By Dan DeLong

A lot can happen between two topo lines.

A standard USGS 7.5 minute map has topographic lines indicating a 40 ft elevation change.  In other words, the total elevation rise or fall between any two neighboring lines is 40 feet.  The closer the lines are together, the steeper the terrain.

So when one is searching the map for a reasonable path to, say, descend a mountain, one looks for where the lines are furthest apart.  But as I said above, a lot can happen between two topo lines.

There were three things that transpired against us to create what would become (and still remains) the most brutal DVDogs through-hike ever.  They were:  Time, Moon, and Topo lines.  Despite the fact that  it sounds a little like some harmless Micheal Bolton song, the lack of the first two and imprecise nature of the third would eventually coalesce to create a near-perfect storm of struggle.  Add to that one utterly exhausted dog, and poof —– perfection achieved.

Time

Cam and Kyle didn’t reach camp at Ubehebe mine until nearly 3am, and they almost didn’t make it at all.  Cam never thought he’d have occasion to use the words “thankful” and “Trona” together in the same sentence — unless it was something like “I’m so fucking thankful I don’t live in Trona.”  But in this case it was the lone Texaco station in that a fore mentioned town (which would have been closed had they arrived five minutes later) that provided them with gas to make it all the way into Race Track Valley.  Thankful for Trona indeed.  

Edric and I also stayed up around the camp fire until nearly midnight, rambling on about life and such.  So we all slept in a bit more than usual.  A leisurely breakfast and some time exploring the ruins of Ubehebe Mine meant we didn’t hit the trail until after 11am — easily the latest start to a through-hike with the exception of the very first one we ever did.  And that one was only four miles.

But the day was beautiful.  Cam, Kyle, Stuart and myself headed out northward, Cam’s Dog Joaquin plodding happily alongside. The sandy washes and gentle slopes we walked were a joy. Nothing to indicate what was to come.

Joaquin had proven himself a tough hiking dog on a previous big through-hike, South Park Canyon, which would also end up being Jack Dog’s last.  Jack had done well, but it was clear that time was catching up with my old pooch.  As such I retired him from hiking, and on this day he rode in my truck with Chris at the wheel.  Edric drove Cam’s Jeep, and our ever reliable base camp manager Mark Mooney drove Greg’s Jeep, leading the group on a long circuitous route that would take them back through Stovepipe and ultimately into Saline Valley.   (Greg, sadly, hadn’t made the trip at all.  He was home in bed, with a terrible flu.  The bitter irony being that it would have been the first Death Valley Trip with his new Jeep. Instead, his Jeep just came without him. It was a testament to the selflessness of the man that he was willing to let us take his new ride to Death Valley.  It would also add a new twist to the “Curse of Greg’s Ride” saga…..but more on that later.)

Topo-lines

By mid afternoon, we began ascending to the main ridge of the Last Chance Range.  As with all the off-trail sections of our hikes, I’d looked to the topographic lines to find the easiest route.  To navigate the more mountainous terrain this usually meant ridges and spurs, denoted by the shape the lines took as they defined the contours of the landscape.

Looking at the Topo-lines, I had hopes the ridge would turn out to be a smooth, if narrow, easy pathway to the larger flat sections of the mountains to the north. Instead, we found the southern part of  the ridge topped with 10 to 20 foot tall spikes of decomposing granite, like some giant stone mo-hawk.  Crap.  Now began a slow, torturous skirting of said mo-hawk over broken boulders along the steep westerly slope of the ridge.

It was here Cam began his famous mantra, “C’mon Joaquin! You can do it!  Good boy!” as he encouraged his dog to navigate the difficult terrain.  This phrase wouldn’t stop for almost the entire next ten hours.

After what seemed like forever, the ridge flattened out, and soon we found ourselves at the top of the Last Chance Range, nearly 6,200 feet.  By this time the sun was setting and the wind had picked-up. In the failing light it grew cold.  Posing next to an odd semi-triangle-shaped metal contraption (we assumed an old survey device of some sort) we took a few pictures, began layering on clothes and tried to contact Mark via the radio.

We had been attempting to reach him intermittently throughout the day with no success.  But on the peak, with the disappearing orb of the sun about to dive behind the Inyo Mountains to our west, we had straight line-of-sight into Saline Valley.  

I thumbed the radio key. “N6YQR, KI6TCR.  Mark — do you copy?”   He answered immediately.

Mark and the convoy were almost directly due West of us, making the last few miles on Saline Valley road before they’d turn north east towards the hot springs.  As we chatted back and forth I noted an odd rattling sound in the background whenever Mark was speaking.  I assumed it was some loose piece of gear and didn’t think about it again —- not until we were back home and discovered all the bushings in the Jeep’s aftermarket shock and lift kit had been obliterated.  Death Valley 1, Greg’s new Jeep 0.

Moon

With darkness approaching I felt a nagging sense of urgency.  The first mile or so north of the peak was still quite flat, and we made good time.  It wasn’t until we reached the final set of boulder strewn valleys we needed to navigate on the way to the ridge I’d tagged for our descent down to the alluvial fan, that I began to worry about the consequences of a sacred rule we had broken for this hike.  

We always, ALWAYS coordinated our trips with full moon.  It made it a bit tougher on everyone’s schedules but it was always worth it — especially when hiking off-trail after nightfall.  And now we were doing just that, but with only a sliver of crescent that wouldn’t rise for hours.  Headlamps were great for what was directly beneath your feet.  But with no moonlight to give the big picture…

Darkness was now complete.   Based on where we were and where we needed to go, I’d laid out a route that skirted several ridges and led us directly to our descent point with minimal up and down.  At least, that’s what the topo lines showed.  But as we know, a lot can happen between two topo lines.  With no moon it was impossible to look ahead at the terrain and make necessary adjustments while hiking.  Perched the edge of a small valley, I pulled-out the map, my compass, and my GPS, an old-school Trimble Scout Master that only read coordinates.  I figured it wouldn’t be too hard to just follow the compass, pausing occasionally to take a reading with the GPS and then adjust accordingly

It quickly proved to be a nightmare.

We scrambled along the hillside by headlamp, over boulders and decomposing granite piles and through bushes; the terrain was torturous. And it was only getting worse.

“C’mon Joaquin! You can do it!  Good boy!”

Time and time again I’d stop and try to locate our position on the map.  And time and time again we weren’t where I thought we were.  We were moving horribly slowly.

“C’mon Joaquin! You can do it!  Good boy!”

We’d been on the trail nearly twelve hours at this point.  Exhaustion and frustration was beginning to set in.  Even Kyle, the Zen Force himself was muttering something about “Getting off this fucking mountain.”  Stuart was silent.  I was getting pissed.

“C’mon Joaquin! You can do it!  Good boy!”

I sat down for what seemed like the twentieth time and tried to plot our position amongst the boulders.

“Fuck! What the hell?”

I’m usually not the one who loses my shit when things get difficult — but I was close to losing it now.  Conversely, the endlessly self-effacing Stuart who always claimed to be on the edge of some mental, emotional or physical breakdown suddenly stepped-up like a drill sergeant and snapped me back into line:  “Where is the ridge?”  he barked.

I blinked.  “It’s, uh, that way.  Back that way.”  I pointed vaguely east.

“We make for the ridge,”  he said, “get the fuck out of this shit and just go the long way around.” Then he turned and scrambled off that direction.

He was right.  I’d opted for what looked like a more direct route to our descent point. On the map it made sense, but with moonlight we would have seen rough terrain, the folly of going that way. In the dark, we had no chance.

The full-moon is your friend.

We climbed back to the ridge and plodded on through the night. An hour or so later, we reached the edge of the world.

One exhausted dog

As always, the place I’d chosen for our descent was based on the letter “U”.  On a topo map, a series of U shapes pointing downhill indicated a spur, or a “finger” as we called it.  Sometimes these were very narrow with steep cliffs on either side.  (Once, while searching for a spur I’d found on the map to descend from the north side of Wild Rose peak, we got lost in a small forest of juniper trees and couldn’t see very far ahead.  The ground became steeper and steeper, until finally we had to rely on the GPS to guide us to where our “finger” began and we could make our way down into Trail Canyon.  Looking back up at Wild Rose as we descended, all we saw were vertical walls to either side of our 10-foot-wide fin of rock.   There hadn’t been much room for error.)  But as sketchy as following the U’s could be, it was still much more desirable than trying to descend the inverted V’s.  A series of  V shapes pointing up-hill indicated a wash or gorge, often choked with brush and complete with dry-fall cliffs, too small to be seen on the map, but plenty big to ruin your day.

So it was the U’s I’d sought, and we now stood above the best ones the north side of the Last Chance Range had to offer.  

“We’re going down this?”  I don’t remember who said it.  It might have been me.

It felt like we were standing on the edge of some giant chasm.  Our headlamps only penetrated 20 feet or so down the boulder strewn escarpment.  Just beyond the reach of our lights could be anything: just more boulders, or a drop-off.  We wouldn’t know until we were on top of it.

Somewhere out there in the dark, 2000 feet below us, was the alluvial fan: flat, beautiful, only a mile or so walk to the road where Mark would pick us up. But first, we had to negotiate this near-precipice.  

Slowly, carefully, we began making our way down.  

“C’mon Joaquin! You can do it!  Good boy!”

That is when the dog sat down…and refused to move.  

Poof……Perfection achieved.

Perched on the absurdly steep mountain side, Joaquin was finish. He just wasn’t getting up.  To protect his paws, I’d given him Jack Dog’s old booties.  (These had always proved a blessing when we hiked off-trail, and I still felt guilty for the times we’d hiked before he had them, and his paws got cut.)  Now, on top of his absolute exhaustion, Joaquin had managed to loose one of the booties. He was the sweetest dog, always wanting to please. But he was done.

“C’mon Joaquin! You can do it! C’mon buddy! You can do it! Get up! You can do it!”  

Nope. Too tired.  Paws too sore. See? I lost a bootie.

It took every ouch of patience Cam had to finally coax him into moving again. It almost felt like animal abuse.

By now, Mark had made his way up the 4×4 road past the hot springs, and sat parked in my truck.  We had direct line of sight, and thus perfect radio contact.  Edric and Chris were back at camp, enjoying a soak and listening to our chatter on one of the other radios.  Every little while I’d have Mark flash the headlights just so we could see our finish line.  As the hours dragged on, it didn’t see to be getting any closer at all.   

“C’mon Joaquin! You can do it! Good boy!”

It would have been a beautiful view with the full moon: a silvery desert-scape below stretching out to the dark horizon. Instead it was just each of us with our tiny pool of light, little dots on the black mountainside. Nothing but the sound of Cam’s encouraging voice, and one set of endlessly distant running-lights marking the terminus of our journey.

It was well after midnight.  We were beyond tired, beyond hungry.

All I could think of was the beer I knew awaited me at the truck.  It didn’t even sound good; it was just the principle.  That beer was our victory dance.

Eons passed.  

We reached the bottom.  

The last few miles across the flat of the alluvial fan were more stagger than walk.  At least it was flat.

At nearly 3am, we finally reached Mark and the truck.  It was almost surreal.

I didn’t care how brutally bumpy it was on the short ride back to the hot springs, even if it did make my beer foamy.  

I only knew it felt good to sit.  

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Epilogue:  The Curse of Greg’s Ride

Since the first DVDogs trip, it had become tradition that whatever vehicle Greg drove to Death Valley had at least one major break-down per trip:  Broken leaf-springs, utterly failed brakes, broken radiator, etc.

This trip, Greg’s Jeep had come without him, AND it was a fairly new ride in great shape. We figured this had to be the trip that would break the curse.

Not so.

Besides the failed shock bushings we didn’t discover until we arrived home, somehow the steering alignment nut had come loose while Mark was driving the Saline Valley Road, and the adjustment sleeve was slowly unscrewing itself.  He noticed the steering wheel wasn’t lining up properly when he was going straight, and that it seemed to be getting progressively worse.  By the time they reached the hot springs, he’d lost the ability to turn left altogether.

Death Valley 2, Greg’s new Jeep 0

This was easily adjusted the next day, so really no harm, no foul.  However, somehow we also managed to loose about a third of Greg’s expensive Ham Radio antenna.  It just fell off.

Death Valley 3, Greg’s new Jeep 0.

But in the end it all worked out for the best:  Greg got a new antenna, a fresh set of bushings, and for being such a great guy and letting us use his new Jeep while he was laid-up sick, we bought him a 9000lb Warne Winch.

Sometimes it pays to be a great guy.  Even if you do have a curse.