I usually time my first day’s drive to occur at night when camping in familiar areas, as I’ve seen the scenery before (that doesn’t mean I’ll ever tire of it!) and want to use daylight for exploring unknown areas. But this trip I’d like to check out some areas I’ve only admired from a distance, as I sped by on Highway 395. So I head out of town early Friday morning. My wife left the previous day, taking our kids to visit her sister, so I’m out of the house relatively quickly. I’ve gassed up and packed the night before, so my only stop is for a big mocha from the local drive-thru coffee shack.

I take my usual route south to Placerville, then east over Echo summit to the south shore of Lake Tahoe. Highway 88 and Monitor Pass tempts me briefly, but it’s tough on my brakes, so instead I pass through Stateline and head over the Kingsbury Grade. There’s a nice turnout near the top from which a short hike brings me to a great view of the Carson Valley, a view that is especially fine when emptying one’s bladder.

That mocha is sitting pretty heavy right about now, so I do just that.  Then my great-great grandfather’s genes grab hold and the next thing I know I’m climbing down the hill well below my car, because there’s another interesting looking rock formation below. It turns out to be just another sex stone, so cussing myself out I plod back up the hill to my car and resume my journey.

I cross the farm country (or are they "ranchettes?") of the Carson Valley on some pleasant back roads, hitting 395 near Gardnerville. I engage in another ritual here, getting gas at the last station out of town and checking all my tie-downs to ensure nothing has shifted during the wild ride over the Sierras. My front license plate holder reads, "slower traffic use turnouts," written backwards so that drivers in front of me can see it in their mirror. But that’s a whole ‘nother editorial.

But I digress, let’s get off the pavement! I continue south on Hwy 395, past a dozen different turnoffs I want to explore some day, through Bridgeport, and head past the turnoff to the ghost town I’ve named my dog after. I stay close to the speed limit around Bridgeport, as there seems to be a lot of cops of different flavors in the area, and I heard a rumor once that Mono County doesn’t offer traffic school. (I’ve since learned that they do offer it.) I’ll never tire of the view of Mono Lake, and take my customary document-the-lake-water-level-from-the-same-spot picture. My grandkids aren’t going to believe me when I tell them that once upon a time I walked to Negit island.

I continue on south, turning off onto dirt again to check out a small road which follows an escarpment above Grant Reservoir. This narrow track surpasses my expectations, giving me awesome views of the Mono Basin, the June/Silver Lakes watershed, and (of course) the Sierra crest. It’s the kind of road that has me frequently stopping and jumping out to view the surroundings. My upward climb is finally stopped shortly before the wilderness boundary, even though some bozo has torn down the fence and continued up what remains of the road. It’s a really loose slope, wet from the melting snow pack above, and would have been trashed by my passage. But that doesn’t matter, because a side road just prior to the wilderness peels off to a beautiful Aspen forest and meadow. The Sierras tower above, with a snow-melt cascade in every ravine, many of then converging into this meadow. Hip-deep drifts of snow still hide in the shadowy areas under the trees.  I carefully approach a stream crossing, but the water is clear and the bottom firm rock.  Life couldn't be better, sitting in the middle of the creek with the water rushing by underneath me, breathing in the smells of Spring.

And then I noticed the trail, which my maps show heads over a ridge to Parker Lake. A short walk brings me to another great view. I return to my truck via a different route, just taking my time and reveling in early Spring in the Sierras. I finally have to remind myself of my ultimate destination, tempting as it is to linger here.

Returning to Highway 395, my next stop is Mammoth Lakes. I’m on vacation, damn it, so I’m making someone else cook dinner tonight. After dinner, a 20 minute drive takes me to camp near Big Warm Creek. It sounds like a party is going on at the springs, but I’m not feeling sociable, so instead I turn in with a book.

The next day I wake up early to the sound of squawking ravens. Sunrise is blinding, shining a golden light on the eastern face of Mt. Morrison and the Sierra escarpment. After a good breakfast and hot soak, I pack up what little gear I’d unpacked, and head on south.

My next detour is just north of Independence, where I head east down a dirt road. I’m trying to get a good look at approaches to Winnedumah, the pinnacle high above on the crest of the Inyos. It sounds like an interesting rock to check out some day. I’m able to twist my way generally eastward about a mile, until my way is stopped by a line of greenery and the LA Aqueduct. A nice spring bubbles out of the ground at this point, accounting for the underbrush and trees, then flows less than 100’ before it is sucked up by the aqueduct. I understand that this area could be another Central Valley, fully fenced and inaccessible for outdoor recreation, were it not for LA taking all the water. But I still hate the idea of LA sucking the rest of the southwest dry. Let’s face it: arid lands like the southwest just can’t support large populations. When does the growth stop? Before or after the water crisis? Fresh water is a finite resource, and we’re running out of it. Drinking water already costs more than gasoline! Hello, everybody wake up, let’s fix the problem now, please. (Want more info on the water situation around here? Check out Cadillac Desert, by Marc Reisner.)

I take a leak into the canal, all these thoughts being summarized by a stream of urine heading towards someone’s driveway or yard in LA. Or maybe their glass, but seems like most people are drinking bottled water these days.

My next stop is Lone Pine. Here I fill up my truck and spare gas can, get ice, then pull into the visitor center to fill up my water bottles. Just for fun, I ask at the public counter about road conditions into Salty Valley. Try this a time or two. It really is interesting to hear the variety of responses you may get. It really stumps them sometimes when you tell them that the last time you asked, they said the road was open, but you found "road closed" signs instead. Rumor has it that this is the result of those damn lawyers and insurance companies; in short, liability. If the road is posted as being open and you crash due to poor conditions, guess who’s at fault? So the road closed signs are left standing, even though a 2wd vehicle could easily make it. The quality of staff here definitely varies, so if you need good information, keep trying.

All topped off and ready to go, I head east on Hwy 136 towards Keeler. Light or no wind today, so the views over Owens Lake are fine. I can’t help but smile to myself as I pass that turnoff leading to the spot where my wife and I took a break one day. Ah, the days before we had kids! Spontaneity is a good thing.

I’ve been up to Fat Hill twice before, but still fumble around a bit finding the turnoff from the highway.  I’ve heard horror stories about this grade, but it really isn’t bad. I imagine it must be terrifying to guide a loaded mule train up/down here, but any decently-running car should have no problems. Fat Hill is an interesting place, but I’ve got other destinations on my mind, so I snap a quick couple pictures from below the main townsite, then drive slowly through town so as to keep the dust down.

At the saddle above town, I hang a left (north) towards the top of the Inyos. This is where things get interesting. The road narrows, tilting steeply towards the Owens Valley, several thousand feet below. If you haven’t done much off-camber driving, this stretch of road will seriously pucker you up. There’s nothing like driving along a narrow road high up on a mountain, while leaning towards the drop off. It’s not a sheer cliff, but the slope is steep enough that you would roll a long, long way. This road still makes me, the hardened road warrior, giggle.

A little over a mile past the saddle, the road forks. The left spur goes a couple hundred feet to another of my favorite camp sites, a small level area with the typical awesome view one gains from high up in the Inyos. I’d camped here some years back, never suspecting I was within walking distance of a good fossil site. The wonders of the internet revealed this area to me. The right fork goes down, down, down, but I’ll save that for later. For now, let’s go find some cool rocks!

The directions I got from the internet prove to be pretty good, but it’s still not easy finding a patch of rocks 100’ square, located somewhere on a mountainside. After a 20 minute walk, I know I’ve found the site when I stop to get my bearings and enjoy the view, and notice what looks like a hockey puck next to my boot. I spent the next two hours or so methodically traversing the hillside, finding all sorts of interesting things, including ammonoids, leaf impressions, and those hockey pucks, whatever the hell they are. Most other places, this would be hard work, walking up and down loose hillsides, bending over constantly. Here, I’m looking for buried treasure on top of the world, and don’t notice how tired I am until later.

I hike back to the truck, eat lunch, then saddle back up. It’s late afternoon, the shadows are getting longer, and I’m racing the sun to the top of the Inyos. I want to get up there in time for some good sunset pictures. Seems like I’m always racing the sun, excepting my one trip to Alaska. I once again check my tie-downs, ventilate the gas can, grab a road soda out of the ice chest, and continue north. I’ve never been past this point. The last time I camped here, I had no particular reason to go north, and the road was too steep to walk down. I don’t like to drive down roads that I have trouble walking down; that’s not a good sign. That’s especially true when I’ve never been on the road before. But I have new tires and a bit of scouting shows nothing really serious, so I go for it.

Well, I started out with a banana in one hand, a beer in my dashboard cup holder, and other various distractions. I’m thinking I’m about to have a steep, slow, and scenic drive, so I might as well cruise along with a good buzz, while eating the remainder of my lunch. Within 5 minutes I stopped and pounded the beer so it wouldn’t spill; it was getting bounced around too much. Then, I was having troubles driving with only one hand, and every time I put the banana down, it bounced onto the floorboards. So there goes the banana.  I  stash everything, actually quite a feat when your seatbelt is locked tight and you're seat leaning at a steep downward angle. At about this point I realize there’s a reason I’ve always kept the icechest wedged into the back seat – it stays put there. This trip, unfortunately, I have it right up front with me, not strapped down, so it’s threatening to dump onto my passenger floorboard. Yet another delay, and the sun is sinking.

I continue down the grade into a fairly level basin. It’s not actually level, and the road is still off-camber, but it seems like a parking lot after the hill I just came down. It was steep and sandy, with spots where others had dug in, but my new tires have been performing great, and I’m committed now, so no use worrying. I continue north, and now the ride really got wild. I’m thinking, "Oh shit, I hope I can make it up this hill, oh shit, I hope there’s a level turnout somewhere, because I don’t want to backup down this hill and there’s no way I could turn around here without rolling!" I’m also very glad I switched into low before starting the hill. It starts out rather innocently, but suddenly you round a turn and things go to hell. Up and up and up, winding around tight, sandy corners, passing big tire holes where other idiots got stuck and spun their tires, more off-camber-hope-to-god the road edge doesn’t collapse, until finally it levels again just before the final grade.

Of course, the worse was yet to come. This level spot (about 8600’ per the topo) had been carved out by others who were unable to make the final hill and had to turn around. But the summit was visible (it later turned out to be a false summit), so after considering airing down, I say "what the fuck!" and go for it… and I made it! There was one spot where I’m guilty of spinning my tires a bit, and where I briefly thought I’d have to give up, but rocking the steering wheel back and forth got me past it.

The road levels out a bit (but it’s still off-camber, with occasional sandy patches), and I pass a closed spur road on my left. I’m welcomed to the top of the ridge by a herd of mule deer. The view still hasn’t opened up. Nothing a short hike couldn’t fix, but I want to camp at the top, so I can have a 360 degree view from my bed. So I keep driving, spot a spur road heading up a ridge, and find it to be closed. I pass another entrance to the same road, and it too is closed. By now the view is truly stunning, but never 360 degrees, so I keep hopping out of my truck to run up a rock and check out the view, sometimes of Salty Valley and parts east, sometimes of the Owens Valley and Sierra Nevada. I can see a building down at Fat Hill spring, consider checking it out, then realize I’d miss the sunset. I pass a couple more spur roads, but they’re closed too.

Finally, I camped at the junction of the main road with a spur north to point 9444. This spur, too, is closed, with one of those offensive orange wilderness boundary markers barring my way. Now is it really necessary to close every side road? I realize I’m driving on a corridor through the wilderness area, but is a short spur road really a blight on the environment? Even one that only goes 200’ along relatively flat terrain to an awesome, but little-used camp site? I was sorely tempted to drive past the sign and camp at the very top, but was feeling paranoid, so did not. And this paranoia is well-founded. With my luck, some tree pig (what are they called in the desert, sand pigs?) would happen along early the next day and impound my truck.

WARNING: Rant ahead! Did you know that the Department of Fish and Game aren’t the only law enforcement out there who uses long range surveillance to catch offenders? I once heard it's common for DVNP rangers to have a lawn chair as standard equipment, for parking their butts in as they spy on tourists for officially prurient purposes.  That’s probably why fishing permits have to be posted where clearly visible, so those lazy, bloated bureaucrats can use their binoculars for enforcement. Remote cameras are also becoming more common, although they’re more likely to be hidden in a tree above a gated National Forest Service road than they are on a remote desert peak.  So smile the next time you take a leak near a gated intersection, or have wild outdoor sex with your spouse -- you may be on camera.  But of course any official tape which filmed such an act would be locked up securely or destroyed, and no officer would ever use the tapes for anything but official purposes, ever.  Never mind that police lieutenant in Washington D.C. who was using police surveilance tapes to blackmail married patrons of strip clubs. Can you tell I dislike all the cameras appearing around us? (End rant) 

Dinner was good. Bloody meat, salad, garlic bread, and most of a bottle of wine. Whoo hoo, feeling tipsy now, as I’m really not much of a drinker. The moon was bright and I didn’t want to go to bed early, so I decided to hike down to Mexican Spring, less than a half mile away. It was a nice walk to the spring area, but the site itself wasn’t anything exciting. I found a tub and a couple of dry depressions, but no water. There was some vegetation indicative of water, so I think I was at the right spot.

I returned to camp, but I still wasn’t tired.  I pulled out my million candlepower spot light and briefly looked for eyes in the dark. Note that this is a good way to have the sand pigs stop you, as they assume anyone out in the woods at night with a spotlight is hunting illegally. Plus, DV regulations forbid using a spotlight to look for wildlife (unbelievable, eh?). And other people may get aggro about having their tent illuminated by a 1,000,000 candlepower light. For these reasons, I only do it in areas where it’s very unlikely to find other people. I also wondered about those Hwy 395 travelers again; can any of them see my spotlight, way up here? Maybe I’m responsible for UFO reports? Hmm, maybe I should set off some of those bottle rockets I have with me? Nah, the ground is way too dry, and my green side gives me fits over the thought of leaving bottle rocket trash in such an area. Oh yeah, and a couple of felonies are probably involved, too.

So I camped at the top of the Inyos, with attendant views. Words cannot describe. I was out of the truck at sunrise, waking and baking as the Sierras turned into gold, then sat on the summit with a big cup of coffee dosed with Irish crème. Moments like this are why I go camping. I watched the world some more. The arthropods crawl and fly around me, a couple of crows (ravens?) perform acrobatics above me, and an intermittent breeze brings random smells from the valleys below me. I watch the city drive down Hwy 395, but its noise can’t reach this high, giving me a sense of detachment from the rest of humanity. Let the world go to hell right now, let anthrax cover the planet, nuclear war break out, or the Republicans pack the Supreme Court.  It’s ok, because this is where I want to be.

I returned to camp, ate a great breakfast, then packed up and continued north towards the tramway. The road continued to be off-camber as it followed the ridge-top, but nothing as severe as it had been earlier. I got some desert pinstriping along this portion of road that probably could have been avoided by driving closer to the downhill side (yeah, right). I also found that all the spur roads marked upon the map were closed.

Then, as I putted around one traverse, I spotted the tram station!  The exclamation point in that last sentence is deserved. The tram structure just looks completely out of place up there. The guys that built and maintained that thing were definitely a hardier breed than me. I took a long break here, taking pictures and investigating the ruins. A fighter jet buzzed low over me, making me dash along narrow wooden beams for the camera, but those guys can disappear in a hurry. Some group has been working on restoring the cabin there, and they’ve done quite a nice job. They apparently replaced the roof and the deck first, as the inside is still pretty trashed. But from pictures left at the site, they’ve done a lot of work so far. I certainly appreciate the efforts of these people, and will buy any participant a beer if we should ever meet.

The sun was straight above me by now, and I was feeling hot. My next destination was some 7000 feet lower, so I figured it was safe to pack away my parka. After rearranging gear/checking tie-downs/venting gas can, I turned my truck around and headed back the way I’d come, south towards Fat Hill. As I drove along the top of the world, the view kept switching from Salty Valley one moment, to Owens Valley the next, depending on the twists of the road. The return to the saddle above Fat Hill was a piece of cake. The ascent back out of the basin area was a bit sandy, but slow and steady does it.

At the saddle, I hung a left (north east) and descended to Sans Luck Canyon. I turned right (south) at the bottom, wishing I had the time to explore the lower canyon; another place on my list to visit. So far, my truck’s running great, all tie-downs are holding, so it’s time to have some fun. I’ve been over this particular stretch of road a number of times, and it has somehow turned into a traditional speedway of mine. I can’t explain the compulsion associated with this road, perhaps there’s some bizarre energy vortex there which brings out the need for speed. Then again, maybe the turns are angled right, and the road surface is loose enough, that one can have a lot of fun sliding around corners. I even scared my wife one trip here, which takes a bit of doing (she’s the one who taught me the other uses of a parking brake).

The Conglomerate Mesa appears above me as I crest a hill above Lee Flat, and a rough road (still open, unbelievable!) stretches over the hills towards the top of the Noble Range. Damn, two more places on my list to visit! I recently learned that the U.S. military would like to build a radar installation on top of the Noble Range, further confirmation that the view from there is pretty good. (A cynic would say that’s probably the only reason the road is still open.) At Lee Flat, I take a shortcut through the Joshua Tree forest, stopping several times to check out the details and take photos. I love this road. It’s a soft, sandy road, that’s so twisty I’m forced to go slow; quite a bit different than my usual frenetic pace along Death Valley’s washboard. But eventually I rejoin the main route, towards Salty Valley’s South Pass, and bump along like the rest of the cattle.

Speaking of which, a herd is scattered along the road here, forcing me to stop sliding around the corners. That would really suck to have to pay for car repairs and a dead steer. At the viewpoint overlooking Panamint Valley, I take a couple pictures, later finding them to be blurry and distorted. This has happened every time I try to capture that view. But it’s an awesome view, so next time I’m going to take more shots with different cameras.

My original plans had called for passing over Hunter Mountain, then looping north to teakettle junction and south from there to a nice camp along the Lippincott Grade. But goddamn it’s hot! I’ve only been camping three days, and already I’m sick of the sun! I used to revel in heat, then I lived along the northwest coast for seven years. I now prefer rain and fog. Hard to reconcile with someone who loves the desert, eh? My thoughts return to that pleasant, high-altitude Sierran meadow, how cool and refreshing it was. Hmmm, maybe I’d rather spend one less day at low altitude, and one more day at an alpine hot spring I know of, where there’s likely to be snow still….

Time to change plans, an advantage of solo travel, and head directly for the springs in Salty Valley. But Hunter Mountain is another of those places on my list. I’d like to check out the view of Panamint Valley from one of its summits, so I decide to explore a bit that way. I drove just about to Quail Springs before turning around. Hunter Mountain didn’t strike me as anything special, until I thought about it some more. It has water and vegetation, more than just sage brush and Joshua trees. And it seems like I’ve heard it’s a rather unique ecosystem, a major transition zone with a great variety of flora and fauna. I think Hunter Mountain has some secrets to be discovered, keeping it on my list of places to visit. I also found some nice bouldering, and a single polypro mitten someone else had lost some months back (faded by the sun, but in excellent condition otherwise). Woo hoo, treasure!

I turned the truck around and headed down Grapevine Canyon into Salty Valley, hitting atrocious washboard in the canyon itself and just generally rough road (lots of icebergs) on the fan below it. Every time I got my speed up, a rogue wash would appear, causing an "oh shit!" and frantic breaking. I’d forgotten that about this stretch of road, but resolve to remember and go slow next time. Coming around one corner (at a more responsible pace), I meet a ranger coming the other way. We make eye contact, I smile and wave, he ignores me. I guess he’s too cool or has to stay on the other side of that thin blue line.

As one approaches Salt Lake, the road leaves the rocky fan, straightening out and becoming much smoother. Of course, "smoother" is a relative term – the icebergs and rogue washes are gone, but DV’s world-class washboard reappears. This is another stretch of road which seems to cause my truck to accelerate, with a loose surface which plumes up behind my truck like a huge smoke screen. I scream past the pylons from this lower end of the salt tram as the road moves over against the base of the Inyos, then slow down for the turns adjacent to the salt marsh.

Time for a little exploring, I decide. On all my previous trips down this road, I’ve made the turn to Palm Springs at Bat Rock (R.I.P, courtesy of the BLM or NPS, them painted rocks are a threat to decent society!). This time, I decide to check out a shortcut I’ve read about, which is also shown on the map. Descriptions of the route say it comes close enough to the salt lake to be seriously muddy in Spring, so I resolve not to get stuck. Partway down this track I find some brush actually tall enough to provide shade. This deserves a stop for further investigation! I found several small seeps which flow (flow is actually too strong of a word to describe the amount of water) onto the salt bed, but not much else of interest. I suspect the water is pretty foul, but I’m packing enough to make it a moot point.

I continue down the shortcut, only to be stopped a bit later by another brushy area enclosed in a fence. Several rough tracks branch out from here, but they all appear to be attempts by others to find a way around the fence, and quickly peter out. I’m nervous about wasting gas on dead end roads, but hate to backtrack, and finally find a way back to the main Salty Valley road. From there, I continue north, passing all those intriguing canyons on the east side of the Inyos. At Bat Rock junction (still minus the rock), I hang a right towards Palm Springs.

Along the way I pass the area where my dog didn’t know what to do with some burros that refused to run away from him. A bit later I stop to appreciate the bat pole. The springs are visible in the distance, and the road has become nice and soft, with fun little undulations, but I keep it slow because on a previous trip a stealth gully caused the contents of my back step storage area to end up in the dirt.

I reach the lower springs at last, pulling over near the handicapped space. I thought the sign was a joke at first, but it is official. It just strikes me as rather bizarre, seeing this bit of bureaucracy out here in such a remote area. Granted, I’ve never been to the springs on a holiday weekend, so maybe parking is tough to find sometimes. The NPS is Disney-fying the springs area a little bit at a time. First came the toilets; probably a good improvement, although I wish they could be a bit more in character with the area, instead of the one-size-fits-all standard NPS commode (their internal artwork does help, thank-you unknown artist). Along with the toilets came various regulations. Now the handicapped parking space. But even more disturbing was a sign indicating that unless people voluntarily paid the NPS for a parks pass, camping fees would be imposed here. Isn’t that called "extortion?" What’s next, citations for public nudity? You can be damned sure the road into the valley will be paved sooner or later, all in the name of progress.

Within less than a minute, my clothes are off and I’m relaxing under the shade canopy in the main pool. Relatively few people are here today, so I have the pool to myself. Eventually, a shriveled-up old desert rat joins me, and we chat pleasantly about the local sights. He’s interested in walking along the Inyo crest, the route I’d just driven. I advise him that that one spring I checked out was dried up, but agree it would be a nice trip. Based upon other characters I’ve met in similar places, this guy is probably a retired nuclear physicist and Nobel Prize winner.

I then wandered through the grassy area, reveling in the feel of real grass on my bare feet, and watch the goldfish go about their fishy lives. The western portion of this oasis has been burned recently, and I wonder how the bozo started the fire. (Later research on the internet lays the blame on some irresponsible dorks with bottle rockets. I’m a responsible dork with bottle rockets.) From there, I wander around the other pools, peering down into Manson’s "lost world" and discover the cold pool a bit past that. Apparently the flood of July, 2001 (?) scoured things out and helped make this soak a little deeper. I have to walk through someone’s camp to get there, but if they don’t mind camping on the trail, then I don’t mind invading their camp. That’s probably why I never knew this pool existed. I’ve never hung out here for more than a couple of hours, and avoid walking through peoples’ campsites.  Spring, 2004 Update:  RIP, little pool.  The NPS has deemed you an unnatural improvement, and ordered your destruction.  I guess we're back to laying in the mud, sigh.

The shadows are getting longer, so I return to my truck and head north towards Steel Pass. I drive by the other pools, keeping my speed down to avoid dusting everyone. There’s quite a few people camped at the upper hot springs, and we all wave to each other as I drive by. People are generally in very good moods at hot springs, I’ve found. My road appears, heading out of the large parking area around Bat/Wizard Pools, but a couple are sitting on some rocks in the middle of the road. I guess they don’t expect anyone to actually use this "road," as they remain seated right until the last minute, then give me a strange look as I wave and pass by. Then again maybe they’re just tripping and a bit sloooooow. "Abandon all hope, ye who enters here" comes to mind, as I know what to expect ahead.

I remember well the first time I took this track. It can be nerve-racking, if you don’t know what’s ahead or haven’t done too much rock crawling. I think "crawling" is the right term, because it takes about 2.5 hours to go the next 25 miles, assuming you don’t stop for long anywhere. I putt along the first mile, then park to look back down the fan behind me. This is a good spot for a beer with a view, prepping me for the slow driving ahead. I pop Disturbed’s, The Sickness, into the CD player, in honor of a past trip along this route, then continued north. The road spends most of its time here in a wash, sometimes topping up over the side. Occasional smaller tracks head off in some washes, but previous trips have shown most of these to be the dead-end tracks of those whom have lost the main trail or of those who went looking for new trails. But sticking with the road most traveled really isn’t difficult.

Three miles above Bat Pool, I hit my campsite next to the upper (warm) springs. This is a nice little oasis, with grass and brush tall enough to provide some shade. Plus it’s fairly common to have this area to oneself. This proves to be the case, so I park my truck in the biggest patch of shade, noting where I’ll move it to after sunset, so as to have shade as long as possible come morning. I’m hot and a bit tired, so I quickly grab some food and drink and head for the pools. The towel can wait for later.

I soaked in the spring for a half hour, listening to the buzz of the bugs. The mud is fine and squishy, and thick clumps of algae float around like jellyfish -- probably enough to prevent most people from soaking here. In fact, now that I think about it, it was downright gross. Recharged, I decided to do some local explorations. Grabbing my daypack, I stand at a high point and look around. To the East, I spot some kind of artificial stone structure, so I head that way. About ¼ mile away, I find some unknown artist’s work, a collection of short stone towers (stella?), table, and chairs. Another small tower just north west of there leads me back towards camp, so I continued on past my truck to check out the west side of the warm springs.

From another tall rock, I scan westward for anything of interest. Neither the naked eye nor binoculars show anything dramatic. The map shows a mining area to the northwest, so I start out in that direction.

The ground here is pretty funky, looking (to my ignorant imagination) like an old coral reef. Or maybe it’s the ripples left in mud at an ancient river estuary? Beats the hell out of me. I little bit further I find what could be small lava tubes, or maybe they’re domes of harder rock below which some softer rock eroded? Old travertine formations? A bit further, a deep wash appears out of seemingly-level ground, with more interesting geology in the form of a mud flow with a small cave draining it, more pseudo-lava tubes, and a large overhang with some past travelers’ camp sites underneath it. Like the other stone structures in this area, I wonder, "how old are these, really?" Is this "Wolfman’s cabin," a couple of stone walls under a large overhang? (No, it isn’t.) Did some hippie from the hot springs make these just last week, or are they remnants from a lost native american culture? The dried mud looks pretty unstable, with large rocks perched above it on small pedestals, so I decide not to go in. Besides which, I didn’t bring a flashlight.

When I climb out of the far side of the gully, I immediately spot a rock wall farther south, built at the base of a small hill. As I walk closer to it, details become clearer, and the object resolves into a small stone building. A quick 5 minutes’ walking brings me to my destination, a rock structure about 4’ tall and 10’ in diameter.

Checking later on the internet, someone refers to this building as, "The Kiva." I suppose that’s as accurate a name as any, since it’s built out of a wall of stones up against a small hillside, roofed over with branches and more flat stones. It looks like a good place for hantavirus, so I poke my head inside but don’t hang out there.

A quick hike later, and I’m back at camp. As I cross the road before camp, I notice a large black pickup coming up the road, having some difficulty. Or maybe he’s just stopping and revving his engine a lot for fun. Anyway, it’s the classic big, dark, evil-looking 4x4, and I’ve been reading about people disappearing in this area recently, so I keep an eye on it. The truck finally got as far as the gate in the fence surrounding the springs, then immediately turned around and bounced back the way it came. Strange – that was a rough road to follow, to not even get out at the only spot of greenery since the lower springs.

The sun is setting now, so I postpone dinner; I’d like to be in the tub when the bats start appearing. I hope I’m not having an impact on them, perhaps inhibiting them from drinking the water they need, because I sure enjoy sitting quietly in the tub, watching them dip down into the tub for a drink on all sides of me. There’s hundreds (thousands?) of them, coming down singly, in pairs, sometimes many more at once, diving down to snatch a quick drink and soar up again. How many times does a bat have to do this to drink its fill? The sound of their wings rips through the air like, well, like the sound of bat wings ripping through the air. After several very near misses (wing tips in my hair and on my hat brim), I retreat underneath a clump of overhanging brush, safely out of the flight path. I have every confidence in their navigating ability, but in thinking about it I can’t decide how to react if one does get stuck in my hair. Grab it and throw it away? Or let it work itself free? Better to avoid collisions, I decide. Blame this phobia on my mom, who really did get a bat stuck in her hair one time when hiking with me. I think it was her hairspray, but the bat got away on its own.

I eventually leave the pool, completely relaxed. As I approach the narrow gate through the fence, a rattler’s buzz suddenly interrupts my calm euphoria. Good to know my reflexes are still working, though. And I even jumped in the right direction, AWAY from the buzz. The sneaky son of a bitch was coiled up in a shadow, not one foot from the gap through which I’d have to pass. After the fight-or-flight reaction has passed, I carefully approach the gate again, trying to get a better look at the snake. It still hasn’t moved, but remains coiled adjacent to my path. Snakes don’t particularly bother me; when one is in the way I go around it or use a long stick to move it. But there’s no long sticks here, and the only way out of the fence-enclosed springs area is through that gate. I settle for tossing a couple pebbles at the snake, which initially only pisses it off, but finally it grudgingly slithers further into the shadows, and I jump through the gate. I guess the gate might act as a natural funnel for small furry things the snake likes to eat.

I have dinner under the stars, watching the bats pass by overhead. I then crawl into my nice, toasty sleeping bag with a book, but fall asleep within 10 minutes.

I wake up with another soak and breakfast, then pack up and continue north. My next stop is an area of petroglyphs, rumored to be in the hills on the west side of the road. From what I can decipher from an online trip report of the area, the canyon of interest lies on the eastern side of the Salty Range, west or southwest of a "thumb-shaped" basaltic formation, about a 30 minute drive from the upper warm springs. The maps show two likely areas, so I’ll decide which to approach first as I get within view.

The view up the canyon towards Steel Pass is open, and I see a formation which I suppose some people would call a thumb, but it appears to be too far away. Twenty minutes into the drive, a set of tire tracks peels off west, out of the wash I’ve been following, towards one of my suspect canyons. On exiting the wash, I find a well-defined (but apparently little-used) track headed towards a small, basaltic-looking hill. This road twisted and turned its way about a half mile to a turn-around area immediately below the hill, which is bounded on this side by a columnar escarpment of dark rock. It still doesn’t look like a thumb, but it looks like basalt, so I suppose this might be the spot. I exult in having saved my out-of-shape body a mile (round trip) of walking, and crack open a beer to begin lowering my body temperature. Of course beer is a desiccant, so I’ll have to drink more water to make up for it. I’m feeling hot again, not a good sign.

I armor up against the heat, planning for the worst. I’m wearing light-colored clothes, short-sleeved because I plan on spending as much time as possible under the umbrella I’m also bringing. Sun screen covers my exposed flesh, with special attention paid to vulnerable spots like my ears and nose. I don’t like to goop the stuff on too much, though. I’ve always wondered how good it is for the skin; I mean, the stuff melts plastic! A big, dorky, straw hat tops everything off. Desert fashion at its finest! I think I embarrass my friends sometimes.

A quick scout and final look at the map leads me south of the escarpment, then west up a wash. A faint trail occasionally appears, and as much as I hate to follow it, it leads out of the wash in the same spot I would have chosen. I prefer cross country, mostly because I believe one sees more interesting things, there having been less impact from other travelers.  And I frequently find that the path doesn't go where I want to go.

I fight my way up a gravelly bank between two washes, to get a better view. The day has turned hazy, but it’s still a nice vantage point. I slide back into the wash and shortly thereafter find what looks like a representation of some Native American fertility symbol. Or is it that hippie again?

I continue up the canyon, its walls closing in around me. I have no idea what I’m looking for, not knowing how many or how extensive the sites are. I suspect they’re carved into the desert varnish on dark-colored rocks (but am later proven wrong). Like looking for a cave or any other small feature, I zig-zag up the canyon, detouring to likely-looking rock faces.

Another ¼ mile or so brings me to the first petroglyphs, above a sandy bench to my right, carved into a light-colored sandstone. What appears to be a tortoise lies among several dozen other figures and lines; who knows what these represent? The next couple of hours are spent climbing around the area, checking out other petroglyph panels, a small slot canyon/ravine, and other interesting holes in the rock. As usual, I wonder what the area was like at the time these glyphs were carved. Wasn’t it wetter? And who carved these? What were they thinking at the time? Surely they sat at the very same vantage point where I had lunch, for it offered a great view from under the shelter of an overhanging ledge. After cooling off under this ledge, I worked my way up the talus slope above the site to another face of the same rock apparently favored for carvings. I am rewarded for my effort with a single carving, of a winged (?) figure similar to those found on several of the lower panels. The view alone is worth the climb, and the return down a chimney is fun as well, although any kind of demobilizing injury here could easily result in death. After scaring the shit out of myself on one gnarly pitch, I’ve had enough scrambling and head back the way I came.

The trip back to the truck is hot enough for me to appreciate the umbrella. It is a recent addition to my camping list, and you know, I like it. As I frequently do, I think about what it must have been like traveling through this area 150 years ago. Back at the truck, I turn on the air conditioner and pop open a cold soft drink. By the time I hit the main road again, I’ve replaced the soft drink with a road soda, as I continue putting my way towards Steel Pass. The moment calls for more music, so the new No Doubt soon bounces around my truck’s speakers.

At the summit of the pass, I turn off the engine and get out. It’s hazy today, though there’s no wind where I’m at. I’m looking for the famed "Marble Bath," marked on at least one map but found by few. In past conversations at the nearby springs, those whom have heard of it don’t believe it exists. I’ve looked for it before, one time spending a good ½ hour climbing around this area, but never found it. Taking another look at the maps, and comparing those with where I’d searched before, I almost immediately spotted the bath. Duh. It’s pretty easy to find, actually, though maybe a bit south of the location marked on the map. I don’t think it existed when I first started looking, with some smartass setting it up after making the same fruitless search.

I return to the truck and head east, directly up the side of the Last Chance Range. My trip is quickly halted, however, by a low barrier of rocks and another of those offensive, orange, wilderness boundary signs. (At least the road blends in sometimes, but those bright orange signs sure ruin a good photo.) Oh no Mr. Bill, the wilderness virus has struck here! This is a great road, heading straight up a serious amount of vertical feet to awesome views and (for technophiles) wireless phone coverage! But the sign says I can’t go there anymore!

I get the better of my paranoia, and drive over the rocks and on upwards. I pass about a half dozen more rock barriers, apparently placed by hikers who don’t understand the clearance of 4x4’s (Frisco Foothikers, was that you?). I manage the top without spinning any tires or crushing any desert tortoise, then park in the small off-camber turn-around area. The view is awesome, so I grab my daypack and hike up a nearby ridge to see what’s there. I’m thinking about traversing around to a small canyon which has intrigued me ever since I first noticed it, some years back. Unfortunately, I started too high, resulting in me getting tired-out scrabbling around loose, steep surfaces, in and out of narrow ravines. Had I remained on the alluvial fan below, my route would have been less direct, and involved more elevation gain according to the map, but probably would have been easier walking. Oh well, maybe I can drive there, my tired brain rationalizes, so I slide back to the truck. I’ve collected quite an interesting mineral collection in my boots, but take them off in favor of tennis shoes.

I return downhill to the main road, hanging a right (north) towards the Eureka Dunes. This stretch of road is nice and soft, lots of fun on my motorcycle, but the occasional stealth gully keeps my truck’s speed down. I stop to check out a horned toad, some interesting cacti, and keep my eyes open for signs of a rumored, ancient Native American trail. In the process I forget to watch for turnoffs to the east, towards the mysterious canyon. I finally spot a road off in the distance, heading towards the right canyon, but although I do pay attention, I don’t find where it joins my route. It’s either been blocked or I missed it earlier, when I was looking in other directions. The day is getting longer, anyway, so I’ll save this canyon for another trip.

A little further I stop to scout a short sandy hill, a drop who’s condition changes every time I pass through. It’s usually been drivable, both ways, but a decent storm or lots of traffic could change things pretty quick. I came through here one time and the choice was to either drag ass in the deep ruts, or balance upon a narrow sandy ledge above a shallow gulch. My nervousness proves unfounded, so I continue down into another wash which eventually leads into Dedeckera Canyon. The view of the dunes, as seen through the canyon, amazes me as usual. Though I’ve been this way many times, I still stop several more times to check out different perspectives.

The rock staircases in the narrows of Dedeckera Canyon would’ve been no problem, if I hadn’t stopped midway through one step to get out and take a photo. When I put it into park and take my foot off the brake, the truck slides a couple of inches sideways. I don’t hear any funny noises, but I later find a 5" scratch on my rockbar. Doh! All these trips on DV roads, and the first damage I sustain is due to stupidity. I guess it usually is, though. Coming out of Dedeckera, I pass a single hiker, and a short while later, his truck. It probably is more enjoyable on foot, and my maps show a possible loop trip, so this canyon remains on my list of things to check out in more detail.

The sand flats around Eureka Dunes are moving around today, helped along by big gusts of wind. I try to avoid the stronger blasts of sand that I can see coming, but it’s really not much use trying. Oh well, having my paint stripped would make for an interesting story…. I accelerate and attempt to have some fun on the big whoopy-doos near the main parking area. They’re much more fun on the motorcycle, though, and with the truck all I do is rearrange the gear in the back.

From there, I scream out the washboard to the junction with Death Valley Road. This road isn’t paved either, but the washboard isn’t nearly as bad, so I’m soon trailing another huge dust plume behind me as I gather momentum for the climb over the Inyos. The road becomes paved as it leaves the valley, then alternates long straight-a-ways with twisty stretches which wrap around the local geology’s contours. And the colored hills and joshua trees do make for good scenery, an added bonus if your vehicle is like mine and doesn’t go very fast uphill.

Coming down the western side, the view of the Owens Valley and Sierras comes in small patches through the canyon, but is still nice. It’s also good enough for me to notice a huge dust storm, blowing north up Owens Valley. I’ve never seen anything like it; it must stretch 30-40 miles (farther?) and be several thousand feet high. I have plenty of warning before the road dips down into it, so I make sure all the windows are tight and switch to air conditioning. Upon entering the cloud, I feel like I’m entering Middle Earth’s Morder, so oppressive is it. The sky becomes dark, vision is obscured, the air is thick and foul. Even with my a/c running, I taste the air, and within 10 minutes a fine dust does indeed cover everything. Maybe it’s psychosomatic, but I soon have a headache.  I keep an eye open for orcs.

When I hit 395, the dust is still blowing, and it’s not until past Big Pine that it gets better. It’s even noticeable in Bishop, where I slow down long enough for fast food. I pass a lot of good camp sites, but settle upon Buckbrush Hot Spring as my campsite. The drive there passes quickly with the scenery.

I set up camp at my favorite spot on the bench above Buckbrush, just in time for sunset. It’s not until I’m digging under a bunch of dusty camping gear for my parka that I realize how chilly it is, but that’s a good thing. There’s only one other car camped here, about a ¼ mile from me, near the creek.

The rest of my stay at Buckbrush is a blur, but involves good buds and cold brews, in a hot spring with a Vegas stripper and her friends. Sounds exciting, but innocent fun was had by all. The moon was still very bright, making for yet another awesome view, this time out over Bridgeport Valley. I also received a travel tip from the Las Vegas trio: if driving from here to Las Vegas, the most interesting thing to see, the MUST SEE, was some military base/storage facility. Henderson?

The next morning, I had a big cup of coffee and a small breakfast, then drove across the valley to Travertine Hot Springs, right behind Mono County’s maintenance facilities, near the dump, past the pet cemetery. Then the people I’d met the night before showed up.  We  hurried to the pools under scattered rain drops. Cold rain in a hot spring is a very exhilarating experience, one of my favorites. After another nice, muddy soak, I said goodbye and hit the road.

On my way out of town, I stopped for a good burger and exotic fruit drink, then continued north on 395. During my brief passage through Nevada, I detoured to check out the beginning of the road to a hot spring on my list of places to visit. I’ve heard horror stories of this road, but the portion I saw looked ok. My maps show the worst portions are at the end anyway, so I think I’ll say this trip for the motorcycle. I note possible trailer parking sites on my way back to 395.

The rest of the trip is uneventful, just 395 north, back over the Kingsbury Grade, through South Shore (I’ve never stopped to gamble on the way home), hang a right at Placerville, pass through Auburn, and home just as the drive is beginning to feel long.

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revised 2/27/04