AdventureTaco - turbodb's build and adventures

When you fly to Vegas from here, the path is often over Ivanpah. I can agree with Utterly Stupid label. All that for 140,000 homes. All of which are pretty far away.

 

Flying over it is how I learned about it. Saw it from the air and had to find it on Google Maps and look it up. I was impressed by the whole idea and underwhelmed by its performance. Kind of like a Yugo turbo.

 

The Hoover dam provides enough power for 1.4 million homes, flood control, recreation, and water storage. By comparison, Ivanpah is good for 140,000 homes, it’s closed to the public, and takes a lot of space in land set aside for the desert tortoise. And it doesn’t work a night so it burns natural gas to keep the sodium from hardening.

 

Yeah, they really didn't think that one through. I'd be embarrassed if I was part of that project. That's apparently my work life these days, dismantling things done under the guise of "agile" that sounded cool but in the long run didn't really work, built by people who have a 3rd world view of what "good enough" looks like. But, I digress . . .

Really cool photo with the colors and Luxor light, Dan! Heck, all your photos are good, but variety is nice.

 

Planting Baby Joshua Trees | Return to the Desert #3
Part of the Return to the Desert (Oct 2024) trip.

During the summer of 2020 - it is safe to say - the world had its hands full even before a fire began near Cima Dome on August 15. Caused by a lightning strike, it grew rapidly for the first 36 hours, aided by weather conditions and a lack of available firefighting resources. During this period the Dome Fire burned more than a quarter of the Cima Dome Joshua tree forest, one of the largest and densest populations of Joshua trees known in the world. By the time the fire was contained on August 24, there were no human injuries or fatalities, but more than 1.3 million Joshua Trees had been incinerated as 43,273 acres burned.

2020 Dome Fire boundaries.​

We visited shortly after the fire, and what we found was eye-opening. While the burn intensity varied, most of the damage was catastrophic and nearly all above ground vegetation had not survived.

Total destruction.​

This destruction, coupled with Joshua Trees' poor seed dispersal - a tree only distributes seeds at a pace of ~100 feet every 20 years - was devastating. Even more alarming was the fact that Cima Dome had been designated as a refuge for the species as the Earth's climate is predicted to change in the coming years. So, the Mojave National Preserve organized a series of volunteer events to begin the reforestation of Cima Dome. These annual, two-week long events began in fall 2021, with a goal of planting 1,000 trees per year through fall 2024 would ensure that there are trees - and more importantly, a seed source - within the badly affected areas of the burn so they may reestablish themselves naturally before the effects of climate change impact sustainability of the population on Cima Dome.

I'd wanted to go every year, but every year, something had come up. With 2024 being the final year of planting, it was time to spend a couple days giving back to a place that has provided so many wonderful adventures.

The day has finally come to plant some baby Joshua Trees. Let's go!​

Hurry up and wait.​

Better late than never for "how to use a shovel" orientation.​

Planting Day 1

It was shortly before 9:00am - only an hour after we were supposed to arrive - that we pulled into the parking area at the Valley View Ranch for our safety briefing and orientation. Normally, this might be considered a problem, but we were lucky enough to arrive with Mike @mk5. A venerable celebrity in this circle, and he assured the good folks with the NPS that we'd be no - or at least, no more than he was - trouble at all, and that - most importantly - we would happily carry trees.

This was mostly good enough, and so after signing a few bits of paper to relieve the NPS of any responsibility should we get lost, fall down a mine shaft, or accidentally impale ourselves on the prickly new leaves of the Joshua Trees we were planting, we piled into our trucks and headed toward our planting sites for the day.

We could have planted just about anywhere, but there were some very specific coordinates where we were supposed to plant our treelings.​

Our route to the first site was rather circuitous. Both @mrs.turbodb and I made note of this fact and ensured that a more direct path was taken to subsequent locations.​

There were three tree planting sites that we were responsible for on this, our first day of planting. For each site, we brought along six trees, four gallons of water, and some chicken wire to protect the cute little trees from becoming dinner for cute little bunnies once we were done. Oh, and some numbered dog tags for the trees, because "science."

Reaching the first site, we all got to work planting or - in the case of Mike and myself - making ourselves useless. Three shovels to our group of six offered everyone a bit of down time if they so desired, so that wasn't really a problem. Plus, it meant that we could get competitive with our cameras, clearly a mistake on my part after seeing Mike's amazing - and my mediocre - shots once the trip was over.

The perfect spot for this little tree to thrive!​

"I love you little Joshua Tree." -Mike​

Mike and I weren't entirely useless. We - and by "we," I mean Mike - brought over some water while munching on his Lunchables.​

Look, we planted twins!​

Some of the babies were planted just north - and thus in the shade - of "nurse plants," like this fallen Joshua Tree.​

Over the next five hours, we carried 18 trees - and the requisite supplies to plant them - to three different planting locations along a 3-mile route on the western slopes of Cima Dome. In each location, we'd plant three trees in the open and three protected by nurse plants, recording the exact coordinates of each tree, along with a few vital details, so that they could be checked up on in a year - and hopefully in another five - to see how they were doing.

Headed to the next site.​

With 18 trees, we weren't making much of a dent in the 1.3 mills ion that once called this home.​

https://www.youtube.com/embed/C_e2aq6wUGk
Planting a tree.​

I have to say, planting trees in the desert is tough work. I thought we'd be done in an hour - or perhaps two - but by the time we were done at the third site and Mike had finished lecturing his tree to "say no to drugs," it was well past lunchtime and getting on towards dinner.

Luckily, no one noticed that @mrs.turbodb were both thoroughly cooked - having forgotten to pack along sunscreen - and we escaped a Donner-party situation that may have easily transpired.

After a quick photo, we all made a beeline for the Valley View Ranch and the sandwich fixings that awaited us upon our return.​

Planting Day 2

If planting day 1 had been a huge success on paper - and also resulted in us sleeping very well - it'd also taught us a lesson that we'd be able to act on reasonably quickly: we should choose a planting sites that were a little nearer the road on day 2. Carrying those trees, water, shovels, and miscellaneous other supplies to the truck might not be so difficult, but lugging them nearly two miles through the desert is a job for people much younger than we might fancy ourselves to be.

What it didn't teach us was timeliness. With another "shovel secrets" orientation scheduled for 8:00am sharp, Mike's request for an initial 8:00am - to be followed 15 minutes later by a second, more frantic - wake up call meant that we would surely be just as late as we'd been the previous morning.

That's OK though, because we all know the best way to use a shovel is by watching someone else use it.

I hoped that the cloud cover I encountered when I climbed down the ladder would stick around, so planting on the second day would be a little cooler.​

We've seen a lot of Joshua Trees, but some of the mature specimens here on Cima Dome are quite nice. And the clouds were looking smart, too!​

It's always a "thumbs up" morning when you wake up in the driver's seat and have a beer to empty before starting your day.​

Dang, we were going to miss our "how to use a shovel" orientation. Again.​

We may have been late to treeling orientation on the first day, but we were so late on the second day that all the shovels had already been spoken for and carried off in a multitude of directions by the time we arrived. Luckily, we always carry a full-sized shovel to extract ourselves from situations we should know better than to find ourselves in, and Mike had a three-quarter sized shovel that he'd picked up at an army surplus store in case he stumbled on a body that needed burying, so after picking two locations reasonably near the road, we loaded up on trees, water, and a bunch of tags and drove ourselves right back to down the road towards our previous nights camp.

Yep, we were only a couple hundred feet from the spot where we'd feasted on fish tacos when we pulled the Tacomas to the side of the road and started digging!

If we'd camped here, Mike could have woken up even later. Or, at the very least, given his extra beer to a baby Joshua Tree.​

In addition to the trees we were planting, it was extremely encouraging to see natural new growth in many places!​

We had a lot of fun on day 2 - probably because there was a lot less hiking - but that didn't mean we were any better at getting work done.​

I don't know exactly what time we were done planting on day 2, but though it was a whole lot earlier than day 1, it was still lunch time as soon as the last tree went in the ground. Today, @mrs.turbodb was making sandwiches for everyone, which were expertly executed with the help of some spicy mayo that Mike had thrown in the fridge when I'd texted to let him know that I'd conveniently left our condiments 1,000 miles to the north when I'd packed up the Tacoma for the drive to the desert.

I might be old, but I'm definitely forgetful.

Anyway, lunch was delicious as always and after dropping the empty tree containers at the Valley View Ranch, we had four hours of sunlight left in the day. With four-and-a-half hours of driving to get to our next camp site, we were right on time. Our time.

We got some nasty looks as we pulled up on the wrong side of the ROAD CLOSED sign that blocked the general public from Cima Road. Little did they know that our tree planting prowess afforded us special privileges. ​

Headed for the Turtle Mountains, I radioed to Mike that he was likely to find my rate of travel a bit on the slow side. Knowing that he needed fuel, I suggested that we could catch up with him in Searchlight - or even Needles - if he wanted to travel at a more reasonable speed.

He was surprisingly amenable to the slower speeds, which I later discovered was because it allowed him to post this on the internet.
​

It turned out that the slower speeds were a good thing, because just as we were nearing Arrowhead Junction, I spotted a BNSF train approaching on the tracks. Knowing how much Mike enjoys these beasts - not that I'm any different, mind you - we pulled to the side of the road for a few photos of the locomotives as they rumbled past.

Or at least, that's what I thought we were stopping for pictures of...

I'd been so careful to not present any too-good-to-pass-up shots until this point, but all of a sudden, Mike's camera wasn't on the train at all. But hey, I do play the role of super-dork flawlessly.​

To get back at him, I've cropped his truck out of this photo. Take that Mike!​

Turns out that for all his ribbing about speeds, our slow progress south allowed Mike to fix numerous broken bits on his truck - with only minor swerving in my rearview mirror - while also noticing that he had more than enough fuel to travel 50 miles further than he'd though possible as we'd exited the Preserve.

An hour later and we were on dirt again, once again racing the sunset toward camp.

Vroom, vroom.​

At least I got the hood off and the hat on this time!​

Castle Mountain was looking nice in the evening light.​

Ultimately, the race to camp was won by the sun, but none of that mattered as I set up our tent, @mrs.turbodb setup the kitchen, and Mike setup the mood lights and American flag. It was a perfect camp, punctuated by the brilliant colors on the horizon. It'd be our last night together, and it was shaping up to be a good one.

Doesn't get much better than this. Unless there's cake.​

Even the sky seemed happy.​

Dinner this evening was on us, and we whipped up a half dozen taco-rittoes with guacamole to enjoy around the campfire as we chatted the night away. At some point, Mike got up and fiddled around on his tailgate, ultimately placing the Dutch oven over the propane fire ring for a few minutes while I wandered off for a few night shots.

The night shots didn't work out, but just as I moseyed back into camp, the smell of something sweet was caught in the wind.

Pineapple upside-down cake!​

I'm not sure exactly how many pieces of cake I ate - perhaps three or four? - but it was amazing. The fact that he'd pulled it off - without burning - was a sure sign that his self-deprecation is 100% show. Most likely, this guy is a Michelin star chef in Tacoma clothing.

Eventually @mrs.turbodb and I rolled ourselves away from the remaining few pieces of cake and the warmth of the campfire. We'd had a great time hanging out with Mike for a few days, and I was especially glad that he'd finally gotten me out to do some planting!

While we caught up on our shut-eye, Mike was handily capturing the shots I'd been stymied at just a couple hours earlier. Sheesh!​

For anyone interested in our actual plantings, here are the details of our planting sites. Feel free to head out with a gallon or two of water at any time in order to help them survive.

Day 1 planting sites in red. Day 2 sites in yellow.​

Tree locations:
​

​

Update: November 24, 2024
Joshua Tree planting is over for the year, and I suppose "forever," as this was the fourth and final year of the volunteer event.

A huge thanks to the 114 volunteers who came out over a 2-week period of time to plant baby Joshua trees in the Cima Dome Burn Area this fall. 798 Joshua trees were planted in 133 different sites. A special thanks to Herbie and Sully (camels) who attended again this year to help haul water and plants to inaccessible areas.

​

Herbie and Sully, photo courtesy NPS.​

D. Ryan Seregow (NPS)​

 

I would think it would get rather confusing with all the trees being named Joshua but you seemed to have handled it well enough.

 

If it was in Utah the trees would probably all be named Joseph instead

 

*Brigham

 

Visiting the Virginia May | Return to the Desert #4
Part of the Return to the Desert (Oct 2024) trip.

It was a photo I found online of the Virginia May mine that sold me on a nine-mile long hike into a remote region of the Turtle Mountains. It's not like I really needed a reason to hike in the Turtles. Every time I've ventured beyond their wilderness boundary has been spectacular, my most recent memory being The Perfect Day for Something Stupid.

It was the description that went along with the photo that really baffled me (highlight mine):

The Virginia May Mine (also known as the Horn Mine) had been on my "To Do" list for years. It was never a high priority, but its remoteness called to me. Located in the southern Turtle Mountains of California, it is out in the middle of nowhere and there is not much else around. Still, I knew there was once a mine camp there at an old spring and an ore bin still stood high on the mountain.

Also, there is a story that the mine was discovered and worked by one of the Earp brothers (as in Wyatt Earp). Wyatt Earp did indeed have a small house in nearby Vidal Junction and owned claims in the Whipple Mountains to the east, so it could be true, but I couldn't find any more evidence about it.

The mine was worked for a few years sometime around 1900 for high-grade copper. It went idle and then it was worked again sometime in the early 1950s.

Having told you all of this, and now, having been there, I can tell you something else… Don’t bother going.

The mine really isn’t worth hiking to. It’s just not. It has a pleasant view, and it was a good walk out in the desert (although it was really windy when I was there) but there really isn’t any reason to go there; not much is left except for an old car or two.

Guy Starbuck​

Maybe I'm just a weirdo, but with a description like that, I found myself wanting to visit even more. The cynic in me wondered if the Virginia May Mine was an amazing treasure, downplayed to keep the hoards away. Whatever the reason, I knew that any hike in the Turtle Mountains would be a treat, so I cajoled @mrs.turbodb and Mike @mk5 to head that direction on the tail end of return to the desert so we could tackle the 9-mile roundtrip before heading home.

After a fantastic night around the campfire - that included cake (!) - we awoke to clear skies and a beautiful day on the edge of the wilderness.​

Unfortunately, the previous couple of days spent planting baby Joshua Trees and wandering through the Mojave Preserve in search of petroglyphs - or historic rock vandalism as Mike liked to call it - had left Mike's feet in a bad way. Blistered and sore from some shoes that - he assured us - were "not new," a nine-mile hike with 2,000 feet of elevation gain was a smidge more than he felt ready for, at least for the time being.

And so, it was 8:09am - exactly an hour after the sun crested the horizon - that @mrs.turbodb and I left Mike uncomfortably situated in his driver seat and set off toward the mine. It felt a little crummy - and we turned back to check on the status of camp several times as we gained elevation - but after seeing where Mike ended up the rest of the day, we need not have worried; that guy knows how to have a great time!

Maybe we should have gone with Mike.​

Following the old road into the wilderness.​

Not only were the first couple of miles easy going up the gradually sloped alluvial fan, but endless views to the east unfolded into the horizon, and we stopped several times to soak in a scene that had been billed as not worth it.

Queen of the hill, surveying the surroundings.​

Sublime desert views.​

Having packed lunch to eat when we arrived at ruins of the old mine camp, we felt a little silly as we wandered over the concrete slabs and wondered at the numerous bits of copper ore we found strewn across the site a few minutes after 9:00am. Once again - and not for the last time - we remarked to each other about the great time we were having!

The last standing structure of the old camp, a water tank high on the hillside. (left) | An 1940s Cadillac peeked out from its hiding place in the wash below camp. (right)

If only we could get rich off of copper ore!​

Postponing lunch for a more reasonable time of day - perhaps once we reached the apex of one of the mining roads, @mrs.turbodb suggested - we continued up the road behind camp towards the workings. Still unsure how interesting it would really be, we tempered our enthusiasm even as we stumbled on interesting historical artifacts and the mine structure that had initially piqued my interest came into view.

Finding an old black and yellow California plate was a fun discovery.​

Climbing higher and higher, the views were like all the rest in the Turtle Mountains. Spectacular.​

Layer upon layer.​

This solitary ore bin only shares its special secret once you've climbed the hill behind it!​

Known as the Horn Copper Mine at the time, the Virginia May Mine was established in the early 1900s.

Numerous workings intersect and follow enriched fault zones. Four shafts - as deep as 70 ft. - and 16 adits - the longest extending 620 feet into the mountain - form the backbone of the site. Extensive drifts, numerous trenches and pits contain abundant deposits of copper minerals, along with gold, silver, and zinc. U.S. Bureau of Mines records show that sporadic production from this mine between 1913 and 1954 totaled 1,178 tons of ore containing 92,280 lb copper, 307 oz silver, and 3 oz gold.

In 1983, the principal workings of the mine were actively being examined by Jense McCormick and Mine Development Corporation, though no further mining activity has taken place.

Mineral Resources of the Turtle Mountains WSA​

Even from the below, this is an impressive ore bin. The nearby adit only adds interest!​

Are we millionaires yet?​

After a quick peak into the shallow adit and a good amount of wow-ing at the bright blues and greens that covered the hillside, we scrambled up behind the ore bin with anticipation. There, leading out from another adit, tracks curved gracefully over now-empty space. Yep, definitely don't bother, this place is a bore.

But for a little maintenance, little in this view has changed since the sound of mining filled the air.​

The entrance to the adit feeding the ore bin has mostly collapsed, and further in, the situation is much worse!​

With the road terminating at the ore bin, we followed an old miners trail higher up the hillside. It's amazing how long these narrow paths last, even with what can't be more than a handful of folks traversing them in a year. Still, they are plain as day, with creosote and catclaw taking root on the relatively smooth surfaces.

Higher up the hillside, more workings - mostly shafts that emptied into the collapsed adit below.​

After investigating a few workings, it was time for a quick route check. Though experience suggested that there'd be miner's trails between the two main groups of workings, these trails were not visible on satellite imagery, and not knowing the difficulty of the terrain, I'd mapped an out-and-back approach from the camp along each fork in the road.

Having found the old trails, we made the decision to follow them up and over the ridge, saving ourselves a mile - and more importantly, from losing and then gaining 500 feet of elevation - to reach a set of workings a half mile deeper in the wilderness.

Plus, it sure seemed like the ridge would be a great place for lunch.

In the shelter of a large rock, this lunch view was one for the books.​

Our bellies full - of sandwiches, chips, and some tasty red grapes - we continued to follow the faint trail toward a mining road we could see - the one I'd originally mapped - in the neighboring valley. As we did, we passed by several small workings; prospects perhaps, for copper veins that may have extended through the entirety of the mountain.

A shallow room, perhaps used to store boom-boom sticks. (left) | We never could figure out the purpose of this tiny structure. (top right) | Coyote. (bottom right)​

Following the contour lines along the rocky hillside, we eventually caught sight of the workings we were after.​

To our north, the sun and clouds played gleefully over Horn Peak.​

After tossing rocks down a couple nope-not-exploring-those vertical shafts and wandering our way to the smooth face of the deepest (620 ft.) adit on the property, we were thoroughly satisfied with what we'd found.

Plenty of time to admire the views as we headed back down the old mining road.​

Rounding a final bend on our way back to the valley.​

Castle Mountain.​

Only a few minutes after 2:00pm - six hours after we'd set off - when we hopped the steel cable that marked the wilderness boundary. There was the Tacoma, alone in camp; the solar panels - spread across the windshield - keeping the batteries topped off as the sun blazed down from above.

We're not sure exactly when Mike had wormed his way out of the cab and eaten a breakfast of pineapple upside down cake, but whatever time it'd been, he was long gone. And, after our first trip to the desert for the season, it was time for us to do the same.

Totally not worth it. (j/k)​

 

I often wonder when I read remarks like "I went, not worth it". Is it because it didn't meet grand expectations or because they weren't interested in the journey? I used the last word on purpose because sometimes the journey is in getting there and all that you see along the way.

 

It was a fun drive home, but man, I wish I had hiked up the mountain with y'all. You got the real deal:

✔ Commanding view of uninhabitable hellscape
✔ Spooky mine at the top
✔ Hiked miles of well-established easily drivable roadbed, inexplicably misclassified as 'pristine untouched wilderness,' from arbitrary and infuriatingly distant trailhead
✔ Good for physical fitness or whatever
✔ Spindly cart tracks leading to collapsing ore chute -- EPIC!
✔ Colorful chunks of mineral ores worth literally millions of dollars probably
✔ Also probably Hantavirus
✔ You climbed into the adit and took a cool picture!
✔ A fucking demon skull lying right on the ground? 2X EPIC!!!​

For comparison, my haul was zero million dollars of mineral wealth, zero sketchy climbs onto or into spooky mining works, and zero demon skulls.

Instead, I got three gigantic shattered solar panels (Trina 280s if I recall), several discarded cellphones (all android, sigh), and maybe 40 lbs of Volkswagen parts -- including a complete front bumper, a brake rotor, and an electronic throttle body and intake assembly -- all inexplicably scattered in a wash with no other trace of what I assume was originally a whole-entire Volkswagen.

It appears the vehicle was used to deliver miniature flower bouquets, based on the abundance of miniature glass flower vases scattered about. Poor guy must have got lost in the desert, and had to burn the flowers in their little vases just to stay warm... only logical explanation for why they were all charred and surrounded by spent disposable lighters. Guess he made it back to safety somehow -- or at least I never found the rest of the car. I hauled everything I found home to throw it away, but the solar panels and car bumper don't fit in my trash can so I guess they'll just rot in my yard forever, or at least until I get drunk enough to break out the chainsaw.

Anyway, I got new hiking shoes on Black Friday -- $140 less than I spent on the last pair, plus a size and a half larger. Can't wait to find out if they work!

 

Sorry, but I cannot concede this point.

I'm not claiming to be an expert -- in fact, I have absolutely zero relevant knowledge, which is why I am so strongly opinionated here.

This was by far the most engaging and inspiring display of pre-colonial American culture I've seen outside of mainstream national park attractions or curated museum exhibits. The remoteness of the location somehow made it far-more profound to experience in person, and I am really grateful that you included me in the hike. I furthermore lament my overtly pejorative characterization of such relics of prior civilizations as 'prehistoric rock vandalism' -- it is inappropriate to equate such cultural artifacts with the modern-day blight of self-entitled vandalism that is destroying our public places at alarming rates.

Yet here I am, having experienced for the first time a new and profoundly deeper connection with the past, afforded by our hike to find such marvelous relics 'in the wild'... and despite my newfound appreciation for all of this: I am stubbornly choosing to argue with you over something I don't understand, haven't researched, and have no tangible interest or authority to dictate or even speculate matters of fact.

So here's the fact, buddy: That's a CACTUS. See?



Every other petroglyph on earth can remain a mystery for the rest of time, or a matter of debate for archeologists and scholars to decipher, or hey did anyone bother asking the descendants of these cultures? Who am I to know who is right and who actually knows?

All I'm saying is that this one petroglyph in particular, and only this one, as a matter of absolute and undeniable fact, is a cactus.

The cactus is literally growing like 12 feet from the petroglyph. Here is a picture of the actual cactus -- I took it while you were distracted by all the other petroglyphs. The petroglyph of the cactus is in the background, beyond the actual cactus. You were probably stumbling around somewhere behind the cactus in this photo as well, taking pictures of non-cactus petroglyphs.



Here's a photographic overlay:



Note how virtually every feature of the petroglyph aligns perfectly with the photograph of the cactus: The rows of cactus spines radiating from the top of the cactus. The cactus-like shape of the central cactus region, including the upper and lower cactus extremities. The vertical orientation of the cactus's cactus geometry.

Sure, of course, the cactus is obviously a bit taller today, but it would have been shorter four billion years ago when the petroglyphs were being etched, and the similarity is undeniable to this day.

I simply don't understand how you could reach any other conclusion.

 

Well that blows my adult toy theory out of the water.

 

Who's to say that a cactus didn't have multiple uses in the pre-colonial BDSM scene, @Speedytech7?

The chase is always often better than the catch.

 

We're In the Wrong Mountains | Cottonwoods #1
Part of the Canyons in the Cottonwoods (Nov 2024) trip.

Winter. You will never hear me share my love for winter in the Pacific Northwest. Here, during the period of the year that lasts from the end of the September until the beginning of July, it is gray, dark, and damp.

Still - for the last seven years - I find myself looking forward to the season. Winter, for me, signals the time of year for trips to Death Valley. A vast wonderland of exploration that - every time I visit - seems to reveal additional secrets and endless ideas for future adventures.

After 20 trips to this spectacular place, we're headed for an area of the park we've never visited before. There, hikes through glorious canyons, and to some of Death Valley's uncontested gems. One - a long, rugged, and isolated canyon - tumbles from pine woodlands and Joshua trees down through tight polished narrows with falls and beautiful fossils to finally open up at the top of its massive fan overlooking the valley. Another - one of those summits that takes you by surprise - but a short but steep ascent over scenic open desert graced with Joshua trees, eerie vistas of the Racetrack Valley and Hidden Valley areas, and eye-filling views of central Death Valley. And finally, a wander - through a slickrock canyon - that takes us back in time, that reminds us of those who came before us.

This would be our first real foray into the Canyons of the Cottonwood Mountains.

- - - - -​

First though, we'd find ourselves in an entirely different area - in the Grapevine Mountains - hiking deep into the colorful Red Wall Canyon. Or at least, that was the hope. As we entered the park at Furnace Creek, we could barely see across the valley floor.

We'd checked the weather report prior to flying down, but we'd failed to notice that on this particular morning, winds were projected to be brisk, whipping south across the valley floor at 30-40 miles per hour.

We definitely didn't want to be hiking in a raging dust storm.​

Luckily, by the time we reached our jumping off point - there would be no trail to follow on this cross-desert journey - we were much further north in the valley. Here, the winds were picking up the first bits of dust that would be carried south, the air unladen with visual particulate.

Out of the road and oriented to soak up the sun we hoped would make an appearance as the day wore on.​

The Approach to Red Wall Canyon

As with many canyon hikes in Death Valley, this one began with a long trek - some two miles - up the alluvial fan. The trick in these cases is always to follow the meandering path of a wash, even if it adds a bit of distance to an already long hike. Attempts to decrease the distance by hiking a straight line across the fan are always a mistake, as the undulating terrain becomes torturously tedious.

Halfway to the mouth, the sun finally peaked out from behind the clouds, bathing the hillside in color.​

After 45 minutes, we'd nearly reached the beginning of the canyon.​

Entering Red Wall Canyon just before 9:30am, we were immediately enveloped by brilliantly layered walls that rose high above our heads. It is this initial experience upon entering these passages that seems to cause us to catch our breath, even if we know that we'll soon encounter dramatic narrows winding their way through the mountain.

Wowed by walls.​

Across the valley, the alluvial fan of Dry Bone Canyon spilled out of the Cottonwood Mountains.​

The First Narrows

The first narrows started about half a mile up beyond the mouth of the canyon. Here, two pillars formed a portal through which the gravelly wash spilled out toward the valley. And, for the half mile after that, an unevenly narrow corridor wound beneath high walls, rising as sheer and flat as sandstone cliffs. Dolomite and limestone, these walls were stained by oxides and are the namesake of Red Wall canyon. This tight stretch gradually deepened, before running headlong into a 25-foot dry fall, blocked by a giant chockstone.

A portal to a colorful display.​

Folded rock.

​

Red walls.​

Knowing that we may need to backtrack and bypass the first massive dry fall, we worked our way through the narrows at a reasonably quick pace. With 11 miles to cover by the time we returned to the Tacoma, the 45-minute bypass would have been doable - if just barely - should we not find some way to scale the obstacle.

We were thrilled to find a rope - in good condition - that allowed us to quickly climb both levels of this impressive structure.​

King of the chockstone.​

From there, the narrows continued to wind their way higher. Blue-gray walls contrasted spectacularly with radiant red. Fingers reached out into the wash. Passageways wove to-and-fro through tight twists and turns. Around every corner, amazement.

Bright from the dark.​

Climbing toward the light.​

A narrow dance.​

Reflected light.​

These narrows are carved out of dolomite. Wildly shattered, brecciated, and folded, this ancient stone bears witness to the tumultuous geological past of the Grapevine Mountains. Rock walls have been worn by water into colorful, folded mosaics. Layers of gravel have been deposited - then washed away again - exposing a severely deformed strata.

An ever-changing environment.​

​

A completely natural yonic fertility symbol. Had this been found by Native American Indians, it surely would have been embellished.​

The Second Narrows

Still energized by the first narrows, we soon entered the second. Like the first, colorful red walls were deeply undercut and hollowed out to form cavities in the stone, a indicator of the raw power that pulses through these parts.

Looking back towards the valley from the entrance to the second narrows.​

Anticipation.​

Gravelled alcove.​

Undercut passageways.​

Colorfully out of place.​

Afternoon glow.​

Red Wall Canyon was formed along a minor fault. As the two facing rock surfaces along a fault slip past each other during tectonic activity, they gouge into each other parallel grooves called slickensides. The most conspicuous slickenside is on the south wall just above the wash, in a left bend about 0.3 mile into the second narrows. This bright red, smooth wall is covered with fine horizontal grooves and dark, glazed and polished streaks, created when it ground against the huge block leaning against it on the right. In the mountains of Death Valley, motion along fault lines is usually vertical, but here it is horizontal. This type of fault is called a strike-slip.

Hiking Death Valley​

The Third Narrows

Not as narrow or deep as the first two, the entrance to the third narrows provided the perfect spot for lunch. Here - perched on a few rocks strewn along the floor of the wash - we munched on @mrs.turbodb's turkey sandwiches and tossed fistfuls of Fritos into our faces as we gazed up and down the canyon, the Cottonwood Mountains peaking out to the east as the Grapevines rose tall in the west.

Having gained nearly 3,000 feet of elevation as we climbed the alluvial fan and first two narrows, we had a surprisingly good view across the northern reaches of Death Valley to the Cottonwood Mountains.​

Pinnacle-like formations peppered the sheer face of the Grapevine Mountains beyond the third narrows.


Beyond the third narrows, and time to turn around.​

Back Down Through Colorful Passageways

By the time we reached the apex of our hike - some six miles and four hours after leaving the Tacoma to fend for itself along Scotty's Castle Road - it was coming up on 12:30pm and we were way ahead of schedule.

Generally, I plan for our hiking pace to average just about 1mph. While we rarely move at such a slow pace, my incessant stops - to futz with the camera, pull rocks out of my shoe, or just to marvel at the colors around us - tend to impede our forward progress by at least half, and I find that it's always better to end up with a little extra time at the end of a hike than it is to return in the dark.

(Not that there's anything wrong with returning in the dark, he says, foreshadowing future hikes on the very same trip. )

Still, we were glad to have been a little faster than we'd expected, and we hoped that the return trip might even be a bit quicker, allowing us just more than an hour to race our way to a camp site that I'd been meaning to visit - but hadn't ever gotten around to - for several years.

"I'm going to try to refrain from taking any photos on the way back down," I said to @mrs.turbodb as we approached the top of the third narrows. "I already got plenty of photos on the way up."

"Right," she replied.

A few hundred feet later, I was framing the first shot.

Dark and light.​

The orange wall.​

Scale.​

Can I interest you in some zebrastone?​

We managed to keep a reasonably good pace despite my insistence on photographing a place we'd just walked through, not an hour earlier. My excuses - should I have needed some - were that the light had changed, and that we were looking down-canyon rather than up, but excuses are exactly what those would have been. The truth is that I just can't help myself.

Which is why I didn't do any better as we entered the top of the first narrows, either.

A mountain's memory of rushing water.​

Passageways.​

Polished dolomite.​

Darkness to bright.​

Racing into the Cottonwoods

After a long descent down the alluvial fan, we arrived back at the Tacoma at 2:40pm - one hour and fifty-nine minutes before sunset. After folding up the solar panels - we'd generated just more than 200W of power, enough to keep the fridge satisfied and the batteries topped off while we were gone - we pushed north and west toward Ubehebe Crater, where we aired down for the push toward Hidden Valley.

After 45 minutes, and still before sunset, we passed this recognizable landmark.​

Through the colorful layers of Lost Burro Gap.​

Racing along Hunter Mountain Rd, we made it through Hidden Valley in record time. The silt pit - notorious for swallowing a fair number of vehicles each year - was no more than three inches deep and dry, rendering it dusty but harmless as we left it in our rear-view mirror.

We had no time to waste as we raced the sun toward camp; I'd consumed our entire buffer in my dallying through the narrows. I pressed the skinny pedal as we climbed toward 6,600 feet and our home for the night.

Surely we have time for one shot of the evening glow over the Cottonwood Mountains.​

We arrived in camp 15 minutes after the sun dropped below the horizon. On the edge of light enough for a photo, I raced through the chilly air in search of high ground. I'd have more time in the morning to compose a shot that included some well-known features visible from this site, but for the moment it was all about speed and high ISO settings on the camera.

Not wanting to wait too long, I snapped the first photo almost before the door shut behind me.​

Dodging yucca, cholla, Joshua trees, and mesquite, I pushed further and further from our overlook. My quick pace and frantic state of picture-taking were the only things keeping my mind off of temperatures that - put nicely - were not warm. I'd realize this as I trudged back to the Tacoma after snapping a few shots from a small bluff a quarter mile away - and couple hundred feet above - our ridgeline perch.

Promatory view.​

Our first day in the park had been a full one, and as we found ourselves camped overlooking the southern end of the Cottonwood Mountains, we knew the following day - Thanksgiving - would bring even more excitement as we pushed further into the canyons of the Cottonwoods.

 

Thanksgiving at Leaning Rock Peak | Cottonwoods #2
Part of the Canyons in the Cottonwoods (Nov 2024) trip.

Our night in the southern flanks of the Cottonwoods was chilly but with a couple down comforters and a replacement Exped Megamat that did a great job of holding air and keeping us toasty warm, we slept well. It helped that it wasn't windy, too!

Good morning mountains.
(White Mountain - of the White Mountains - rising in the distance.)​

The Sierra and Inyo Mountains fought for dominance to our west.​

We ate a quick breakfast - it had to be, since the milk in our bowls was freezing as we spooned the cereal into our mouths - while trying to keep our hands warm in our coats between bites. Then, it was off to a small summit behind camp to soak in the entirety of our surroundings.

They say location is everything, and it turns out location is everything.​

While on the summit, we had a quick conversation about the remaining meals for the day. Typically we'd have tasty turkey sandwiches and chips for lunch, but this being Thanksgiving, we'd planned a special feast: chicken pad thai and pumpkin pie. Realizing that it might be even colder once we returned from our hike and made camp at an even higher elevation, we quickly came to the conclusion that we should spend a little more time to enjoy our Thanksgiving feast once we reached the trailhead. Then, we could eat the sandwiches (also prepped prior to our afternoon adventure) once we'd returned from our hike - and in the warmth of the Tacoma - for dinner.

It was a good decision, and though our slowly-freezing brains may have made it more slowly than expected, we chalked it up as a win, stowed the tent, and turned up the heat in the cab as we got underway for a bit of American-style Hiking (a.k.a. Driving) to see some of the sights we'd been unable to experienced as we'd arrived at sunset the evening before.

Off we go.​

Like many roads in Death Valley, those we found ourselves traversing this morning were plotted more than a century ago as miners - seeking the motherlode - pushed into remote corners of the desert to find the perfect spot. Few of those miners found what they were looking for, most discovering that hard work and struggle are not always enough to unearth the American dream.

Don't worry Tacoma, we won't leave you in the desert like your ancestors.​

In this case, the owners of the J.O. Mine were after wollastonite, a calcium-silicate mineral that is usually white and forms when impure limestone or dolomite is subjected to high temperature and pressure. Similar to asbestos, wollastonite is resistant to chemical attack, stable at high temperatures, and improves flexural and tensile strength in composites. Therefore, at the time, it often served as a substitute for asbestos in floor tiles, friction products, insulating board and panels, paint, plastics, and roofing products.

As we reached the end of the road, a small, white wollastonite working was dwarfed by the expansive views.​

With not much to poke around at the old J.O. Mine, we were soon back on the road and working our way in and around the flanks of Hunter Mountain as we shed a thousand feet of elevation toward Ulida Flat and Hidden Valley.

This is a beautiful section of the park that not many - at least, relatively - visit, and a place where we will need to return in the future; this part of the Cottonwoods not highlighted on this particular excursion.

Bathed in light, the undulating hills unfolded all the way to the horizon.​

Anyone for a bit of uplift?​

Racing through the silt beds in Hidden Valley. We were glad to find them dry and easily passable.​

Our main hike of the day - the trailhead splitting off of White Top Mountain Road some 20 miles from where we'd spent the night - was to a ridgeline and summit known as Leaning Rock.

Lost in the central Cottonwood Mountains, little-known Leaning Rock is one of those summits that takes you by surprise - the drive to its isolated location takes longer than the climb, yet the views from it are spectacular. A relatively short but steep ascent leads to the crest, following a trailless route over scenic open desert graced with Joshua trees. The views from the summit are awesome, with eerie vistas of the Racetrack Valley and Hidden Valley areas, and eye-filling views of central Death Valley.

The best part of this hike is taking advantage of being on high ground and exploring the crest. South from Leaning Rock the terrain is open and gentle. Grizzled and wind-combed cliffrose cling to the rubble, their gnarly bleached trunks as thick as trees. Mound cactus grow out of cracks in the limestone. It is an easy half-mile walk, with gentle elevation changes, to a local summit with a good view of Hidden Valley and its shiny mud flat.

The tilted bluff north of Leaning Rock is a more challenging destination. This area commands superb views east into Dry Bone Canyon's gorge winding half a mile below, and north over the wrinkled slopes of the upper canyon rising 2,000 feet toward the lofty heights of Tin Mountain.

Sunsets are dramatic, in every direction.

Hiking Death Valley - Michel Digonnet​

Climbing further into the Cottonwoods.​

But first, it was time to celebrate with a meal. In trying to determine what to have for Thanksgiving, we'd initially envisioned something along the traditional lines of turkey, stuffing, potatoes, and of course cranberry jelly. We quickly realized that such a spread would require quite a bit of at-home preparation, as well as significant cleanup in camp, and so pivoted to the unconventional-but-still-tasty chicken pad thai. We'd never tried cooking it on the trail before, but - having prepped the chicken at home - it seemed like an easy enough meal that would also feel special and different!

Before we set about making lunch, @mrs.turbodb assembled sandwiches for dinner - no better time to do that than during the warmest part of the day - and I wandered away from the trailhead to capture the unbelievable surroundings for our Thanksgiving meal.​

It was 12:30pm when the water started boiling and the rice noodles went into the pot. Green onions were chopped. Eight minutes later, bean sprouts, peanuts, and limes were at the ready as the water was drained and the dish was covered with a sticky, sweet sauce. A pumpkin pie - warm from half an hour in the sun on the hood of Tacoma - and a mysterious RC Cola we found stashed in the fridge sweetened the deal.

Yum.​

Pull up a chair and dig in.​

Lunch - despite the fact that I overcooked the noodles slightly - was fantastic. As with any good Thanksgiving meal, we went back for seconds, ultimately eating way too much food, and I found myself holding my gut as we set out toward Leaning Rock nearly an hour later.

Into the desert after a fantastic feast.​

We followed a wash to begin the two-mile trek, a wide, 6-foot-tall horseshoe-shaped limestone wall blocking the route after only a few hundred yards. Easily climbed, another, and then a third, followed, the large bajada beyond sloping gradually upward for a mile before reaching the foot of the steep mountain front that would ultimately deliver us to Leaning Rock.

An easily handled obstacle.​

Ancient desert art. (DEVA 87E77, lower right)​

Leaning Rock, the highest point along the ridge (center) is neither a rock, nor leaning.​

Working our way a little more than a mile up the wash, we gained 700 feet by the time we reached the base of the hill. Here, a steep ridge - northwest of the summit - climbed more than 1,300 feet in 0.6 miles, a route that could only be described as "straight up."

Though common, this geometric plant caught our eye as we worked our way through the bajada.​

Now, up.​

The slope of the northwest ridge was a slog. It wasn't as steep as the nearly vertical gully we'd recently climbed as we followed Digonnet's directions up Cowhole Mountain, but it easily reached inclines of 45%. Not only that, but it seemed to drag on forever, certainly redefining our concept of "just more than half a mile."

At least though - on our frequent, "I'm not tired, I'm just making sure to admire the views," stops - the surroundings were steadily becoming more and more spectacular.

A third of the way up, it was looking pretty nice.​

Halfway up, the layers of mountains were multiplying at an amazing pace.​

Along the way, a few clumps of rock spiraea decorated the loose talus hillside.​

There are few hikes that elicit unexpected audible reactions as I round a corner or reach a summit. While I'm not shy to express how fantastic, reflected light might be on a Red Wall Canyon, or how infinite a view might appear from a cliff-edge camp, these are sights that I generally have - at least some - prior knowledge or expectation of encountering.

Despite Digonnet's description, such was not the case as I reached the ridge - and a small saddle - just below the summit of Leaning Rock. I gasped as the landscape unfurled in front of me. I urged @mrs.turbodb up to my position.

The first view east, down into Death Valley.​

Looking back west, the way we'd come.​

After a quick look from the saddle, someone was keen to make the short climb to the summit, and before I knew it, I was no longer in the lead, a purpling sky silhouetting my partner on her final ascent.

Nearly there.​

I can't say the views from the top were significantly different than the saddle, but all that meant was that we suffered through another round of 360° turns, only with a little less audible amazement. For anyone a fan of the desert, this is a view that should be high on a short list.

Looking north along the ridge, I loved the contrasting chaos of the rocky ridge plunging toward Dry Bone Canyon, and the smooth mountains beyond.​

Plummeting to the east, the Cottonwood Mountains drop more than 7,300 feet to the sea-level expanses of Mesquite Dunes and ultimately Badwater Basin.​

Our eyes satiated for a moment, we turned our attention to the summit itself. There were initially two, and ultimately three interesting artifacts to be attended to. The first - and always most important - was the summit log.

We were in for another surprise as we flipped open the cover to find the first entry dated 10 March 1979, and fewer than twenty entries between that time and our visit. Unsure if he'd left a note, our anticipation grew as we flipped through the pages in search of the name that'd led us to this destination. And then - dated Sept. 27, 2013 - we found Digonnet's entry!

Safely secreted away yet easily found and admired.​

Sept 27, 2013, Michel Digonnet, Views as eerie as Cowhole Mountain, w/o the freeway... Good choice, Charlie! (left)
-
Register Place by Wes Shelberg, 10 March 1979 (top right)
-
Nov. 28, 2024, Happy Thanksgiving! Just a quick hike up after Pad Thai Thanksgiving lunch at the trailhead. Dan & M (bottom right)​

We weren't sure the difference between a benchmark (left) and reference mark (right), but we found both at the summit.​

With the sun now minutes from the horizon, and having planned for much of the return hike to require the headlamps we'd packed along with us, we followed the ridgeline south, in search of the "eerie vistas of the Racetrack and Hidden Valley," that'd enticed us here in the first place. They weren't hard to find, and at several points along the way, we stopped to soak them in before heading back down to the Tacoma.

Diminutive Dutton Mountains on the far side of Hidden Valley, the stark Ubehebe ridge, the massive Nelson Range hiding in front of the Inyo Mountains, and the snow-capped Sierra under purpling skies.​

A pinwheel sky over the Funeral mountains, with Nevada's 2-mile-high Spring Mountains in the distance.​

The Panamint Mountains, capped by Telescope Peak, rising up into the last of the light.​

Down we go.​

We made it only halfway down the steep, talused hillside before headlamps became a necessity. By the time we were back to the trailhead, stars filled the moonless sky; we shivered slightly in the cool night air. It was time to drive a few more miles up the road to eat dinner and find camp before hitting the sack early for nearly 10-hours of sleep. We knew we needed them, as the following day would be a doozy.

What a way to spend, enjoy, and be thankful on this Thanksgiving Day.

 

Ancient Gems of Bighorn Gorge | Cottonwoods #4
Part of the Canyons in the Cottonwoods (Nov 2024) trip.

Knowing that we had a huge hike in front of us, we worked our way high into the Cottonwood Mountains after returning from our hike to Leaning Rock just before 6:00pm, already an hour after dark. Having never driven White Top Mountain Road, the circuitous route remained a mystery as we pulled into a spot that we hoped would have a nice view once when the sun completed its circumnavigation of the globe.

Even as we set up the tent for the night it was freezing. Luckily, @mrs.turbodb had already prepped sandwiches - at the same time we'd prepped our Thanksgiving lunch of chicken pad thai - and after deploying camp, we climbed back into the warm cab for a quick meal.

It wasn't yet 7:00pm when we finished brushing our teeth and climbed under our cold comforters for nearly 12 hours of shut eye. We'd need every minute of that rest to tackle a14-mile hike - with a little less than 10-hours of daylight - in the morning.

Not the most dramatic, but we found a good spot for searching in the dark.​

When we climbed down the ladder a few minutes before sunrise, every bit of water we had with us was frozen. Knowing that this was a possibility, we'd filled all of our bottles and bladders the previous evening. We'd stored them in the cab, but like the 5-gallon jerry can in the bed of the Tacoma, they were solid in the 18°F morning air. Still, had we waited until morning, the lack of water would have meant that we'd have had to scrap the hike, so we counted our blessings as we shivered through cereal and assembled sandwiches for later in the day.

Overnight, the fridge helped to keep our food "warm."​

By 7:30am, the Tacoma was repositioned so the solar panel would capture as much sunlight as possible throughout the day, and we were bushwacking our way into the upper folds of Bighorn Gorge.

Bighorn Gorge is one of Death Valley's uncontested gems, a long, rugged, and isolated canyon that tumbles from pine woodlands and Joshua, trees down through tight polished narrows with falls and beautiful fossils to finally open up at the top of its massive fan overlooking the valley. Because it is one of the most remote canyons in the park, the price to pay to discover it is a lot of walking. With a high-clearance vehicle you can drive fairly close and explore a good part of it in a day, but otherwise it will have to be an overnight trip. Either way, Bighorn. Gorge is for serious, well-trained hikers only.

Hiking Death Valley - Michel Digonnet​

A chilly descent into the upper canyon.​

Hopefully, our water would thaw and we wouldn't end up in the same predicament as this bighorn sheep.​

The upper drainage of Bighorn Gorge is a large basin where several broad, steep valleys converge from the crest of the Cottonwood Mountains. Winding nearly four miles and dropping nearly 2,000 feet before reaching the narrows that give the gorge its name. Unlike the long-but-straightforward alluvial fans that we're used to traversing on our way to explore a canyon, this is a densely forested - with pinyon pine and juniper - drainage, boulders and dry falls slowing our progress. Even so, this terrain is one of the delights of hiking down from the top.

We were surprised to find an old mining claim as we worked our way down the canyon.​

Bright blue baby Pinyon Pine fought for permanence along the way.​

Usually, downclimbs happen on our way back, or at least once we've reached the main narrows of the day. Here, they were a staple from the get-go.​

After a mile and a half, we reached the timberline. Here, the drainage broadened to a beautiful valley, Joshua Trees and colorful hillsides of shale spilled toward the gorge. The hiking here - down the sandy wash - was easier, though we knew the return trip would be a soft-surface slog at the end of an already long day.

Out of the trees, a change of scenery.​

Colorful collage.​

Jigsaw rock.​

A little more than two hours - and 3.5 miles - after entering the drainage, the gravelly, wide wash disappeared into a narrow gorge. How all that stone could coalesce through such a small space was mindboggling. We'd soon discover the effect of so much material, but first we had to marvel at the high, striated walls of the entrance to the upper gorge.

A doorway to amazing.​

Dwarfed by giants.​

Spectacularly tall, the walls were delightfully imposing in their sheer physical dimensions. Layers of limestone and sandstone, embedded with dolomite, pushed up at impossible angles as they reached for the sky. We'd have been thrilled to experience this scenery the entire way. Little did we know that it would only get better!

Dolomite bedrock slaloming through the wash.​

Millions of years layered before our eyes.​

For the next 3.5 miles, we'd experience no fewer than five narrows. While mostly short - between 500 and 2000 feet long, these sinuous passages were spectacular, a few falls and chockstones adding fun problems to tackle on the way down - and up - but not generally presenting any real dangerous difficulty to the adventure.

With one exception.

Entering the first narrows.​

Shortly after entering the first narrows - at a tight bend in the canyon - the ground seemed to drop out from under us as it plunged more than 60 feet over a majestic fall, quickly followed by a 15-foot drop to the new base of the gorge. With no ropes - or the skills to use them - we were lucky that a bypass - on the west side - allowed only a moderate amount of risk, followed by a fun scramble down a steep talus of furniture-sized boulders where we could admire the fall from below.

Gorge gatekeeper from the above (left) and below (right).​

Excited, we reveled in the reflected light and tight turns of the five narrows. Each of these featured gentle chutes and near-vertical plunges, but it was the second and fourth narrows where we found the most interesting falls. Even these - each approximately 15 feet high, slick, and nearly vertical - were easily accomplished with a bit of bridging and companion-provided bracing where finger and toe holds had been worn smooth by the mountains of gravel that had flowed over the stone.

Pools of gravel, collecting below the 60-foot falls.​

Less than a thousand feet after the first narrows, we entered the second. Somewhat wider, water moved through this section of canyon more slowly. This left the high, nearly vertical walls with a jagged texture, rather than polished smooth as we'd seen in the first narrows.

An enticing portal.​

Towering walls, glowing through bends in the gorge.​

We rarely felt sunlight on our skin as we navigated the narrows.​

Millions of years of meandering.​

Between the second and third narrows, angular intrusions encroached on the wash.​

The third narrows were the windiest and tightest, resulting in a finely polished surface where gravels routinely ground their way along the walls, 10 feet above the gravelly wash. Narrow enough to touch both sides of the slot at the same time, these were the most exhilarating of the narrows, and a place where we could have spent an entire day!

Ziging and zaging.​

Layers of light.​

Exiting the third narrows.​

There was only a single spot - near the head of the fourth narrows - where @mrs.turbodb was "really not happy" with the downclimb that was necessary to continue on. Looking over the top of a polished 12-foot fall - with no holds to be found - a pile of rocks stacked at the bottom suggested her reservations were justified, and while down is usually the more difficult direction to climb, it is also the easier direction to fall. Rarely does gravity assist in the upward direction.

Still, after I bridged my way down and braced my gloved hands against the smooth stone - anchor points for her feet - she worked her way over the edge and we continued on our way!

Cathedral narrows.​

Wrap-around.​

A brilliant walls beckons beyond a narrow passage.​

Color and scale.​

Perfect portal.​

Beginning just before the third narrows - with the highest exposures in-and-below the fourth narrows - the limestone canyon walls were littered with fossils. Initially these came as a delightful surprise, our eyes scouring the smooth surfaces so we wouldn't miss a thing. It didn't take long to realize that no one wandering this way could possibly do so without noticing the shells, so plentiful were they in the smooth, polished walls.

The first of many.​

The fossils are marine shells, probably from the Early Paleozoic, distributed on several horizons in the thick limestone. The polishing action of water has revealed them as pale, curly traces against the smooth, darker rock. They resemble the common shells found on today's beaches - bivalves, snails, and the slender, conical spirals of gastropods, smaller than an inch. The most striking are large fossils, probably ammonites, curling around several times, often 3 or 4 inches across. They are so finely preserved that some of them still show the inner chambers the animal filled with air for buoyancy.

Hiking Death Valley​

What have we here?​

Apparently, ammonites.


The perfect angle.​

A rare fossil of the ancient, seafaring, shelled... bat? ​

Just before the top of the fifth narrows - now approaching a main side canyon that would mark 7 miles from the trailhead and our turnaround point - we ran into an overhung dry fall that had us wondering whether this should be the end of our excursion. Ultimately, I decided to press on, with @mrs.turbodb enjoying the sun in a wide part of the wash as I scrambled around the dry fall and picked up my pace down the final half mile of canyon.

Here, once again, polished walls gave way to high, jagged walls.​

Colorful conglomerate.​

Close-up color.​

Exiting the fifth narrows.​

Looking up the main side canyon, an adventure for another time!​

Knowing that daylight was quickly fading - it was already 12:35pm - I raced my way back up the fifth narrows, the sandy gravel wash making every step significantly more difficult than they'd been on the way down. Within twenty minutes, I'd found my companion, and she'd found the perfect spot for us to enjoy the lunches she'd assembled in freezing temps, several hours earlier.

As we ate - and drank from our still-icy water bottles - I shared some of the discoveries I'd found once I'd left her behind.

Rocks of all colors.


New (still wet) cat poo, but - unfortunately - no kitty.​

Geometric mayhem.​

We'd used up more than half of our daylight on the "easy" direction of the hike. Knowing we had many miles - and more than 3,500 feet of elevation - to regain before climbing out of the canyon, the only way we were going to make it before dark, was if we maintained a 2mph pace, about double our usual average.

And the only way we were going to do that was if I could find a way to leave my camera on my hip.

Somehow - likely due to the fact that I'd failed to pack a second battery - I managed to mostly succeed at hiking through - rather than stopping to admire - the gorgeous warm light that reflected down the towering walls as we made our way back through the narrows.

Mostly.

Pop of color.​

Fallen chockstone.​

Dark to light.​

We noticed this semi-historic road sign - TAIT (?) RD - on our way back up.​

We were losing light quickly as our pace slowed through the upper drainage.​

Cute and cuddly cactus.​

Seven minutes after sunset, and with legs seemingly made of jello, we emerged at the top of the Cottonwood Mountains to a brilliant show above our heads. It was 4:47pm.

We'd brought headlamps, but were thrilled to not need them as we covered the final few hundred feet to the Tacoma.
​

It'd been a whirlwind three days in the park. We'd covered more than 30 miles of canyons in our first significant push into the Cottonwoods. In the process, we'd discovered several additional places we wanted to explore. Places, we hoped, we would return to experience in a few short weeks!

 

I was curious about the history of Cottonwood Mountains. Incredible to see how those fossils made it there.

 

Totally amazing. I/we haven't spent much time at all in the Cottonwoods. My very first trip in 2018 went through Racetrack and Lippincott, and since then have (mostly) spent time in other parts of the park, with a quick jaunt to Hunter Mountain and another to Lost Burro Mine. This trip was a great "foray" into the real Cottonwoods, and really made us want for more. So, a few weeks later (a few days before Xmas), we headed down for 6 more days wandering through their folds. Those stories are coming next. Even so, a lot more to see in the future.

 

Hey Dan, why don't you pick the destination this time... maybe just not super far away, and not too cold?

Eight hours' drive later: