-sided wash, but I can't stop to camp. I have to make some more miles tonight in order to reach Mopah Springs tomorrow. I don't want to be here. I miss Jet Fighter. This sucks.
As I head up Whipple Wash in the darkness, I cannot see the walls towering on either side, but I can feel them. I'm reminded of that Zdzisław Beksiński painting, of the guy walking through a canyon of grim, skeletal statues. I'm a small island of light in a valley of monolithic darkness. This is the low of lows.
I climb over boulders and trudge through deep sand. Up ahead, the beam of my headlamp shimmers off the sand. Wait... it shimmers? I approach the shimmering sand and crouch down. It's damp!
I throw my pack to the ground, grab a large rock, and start digging. Wet sand turns to sloshing mud as I excavate a sizeable hole. I fill up my bottle once, twice, three times, drinking up the glorious, glorious water, waterborne illnesses be damned. I take another litre for the road and haul my pack back up to my shoulders. It feels lighter. Still heavy, but lighter. The whole mood of the night has changed. I march up the wash singing the lyrics to "Invincible" by Bourgeous, admiring the way the wash walls block out the glimmering stars. Once eight o'clock hits, I head up a small side wash and find a cozy campsite in the sand. It's taken 10 hours of brutal, brutal effort to cover 14 miles of actual trail. I'm beat up and my shoulders hurt a lot, and I'm looking at a massive day tomorrow. But I survived today, I have water and I have food. Maybe I can do this?
Day 2: Ridges and Roads
Start: Whipple Wash
End: Mopah Springs
I wake up at 4:59, one minute before my alarm goes off. Naturally I go back to sleep for the single minute that remains, before being woken up for good. Emerging into the crisp air, I start packing up my stuff in the dark. A pair of glowing red eyes reflect my headlamp's light back at me. I hastily turn on the high beams to see a desert fox staring at me. He turns and pads away into the night. No need for caffeine this morning.
I head the rest of the way up Whipple Wash, to where my track tells me to leave the wash and gain the ridge to my left. The rest of the morning is looking to be a pretty ridge walk. The going has been easy though, so I decide to keep following the wash and gain the ridge later. A quarter mile later, my headlamp illuminates a big-looking dryfall, quickly killing that idea. I backtrack to the bailout spot. A short but vicious climb later, I'm standing atop the ridgeline of the Whipple Mountains. The first signs of sunrise light up the clouds to the east.
In the first few minutes of ridge walking, it becomes apparent that this ridgeline is going to have quite a lot of pointless up-and-downage. My heavy pack accentuates every little bit of uphill and downhill, so I try contouring around these nubs in the ridge. I try this a half dozen times, each time encountering annoying, loose sidehilling before giving up and heading up the ridge to gain the full elevation anyways. These attempts end when I kick a barrel cactus hiding in some grass and have to spend a few minutes gingerly removing my shoe and threading cactus spines through the toe box.
I suffer through the ups and downs, finally reaching a high summit on the edge of the range. This summit has a cairn and a register box, and I'm shocked to find that there have been a fair amount of visitors to this lonely peak whose name I don't know- a whole 10 or so in the past year! I sign my name and begin the steep ridgeline descent out of the Whipples. About halfway down, I'm able to pick up a surprisingly good social trail that takes me in the right direction most of the way down.
Down in this basin, I get my first experience with desert asphalt, terrain that consists of small, tight-packed pebbles. Not much vegetation grows here and the ground is fairly soft, making for very easy cross-country. All too soon though, I'm dodging acacia in another wash. I take this wash up to another smaller crest. Ahead of me the terrain falls away into a big flat area. The knobbly, rugged-looking Turtle Mountains rise from the flat's far side, looking incredibly far away and quite intimidating.
I descend the adjacent wash to pick up an old Jeep track. For a few glorious minutes, this track joins up with a real dirt road, one that runs from Needles to Parker. There's more volcanic asphalt here, and I see an opportunity to shortcut some of the route, which runs on dirt roads from here to the highway. I try the shortcut. It doesn't work out as disastrously as previous shortcuts, but I'm still stuck climbing in and out of washes, weaving through terrain that is too subtle to be visible on topographic maps. Rejoining the road, I'm skeptical whether this shortcut saved any time or effort.
I stop for lunch in the scant shade of a creosote bush. Spinach tortilla with two globs of peanut butter, as usual. A bee buzzes around me for a minute before getting bored and buzzing on. I wonder where he's coming from. It's getting hot now, and I'm really missing my sun hat. My face feels very warm. I wish I could be drinking more water than I am.
I continue through this flatness, taking a dirt road that winds its way over small alluvial ridges. Other than the bee, I see two jackrabbits, a raven, a few ant nests, and lots of creosote. I can see the highway in the distance. They're doing construction down on it. For maybe fifteen minutes, one lane will gradually pile up with cars and tractor trailers while the other side flows through. Then, the flowing lane will stop and begin piling up, while the stopped lane crawls through for the next fifteen. This pattern enthralls me for the next hour as the highway slowly but surely draws closer. It's fifteen or so surreal steps across the tarmac, then boom, back on dirt roads again.
Crossing the road, I can finally let myself be anxious about Mopah Springs, only 8 miles away. So far all of our water sources have been man-made: cattle tanks, wildlife guzzlers, even Hummingbird Spring was heavily developed. We've been hearing about how dry it's been, how the monsoon rains didn't come this year. What if there's no water there? Well, if there's no water then the hike is over. I have to hike back to this highway and try to hitchhike to Vidal Junction. From there I'll have to call Jet Fighter.
Away in the distance, the setting sun glints off something. I fantasize that it's a cattle tank, that I'll be able to get lots of water and sit and rest my feet and not stress about Mopah Springs. But as I draw closer I see that it's a small camper van parked off the road. The owner, Tom, gets out and introduces himself. Based on our conversation, he seems to think that I'm coming from the highway, but I'm too tired to explain my route so I roll with it. I ask him about Mopah Springs, and he says that it was flowing a while ago when he was there; he thinks it's perennial.
This news comes as a huge relief. If it was flowing a few weeks ago, then surely it's flowing now! A bit away from the camper, I stop and eat a big snack of oreos and peanut butter pretzels to carry me the final few miles. Up the dirt road, then off into a broad wash following a mix of human and animal tracks that all seem to be headed in a very deliberate line. I bounce in and out of the wash, unable to decide whether its loose sand or the loose piles on the edge are harder on my feet. The wash turns up into the hills and I follow, leaving the big flat behind. Things here feel greener. Not green, per se, but definitely greener: large acacias and tamarisks line the wash, and the sloping hillsides are covered in patches of thick yellow grass.
I enter an angle of shade as the sun starts to fall behind the hills. The light on the hillsides is really pretty. After another few miles, I realize that I'm not seeing as many animal tracks as before. The route to Mopah was pretty straightforward, but I double-check Gaia. I see my little GPS marker, up one wash south of the correct one, separated by the large hills that look so pretty in the setting sun. Fuck.
The pretty hills between me and the correct wash
I scan the map, and I'm able to pick out a few side washes that branch off and head towards Mopah wash. I choose the one that looks the broadest and least circuitous.
The sun has set in earnest by the time I make it to the saddle between my wash and the right wash. The correction goes shockingly well, and only adds on a half mile or so. Dropping back onto the right route, I spot a trail. An actual trail! With cairns! I drink the last of my water. This is it, all or nothing, the moment of reckoning. Heading up the wash I quickly lose the trail again, but up in the hills I can see a mass of big shadows in the dying light. Could these be the palms that mark Mopah Spring? Drawing closer, I have to break out the headlamp. I can hear the fan palms before I see them. They make a half-eerie, half-peaceful whispering in the wind. Then I'm there. The lower edges of the palms sway in my headlamp's beam, which illuminates their wide grey trunks. But it's the small basin of water in their roots that catches my attention. Water! Holy shit there's water!!!
I collapse next to the basin and just sit there in the darkness for a few minutes. The palm leaves whisper in gusts of wind. Bats flutter to and fro all around me, dropping down to drink from the spring. A kangaroo rat emerges from the roots of a palm and chews on something next to the spring. This place feels special, in a way that I have never felt before. It feels like there's an energy here, an energy of life. The weight of the days' miles melt off my back. I leave the spring to break out my water cube-- I feel weirdly bad rummaging around and making noise right at the spring. I return to the spring with bottle and cube in hand, then I turn off my headlamp and fill up with 10 litres of water in the darkness. As tempting as it is to camp right next to this special place with water, I don't want to disrupt it any more than I already am. I would also rather not be stepped on by a bighorn sheep during the night. Another mouse runs over my leg as I keep filling up. We'll be purifying this water extra.
Left: Tons of bats flying around the basin! Right: The basin of water in the palm roots
I hate to walk away from the spring, but I'm also starving and it's getting late. I'll be back here. I'll be back to this special place. I thank the spring for its water- it only seems proper- and then I head back down the wash to set up camp on the sand amongst some dense bushes.
I figured that going a good 200 yards down the wash would be enough to lose the mice, but I was very, very wrong on that count. I can hear a bit of rustling and scurrying about as I set up camp and cook dinner, but think nothing of it. As I eat my dinner, a few bold mice venture into my camp, poking around my stuff before getting shooed back into the bushes. Apparently, my finishing dinner and putting down my pot is an open invitation for the mice to feast. I've turned around for all of ten seconds when I hear my spork clatter around inside of the pot. I turn back to see a mouse running along the rim, with another one sniffing the sides. Hastily, I take my pot away from camp to clean it out. As I get ready for bed, the mice come back and try to climb into my pot every 10 seconds or so. The pot is getting all the attention though, not the opsak full of food on my other side. I'm wary of putting the pot into the opsak and making it a target for the mice, so I leave the pot out a few feet from me and sleep with the food.
The night is rough. These mice are unbelievably persistent, and unbelievably noisy. They thankfully leave me alone, but clattering and scratching from my pot keeps me awake all night. The mice finally give up around 3 am. Or at least, that's when I fall asleep and stop hearing them. But still, the biggest day, the biggest water carry of the whole hike, is over. I am doing this!
Day 3: Drive it like you stole it.
Start: Mopah Springs
End: Fenner, CA
I wake up at 5 and get my stuff packed up with something new to stress about (there's always something): getting over the Turtle Mountains. These next five miles are a route that I had made up on the fly back during the route planning stage, before I had a feel for the topography. The route brazenly climbs straight up into the Turtle Mountains, crosses them, and jumps off of them to get back on the route that Blisterfree and Tree had mapped out. I wasn't able to see my intended path in the dark last night, but these mountains certainly looked rugged from a distance yesterday. I'm bracing myself for a repeat of getting to Copper Basin.
Today has an uncertain endpoint- basically, I can stop as soon as I find water. 28 miles from me is my first source, a wildlife guzzler that was repaired back in 2011. 4 miles beyond that is Painted Rocks Spring, a huge catchment area that traps water in a wash. Another few miles beyond that is Old Ranch Spring and a cattle tank. Between these four varied sources, I'll find something.
I head up the overgrown wash that climbs into the Turtle mountains, once again bouncing uncertainly between wash bottom and rocky edge. I'm going blind, having no clue what terrain lies above me or to either side. The wash starts to climb in earnest, hugging what seems to be an enormous cliff on its right. The left-hand slope seems decent, so I bale out of the wash. After another few minutes of climbing, loose cliffs develop on my right. Good thing I left the wash when I did. Am I finally getting a feel for route-finding through this terrain, or did I just get lucky? Probably luck.
The wind starts to pick up in earnest as the climb flattens out. I reach a high plateau, and the roaring fills my ears. What a lonely place. How long has it been since anyone has crossed over this random plateau in a random wilderness in Southern California? Some lights, probably Needles, twinkle away to the East. Otherwise, it's just me, up here in the dark on this lonely, blustery slope. I walk over a rocky outcrop, then I have to stop abruptly. Ahead of me is an expanse of pitch black. This doesn't seem right. I turn my headlamp's highbeams on, and still can't see anything below or in front of where I stand. The wind howls through the rocks below me.
Ok, stop. Think. I throw on all the layers that I had removed on the climb up here, eat some chocolate, and check Gaia. To my relief, I can see that I have gotten utterly turned around by almost 180 degrees, ending up on a rocky spur branching off of the main climb. I backtrack and turn onto the correct route, a steep talus slope below some large cliffs. The rocks here all have worryingly fresh chips off the edges, so I hastily contour to a less cliffy area and make the final climb up to the true plateau. It's finally getting light enough to see up here. I cross this surreal landscape of volcanic boulders speckled with spindly octillo plants.
I cross the plateau as the sun rises in earnest, then I pick a wash to take down. I'm thrown off the plateau in a short, brutal descent, first through the wash to a dryfall then down a random slope to an enormous wash. This is the biggest one I've been in yet, taking up several braided channels in a maze of acacia. Here I rejoin Tree and Blisterfree's route, which crosses the large wash into a smaller one coming out of the northern Turtle Mountains.
The going up this canyon sucks. Water takes a bouncing course through the wash, never sticking to one sandy channel. I have good footing for 20 feet around a turn, and then the channel disappears into a tangle of plants and exceptionally loose softball-sized rocks. The meandering path that I'm forced to take up this wash adds on a lot of distance and endless short climbs in and out of channels. The going only gets rockier and more meandering as I climb further and further up the wash. I take it all the way to its end, a short but agonizingly loose scramble up a cholla-covered slope to a high saddle. Looking down the wash on the opposite side, I brace myself for a rough one.
First I try taking a sheep trail that crosses the saddle. It quickly becomes apparent that these sheep have no intention of bailing down into the wash at hand. There is no obvious route, so I just turn and start dropping down. The descent is not fun at all, involving a couple fourth class moves on disgustingly sketchy rock at one point, but it goes by quickly. The wash starts to open up and the going finally gets easier. I've covered 9 miles of route in almost 6 hours of hiking.
I can, however, finally appreciate the terrain around here. The mountains are like Colorado's Sangre de Cristos, if the Sangres were made of slanted, multicolored sandstones. Massive spires of eroded rock tower all around me, looking unassailable even for mountain goats. I'm thankful that I didn't try to plan any alternate routes through this section, because this wash seems like the only feasible way through here.
I decide not to visit Coffin Spring on my way out of here. I doubt it's flowing right now, and I still have about 7 litres on me. Past coffin spring I begin to see cairns and footsteps down in the wash. It's amazing that a single set of footprints has become my standard for a popular area. I almost miss the feeling of pure solitude from the past few hours.
The cairns take me out of the wash and along an overgrown Jeep trail. This in turn takes me to a BLM parking area with some very new-looking construction and informative signs. I take the road going into the trailhead. It's amazing how many tire tracks are on such a rutted, narrow road. It looks like cars have gotten stuck and/or had to turn around in a couple places. These dirt roads take me over to Carson's Wells, a neat little mining village with information signs and a covered picnic area.
I get lost for a bit and end up doing some circuitous cross country to rejoin the trail that I was supposed to take from Carson's Wells. Yes, an actual trail! It's a small, rocky little thing, but it feels amazing to zone out and walk on an obvious path of least resistance on tread that doesn't slide out from under my feet.
I break for a quick lunch at Mohawk Spring. I wasn't expecting much here, but even so I'm underwhelmed. A single acacia with withered leaves and dead branch ends grows here, and there's a very old qanat dug into the hillside. The West is drying up. We're drying up the West.
Trail!
From here I leave the trail and enter The Big Flat. Fourteen miles of open, flat cross country to shoot me across the basin and into the Old Woman Wilderness.
I try another shortcut around a winding dirt road. It ends in failure when I hit a deep wash that didn't register on the contour lines. I get acaciaed descending a smaller wash into it and I use a lot of energy scrabbling out onto the road that I was supposed to stay on. From here it's a few miles across some volcanic asphalt that flies by. I join up with a dirt road and turn due West. With the open convexity of the terrain, I can see the road stretched out ahead of me, all the way, 11 miles in the same direction to where my day will be ending. I start walking again.
Within twenty minutes, I'm missing my sun hat. With the sun so far to the South at this time of year, it beats relentlessly on the left side of my face, sliding right through the gap in my sunglasses to hit my eyes. I keep walking. The left side of my face keeps baking.
The dirt road starts to become deep sand, the kind of sand that you find up at the top of beaches where people walk and water rarely hits. Every step forward slides back half the distance. I start to get a headache, not from dehydration, but from sunlight. Fuck this. I fall down into the shade of a creosote. I grab a snack and eat it. Think.
Ok sun, playtime is over. First, I lather up my face with an obscene amount of zinc oxide sunscreen, in the hopes that by making my face pure white I'll reflect most of the sun. I throw on my buff around my neck, and bring my headband down to cover the left side of my sunglasses like a weird eyepatch. Let's do this.
I can't touch my face without getting globs of sunscreen on my hand. The buff is way too hot and sweaty around my neck. I can only really see out of one eye. Yet somehow, this improvised shade beats being at the mercy of the sun.
I walk cross country on the slightly firmer sand next to the road. Miles drip by. The 3 hours across the Big Flat feel like a whole other day. Now I'm starting to stress about water too. I rehearse scenarios in my head. If the guzzler has no water, I have the catchment. If that has no water, there's the cattle tank. If that has no water, there's the spring. If all of those fail, I can just hike until I find water. If that fails, I have my phone. I'll call someone for help. If all of this fails, I have my PLB. I'm not going to die out here. I got this. Thinking about worst case scenarios like this relieves my anxiety and helps pass the time.
Looking back across the Big Flat to the Turtles; Looking ahead to the Old Womans
I make it to the end of the road. Symbolically, the sun falls behind the mountains right as I do. Here goes nothing. It's a cross country sprint over to the guzzler. Even approaching it, things feel wrong. It's completely silent around here, no birds or rodents or anything. I get to the guzzler to see that it's bone dry. On to Painted Rocks. I can take a wash due West to get there. It gets dark as I hit the wash, and I throw on my headlamp. Things start to feel right: I pass my first mojave yucca, and before long I'm surrounded by them. The air starts to feel more humid, and the wash is lined with fresh cow patties. The cows need water somewhere close. Please be water please be water please be water.
I arrive at Painted Rocks, and I know that I'll find water here. The rocky slopes are lined with berry-laden junipers. Everything here looks fresh and green. I scramble around looking for water, searching and searching. Where is the fucking water? Maybe there's water up here? I come to, perched on a rocky escarpment, climbing up boulders to look for water. Stop. Get down from there, you're going to hurt yourself. Check the map. I check the map to realize that I've lost my head completely, wandering a good quarter mile in the wrong direction. Not to mention that the catchment is on the other side of the bluff from me. Stupid mistakes. I hike around the bluff on the actual trail, which takes me into a wash between two massive boulders. There are vivid water lines on the sides of the boulders, showing just how much water this place can hold. But there is no actual water. I jump down into the sand of the catchment and dig. It's bone dry. No water.
I'm too tired, too stressed, too taxed to even be upset about this. It's almost a foregone conclusion now- I have to prepare myself to get to Fenner. I take a 10-minute break, eating and drinking everything that I need. I take stock: I have 2 litres of water left, along with oreos, almonds, yogurt pretzels, and chocolate. Fenner is 32 miles from here. It's 7 pm. I can get there by 3 am. Here we go.
I'm not letting myself rely on the spring and cattle tank up ahead. Leaving here, I have to be ready to make the full push. Here we go.
I jog the downhills and power walk the uphills, making great time to the tank and spring. Both are dry. But it doesn't matter now. Onwards. 22 miles to go.
The hours blur by. I'm nauseous, my feet hurt, I sing, I cry. I get one swig of water every 20 minutes. I have my headlamp plugged into the portable charger so that it can charge while I hike. This makes the cord bump into my face as I hike; I hardly even notice. I round a hill, and suddenly I can see it: a line of cars on the interstate stretched out in front me, and a bright cluster of lights that must be Fenner. I check the map. 17 miles to go. The pain in my feet reaches a crescendo here. Every step is agony. I tell myself that I can break at the junction in 3 miles. The 3 miles take forever, but finally I stop. Checking the map, I see that I can head straight across a flat, keeping the mountains to my right, to get to Fenner, cutting off 2 miles and actual navigation from the route. But it's a risk- I'll be going perpendicular to the washes. They look mild on the map, but there's really no way of knowing. I eat the last of my food. I decide to go for it. 12 miles to go.
9 miles to go. It's midnight now. Achilles pain replaces foot pain. I'm not sure which is worse. In addition to fatigue, I feel plain sleepy. It would be so so nice to just set up camp here, lie down and sleep... But no, at this point it would be better to suffer the last few miles, get some good food and water and take a zero tomorrow. These miles would be even worse tomorrow on wrecked legs and a dehydrated body.
5 miles to go. I'm so close now. I can make out individual cars on the highway, whether they are cars or trucks or tractor trailers. The washes get slightly steeper here, and IT Band pain replaces Achilles pain. I cross some train tracks and stumble out onto a highway- Route 66, currently closed and under construction. I check Gaia.
4.5 miles to go. Wait.. how? I had 5 to go almost an hour ago. What the fuck. I check my map again. Route 66 takes me straight into Fenner. The lights that I've been heading towards are actually a different highway rest stop. FUCK.
I limp down the middle of route 66. I can see the interstate overpass. My stomach hurts. 3 miles to go. I cross under the overpass and I can see the gas station. Nothing hurts anymore. 0.7 miles to go. And then I'm there. At the gas station in Fenner. It feels surreal. I stumble in and buy a can of soup, a banana, and a $5 gallon of water. I shiver outside at a picnic table, eating my soup at 2:30 in the morning.
I have no memory of walking back out to the desert, or setting up camp, or taking off my shoes and getting into bed. Next thing I know, it's 3 am and I'm texting Jet Fighter that I'm in Fenner and I'm ok. A train trundles by nearby, and my last thought is I hope I can sleep with all the noise.
Day 4: Zero
Start: Fenner, CA
End: Fenner, CA
I wake up to heat. I turn over in my bivy to see the sun beaming down through the thin fabric, turning my little cocoon into an oven. I unzip the bivy and sit up, squinting into the sunlight. It feels like I have an awful hangover: my head aches, light and sound hurts my eyes, I feel a bit nauseous and very worn out. It's 9 o'clock. A solid 6 hours of sleep.
I snack on some almonds while cooking last night's ramen for breakfast. The last of my water gallon is quickly devoured as well. I call Jet Fighter and talk over the situation with her. It's been a dry year, and evidently we need to completely rethink our reliance on water sources, throw out our whole plan. Her knee is feeling good, so she's going to come out and we'll attempt the next section through the Mojave, carrying enough water to turn back and bail out at any time. But I'm done hiking alone for this trip. The past 3 days have just been too brutal, too stressful, too scary.
Things keep heating up, so I decide it's time to pack up and make my way back to the gas station. I pack it all up sitting on the ground, get my shoes on, and slowly get to my feet. I shuffle towards the gas station. Ok, self-assessment. What hurts?
Most obvious is my feet. The soles of my feet are tough and sore, and the feet themselves complain with a deep ache. Then there are the Achilles. I get a sharp pain with every push-off, decently sharper in the right Achilles than the left. The inside of my right knee has a bit of a twinge, and there's a deep pain in my left hamstring. But at least I'm upright and moving.
The rest of the day trickles by waiting for it to end. Thankfully this gas station is a bit off the highway and actually pretty nice, with palms and picnic tables and an area of fountains. I sit in the shade, drinking water and eating food and cleaning out my stuff. People-watching provides some good entertainment, especially since the gas here is over $5 a gallon.
I've only been out here for four days now, but it really feels like a lifetime. That's one of the things I love about thru hiking-- I never get the sense of days trickling away, where you blink and suddenly a week has gone by. Every day, every hour, every moment is vivid and packed. This section was definitely too packed, and these four days felt more like two weeks. I could end the trip now, leave, and be proud of what I've done. But for some idiotic reason I've decided to keep going.
5 o'clock finally hits, and I pack up my stuff and head back out into the desert, decently farther from the road this time. By 7 I have set up camp, eaten my food, and pitched my tarp a couple times for fun. Now what do I do? A great tiredness suddenly overtakes me, though, and I'm out.
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