Mojave Desert

5/17/13         

        Following our lengthy visit last night with Ron, a permanent resident of the RV Park, we managed to rise early. The mobile homes around us remained quiet.

        "Damn," Dr. Bobo said, after I returned from a toilet sojourn with Primate. "The left front tire's almost flat."

        We heard the fat lady sing, but the left front tire was flat, searched for a tire store where Dr. Bobo purchased two front tires, considered ourselves lucky the tire lasted until we got to Vegas and not given up on the gravel road to or from the dry wash of AR-UT yesterday.

        A six-hour drive ahead, we left Vegas behind at 11:30AM, began our crossing of the Mojave Desert, bound for the promise land and home.

        By late afternoon we arrived at my house, a 372-mile drive, covered 8,377 miles over twenty-two days, visited twenty-two states.

        Low points - twenty; high points - fifteen.

        Dr. Bobo, done with fifty high points and fifty low points, said, "I might do the tri-points (where three states meet)."

        What's next for Primate and me? With forty-nine low points and forty-eight high points achieved, I will focus on completion of both high points and low points. Janet, my wife, already informed of my plan to return to climb Mt. Elbert, suggested she join me on that trip.

        We'll keep you “posted.”

Wet Point, Dry Point

5/16/13         

        Lethargic, I arose a little after Dr. Bobo, accompanied Primate to the toilet, washed hands and face, noticed puffy bags under my eyes. "Damn, getting old, Primate," I said, added, "Need to trim my eyebrows." Always thought Andy Rooney should've trimmed his.

        Camp struck, a cup of coffee for me and muffin secured for Primate, we headed towards the Nevada low point on the Colorado river south of Laughlin, about forty miles away.

        A brief search for a path down the steep bank and through small trees and brush, led us to the cobble stones in the wide channel of the Colorado River, a long oasis through the desert. I pictured the Colorado River bed a dry, dusty gully at the Arizona low point and Mexican border.

        Photos, of course, recorded our presence, for posterity, Nevada's low point at 479 feet.

Connard Touches NV Low Point.

        A turn northward headed us towards Utah's low point, our last objective on this trip.

        "It's all over, except for the photo finish," I told Primate.

         The wide valleys of Nevada, with distant views of rugged mountains all around, felt expansive. The temperature climbed, everything began its daily bake in the sun. Mirages of water on the road ahead accentuated the thirsty climate.
       
         Las Vegas stood bright in the sun, casino capital of the world, a man-made aberration in the middle of hell on earth, testament to man's will over nature.

         Northeast of Vegas a sparse forest of billboards, each with its own solar panel, lined the road. Haze in the air gave distant mountains a ghostly look. I enjoyed the views in air-conditioned, reclining passenger seat style.

         Closer to Mesquite the road ascended to a higher plateau. Scrub brush and fruit-laden cacti carpeted the valley floor in green. The road descended again, where the vegetation clung to the browns, oranges and reds of rock and loose soil.

         The gravel road west towards the dry wash of our destination low point remained passable, allowed us access to flowing water, a trickle of a stream.

         We walked up the dry wash towards Utah, a warm breeze gusted at our backs. Loose dry sand slowed our advance along the tracks of All-Terrain-Vehicles we followed along the west side of the wash.

         "This is like walking through snow," Dr. Bobo said.

         "From the arctic yesterday to blowing sand (of the desert)," I said.

         The wash widened. A row of green cottonwood trees grew along the east edge of the wash.

         "Looks lower over there," I said.

         We angled a little to our right.

         "I see the fence," Dr. Bobo said, referred to the Utah-Arizona border.
 
         We went east along the fence looking for the lowest spot, touched under the barbed wire several places to cover all the bases, took photos at the one we judged lowest, considered that the official low point of 2,180 feet for Utah.

Connard Reaches Into UT For Low Point.

         "One and two-thirds miles to the car," Dr. Bobo said.

         Head-on into the gusting wind, we trekked down the wash through loose sand, mixed with stones. "About half the strength of yesterday," I said to Primate. My head down to avoid sand in my face, I looked at smooth-edged stones in my path, noted characteristics of some, that red one small, a scattered group purple ones of different shades, a flat tan one next to a volcanic black round one.

         We drove south, debated, searched and decided to overnight camp in Vegas. A shower and good meal at the Sahara Saloon capped a dusty finish to our high and lows on this trip.

         We added a hot, dry 379 miles to the odometer today.
       
         Low points - twenty; high points - fifteen.

Windy

5/15/13         

        Awake and up at daybreak, we broke camp, enjoyed breakfast as we drove to the trailhead parking lot. The sky looked promising, no clouds above.

        The clear trail beckoned us upward, when we left the car at 7 A.M.

        Into the first stand of trees, "This is a good place to find a stick," I said, searched and found a good specimen. Picked it up, hefted it. "Yep, this one will do, Primate."

        "I don't want one. It's too heavy to carry," Dr. Bobo said.

        "I don't mind carrying one," I replied.

        Our steady pace slowed when crusted, frozen snow covered the trail.

        Dr. Bobo swore when he slipped, "Damn it."

        The wind howled through the forest.

        We escaped the shadows of the trees into morning sun light near the pass. Our dispositions improved.

        Cold wind increased in strength at the pass. A short break in a wind shadow gave us opportunity to view the summit.

        "There it is," Dr. Bobo pointed.

        Humphreys Peak, one mile away, according to trail maps, looked rugged from our vantage. I hoped the trail didn't run along the ridge.

        Dr. Bobo encouraged me, "Go ahead," and followed.

        Another hiker, covered head-to-toe with gear, except his face, and holding two ski poles, leaned against rocks at the side of the trail. "I turned around. The wind is blowing a hundred miles an hour up there. I didn't think I could make it. I wouldn't do it, if I were you."

        "I'll give it a shot," I said, proceeded, glad the trail ran didn't run along the top of the ridge.

        I judged the wind speed to be sixty, maybe seventy mph. "That hiker must be exaggerating," I said to Primate.

        Near the summit, in a shallow pass filled with snow, the wind speed found an unimpeded route over the mountain. Unencumbered, the wind blasted me full-force. Everything loose flapped, windbreaker, hat. Mixed with the howl of the wind, I could hardly hear myself think. I wondered if my gear would blow away. I wondered if I would blow away. Bent, walking stick for balance, I avoided the snow, as much as possible, left the trail and proceeded on the rocks.

        "Can't turn around, so close. As long as I can move towards the summit, keep going," I told Primate.

        Although the wind didn't offer relief, my courage increased with each step nearer the top.

        I hunkered behind a rock wall windbreak at the summit, 12,633 feet elevation, gathered myself, readied my camera for quick photos, signed the register. I lost sight with Dr. Bobo some time ago and wasn't sure if he continued or stopped, decided not to linger on the summit.

AZ High Point.

        At the shallow pass I watched Dr. Bobo advance several seconds on the snow trail on hands and knees towards the summit and me.

        The steady, cold wind howled, brought images to mind of men in Antarctica.
       

Dr. Bobo Slides Along the
Trail From Humphreys Peak.

          Dr. Bobo met me again on the other side of the shallow pass and we descended together to a wind shadow, ate our lunch sandwiches, talked about our ordeal.

          "Somewhere between seventy and a hundred miles per hour. Hard to judge," Dr. Bobo said.

          I concurred, "Close to eighty, maybe a hundred." I imagined my arm out the window of a moving vehicle, my only gauge.

        Our hike down, a slog of 3.5 miles from the ridge pass, proved easy, the snow on the trail, softened by the sun, gave way under our steps.

        Back at the car after our six-hour, we remove unnecessary gear, boots, windbreakers, hats, drove to Flagstaff.

         "I'm ready for a beer," I said.

         "I'm ready for several," Dr. Bobo replied.

         Samples of local-brewed beer at the Beaver Street Brewery, followed by a plate lunch and a pint of Stout, celebrated our climb of Humphreys Peak, the last high point of our trip.

         We headed west towards Kingman, a good stop on the way to our next destination, one of the last two low points on our trip.

         Evening temperatures and a dry, warm breeze in Kingman, without mosquitoes or other unwanted pests, allowed us hastle-free, pleasant shots of cherry brandy at our KOA campsite table.

         Today's mileage - 176 miles.

         Low points - eighteen; high points - fifteen.

Tombaugh’s Telescope

5/14/13         

        Dueling roosters called to a new day, encouraged my exit from the tent at sunrise to a clear sky and a cool temperature. We drove south, after I acquired a cup of Starbuck coffee, through moderate commute traffic of Alburquerque, then west towards Flagstaff.

        Views across rolling hills covered with small conifers, dried grasses and scrub brush, of red-brown cliffs of mesas, reminded me of the Old West of movie and music. The spirits of Indians rode horses across the land, camped, drew petroglyphs on rock walls. The spirits of gunslingers and cowboys bedded for cold nights near a fire, rode across the dry landscape seeking fame and fortune.

        We crossed the Western Continental Divide at 7,275 feet.

        Flagstaff dead ahead, distant peaks came into view through the haze.

        "That's probably it." Dr. Bobo broke my concentration on writing. "The peak is on the left."

        I looked out at two tall peaks, mountain twins. "Yeah," I said, the sun overhead, the highway straight as the flight of an Indian's arrow or a gunslinger's bullet. "Looks like the south flank is clear of snow." A good sign.

        "Interested in stopping at Meteor Crater?" Dr. Bobo asked.

        "Naw, been there, done that."

        The high plains desert generated a surreal landscape, a stark contrast to those of Illinois, Louisiana and Virginia.

         Our early arrival in Flagstaff gave us time to search for mountaineer gear stores to inquire about conditions on Humphreys Peak. We asked at two different stores, got two different answers, the second more to our liking. We concluded we would attempt Humphreys without crampons or ice axes.

        "Interested in going to the Lowell Observatory?" Dr. Bobo said. "That's where Clyde Tombaugh discovered Pluto."

        Primate perked up. "Telescopes?"

        "Sure, we got time," I said, not able to pass up an astronomy related adventure.

Pluto Discovered With This Telescope.

        A late lunch consumed at a public park down the hill after our tour of Lowell Observatory, we headed north out of Flagstaff towards the trailhead, found a suitable designated campsite in the national forest and settled in for the night.

        Dry pine branches, cones and needles, gathered from the ground, burned in the fire started with litter from Primate's rat's nest, past campground literature, used plastic ice bags, odds and ends of scrap with no food.  I allowed Primate to collect the trash, believed his carpet of debris provided some buffer for Dr Bobo's floor mat.

        We built lunch sandwiches for our climb and spread chunky peanut butter on cinnamon-raisin bagel for our pre-climb breakfast, cooked our instant rice, heated a can of chili, added spicy peppers, ate as we watched the fire. A small, solitary bird, agile, quiet and stealthy, worked around our campsite for morsels of food, moved on. The air cooled, dusk turned to night, the partial moon cast shadows of trees through the woods.
         
        We anticipated mosquitoes that never appeared, consumed all our collected wood. Watched the glow of stirred embers grow fainter.

        "I'm going to turn in," Dr. Bobo said.

        "Yep, me too. It's time," I said, escorted Primate to a nearby tree.

        We logged 388 miles today.

        Low points - eighteen; high points - fourteen.

Breezy

5/13/13         

        The crisp air at our roadside campsite encouraged decisive moves. Camp struck, we drove to the trailhead, dropped packs at a locked gate on the gravel road Dr. Bobo used several years ago and according to the directions we consulted. Dr. Bobo drove the car to the parking area some two miles down the road, while Primate and I proceeded up the gravel road with Dr. Bobo's daypack.

        I realized I forgot breakfast and lunch, which we'd stored in the cooler overnight, after Dr. Bobo drove away, tried to call him, but his cell phone was off.

        About one and a half miles up the road, near another locked gate, an SUV sped by on a connecting gravel road headed downhill. I waited for Dr. Bobo.

        I watched Dr, Bobo approach with sandwiches in hand. "I'm glad you remembered to bring those," I said, "I have some food along to snack on, but it would've been a hungry day. Can you believe that road?"

        "That road may have been here when I was here last, but I followed the same directions in the guidebook and don't remember it."

        On up the road another two miles we came to the ski area parking lot, our intended parking spot. One car occupied the lot.

        "We could have driven here," I said, knew it too late to safe us any hiking distance.

        Snow, the surface thawed and refrozen numerous times, crunched under our boots. We followed the blue-dot trail signs, spray-painted on the conifers towards Williams Lake.
         
        The peak trail turned at Williams Lake, steeper up the flank of the mountain. Discouraged at the amount of snow, the trail buried, we followed old tracks and blue dots through the evergreen forest. Where the trail came to a gully with views of the up slope, we studied the patches of snow on the thirty-degree slopes. Doubts of our success emerged. Staying on the trail impossible, due to snow cover, and the snow crust slippery in places and soft, slushy in others, we debated.
           
        Dr. Bobo said, "I'm having a hard time with this. I'm getting tired easily, but I'm okay when stop a few moments."

        "Stop?" Primate said.

        A more direct line up the slope over exposed rock and grass towards a ridge saddle appeared the easiest route, the steep slope would require more of a strenuous climb than hike, but minimize snow travel.

        "We have all day, no rush, except if bad weather develops. Let's just take a beeline over the rock and grass," I said, more motivated to achieve the summit than Dr. Bobo, who's done Wheeler Peak.

        "You go on ahead. You need to get to the summit, I don't," Dr. Bobo said. "I'll follow."

        My effort reminded me of Denali, of Katadin, Whitney, many of my other climbs. Several steps up, a rest for several breaths, check up slope for the next best steps, avoid thoughts of failure, check for cloud formation above to judge a change in weather conditions. My adopted mountain mantra, Tinseng Norgay's words to Edmond Hillary on Everest, came to mind, "Slow means success."

        I experienced a familiar climbing illusion - an objective appears far away, closer but still far away, then suddenly, as if by surprise, within easy reach. I crossed the exposed trail, continued my bee-line towards the ridge saddle. What was the point of following the trail?

        Relieved to reach the flatter ridge trail, I felt reassured I'd succeed. Probably succeed, if good weather held. The clouds looked okay, the breeze stiffened. I quickened my pace, approached a high point on the ridge within a half-mile, saw a square cairn of cement and stone.

        Could that be the summit?

        A bronze plaque on the cairn at 13,161 feet read, WHEELER PEAK.

Connard On Wheeler Summit.

        I took several photos to record my effort, started down without delay, no need to linger, always the possibility of an onset of bad weather.

        Back down the ridge trail, I met Dr. Bobo on his way up. "I'm going on up," he said.

        "I'll wait for you here," I said. "I'll find a soft place to sit my butt."

        "Sit," Primate said. "Tired."

        Dr. Bobo voice echoed off the mountainside, "Woo hoo."

        When Dr. Bobo rejoined me, we refueled on our sandwiches, hydrated, recuperated and mentally prepared for our down climb.

        Slow, we snaked down on clear trail, then followed our direct path towards the gully to gear I'd left behind.

        Out of danger of possible lightening strikes, into forest with partial cover from rain, our thoughts turned towards the car, each step that carried us there. We focused on the slushy snow of late morning, worked to avoid a slip or post-holing up to our knees, or higher. Sore knees and tired feet turned the hike into a chore.

        Dr. Bobo's called to me from behind.

        I answered, concluded he'd gotten off trail.

        "I'll be there in a minute," he said. Moments later, "Damn it. I'll be there in a couple of minutes."
       
        I waited.

        "I must've post-holed ten times," he said, when he caught up.
 
        Onto gravel road again, we hiked faster, until we reached the lower locked gate. Dr. Bobo proceeded to the car while I stayed with our gear.

        Down the road, by the clear-running stream, a celebratory bottle of Dead Guy's Ale, a Rogue River, Oregon brewed beer, helped dampen our aches before we headed south towards Alburquerque, past arts and crafts shops of Taos, along the Rio Grande, the afternoon traffic of Santa Fe, and stopped for the night in Bernalillo.

        A well-earned and excellent southwestern style dinner at the Ancient Spirits Bar and Grille prepared us for an early turn to bed.

        We drove 644 miles today.

        Low points - eighteen; high points - fourteen.

Avalanche Conditions

5/12/13.        

        The storm to the southwest at sunset passed us by. The cloud cover dissipated and conditions remained dry over night.

        We arose with the sun, packed up, drove north, fueled by a half cinnamon-raisin bagel each topped with peanut butter.

        Flat land changed to gentle hills and red-breasted pheasants foraged along the road. The clear sky and full sun promised good weather.

        According to guide directions we worked our way to Haigler, Nebraska, turned onto gravel roads, drove across a small corner of Kansas to the Yuma County, CO line, walked through low grasses and dehydrated tumble weeds to the Arikaree River.

        "River?" Primate said.

        A muddy water hole lay within thirty feet of Dr. Bobo's GPS location, the water level in the hole lower than the ground where Dr. Bobo stood with GPS. The aroma of cow dung filled the air. Hoof prints surrounded the hole.

        "That's lower," I said.

Connard at CO Low Point.

        Quick touches of the water with our shoes, we posed for photos, figured we bested the official Colorado low point elevation of 3,315 feet.

        A gobbler repeated his call within the sparse woods of the dry river bottom. Thoughts of Thanksgivings past came to mind. Unable to spot him, I concluded he wanted to remain hidden.

        As we drove away, "We'll be back at the paved road by 8 A.M.", Dr. Bobo said.

        Our next destination led us west and south, across Colorado.

        "I think we go by Buffalo Bill's grave. We could stop, if you want," Dr. Bobo said.

         "Let's stop there and have lunch," I replied later.

          Eastern Colorado, similar to Kansas, where flat alternated with gentle rolling hills, gave way to mountains abruptly, as if begrudged. Several snow-capped peaks came into view through the haze, grew into a chain across the horizon.

           Past Denver we followed road signs to Lookout Mountain, viewed Cody's grave and took photos, before we made sandwiches at a nearby picnic area.

Dr. Bobo At Buffalo Bill's Final Resting Place.

           The Rocky Mountains began in earnest after several miles, the roadway snaked up and down over passes. The white of snow contrasted with the green of conifers and the brown, yellow, grey tones of exposed rock faces.

           Snow covered the ground on both sides of the road, four-to-five feet deep, on the road that climbed to Leadville.

          We cruised the main street in Leadville, looked for mountaineering equipment rental stores, found none, read the posted reports at the closed Ranger Station. Discovered some roads and campgrounds closed, in particular the ones associated with Mount Elbert, Colorado's high point. The young lady at the Information Center downtown Leadville gave us bad news.

           Dr. Bobo preceded me inside, informed the attendant of our intentions to climb Mount Elbert.

           "I wouldn't even try it. There's avalanche conditions and several people have been rescued," she said.

           "I'll just have to come back," I said.

           Primate said, "Crap."

           Back in the car we debated options.

           "Are you willing to give up on Elbert?" Dr. Bobo said.

           Reluctant and dissappointed, "Yeah," I said. "I'll have to make plans to come back later. Probably, fly to Denver, rent a car and spend a few days here."

           "How long to the next point?" Dr. Bobo asked.

           "Four and a half hours," I said.

           "We could make that today. Want to?" Dr. Bobo said.

           Why not? "Sure," I said.

           We stopped off at the Two Guns Distillery, talked with the distiller. We each sampled a shot of shine, cleared out of Leadville, at 10,152 feet elevation, well before sunset. The scenic ride south helped soothe my disappointment, but didn't alleviate it.

            Long stretches of road took us south straight away. Scattered showers fell across the wide, flat valley before us. The few drops of rain we encountered evaporated from the windshield within the minute.

           Dead trees stood solitary watch across the valley, bare limbs stark against the sky. Those trees still living exhibited only hints of green from a distance.

           "The trees here don't look very happy," I said.

           South of the border, in New Mexico, scrub brush replaced trees. Rolling hills replaced flat land.

            "We're making good time," Dr. Bobo said.

            The road turned eastward. The sun at our backs, we looked at the snow in the mountains ahead of us, expected Wheeler Peak to be there, somewhere.

            "There's snow up there, too," Dr. Bobo said.

            We looked at Taos, Taos Pueblo, Arroyo Seco and Valdez spread out before us in the distance, passed a collection of futuristic, eco-friendly homes with curved surfaces and odd artistic features, some partially buried.

            A campsite selected on the road near our destination trailhead, we set camp, cooked a dinner of canned-chili and instant rice, avoided alcohol drinks, made breakfast and lunch in preparation for an early start on our ascent.

            Our mileage today totaled 644 miles.

            Low points - eighteen; high points- thirteen.

Gobblers Knob

5/11/13         

        We breakfasted on peanut butter on roll and drove to the high point trailhead. The sun warmed us through a clear sky with hints of cloud cover. The stiff, chilled breeze cooled us during our steady, fast-paced hike on the dirt and gravel road towards the summit. The 4.3-mile trail ambled to the strenuous grade, starting at the base of the mesa, then ambled again across the top of Black Mesa for the last mile to the obelisk marker, at 4,972.97 feet.

Primate Touches OK High Point.

        A few photos marked our presence before we started to the car.

        Four miles never seemed longer.

        We built our usual lunch sandwiches at Cottonwood Campground, headed for parts north of Gobblers Knob in Colorado. From Lamar we zigzagged more north than east, across the flat Kansas-like part of Colorado, flat, dry, open space, with more cattle than people, towards the Kansas high point.

         

Lamar, CO.

          Flat land changed to gentle hills.

          We traveled gravel roads the last few miles to the Kansas high point, Mount Sunflower at 4,039 feet, walked around the fenced enclosure and looked at what appeared to be a grave marker, and the unique metal artwork.

Primate Checks for Mail on KS High Point.

          We posed for several photos and off we went.

        More gravel roads northward took us to pavement.

        Late afternoon upon us, we discussed and determined the campground in Goodland allowed us the most civilized rest for the night.

        "What are the mosquitoes like now?" I asked the friendly lady attendant when we checked in.

        "There are no mosquitoes this time of year," she said.
           
        The ample time before sunset to set up the tent, shower, enjoy a local meal, re-supply our groceries, felt luxurious. The sky cleared of clouds and a cool, light breeze blew as songbirds serenaded us.

        Our mileage today totaled 295.

        Low points - seventeen; high points - thirteen.