AdventureTaco - turbodb's build and adventures

Cape Flattery Lighthouse reminds me a lot of Año Nuevo Island. It sits just off shore from Año Nuevo State Park and is just a few acres in size. It's become a haul out/rookery for Seals and Stellar Sea Lions. The island has a home and lighthouse on it but those have long been abandoned (the island itself has been closed to the public as well).

This last bit of your report is the best. It reminded me of spending the day in the middle of the Gualala River on a small gravel bar. In the summertime, the flow is much lower and it's just a pleasant way to spend the day.

 

Possibly your best trip report yet.
Most excellent.

 

Coyote Flat via Big Pine Route | Eastern Sierra #1
Part of the Lake Hopping the Eastern Sierra (Oct 2022) trip.

The Eastern Sierra.

I don't know if they are less well known, harder to get to, or I was just oblivious, but while I've driven past the majestic peaks numerous times - on my way to and from Death Valley - I've never really taken the time to explore the mountain range that boasts the tallest peak (Mt. Whitney, at 14,505 feet) in the contiguous United States.

But, over the last few years - as I've ventured into the Volcanic Tablelands, and here and there within the Owens Valley - I've reveled in the rocky faces and snowy peaks. Now, finally, we'd get a chance to explore - climbing to elevations of more than 12,000 feet - as we lake hop in the Eastern Sierra.

As always, the first day was a long drive down from Washington, and it was a little after 2:00am the following morning when we found our way to the end of a dirt road outside of Big Pine. Near our jumping off point to access Coyote Flat, we quickly pitched the tent and climbed into bed.

I just happened to wake up as the sun was coming over the horizon and popped out of the tent for a few minutes, since I knew I wouldn't get light like this once the fiery ball was fully above the horizon.​

Even as the sun hadn't hit the Sierra to the north, the range to the south was glowing brilliantly.​

Nestled into the rocks, and already with a bit of sun.​

By the time we actually got up - I was quickly back to bed after these shots - we'd gotten about seven hours of sleep - not a full night, but also not bad for having covered so much ground the day before.

Already it was starting to warm up, and with afternoon temperatures forecast for the upper 90s °F in the area, we were glad to be headed for higher elevations; as it was, we were already breaking a sweat as the tent was stowed and the sun beamed down on the distant Owens Valley Radio Observatory.

The OVRO was bustling with activity - dishes spinning frequently - as we watched from afar.​

Everything packed up, and breakfastless - we'd decided to try our trail-mix-for-breakfast-strategy again - we pointed the Tacoma west and began the climb from 4500' to more than 10,300' in just under eight miles. Needless to say it was steep, and I'd heard plenty of chatter about the road to Coyote Flat from Big Pine, so I let @mrs.turbodb know that there was a slight chance we'd be turning around and accessing the area via the "normal" route, from Bishop.

Up we go, lots of loose rocks and dirt made for slippery conditions without good line choice.​

Along the way, several nice viewpoints presented themselves.​

Steeper than it looks.​

A first peek at the peaks that we seek.​

I don't know exactly what to call the hills immediately west of Big Pine, but their composition seems to be significantly different than that of the Sierra just a bit further west. More like the composition of Alabama Hills or Buttermilk Boulders - a yellowish granite covered with high-desert shrubs - I really enjoyed the trail as it wound through the outcroppings, glancing back from time to time at the Inyos behind us.

This Golden Eagle had an amazing wingspan, and just seemed to float off of the rocky outcropping when we drove by.​

Looking down to Big Pine, and a road stretching up into the Inyos and Death Valley.​

As we gained elevation, the terrain began to change. Not in the Inyo Mountains, this was still the Inyo National Forest, and slowly trees began to dot the landscape. They were sparse to be sure, but their green needles were a nice contrast to the otherwise-very-dry-looking hillsides.

As we neared 8700', temperatures had dropped enough, and there was a bit more precipitation throughout the year; enough to support tree growth.​

In the distance, a splash of yellow from fall aspen.​

An F-35 roared by overhead. Too high for any real detail, but still plenty loud!​

With all the stopping to admire views and take photos - something that my passenger is quite patient about, and had prepared for by bringing her Kindle loaded with Dune House of Harkonnen - our eight-mile, 6,000' ascent, took the better part of two hours. Of that, the trail seemed in reasonably good condition - though I recognize that difficulty is different for every driver - with only one section containing large enough rocks that some careful line choice was necessary.

For me, it was a fun little section, over too soon, the Tacoma handling it well.​

I just kept wishing we were "one ridge over," so we'd get a better view of the Sierra. It wouldn't be long until that's exactly where we were!​

Eventually of course, we crested the ridge. Rather than press forward towards the views that'd been so tantalizing for the last 30 minutes or so, we made nearly a complete u-turn towards an overlook I'd noted in my route planning, and a spot I'd thought might make a good camp area... had we arrived at a completely different time of day. Still, no matter what time of day one passes along this route, spending a few minutes to soak in the surroundings is time well spent.

As we approached the rocky outcropping that hung above Owens Valley, I knew I wanted a photo (or seven) of me perched on top, looking out.​

One. Expansive.​

Two. Starting to compress the background.​

Don't worry, I'm not posting all seven. I really like how the Inyos in the background fill the entire frame.​

With that, we finally dropped down into the Coyote Flat area. This high meadow - at almost exactly 10,000-feet - must be spectacular in spring, with green grass and wildflowers poking up through the last of the winter snow. And there, rising out of the far side of the meadow, the terrain began its transition from dusty desert to rainbow granite, as a few peaks seemed to rise out of the flats themselves!

We're the only ones here. (For now!)​

In the distance, even more alluring views.​

Having reached the namesake of our trip, we had several choices in how to proceed. I suppose the most boring thing to do would have been to continue along the loop, exiting Coyote Flat at Bishop, but with a ton of roads to investigate, there was no way we were going to bail just yet. Instead, I hoped we'd visit almost all the trails in the area, oscillating between 9,000 and 12,000 feet, wandering on foot from time to time.

Having come in from the southeast, that's where we'd start - exploring the Baker Creek area - before heading further north and west.

We got our first close-up brilliant pop of yellow as we wound our way down to Baker Creek.​

Climbing back up from the creek, we followed one road after another - each one winding up into the valleys and folds of the ridges above - eventually discovering a perfectly shady spot for lunch and then stumbling upon the ****** Cabin as we looked for an alternate route back to the main loop. Gotta love dumb luck!

Why go anywhere in a straight line when a few turns will lengthen your enjoyment?​

We - as must many others - nearly missed this cabin nestled into the treeline.​

Extremely well-kept inside, this cabin is still actively used.​

I thought these two notices were awesome - both in their clarity, as well as their willingness to share and trust those who might find themselves in this special place. I've obviously heavily redacted them, so if you find it, please leave it nicer than you found it.​

Eventually, we tore ourselves away from the cabin and set our sights on one of the more well-known destinations that Coyote Flat has to offer: Funnel Lake. I'd chatted with a few folks - who I thought might have pointers on the area - prior to our departure, and without fail they all recommended staying as far away from Funnel Lake as possible. Largely this recommendation seemed to boil down to overcrowding, and I hoped that our Thursday arrival would significantly reduce the chances of running into a dozen bro-verlanders with their light bars a-blazing.

What I didn't realize from my conversations was that overpopulation isn't the only thing that makes Funnel Lake underwhelming.

The road to Funnel Lake - several miles of volleyball-sized rocks - is one of the least enjoyable roads we've driven. Ever.​

Even our arrival was disappointing - the lake is small, boring (there are no views), and half full.​

Not wanting to have wasted the entire route, we walked three-quarters of the way around the lake, hoping for - perhaps - a better angle. This turned out to be an exercise in "avoiding fire rings," that lined the circumference every 10 feet or so, this place unexplainedly mobbed most of the time.

As you can imagine, we didn't linger long before mentally preparing ourselves to rattle several more teeth from our mouths on the drive out. It was time to make a beeline for something a little less... sterile.

Nearly toothless - it was a real shame that the tooth fairy wasn't real, at least we could have been rich - we finally got back on the main road and turned toward the second lake of the day. This one - Rocky Bottom Lake - would be observed from above, hopefully affording us views - both on the way to the lake as well as once we got there.

As we arrived back at the Flat, happy for whatever teeth were left in our mouths, the Inyos reminded us that no matter which way we looked, there was magic.​

Up we go again, a new landscape to explore.​

As we climbed, magnificent looking Bristlecone Pine were sprinkled throughout the mostly-Pinyon Pine Forest.​

Rocky Bottom Lake would have been a little bland as well if we'd been down in the bowl, but the view from 500' above was a great place to relax for a few moments.​

I'd wondered a bit if we would camp at Rocky Bottom Lake, but it was quite clear when we arrived that it wasn't somewhere to call home for the night. A complete lack of flat ground - and no views of the Sierra - meant we'd need to find somewhere else to set up the tent. We certainly weren't going to come all this way to camp viewless.

Luckily, I had just the spot in mind - one that would not only give us a view, but that would also afford us a short hike to one of the tallest peaks around - should we so desire - the next morning. And so, it was back down one canyon, and back up another. We were headed to The Huntchback.

Mostly in shadow at 4:30pm, I hoped that the sharp Sierra ranges rising up to the west would be breathtaking in the morning.​

Nature's Bonsai. Up here, wind is not a friend of the Bristlecone Pine.​

Our trail, snaking into the distance, to the base of The Huntchback.​

It was just after 5:00pm when we arrived at the overlook that would serve as our perch for the night. At the foot of The Huntchback, and high above the aptly-named Green Lake, it was perfect. For a while, we just stood there - looking out over the lake from various vantage points, letting our eyes wander to the 12,000+ foot peaks all around.

Those more ambitious than us might have decided to hike down to the lake. It was the trek back up that got us.​

Even this late in the afternoon, the sky still thundered. (F-18)​

As we stood there admiring, the moon rose from behind The Huntchback.​

Dinner was - surprise, surprise - tacorittoes, which were prepared quickly once the Tacoma was maneuvered as close to the edge as we could muster. My hope in the positioning was to score a dramatic star trail photo once the moon set just after 2:30am, but unlike some recent long exposures on our recent Passages trip to the Olympic Peninsula that turned out to be stunning, these would be boring at best.

For the moment however - with temperatures in the mid-60s °F, a light breeze, and the sky threatening to fade through the most beautiful purple hues above us - we were both ready to eat dinner, enjoy the sunset light show, and then catch up on some of the sleep we'd missed the previous night.

All alone near the top of the world. Or at least, this part of our round rock.​

The view from the kitchen.​

Admiring the after-dinner entertainment.​

For a long time, I always looked forward to those last few minutes before the sun dropped to the horizon. Oranges, reds, and yellows juxtaposed against a blue sky, once gray clouds now fiery with delight.

It wasn't until - as I recall - a trip with Mike @Digiratus (and Monte @Blackdawg) to Alstrom Point that I realized an even better time is the five-minute window about 20 minutes after the sun has dropped below the horizon. Mike called it the magic hour - which I'd heard before - and went on to verbalize the fact that there was still enough light (usually in amazing hues to boot) to photograph, but that one could do so without those pesky contrasting shadows, making for some fantastic compositions.

Since then, this has been the time I look forward to. (And it turns out there is a similar time before sunrise.)

Green Lake, more purple than green.​

Getting on a bit in the fall, it was still early as the light faded to our west, so we sat for an hour or so - knitting and reading and copying photos from the camera to laptop - before climbing up into the tent for the sleep we'd missed out on the night before.

The moon - extremely bright - lit up the landscape for most of the night.​

We'd covered a lot of ground on this first day, and I wondered if we had enough to keep us busy for the rest of the time. We did - of course - soon discovering that we may have bitten off a bit more than we could chew.

 

re: cabin. Did you get a chance to look at the building ruins around 400' due south of that cabin (other side of the drainage)? Not that bushwhacking is fun.

 

I did not. We did wander around and across the drainage, but never made it that far. Since we'd not expected to come on the cabin at all (I hadn't noticed it when I mapped the route), I'd not had a chance to look around for other structures, either. Oh well, next time! Was certainly a fun discovery - the unexpected ones are always that way, it seems.

 

Coyote Flat via Bishop Route | Eastern Sierra #2
Part of the Lake Hopping the Eastern Sierra (Oct 2022) trip.

Our night below the The Hunchback couldn't have been more pleasant. Though we were at 10,500-feet, temperatures never dropped below the mid-40s °F, and even getting up for a bathroom break and some less-than-mediocre star photos was an enjoyable few minutes.

Unlike the previous morning when I hadn't set my alarm, I made sure I was out of the tent a little before sunrise to capture that magical time when the sky is transitioning from dark to light and the earth's surface is shadowless. Here, with views of the Sierra all around, it was spectacular.

​

Before the sun rises, its rays curving around the horizon, the earth's shadow creates a band of blue - the Belt of Venus.​

A jagged gap.​

As the sun neared the horizon, alpenglow on the Sierra peaks.​

Also unlike the previous morning, there was no climbing back into bed - with 11 hours of horizontal time, there was no need. Instead, after running around frantically for a few minutes as the light changed, I whistled to @mrs.turbodb and beckoned her down the ladder - it was time to hike!

In fact, I'd been looking forward to summiting The Hunchback since we'd arrived the previous evening, and while I think the lady could have been happy with a bit more sleep, it wasn't long before we were working out the best route to the top.

As we climbed, the already fantastic views - got better.​

After contemplating a more direct - but steep and rocky - route to the top of The Hunchback, we'd ultimately made the smart choice to follow a slightly longer-but-gentler grade. Even so, the mile-long climb from 11,500 to 12,148 feet took us less than half an hour and suddenly we were on top of the world.

It's nearly impossible to see, but the Tacoma is down there - below the right corner of the large shadow.​

To the west, the Sierra stretch on to infinity.​

To the east, Volcanic Tablelands and the White Mountains.​

The Hunchback - as its name suggests - is more of a ridge, with a few prominences that vie for the title of "highest point." Naturally, from each one, the others look just slightly higher, and so we made our way to each one, just to be sure that we could ensure victory in reaching the top.

When we reached the second prominence - which turned out to be the highest - I suggested that @mrs.turbodb head back to the first so I could take her photo.​

Quite the backdrop at 12,144 feet.​

It appears that someone's permanently borrowed the survey marker. ​

After spending longer at the top than it'd taken to get there, it was eventually time to head back down and get underway, so I too retraced my steps to the first prominence before heading back down to the Tacoma so we could stow the tent and hit the trail.

Along the ridge, Serpentine - the state rock of California - was plentiful.​

Down we go - even the more gradual route we'd chosen was steep.​

Even with our early start to the day - sunrise was at 7:00am - it was only a little before 10:00am when we finally pulled out of camp. Trail mix in our bellies, the tent stowed, and pants traded for shorts in what was turning out to be another extremely pleasant day, it was time to go investigate a remote "cabin" I'd spotted on the map when I'd planned out the route through this mountainous terrain.

If I had a newer Tacoma, I might even be able to shoot a commercial here.​

Fall colors dotting the landscape, we made our way back down towards the treeline.​

At one point, I noticed an old food cache just off the road. This was especially cool since @mrs.turbodb had remarked about food caches on a map she'd seen the previous day in one of the cabins we'd visited.​

Our road - in the distance - seemed to disappear over the edge. Perfect!​

Tracing our route back a few miles to the turn off toward the cabin, we eventually found ourselves behind an UTV with two fully-camo-clad hunters out enjoying themselves as they scouted for deer. Oblivious to our presence behind them, we tootled along for a half mile or so before I stopped for some photos - hoping that they'd bypass our turn and continue down the mountain.

Naturally though, they were going the same way we were.

Snapping a few extra photos and soaking in the views of South Lake in the distance, I dillied and dallied as much as I could before noticing that they too were stopped in the road about a quarter mile ahead - one of the guys now under the UTV looking at something.

Our first view of South Lake - while we waited for the UTV to carry on - was a good way to pass the time.​

Figuring that we would either be able to help out or pass if there wasn't any real problem, we rolled up to the guys and got out to say hello. They turned out to be super nice - glad that we'd stopped to offer help, but assuring us that they were just fine. In the course of the next few minutes, we also discovered that they'd seen us up on the top of The Hunchback through their binoculars, and they informed us that the "cabin" we were planning to visit was actually an old mine structure.

Thankful for the pleasant interaction, we bid them a great day as we hopped in front of them on the trail.

An old ore chute, used to fill trucks with loads of rock to be milled in the Owens Valley.​

There was plenty of rockwork at this site, but all the shafts had collapsed long ago.​

Sardines anyone?​

In the end, the mine site wasn't all that interesting - all of it just a little too far gone to really answer any questions about how big the operation had been or what they'd been up to. Still, as we followed the diggings and tailings piles to the ridge, we were greeted with a very nice surprise - a colorful fall view of the Sierra, all the way down to the canyon floor.

Whether the mine was successful or not, it must have been a pleasure to come to eat lunch every day.​

While we were poking around the mine site, we'd noticed the hunters continue further down the road. Figuring that they knew better than we did, it seemed like a good bet to head the same direction - after all, we were already all the way out here! Sure enough, a couple miles later, we found them enjoying similar views to those we'd reveled in just moments before.

Even if this is all they brought back, I'd call this hunt a success.​

Knowing that we'd have another fun conversation, we worked out way out to the edge of the ridge and spent half an hour or more chatting with these guys. In their late fifties, they'd been hunting the eastern Sierra for decades, but had only been in this area for the last few years. South Lake - amongst others - they said, was lower than they'd ever seen it, and we shared stories - and a strong distaste - of the route to Funnel Lake.

"I don't know why it's so popular," @mrs.turbodb said. "It seemed like torture to get there and it wasn't even that nice once we were there."

Eventually, we decided to eat lunch, and they decided to continue on their way - enjoying the same clean air we were - and we bid them farewell as tuna sandwiches were assembled and chips were consumed. Soon enough, we'd taken their place, as we filled out bellies with food and our eyes with views for a few more minutes before continuing on our way as well.

Copy cats!​

Back on the trail, working our way through meadows and groves of Pinyon Pine.​

I really liked how the road skirted the treeline, winding its way through the boulders.​

We had one more spot to explore - prior to heading down toward Bishop - and that meant backtracking a bit towards the main route in Coyote Flat. Along the way, we noted how similar the road and terrain felt to Railroad Ridge - the highest road in Idaho - and noted that we were significantly higher here, at 11,367-feet above sea level. Not the highest publicly-accessible road in California, but dang close.

As we drove northeast, the view of the Inyo and White Mountains was nothing to scoff at.​

But the real treasure was to the west.​

After a brief drop to 10,000 feet, we climbed back up Lookout Mountain - where there is, unfortunately, no lookout - to a spectacular view of Coyote Flat and the mostly-rubble Sugarloaf Mountain. Then, it was back down the west side where we'd follow the road to its end, curious for what we'd find.

While Sugarloaf Mountain may have once been majestic, it has since eroded to an 10,500' tall pile of rocks.​

I must admit - part of the reason we explored the west side of Lookout Mountain was for the views it afforded.​

It's at this point that I should admit that our curiosity of "what we'd find" may have been a little more of expectation than wonder. While I hadn't planned to explore Lookout Mountain (also, apparently known as Discovery Mountain) beyond the overlook, I had noticed that there was significant mining activity further down the road. And, when we'd talked to the hunters - who happened to have setup camp at the head of the Lookout Mountain road - they mentioned a miners cabin in this location, thinking it was the cabin we'd visited the previous day. Of course, we knew that meant there was another cabin, so we were excited to check it out.

Heading down the west side of Discovery Mountain, a few breaks in the trees allowed the omnipresent views sprinkle through.​

The territorial views were nothing to scoff at this time of year, either.​

Found it!​

There wasn't much left of the Schoden Mine - just the cabin - but we made up our own stories of an initial strike and the inevitable bust that likely followed as we wandered the site. Most amazing - as always - was the determination that the miners embodied. To build a road, haul supplies, mine the land, and eventually eek out a few ounces of gold... wow.

One way to win against the bleaching rays of the sun.
Schoden Mine - Discovery Mountain.​

Needs a bit of work.​

We'd dropped nearly 3000' as we'd descended to the mine, so after exploring for a few minutes, we made our way back up and over Lookout Mountain to re-join the Coyote Flat route that most folks experience when visiting this place - the northern access, via Bishop.

As expected, the northern route was slightly longer, but certainly easier and significantly more travelled. A dusty, two-lane thoroughfare for much of the route, it dropped down the northern face of whatever these almost-but-not-quite-Sierra-mountains were that make up the gateway to Coyote Flat, providing some nice eye candy along the way.

So much to see in the distance.​

​

To the northwest - Mt. Tom (distant left) and the Buttermilk Boulders (lowland center).​

​

To the northeast - the unmistakable plateau that is the Volcanic Tablelands.​

A series of switchbacks spit us out at 6,000', where temperatures were in the mid-90s °F.​

At this point it was still relatively early in the day - just before 3:00pm - but we decided that the best course of action was to head camp. Our hope was that its location - a couple thousand feet higher - would be a bit cooler and set us up well for a hike that I hoped would be the highlight of the entire trip.

That is, if we could muster the energy for a 14-19 mile roundtrip, climbing from 8,000 to 12,000 feet. But as usual, I'm getting ahead of myself...

For now, we covered a few quick miles on CA-168 before turning onto dirt and navigating the lesser-traveled backroads to the Buttermilk area. Initially bumpy and unpleasant, these roads eventually turned out to be fantastic, first skirting a ridge next to an enormous water pipe before winding through some brilliant yellow aspen groves in the late afternoon sun.

You could almost drive a truck through this thing. Well, a tiny 1st gen Tacoma anyway. ​

What the heck? A bit of investigation revealed this to be an overflow for the water line we'd previously paralleled.​

Another, more picturesque, view.​

This section reminded me of Colorado.​

We reached the end of the road and the trailhead to Horton Lakes right around 4:30pm. To our surprise - having seen almost no one else this entire time - another Tacoma was parked in the road, it's passengers nowhere to be seen (obviously, they were on the trail).

Wondering whether they planned to return and spend the night (we didn't want to intrude), we hung out for a few minutes, pondering what to do. Fortunately, only a few minutes later, voices carried down from higher on the trail as the three hikers returned from their adventure. Having left at 6:00am, they'd "made it to the top," had a great time, and weren't planning to spend the night - all music to our ears.

Well, except for the 6:00am part. We'd planned to leave a bit later than that - but they seemed quite a bit younger and in a bit better shape. Perhaps we'd need to rethink our plans...

Whatever.

A few minutes later we had the place to ourselves, and set about our usual evening routing. Tent, dinner, washing up, that kind of thing - all as the sun first dropped behind the Sierra, and eventually below the horizon. As usual, it was as good as any show on TV.

Almost.

Nestled along the side of the road, the sun nearing the horizon and the moon already gleaming brightly.​

With the sun below the horizon, the same Belt of Venus (earth's shadow) that we'd seen in the morning presented itself again.​

Knowing that we had a huge day in front of us, we hit the sack early. There'd be no getting up for star photos, or even staying up late enough to snap a shot of a moonlit landscape. No, we needed our rest.

Tomorrow, we planned to hike 14 miles. To climb from 8,000' to 12,000'. To explore old mining camps and roads. To have a fantastic time.

If, that is, our lungs could bear it.

 

Fun to see the Lindner Mine -- I see gravity has not been kind since the last time we were there:



When I first went to Coyote (circa early 80s), the high-elevation runway was in operation and there was a hanger. And we left Coyote by taking the road down to the south fork of Bishop Creek.

Ahhh ... progress!

 

These two recent trip reports have been great to read and see the photos. I'm especially curious about he route up from Big Pine to Coyote Flat. The closest I've come to this route was from the top of the flats. I got to a section with some larger rocks near a grassy field and turned around (with great effort). That was back when I had the FWC so I wasn't as nimble as I am now but I still wouldn't consider my rig a real "rock crawler". Pretty sure I have some of the spots you covered saved in my googlemaps.

Is this fairly representative of the toughest parts of the trail? Where it starts is where I turned around.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y2oitlPgiso

There are some hairy spots here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sr0lUhk8iOM

 

Sorry for the slower reply today guys, working on kitchen cabinets for a remodel!

Wow, yeah, that ore chute is a little worse for wear now. Bummer. But - cool to know the name of the prospect, thanks!

That road down to the south fork is ungated again. It's still signed as closed though (due to a washout), and we were running a bit short on time, so I didn't walk it.

Glad you've enjoyed them. Was really a great place to bumble around for a couple of days - albeit mid-week and during shoulder season when there weren't a lot of other folks around.

Those two videos are great representations of the Big Pine route. Personally, I didn't think it was too difficult, but the me of a couple years ago might have thought differently (I'm out and about so much that I get about 10 years of driving experience under my belt every calendar year). The biggest issue is that there are a couple places that are both rocky and off-camber, so there's a risk of bad things happening if you don't choose the right line. It also helps that a 1st gen Tacoma is so much narrower than later gens (and even today's Jeeps), because it allows for additional line choices that may not include the same (degree of) off-camber risks.

In reality, the best part of that route is the overlook off of Sugarloaf Pass. I could have stood on that rocky outcropping for hours. And you don't need to do any of the road down to Big Pine in order to enjoy that.

​

 

They Built a Road to the Sky | Eastern Sierra #3
Part of the Lake Hopping the Eastern Sierra (Oct 2022) trip.

We awoke on the third morning of our trip, full of anticipation. Or at least, full of something that starts with an "a." Perhaps apprehension. Whatever it was, we knew we needed to get an early start on our day, and so were down the ladder before the sun rose above the horizon.

Solar panels don't do much before sunrise, buddy. (windshield)​

We'd gotten a good night sleep, and as @mrs.turbodb set about assembling tuna sandwiches and other lunch fixings, I stowed the tent in case there were others who visited the trailhead during the day. No need to air our dirty sheets while we were out on the trail.

While we were prepping, there was a light show going on behind us.​

We'd hoped to leave by 7:00am - anticipating between 7- and 11-hours for the day's hike - and we nearly hit that; starting out of camp and passing a sign that indicated our entrance into the John Muir Wilderness just a little after 7:20am. Immediately the trail began its climb, a series of reasonably gentle switchbacks - one a mining road - working their way up the alluvial fan.

Having hiked in other Sierra Wildernesses, we looked forward to adding another to our list.​

Once a mining road, high desert bush has thoroughly encroached, making us glad for pants rather than shorts.​

The hike we were on - first to Horton Lakes and then to the Tungstar and Hanging Valley Mines - was one that I've been looking forward to for a while. I don't remember exactly how I discovered it, but I hoped that the trek - 7-9 miles and 3,500-4000' one direction - was worth it, especially since I'd sold it as totally amazing to @mrs.turbodb.

The idea - as far I knew - was that we'd get about four miles into the hike before reaching Horton Lake, which also happened to be the location of the mining camp for the Hanging Valley Mine. So, you can imagine my surprise when - after just 40 minutes of hiking - we happened on a meadow with a couple of old mining cabins.

In fact, not expecting the cabins at all, we were initially just enthralled by the fall aspen, and it was only after pulling our memory capture devices that we noticed the structures.

"Oh, these are the cabins," I exclaimed!

They weren't. We might be reasonable hikers, but we do not cover 4 miles and 2,000 vertical feet in 40 minutes.

Nestled into the aspen below Mt. Tom.​

A little closer.​

I think my hiking partner realized almost immediately that these were not the cabins we were expecting, but it took me several more minutes - in fact, we may have already gotten back on the trail - before I realized that these were cabins I'd not known about prior to stumbling on them. Still, we had a good time poking around the Sonny Boy Prospect, wondering - as we often do - as to the success of the operation.

Still serviceable stove.​

The bearings in these conveyor rollers still spun like new!​

Despite my easily-confused state, we'd only travelled a little over 1 mile and gained 500 feet of elevation. Looking back now, that's much more our speed.​

Anyone for a dip?​

After poking around a bit, @mrs.turbodb was the one to hustle me onward. She realized that in a sea of yellow and orange, I could end up stopping for hours to take pictures of the fall colors, and that we needed to keep moving if we were ever going to get to the top. She was right, of course.

After leaving the cabins, the view back down to the Volcanic Tablelands at the northern end of the Ownens Valley.​

Still, as we continued up, I couldn't help but to stop for a photo or two. Luckily, I'd brought more than one battery for the camera.

We had a long way to go.​

Oh, look at those greens, better get a photo.​

Oh man, look at that peak, better get a photo.​

Holy smokes, I need to turn around more often; better get a photo.​

Better get a photo of that waterfall.​

It took us another couple of hours to cover the ground between the Sonny Boy Prospect and the Hanging Valley Mine Camp at Horton Lake. This part of the hike skirted along the southern flank of Mt. Tom, climbing consistently for 3 miles and 1,500 feet. With the morning sun at our backs, we took a few breaks here and there, but largely kept up a consistent pace until we reached the short side trail to the cabins I'd expected to find along the route.

While the hiking wasn't easy at 10,000 feet, the old mining road meant that we didn't need to do any route finding.​

The Hanging Valley Mine Camp.​

An old ore chute stood guard near the road.​

Just past the mine camp, Horton Lake twinkled in the breeze under the rocky crags of the Sierra.​

Still a long way to climb before we're done for the day.​

The Hanging Valley Mine was established in 1939 by Mijo "Mike" Milovich, a native of Yugoslavia after discovering some garnet-rich material in a broad, plateau-like valley on the western shoulder of Mt. Tom. To shorten the distance to work each morning - at least, during the summer months when the mine was worked - he also built two log cabins near Horton Lakes. And, even though it was only 10:00am, it seemed like this would be the perfect location to have lunch before we made the final - long - climb from the mine camp to the mine itself, some 2,000 feet higher.

One of the cabins built to house miners.​

Today, used by backpackers who may be stopping over at the lake for one reason or another.​

I really liked the chinking and thought the nails to anchor it were an interesting touch.​

Lunch was a leisurely affair - perhaps more-so than it should have been - as it was still early in the day, but by 10:45am, and after another couple trail-jogged into the mining camp, we were once again on our way. The going would be tougher now - the trail steeper and the air thinner. Still, we certainly had it easier than Milovich, who was crazy enough to build this road to the sky.

​

Back on the trail, Horton Lake looking nice from above.​

In the distance, it was hard to imagine there was a "road" we would follow.​

Sheer granite cliffs rose high into the blue.​

Portions of the trail seemed a little sketchier than others.​

Don't mind my drive shaft. Just holding the road together.​

Those boys were crazy.

Switchback after switchback, we slowly - and I mean slowly - made our way up. With the air thinning, frequent stops "for photos" or to "soak it all in" became commonplace. As we rounded each of the 14 switchbacks, we'd count them off - happy for number 8, but eager for number 14, our lungs straining for air.

We should stop here to soak it all in.​

Getting higher. (Note: switchbacks barely visible on right side; that was once a road.)​

Buttermilk Boulders visible in the valley, with the Inyos in the distance.​

A little higher, more of Owens Valley came into view.​

As we neared the top, a beautifully green lake peeked out from a remote basin.​

Perhaps to be visited on a future adventure.​

As we rounded switchback 11, an old juniper tree - likely just a seedling when the road was built - happened to provide plentiful shade over a series of large boulders that'd been arranged at the apex of the turn to prevent vehicles from careening over the edge. It was here that @mrs.turbodb urged me to continue on, knowing that I'd likely spend more time exploring the mines at the top than she would, and so executing the last few switchbacks separately wouldn't be that big of a deal.

These, it turns out, were poorly laid plans.

Anyway, without giving it too much thought - which I'll contribute to the thin air - I continued on. Perhaps even increasing my pace, I hoped that I could visit the Tungstar Mine - the higher of the two - before she even reached the point at which the trail forked at saddle along the top of the ridge.

From the saddle, the Tungstar Mine was "up that road." Another 2 miles (each way) and 700 feet of elevation gain higher on the northwestern face of Mt. Tom.​

Better get walking. Quickly.​

The views alone were worth the hike to these dizzying heights.​

In the distance, I could see a road leading to the Pine Creek Mine in the adjacent canyon.​

At this point, I was cognizant of the fact that @mrs.turbodb and I had no way to communicate when she got to the top. I kicked myself for not bringing my handheld GMRS radios, or for at least giving her the handheld Ham radio that I'd brought along for emergencies (not that a single ham HT would have done any good, except to give her a possible way to contact help).

Hustling, I made good time to the Tungstar, covering the two miles in just under 25 minutes - not my fastest walk, but not too shabby for 12,000'. And boy, as I caught my breath, was I in for a treat!

In a partially collapsed shaft, and old ore cart still rested on the rails.​

Surely a view that miners were thankful to see after a day underground.​

As the name implies, the Tungstar Mine was developed to exploit tungsten buried within the talus slopes of Mt. Tom.

​

​

A collapsed ore chute that once shuttled tungsten down the side of the mountain.​

Remnants of a cable line that once shuttled carts along an aerial tramway to the Pine Creek Mill.​

This motor and winch were stationed above a deep vertical shaft, used to lift and lower men and ore deep within the mountain.​

Unfortunately I didn't have time to hike a mile - and 1,500 feet - down the mountain to check out a few of the tram towers that still exist, but I did get to admire the two enormous diesel generators that were once charged the tanks that powered the air drills used for extracting ore.

Were these once tractors, driven up the Hanging Valley Mine road to their final resting place?​

Ingersoll Rand.​

Firing order 1 5 3 6 2 4.​

My quick - probably only 15 minute - exploration complete, I once again found myself hurrying along the Tungstar Mine road. Luckily, I was going downhill this time, so I wasn't quite so winded as i made my way to the saddle where I hoped to reacquire my hiking companion.

About a quarter of the way back, I saw a small dark spec in the distance. Moving towards the saddle from the Hanging Valley Mine, I knew it had to be @mrs.turbodb. I yelled. I yelled again. No response. I picked up the pace.

My return trip - half jogging - took only 20 minutes, a good thing given the understandably worried state of @mrs.turbodb, since she couldn't find me upon reaching the top. Luckily, a hug - and quick recounting of each of our stories - after we met back up was enough to set her at ease again,

Should have left some message at the marker on the ridgeline.​

Having been there for 20 minutes or so, she had already walked over to the Hanging Valley Mine, but humored me in checking it out again, knowing that I wouldn't want to miss it after coming all this way.

Across the broad, plateau-like valley on the western shoulder of Mt. Tom, an ore chute of the Hanging Valley Mine.​

A holding tank, collapsed buildings, and ore chutes, littering the hillside, and the road to the Tungstar Mine on the far hillside.​

The lower ore chute was steel-lined and still in pretty nice condition.​

The sealed end of this mine shaft was both interesting and perplexing.​

They were a band of tall miners.​

Reconnected, we wandered around at a bit more leisurely pace than I'd explored the Tungstar Mine, visiting each of the Hanging Valley Mine's three levels, wondering what it'd been like to perform hard labor at such extreme elevations.

As always seems to be the case, we each had our favorite aspects of the mine. Personally, I was excited for the ore cart that had jumped its tracks and was now "racing" down the road. Obviously, there was only one thing to be done.

Escaped ore cart.​

Needs driver.​

@mrs.turbodb's favorite element also turned out to be mine carts, but these were missing their trucks (wheel assemblies). Placed next to the tracks above one of the ore chutes, it was almost as if they'd been used as tubs. Laughing, she assured me that we could strike a recognizable pose.

I had no idea what she was talking about, but apparently these commercials are even a meme.
​

Our exploration of the mines complete, we started back down the mountain just after 3:00pm. Since we'd left, the sun had travelled most of the way through its arc and made for some gorgeous lighting conditions as we traversed the switchbacks and worked our way through the fiery aspen.

Grandeur.​

Rugged.​

Fall's canvas.​

We didn't stop much on the way back down. Descending 4,000 feet in just 2½ hours - more than three times the pace of our ascent earlier in the day - we'd taken a metric ton of Ibuprofen before heading down, hoping to save our knees (or at least mask the pain) until we'd reached the bottom.

We could have given the trail joggers - who never made it to the top by the way - a run for their money.

This bear "scat" (rose hip diarrhea) was too good to pass up.​

We really liked the structure of this Sierra Angelica.​

A blast of color.​

The sky was just beginning to change color as we passed by the Sonny Boy Prospect cabins, a purple hue following the shadows of the Sierra as they crept eastward across the valley. We had one mile to go.

"You can't say this isn't f-ing gorgeous." -@mini.turbodb​

We reached the Tacoma at 6:00pm, almost exactly 11 hours after setting out in the morning. Parked at the trailhead, we'd spent a good portion of the last mile discussing where we should camp. On the one hand, it would be extremely easy to redeploy camp without moving at all. On the other hand, Buttermilk Boulders was only a few miles away, and offered a location we'd never visited, and the opportunity for something a little different.

Ultimately, we opted to give Buttermilk Boulders a try, hoping that we'd be able to find a spot at this relatively late hour on a Saturday evening.

A smaller version of Alabama Hills, the boulders were hopping when we pulled in. We counted no fewer than 24 vehicles, and the humans crawling over the rocks were like ants scavenging for food. Luckily, we were able to drive around for a bit and found a more secluded spot away from the action. With our fingers crossed that no one else would venture this way, we donned our head lamps and set to work with the nights tasks.

It was 7:53pm - and under clear, stary skies - when we got horizontal. Pure bliss.​

Earplugs in - there were plenty of late arrivals to the general area, exhausts blaring along the main road a half mile away - and bodies tired, we got the best night of sleep we'd had all trip.

Purple sunrise.​

A little while later...​

In no big rush, we took our time putting everything away and getting ready for our long journey home. We weren't quite done with the planned activities for this trip, but with 1,000 miles of pavement to pound, it's always nice to clean up the inevitable mess of clothes strewn in the back of the cab, and get everything stowed away in preparation for the next adventure.

And with that, we knew that - like Alabama Hills - we'd probably never camp here again, the proximity to Bishop turning a beautiful place into a parking lot. Oh well.

Like Alabama Hills to the south, the boulders at Buttermilk offer a fantastic foreground to the silvery backdrop of the Sierra. It's understandable that they are crowded.​

As we headed north on US-395, we had one more trail to run before we aired up and made extensive use of the skinny pedal. It was a trail that I'd gotten wind of nearly two years before; a trail that had been closed for much of that time; a trail I wasn't sure was passable, even now.

One way or another, we'd find out soon enough.

 

My in-laws had a wood stove. There's nothing like cooking on one. Came complete with an oven. I know what it takes to cook on it but seeing one at 10k, I wonder how well they were able to do.

I noticed a couple of spots that would be awesome for some of those Parks Canada Big Red Chairs.

 

So there I was, camped out in solitude enjoying the night skies... Or so I thought, until this guy shows up out of nowhere and PLAGERIZES my composition!!!

 

A Quick Jaunt to Laurel Lakes | Eastern Sierra #4
Part of the Lake Hopping the Eastern Sierra (Oct 2022) trip.

We arrived at the Laurel Lakes trailhead just after 9:15am on a Sunday morning.​

Aware that this was a reasonably well-known destination, we were a little worried that the trail - and lakes themselves - would be crowded. On the flip side, I knew that portions of it were considered rough, and the trail had been - at least temporarily - closed for a washout several months earlier, so we could always hope.

​

Unsure if it was good or bad, there were two SUVs parked at the bottom of the trail, and a single F150 parked about half a mile up the rocky incline. Looking back now, the answer was obvious - this was a good thing, because it meant those vehicles weren't trying to pick their way amongst the rocks! Anyway, after a quick photo, I threw the truck into 4Lo and headed up the road.

Yay?​

The first mile or so of trail is a pretty good incline with plenty of large-ish boulders strewn about. There's nothing here that was difficult or overly technical for a reasonably built truck with an experienced driver, but - of course - it did make for relatively slow going, given my desire not to break anything by throttling through it.

As we climbed, we noticed this perfect circle in the adjacent field. , of course.​

Before long we'd reached the top of the first climb, the road leveling out a bit as it began to work its way up a wide canyon, not unlike the one we'd hiked the day before. And, as we'd experienced there, fall was in full swing, groves of aspen meandering amongst the folds of the landscape, their fluttering coats glowing brightly under a sky filled with fluffy white clouds.

As we reached the end of the first climb, we got our first glimpse of the granite giants in the distance.​

Accidentally perfect timing.​

Into the Sierra.​

Just as we were starting up a reasonably long shelf road that skirted the northern flank of the southern side of the canyon, we spotted a 5th gen 4Runner in the distance. It would turn out to be - thankfully - the only other person we'd see "on the trail," and at a wide spot in the road our two vehicles easily passed - each of us waving and wishing the other a good day. Turns out that Rick had spent the night at the lake - lucky dude! - and would later reach out as he recognized the plate cover in his rearview mirror. Small world!

Anyway, after shooting up the valley for a little way, the road zig-zagged through a few easy switchbacks and soon we were cresting the final ridge that would drop down in the bowl containing the lakes we were looking for.

Out of the shadows.​

Near vertical cliffs.​

To this point, the views had been great, but they'd mostly been territorial, when they weren't, we'd been driving almost directly into the sun. But here - at the high point in the trail - all that changed. The sun moved to our 9 o'clock position, mountains filled our view, and lakes glittered below. Like a kid in a candy store, I was in and out of the Tacoma a dozen times, trying to soak it all in.

Over the final ridge.​

So many colors.​

There was even an island!​

All that stood between us and the lakes edge were a few switchbacks. The first of these was reasonably tight with a precipitous drop, but a few seconds of tire spotting by @mrs.turbodb made quick work of the situation and soon it was time to explore on foot.

After the first switchback, the rest were plenty wide.​

This is where I'd camp. On the edge.​

We spent about 45 minutes wandering around the near side of the lake, glad - if a little surprised - to have it to ourselves. Naturally, the island was near the top of the "explore" list, and after snapping a quick shot of my co-pilot, I too made my way onto what turned out to be an island-shaped archipelago.

Let's call it an island.​

Glasslike.​

Anyone want to go for a dip?​

Meh.​

With a long drive home planned for the rest of our day (and part of the next), we made quick time back down the mountain, shadows of the clouds dancing across the valley below us.

Back to civilization.​

It was just as we reached the bottom of the trail that we ran into 7 Jeeps and a 4Runner. Clearly shareholders in BD and KC - and apparently getting paid by the kWH - they'd just finished airing down, and luckily, we were able to scoot by them just as they were starting up the trail.

Airing up, I reflected on the spectacle of their caravan inching up the hill, each one sucking dust from their buddy a few feet ahead. I can't imagine being the guy with a 7-KC-light-bar on the roof, and 3 LP6s on the bumper, all pointed at the rear-view mirrors of the guy 20 feet in front of me - not to mention the solo 1st gen Tacoma coming down the trail the opposite direction. It could have been a cloudy day and we'd still have gotten a tan with all those lights pointed our direction.

But maybe I'm just stuck in the dark ages of camping, rather than transitioning to proper overlanding.

 

I definitely need to head up to Laurel Lakes next year, since I had to cancel my trip last month. Those views are beautiful.

 

Two Planes Down - Finding an A-6 and P-38 | Hart #1
Part of the Hart Homesteads (Nov 2022) trip.

Ever since our first visit to the Owyhee, the high desert of southeast Oregon has delivered trip after trip full of wonderful discoveries and surprises. Still - all these years later and having visited nearly a dozen times - I'm sure we've only scratched the surface. In fact, while we did once find a dirt route between Fields Station and the Hart Mountain National Antelope Refuge, we've rarely explored west of Steens Mountain at the edge of the Alvord Desert.

And so, finally, it's time. Having uncovered a few interesting destinations near Hart Mountain over the last couple of years - and hoping to visit before snow covered the region for the winter - it seemed like this was the perfect time to visit some abandoned homesteads, old mines, and World War II plane crashes.

We got started as we always do - heading south. Stopping just outside of Portland for lunch, @mrs.turbodb commented nonchalantly that the building near the taco truck where we'd stopped seemed to be on fire.

"It's just steam from the heaters," I assured her, as we ordered our burritos.

It was not steam.​

"Waves" on fire. Irony, thick.​

The entertainment - though, I suppose that designation probably depends heavily on one's relation to the laundry - was wrapping up just as we finished eating our burritos, and the rest of the trip south was relatively uneventful.

Actually, that's not entirely true. Thirty minutes after lunch, we started hearing a strange noise coming from the Tacoma. Initially I thought it could be a bearing in the transfer case going out again - it seemed to have a similar sound to what happened when I'd had trouble earlier - but then we noticed that it varied with engine speed rather than wheel speed. Perhaps a bearing in the alternator or power steering pump.

At any rate, I pulled over a few miles later at an O'Reilly. The noise was definitely coming from passenger side of the engine bay, and seemed to be the power steering pump, A/C compressor, or A/C idler pulley. None of the pullies were hot to the touch however, so bearings weren't looking to be the culprit. Checking the power steering reservoir, the fluid level - at this point, hot - was well below the "cold" mark, so I poured in a bunch more ATF, expertly spilling it all over that portion of the engine as I did so.

Hope this works.​

Relieved - and also surprised - that the noise disappeared almost immediately, I pushed the question of "where did my power steering fluid go?" out of my mind as we continued on. Note: even on our return, I can't find a leak anywhere, and I just recently replaced the steering rack and refilled everything. Mysteries.

As the hours ticked by, we gained elevation. Rain, and then snow fell around us. We looked at each other wondering - would it stop before we got to our destination? Were we crazy? Still, it made for a beautiful drive.

Sky drama.​

White blankets.​

Into the sunset.​

It wasn't all that late when we arrived just outside of Christmas Valley, Oregon - perhaps a little before 7:00pm - where we planned to camp for the night. It was, however, dark, and that made finding our turn a little more... interesting.

The directions we had were to "look for the gate marked by a boot."​

In the end, we found our way and by 9:00pm we were climbing into a very cold tent under clearing skies. Snuggled under two down comforters, the insulated Exped Megamat did a great job of warming us up quickly, and before long we were blissfully asleep.

The Following Morning...

It was cold.​

With temps this low, I was glad to have stored my camera battery in my pillow case through the night, and after pulling it out for a few minutes to snap a pre-sunrise photo of camp, I quickly climbed back into bed with my warm companion for another several hours until the sun was well above the horizon and the temperatures outside climbed to a balmy 22°F.

We didn't get too near the edge in the dark.​

Our plan for the morning was to explore the wreckage of two crashed military planes - a Lockheed P-38 Lightning and a Grumman A-6 Intruder - that had gone down in 1945 and 1973, respectively. And so, armed with a few notes I'd received from the local BLM office on where to find the sites, and an arrow-adorned-carsonite-post pointing in the general direction, we bundled up in our warmest gear and set off on foot.

Not t-shirt weather.​

"The P-38 is harder to find. As of August 2021, 3 carsonite signs are spaced out over .80 miles to help point you in the right direction." -BLM​

Though there are now only two carsonite markers - one of which we'd camped next to - I eventually spotted the memorial plaque in the distance and soon we were stepping around sagebrush as we wandered from one piece of P-38 wreckage to another.

On February 9, 1945, P-38 Lightning Fighter Pilot 2nd Lieutenant Max P. Clark, age 25, was on a gunnery training flight out of Redmond Army Air Field, Redmond, Oregon, when his plane crashed at this location, killing him. The debris from the crashed P-38 is left here as a tribute and memorial to 2nd Lieutenant Clark who perished while serving his country.

The remains of the plane are a historic site and should not be removed or defaced.
Please respect the memory and sacrifice of Max Clark.​

Something shiny.​

Something rusty.​

One of the larger pieces was adorned with a faded flag.​

An interesting arrangement of fasteners.​

A lever.​

We only found one of the tires.​

It was sobering, walking through the debris field, wondering what happened that caused 2nd Lieutenant Clark to crash land in this location. It appeared - from the distribution of wreckage - that he'd been flying southeast to the northwest, perhaps trying to land on top of the plateau after noticing some problem with his plane.

Radiator.​

A turbine.​

A piston.​

Whereas at another crash site we've visited we were able to easily identify engines and other components, nothing at this site - to our untrained eye - was identifiable as a major component of the aircraft, and after 30 minutes or so of searching and reflection, we set off to find a second set of remains. For, just over a mile away, a similar tragedy - this time a Grumman A-6 Intruder - crashed 25 years later.

Heading across the desert in the general direction we expected to find the A-6.​

The crash site of the A-6 was significantly easier to find. From a distance, the flag-draped tail section of the plane rose up above the sage.

A beacon to those coming to pay their respects.​

An A-6, for reference.​

On September 19, 1973, A-6 Intruder Pilot Lieutenant Alan G. Koehler, age 27, and Navigator Lieutenant Commander Philip D. duHamel, age 33, were on a low level night training mission out of Whidbey Island Naval Air Station in Washington when their plane crashed at this location, killing both men. The debris of the A-6 is left as a tribute and memorial to Lieutenant Koehler Lieutenant Commander duHamel who perished in the service of their country.

The remains of the plane are a historic site and should not be removed or defaced.
Please respect the memory and sacrifice of these men.​

Perhaps due to a difference in construction or to the mechanics of the crash, the A-6 site contained quite a few more recognizable pieces of wreckage. From our observation, the flight path seemed to be east-to-west, and over a length of more than a quarter mile.

A closer look at the tail section and its substructure.​

A part of the fuselage, with a portion of the USAF National Star Insignia.​

Some electronic relays.​

A portion of the fuselage, with NAVY lettering.​

A wing section; ailerons covered in a dusting of snow.​

Unknown electronics, and the cockpit housing draped in the stars and stripes.​

Apparently, both LT Koehler and Commander duHamel were performing routine training at Boardman Bombing Range 85 miles east of Klamath Falls prior to their crash. Both ejected from the seat envelope too late - once the plane was already on the ground - and were killed. (ejection-history.org.uk - Project Get Out and Walk)

Interior of the cockpit, where pilot and co-pilot sat side-by-side. An American flag adorns the yoke, and a beer has been placed in the location of each airman.​

Between the cockpit and tail section, a vast swath of land appeared burned, and was completely devoid of vegetation. Fuel spill and subsequent fire, perhaps.​

Having spent significantly longer at this site than we had the P-38, both of us were getting hungry and decided it was time to head back to camp for lunch and to put away the tent, which had been covered in a thick layer of frost when we'd left it a couple hours earlier.

Even as we headed back, a few more bits of the A-6 caught our attention. I suspect that one could spend quite some time wandering these parts and continue to discover artifacts and clues.

A portion of the fuselage with a "Rescue" handle.​

The underside of the tail section was quite a distance from the rest of wreckage.​

Completing our loop, we were happy to see that the tent was nearly ice-free on our return, the sun and wind causing the frost to sublimate rather than melt. As I set about stowing the tent, @mrs.turbodb put together a couple of - quickly consumed - salami sandwiches, apples, and a special treat: Cheetos!

Back to camp.​

And so, just before 12:45pm, we found ourselves dropping down the steep road leading off the plateau and retracing our path across the valley from the night before, seeing it for the first time.

Off the plateau; into the next stage of the adventure.​

Of course, as high desert, it seemed there wasn't much to see. And yet, as always seems to be the case... we just had to know where to look.

 

I tried to find the crash sites this summer on a trip to Oregon. I had the coordinates from the BLM website as well as some corroborating info from other maps. We were traveling the road below the rim, and stopped where we thought we’d see it after a short scramble up to the plateau. Well, we walked around for at least an hour, with gorgeous views but absolutely no sign of a P38 or A6 or anything except some of the usual ranching debris one finds out in the high desert. Without going into too much detail, maybe it’s easier to get in from the other side. I’ll plan a return next year.

 

Interesting that there is also another bit of WW2 history not too far from that area. Japanese Fu-Go balloon bombs were the first intercontinental weapons system ever deployed. They used the Pacific high altitude jet stream to deliver incendiary bombs to the western hemisphere, in attempts to disrupt supply efforts and start forest fires.



They were largely ineffectual, but a few did land and cause damage. One that landed near Bly, OR was found by a church group and inadvertently detonated, killing all 6 people- the only people to die from enemy action on the continental United States. Mitchell Monument preserves this bit of history.

 

Wasn't one found as a part of the search for D.B. Cooper's stash?

 

Besides this, there's another WWII crash as well. We visited that a couple years ago, over in Propeller Meadows.

Searching for a WWII B-24 at Propeller Meadows – Owyhee #4

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Couldn't say, I haven't done much Internet snooping on the DB case.