By Stuart Ellis

I held my breath… The lighter went “snick”

Let us be honest for a moment, shall we?
This isn’t something that anyone likes to say out loud, or even admit to oneself. But it is true.
People do not progress at the same speed and with the same agenda.
Nothing too revealing there.
However, while camping, it helps to progress as a group. Attitude is everything. It is a primary motivating factor that can make a good day great, or reverse it into despair. Melodramatic, I grant you. But true. Honest.
And after a week camping in an inhospitable desert, four 30 year old men start to go in different directions. It just happens.

So while the hike down the Keane Wonder Mine Trail wasn’t necessarily eventful, it was an important lesson to me to keep myself aware of when I start having a different agenda as the rest of the group. And in this case, the group consisted of only Greg and myself.

After spending the morning rappelling (some more successfully than others) down the dry Monarch Falls cliff face, it was decided that Greg and I would reverse the hike that Dan and Cameron did the previous night. After all, they didn’t die. They didn’t get lost. Well, not permanently. There did not seem to be any long lasting damage done to them. And maybe this way we could get a different perspective of what they did. Different, as in doing it in sunlight, and no rain, and maybe some food, properly dressed, and with lots of time to spare. And downhill. We were really curious about how clearly marked the trail was. Also Dan really wanted us to report on the caves along the trail. I say caves, because a few of the larger entrances really didn’t look like the typical mine tunnels.
I was eager to erase the memory of my repelling embarrassment and thought that a long downhill walk sounded like just the trick.

We all drove back to the grave sight and mineshaft that I spent a substantial part of the previous cold night in, hanging on to Reepacheep, who had barked and freaked and had tried to bolt at every sound. From there Greg and I hopped out, and as Dan and Cam drove off we crested up the curving, treeless ridgeline along a fairly well marked trail. The vista overlooking Death Valley was remarkable. The trail looped back downward across smooth, sandy rock into the Keane Canyon.

At that time I was pretty fatigued. The night had been long and stressful. There was not much I was able to do to help out in the hunt for Dan and Cam the night before. I was a failure at repelling. In other words, I was feeling pretty down on myself. I was looking forward to a leisurely walk. No pressure. Since the next morning we had planned to hike across the valley floor, I didn’t want to do anything that would hinder my ability to complete the hike. I was not thinking about silver prospector Jack Keane, or his partner, the one-eyed Basque butcher named Domingo Etcharren who founded the mine in 1903. I wasn’t thinking about how this mine became the second biggest gold producer in Death Valley. Nor was I thinking about how to make this hike more adventurous, or dangerous, than it already was. I was simply lost in the moment of walking, not wanting any unnecessary risks.

Greg, on the other hand, was pretty charged. He had missed out on the last nights exciting adventure, and the prospect of losing two friends had him wanting to spring into action. He was disappointed that we were reviewing a trail that had already been hiked. The danger was gone. The Monarch Falls repel had him antsy for more. And it showed.

This observation is not a judgment. I don’t think anyone was right or wrong. It was just our state of minds, which were going in different speeds and in different directions. We could manage being together, having had a lot of experience. It usually ended with Greg sighing deeply with restrained patience, and myself coming off as safety-oriented, if not a little whiney. Not exactly optimum, granted.  And I was hoping that this week long trip would help to rectify that. But unfortunately, some habits are hard to break.

The trail downward, as it curved over the rocks, was indeed difficult to follow. We had an advantage of being able to look down ahead and almost intuitively be able to navigate. But even then I remember having to slow down and really become aware, eyes peeled for any rock cairns, or any sign of direction. There was one particular section in which Dan had warned us about, where we lost the trail altogether. Greg found it again. We kept commenting how much it would suck if you couldn’t see due to cloud banks and rain and night and cold and … But the trail became clearer again as it hugged alongside the cliff face. The only real difficulty was the constant downwards impact on our knees. Greg kept up a ritualistic chant: Bang-on-the-knee. Bang-on-the-knee. Bang-on-the-knee …

Eventually we came upon the mining complex clinging to the canyon face. There was quite a lot there, far more than I anticipated. The showstopper was the ore tram towers, and the cables still tantalizingly intact, that ran down the canyon to the valley far below. An ore cart hung suspended. It reminded me of a ski lift. The huge gear wheels were still there. The remains of the giant mill. An old water tank. Cool stuff. Alongside a road-like embankment were several mine openings. They were large, cavern sized, with several typical, straight, narrow bore shafts branching out into the mountainside. The ceiling had collapsed in places, but it was roomy and dry. This obviously was where Cam and Dan had contemplated staying the night. Greg and I even thought it would be a cool campsite for a future trip. It was hard to find a smooth spot to bed down on with all the rock and debris, but with enough poking around I was sure one could find comfort.

Relaxing in the cool dryness got me light headed. I thought of napping. I thought of a cold beer. I felt very separated from the rest of the world. Greg, by contrast, wanted to poke his head down some mine shafts. Climb into something. On something. I mean, when would we be here again? Life is short, right? That was what we came here for in the first place. But all the shuffling, and the rock shifting, and then the falling debris and dust started to intrude into my solemnity.

“Oh … my …” I heard Greg gasp. I didn’t stir. I was use to this. But, of course, every nerve lit up and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and that cold clammy pit in my stomach yawned opened. I am so easy to goad. But still, I tried to look cool and relaxed.

“Words, Greg. I need words.” Familiar dialogue between us.

“This is … bad.” Greg’s words were broken. Then that damned silence. Too much damned silence. Was he trying to be dramatic? Was he pushing my buttons again? Did something incredible just blow his mind? Or could there be, as much as I didn’t want to there to be, a problem?

“Do I need to run?”

“Oooohhhhh. Maybe.” Silence again. Rustling. “You need to see this.”

Did I really? Did I really need to see? Yeah, I know I did. That was, as I said, why we came. I slowly unkinked myself and gingerly headed to a far corner of the cavern where I spied Greg. He was standing ramrod straight and looking down near his feet at some rubble, When I approached he turned slowly to me, eyes wide, mouth open. Then he pointed like the Spirit of Christmas Future at what he had found. There amongst the fallen rocks were several old wooden cases, their slats loose, some broken. They looked like old style footlockers. Immediately I thought they were caskets. But I shook the thought away. No, it was worse. Stenciled on them was the word ‘Dynamite’

Oh shit

Now, you have to remember that at that time Greg and I were obsessing on the 1977 film Sorcerer. The premise was the obstacle of transporting old, sweating, unstable dynamite across 212 mile of stinking Central American jungle. The very last thing that I wanted to see while inside an old, crumbling, unstable, 85 year old blast hole was a crushed case of dynamite. Was there any still in there? Was it sweating out beads of pure nitroglycerin as we stood slack jawed over it? Was it just waiting for the right jolt to … go off? Would a loose rock shift and ignite it? Would the presents of flame cause our immediate death? I had visions of Dan and Cameron seeing a plume of dust and smoke up along the Funeral Mountains, knowing that it was the end of us. My body was already headed for the cavern opening. Then I stopped. I had to know. But Greg was already pulling aside the wooden slats.  “GREG!” I hissed. He just brought up a hand to silence me. Really. Did I want to startle him at the moment? However, I had a sneaking suspicion that he was poking around in the locker just to get a rise out of me. My hypersensitive nature was showing again, and I became embarrassed. “Well?” Greg was silent. After another moment I asked again, ”Greg?”

He let out a long strained breath and sat down next to the cases. He just looked at me. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. Now, I knew right there and then that there was no danger. But that damned look in his eyes, and the knowledge that I could be so baited, and that I had once again showed my anxiety, got the better of me. Reflexive fear took hold. I just shook my head ‘no’ as Greg’s lighter came out.

This fucker has a death wish, I thought for the umpteenth time. But does he need to take me out as well?

Greg grinned.

I held my breath.

The lighter went ‘snick’

Nothing happened, of course, except that the cigarette was now lit and Greg relaxed, fully enjoying the moment. What was the problem?

The problem was that the moment was at my expense. I should have laughed. Because my reaction was damned funny. I still think that it is funny even now. Oh, but how I resented being so easily manipulated. I kept thinking, I don’t mind some recklessness if there is some gain, some end that justify the action. But recklessness just to get a rise out of me, or because of boredom isn’t worth the price.

Obviously, I think in my head too much.

I knew that my uptight mood showed on my face. And it prompts people to target me to get me to relax and enjoy life a little more. Let’s face it; I need it. But the thought kept running through my head: What if something did happen? Could I get Greg out of here? Could I get him off of the mountain and to safety? Therein laid the root of my anxiety. I felt that I could not take care of the situation by myself. And that thought burned me. I trusted the other three, but I, myself, was untrustworthy.

Fuck.

I hate being a spectator in life when people all around me are truly living it.

So, later, when we came across an old cable still set into its pulley system that levelly traversed a small ravine alongside the trail, my heart sank. But I tried to rally, and as Greg and I exchanged looks, we both nodded in agreement. It looked do-able. Greg ran right up to it, and I followed cautiously. We tested out weight on it, individually, then together. The total length was about fifty feet. Make that sixty. It looked like one could stand on the bottom cable and keep a hold of the top cable with ones hands at about shoulder height. Then, with luck, and if the pulleys didn’t move too much, and if the cables were strong enough still to support one or both of us, and if the ancient supports could still support the flywheels, then we could walk across like a one-strand rope bridge. The bottom of the ravine, some 20 feet below, was littered with rocks and bits of old rusted metal. But there was nothing on the other side of the pulley system, just more bare, sloping canyon. So as Greg hopped on and started inching his way toward the far side, my motivation lagged. If there were something on that damned other side that was worthwhile, then it would be an awesome traverse. But since there was nothing there, it seemed pointless. Oh, the crossing would be fun, but it didn’t seem to outweigh the possible danger. If someone slipped, getting him out of the ravine would be a chore. And there was all that rusted metal too. In addition, once across, you would have to repeat the traverse back again. Once again, I felt that I was not able to physically keep Greg from harm if he injured himself. Or myself, for that matter. So I stopped. My excuse was that I didn’t think the cables could hold both of us. Besides, they kept shifting. Then, with even Greg’s infinitesimal weight, the bottom cable kept sagging until Greg could barely keep hold of the top cable with his hands outstretched above him. Just before the point of no return, he stopped. The breeze whistled in the stillness. He bounced on the bottom cable, checking its give. Then he decided the stretch was too much. He was so close, but he shook his head. It was tempting to push through it, but the logistics of keeping hold of either the top or the bottom cable appeared to be too much. All he said was, “Nah,” and started to slow trek back.

After his feet were on the solid trail again, it took Greg a long while of looking at those cables before he could pull himself away and head back down to the canyon floor. There was a missed opportunity to make the hike memorable. Unfortunately, deep inside I was relieved. And since we are being honest, I have to say that for the rest of the descent, I felt like a pussy. The walk was in silence. Bang-on-the-knee. Bang-on-the-knee. Bang-on-the-knee …

It is important to remember and acknowledge that a good long trip is not filled with one hundred percent happy experiences. There will be low times, boring times, uncomfortable times, annoying times, etcetera. That is part of the price of admission. How well you deal with it is the determining factor of the trip. It is all about attitude.

The evening was getting long and our knees were getting sore. There was still much to be done. We had to find a place to camp for the night (which turned into a wonderful treasure hunt supplied by the guys) and tomorrow would be the hike across Badwater. There was still time to adjust the attitude. Which was a good thing, because I was going to need it.



NOTE:
This is a Public Service Message I found on the web

Park Service has decided to bar public access to the Keane Wonder Mine. It’s just too dangerous for people to mess around there. The remains, which include unstable wooden structures and rusting equipment and debris, are in an advanced state of decay and collapse. The area near the ore-processing mill has tailings and other materials contaminated with heavy metals and toxic chemical residues. Among the more lethal hazards are crumbling tunnels, exposed or minimally protected vertical shafts, and rock masses susceptible to falling or sliding.

These are more than just hypothetical threats. A visitor was killed at the Keane Wonder Mine in 1984 when he fell down an unprotected vertical shaft. That risk still exists at the site, too. Metal nets have been installed over some of the holes near the parking lot, but others remain completely unprotected.