As anyone who appreciates the beauty and mystery of the Death Valley territory knows, there is such a vast array of fascinating and incomparable locations to visit that choosing which to experience is usually a daunting task, for there is always this thought residing somewhere in the back of the mind that there will not be enough time to see it all. Many of these places remain inaccessible to most folks, for a variety of typical reasons, and Telescope Peak probably takes top honors in this regard. To the determined and athletic mountain enthusiast however, this trail to the sky brings new perspective to the region that cannot be achieved anywhere else in the Park, and personal satisfaction that makes tired feet seem to fade into oblivion. I always knew that this area of eastern California and western Nevada was huge, but after surveying it from over two vertical miles from the bottom, this realization truly hit home in a way that words fail to convey.
For the prior two years, I had placed Telescope Peak on my shortlist of locales to visit, and in late April of those years, I twice attempted to make the ridgeline journey. My efforts were thwarted each time however, due to the remaining solidified white precipitation that still clung to the shaded and northern slopes of these rugged mountainsides.
The first time, I camped at Mahogany Flat, where most climbers set up base camp at 8,133 feet, and awoke the morning of the planned ascent to freshly falling snow and uncomfortably cold air. Not far up the trail, which is shaded from warmer afternoon temperatures, snowbanks made the full ascent seem not worth the risk, so I gladly found other remote places at lower elevations to explore. The next year, even the rutted and rough road portion from Thorndike Campground to Mahogany Flat Campground was covered in snow deep enough to stop all but the most experienced four-wheeler, so I bid the attempt farewell yet again, and realized that perhaps a different season might prove a better choice.
Consequently, the following year, with an iron resolve to finally reach the roof of DVNP, I set Friday, September 29 as my date to become one with this sentinel. Furnace Creek was still reaching daytime highs of 114 degrees, snow was a long-distant memory, and winds were mild. It was my time at long last.
A weekday was my choice so that I had a better chance of experiencing the marvelous feeling of solitude that comes with a solo climb ... so that I could sit atop the peak with my thoughts being influenced only by the Earth and sky that surrounded me, instead of other climbers. Weekends were more "crowded" on the trail, as evidenced by the trail registration notebook at the trailhead. I like company too, but this particular experience was to be done alone (except for the companionship of my miniature teddy bear Tumbleweed, of course).
After fueling my backcountry exploration vehicle in Lone Pine to avoid the much higher petrol prices at Panamint Springs, my route takes me southeast into the lonely Panamint Valley. Two things are precious out in this country: fuel and water. Always fill up your rig whenever you can, and bring plenty of water. Just to be on the safe side, I pull off the pavement momentarily at the Panamint Springs Resort to purchase one more gallon of the wet stuff needed to keep my body hydrated, knowing that it would be more than what supermarkets charge, and grumbling silently to myself as I handed over $3.77 to the cashier (never thought water could cost so much).
By two in the afternoon, I slowly motor to the end of the road that has steadily climbed ever higher through Wildrose Canyon, past the Charcoal Kilns, and up the final steep switchback grade to Mahogany Flat, on the edge overlooking Death Valley and the Badwater Basin 8,415 feet below. Looking down over the edge through the Pinyon and Juniper Pines as I set up camp, I feel as though I am on top of the world - but of course, that will come tomorrow, when I hopefully find myself 2,916 feet higher yet, on the grand summit of Telescope Peak, at 11,049 feet!
My consciousness and enthusiasm are on overtime with thoughts of what the ascent will be like after the passage of just one more night. Many things are intriguing me about this experience, but one of the most fascinating will be the passage through sparse forests of Bristlecone Pines, trees that have captured my imagination for many years. Ever since I drove my old 4x4 rig high up into the White Mountains north of Death Valley in 1976, and visited the oldest living thing on Earth (the Methuselah Tree, estimated to be 4,772 years old), I have loved these ancient beings. Their dense and twisted wood bodies, ravaged by the strong winds of high elevation, glowed with yellow and orange tints. They could not speak in ways understood by most of my species, but I sensed a sort of wisdom in their existence, so I spoke to them, humbled by their presence.
I will be able to interact with many of these ancient trees on this hike. Odd as it may sound to some, when I encounter exceptionally old or huge trees, I actually enjoy touching them, as if to gain from their existence something that might help me with mine. All systems are go.
How can it get any better than this? I am in the wild country I love once again, the weather is so warm that no jacket is needed, there isn't a soul around for countless miles, and the only sounds are the occasional light breeze whispering through the pines and blackbirds who are very talkative. Occasionally, when a hawk will swoop closely over the treetops, I can hear the wind displaced by its large wings. Well, it does get even better about three hours later, after camp is set, dinner has been consumed, and I am sitting quietly at the picnic table contemplating the beauty of it all.
Out of the corner of my left eye, a graceful form moves from behind a tree, across the wooded hillside before me. No noise accompanies what I am witnessing, and I immediately know why. Like a fog moving in on little cat's feet, I am privileged to witness a cat, but not your everyday variety found in homes. This cat is huge, fur tinted on the yellow side with a whiter underbody, tall pointed ears with fuzzy tufts on top, and the telltale short tail.
Yes! Not more than ten feet from where I sit, a mountain bobcat is lazily sauntering by, little tail twitching slowly left and right, with eye expressions indicating an animal that is relaxed in my presence. I can not believe what is unfolding before me, for despite all the wild animals I have had close encounters with over the years, a member of the cat family has not been one of them. For the briefest of moments at first, I figure this bobcat has accidentally happened upon me since I am absolutely silent, but it becomes apparent after eye contact between us that there is full awareness.
As I always do with wild animals in travels, I speak gently to this creature, whose home I have chosen to share for three days. There seems to be a knowing acknowledgment that I mean no harm. My new friend does not run. After this elegant spirit disappears on the other side of my vehicle, I keep talking and move around to the driver's side to fetch my digital camera ... I want this event to be brought home in photos!
To my delightful surprise, Bobby has spread out on the ground, just like a housecat would, seemingly interested in keeping my company for a while on the lonely forested mountain ridge. Maintaining my one-sided verbal conversation, I reach in the door, get the camera, and slowly move within eight feet of this gentle animal, who continues to look around without a care in the world, eyes lazily blinking from time to time, and tail still moving as one might think was indicative of happiness.
I memorialize the moment in pixels, knowing full-well that I am such a lucky guy to be in this situation, something that has never happened to me in my half-century-plus on this Earth, and something that may never occur again. Eventually, Bobby slowly arises, stretches, looks me in the eyes once again to say goodbye, and wanders off into the trees to the south, wholly unconcerned that I might follow. I watch in awe, loving the moments that I can spend with other species on perhaps a level that most people might suspect is not possible. I continue talking to Bobby long after I have no further visual contact, hoping that my sound waves are still having positive effects as they reach those tall pointed ears.
Being one who likes to remain active, after my early dinner and time with Bobby, I decide to take a walk up the Telescope trail a little ways to get some exercise and also achieve any final, but admittedly minimal, acclimatization benefit prior to my summit attempt in the morning. I secure the truck, from whom I couldn't say, since I am most definitely very alone as far as other humans are concerned, and head out along the crest of the Panamint Range for a leisurely evening stroll. No gear, no water ... just me without a care, walking through nature's wonderland.
The beginning of this climb is fairly steep on the side of the mountain, making for a nice burn in the thigh, rear, and calf muscles if one walks quickly. It's also dusty, but with an occasional break when pinecone piles appear here and there, making for a crunchy and soft feeling underfoot for a little ways. I am shaded by the hillside, yet the eastern portion of Badwater Basin below is still aglow in the waning warmth of the sun. A half mile from the trailhead, I stop and admire the view for quite a time before I heading back to bed down for the night.
Lying in my sleeping bag, thinking about tomorrow's climb, I watch the sky turn ever darker, and, as if someone has been slowly turning up electrical current on a wall switch, the stars begin to appear and glow brighter. Eventually, the edge of the Milky Way paints its white swatch across the heavens, and the Big Dipper is easily discernible. Although Earth's moon is not quite half visible, the sun's light reflecting from it still casts shadows of the trees on the ground. Somewhere out there nearby, Bobby must be aware of these same things, perhaps on a different level.
There is no problem with sleeping at Mahogany Flat, unless of course, absolute silence keeps you awake. My next conscious realization is that the stars, which just seemed not long ago to be getting brighter, are now fading, and the few flowing streaks of beautiful clouds in the eastern skyline along the Amargosa Range across Death Valley are beginning to turn a brilliant orange. Ten hours have passed like a blink of the eye. One thing about a safari to the outback is that I quickly get in tune with the natural passages of night and day, going to sleep early and arising to the breaking of the next morn - no electronic mass-media stimulation to keep me up late, and no artificial alarms to awaken me to start the day. I feel fantastic, ready to literally get high with nature!
Life is simple in a feral setting, and I like it that way, keeping breakfast to a unpretentious, yet delicious, oat granola with raisins and cinnamon. It isn't long until I find myself readying for the day's climb because camp does not have to be broken down, since I know I am here to savor the experience, and am in no hurry to leave. The last thing I want is to hurry down the mountain and start driving this evening ... because even if one is in good physical condition, it will still feel best to just kick back and relax after fourteen miles of strenuous walking. Besides, I want more private time in these high woods of nature to reflect on whatever might unfold ahead of me today.
I choose a denim long-sleeved cotton shirt to protect me from the sun and any wind that might arise. My pants are a heavy cotton safari style, and I wear flexible and comfortable low-top hiking boots. On my head is a baseball-style cap with long cotton sides to cover my neck and face from the ever-present solar radiation. My French mountain climber's glasses hang from my neck in the event that the brightness might prove more than I wish to take. I wear a small waist-mounted fanny pack that also holds two plastic one-liter water bottles, along with seven energy snack bars and some emergency gear. On my back is a small and lightweight nylon pack that holds a waterproof jacket just in case (and one more liter of water). This is dry country, and water is essential for life. To get off to the right start, I consume a half liter of water at camp before I set off, thinking that beginning in a fully hydrated state would be wise to stave off any potential for a negative elevation-related event, such as headache or dizziness.
For all my life, I have hiked with just my feet and legs providing support, but on this non-technical climb, I am bringing along a new set of pricey adjustable and shock-absorbing hiking poles. I was told by those in-the-know that such aides will greatly enhance my ability on steep inclines and unstable ground. Today, I will find out! I feel confident that after fourteen miles of hiking along the crest of the mighty Panamint Range, I will have formed an experience-based opinion worthy of merit. Of course, I hope that "they" are right because I surely don't want to cart along anything unnecessary to detract from the joy of this hike. Since these poles are retractable and adjustable, if necessary, I can perhaps strap them to my pack. My verdict on hiking poles is about to begin its formation.
A final check of my gear confirms in my mind that I am well prepared for this weather, climb, and most possible eventualities. Although not in any rush today, I check the time on the truck's clock so that I can enter it into the trail register (I stopped wearing a watch in my mid-thirties, abandoning humankind's obsession with recording the passage of time). Out here, I am fully on wilderness time, where seconds, minutes, and hours are not part of the vocabulary. Making this one concession for safety, I enter 7:35 on the register in the event that someone else has to come looking for me if an unfortunate event causes me not to return. It is also fun to read other folks' entries and thoughts in this logbook. The pinnacle of the Panamints ascent has begun - I am finally on the trail to the sky, and confident that I will get to the top today!
This morning, the shaded trail from last evening is now squarely in the rising sun's unfiltered rays, and although they say that for every thousand feet in elevation gain the temperature drops about four degrees, I doubt that any additional clothing warmth will be needed regardless of how high I walk today. The sky is a deep blue with few clouds, and there is a noticeable lack of air movement, which is good news for a guy like me who can sometimes become somewhat unnerved on steep mountainsides if high winds blow. A little wind can be a good thing though on a warm and sunny day, and I figure that it will come once I hit the ridgeline high above this initial portion of the hike from Mahogany Flat.
From what I know of my studies of others' climbs up this mountain, and later today will confirm through my own personal experience, the trail to the summit of Telescope Peak can roughly be divided into three sections. I divide it into thirds, with the first third a walk up a fairly steep trail along the side of the mountain range until the ridgeline is met. This first portion has practically no level ground as it ascends through the Pinyon and Juniper forest, which keeps the cardiovascular system steadily pumping out effort that far exceeds a typical jaunt at home. The trail heads roughly south for about a mile or so, with outstanding views of Death Valley, but with no hint of the climber's final destination yet in sight. Then, it rounds a bend and heads southwest, the forest thins noticeably due to harsher environmental factors, and the magnificent Telescope Peak comes into full and glorious view! And yes, out comes the digital camera ... again.
No snow this time out - everything is dry and warm. The path seems clear all the way to the summit of this beckoning giant. During this initial portion of the hike to the ridgeline, I am kept company by several animal friends, including blackbirds and squirrels. These blackbirds make their typical sounds, and can almost be interpreted as poking fun at me laboring up the mountainside. The two hawks that had flown around me the evening prior are still in the area, and make their presence known to me a few times during the trip to the top. Of course, as always, I speak to all my wild friends as I walk.
Last night's surprise interaction with Bobby left me wondering why a normally timid and scarce animal would seemingly put itself at risk around a person with whom it had had no prior experience. A week later, while relating this wild meeting to Lynn Wineland, an elder friend of mine, I am intrigued by his firm belief that the bobcat somehow knew I was vegan and posed no threat. Superstition? Who knows, but perhaps there may be some physical manifestation that allows some animals to sense whether a person eats animals or not. Well, either way, I am content to have had an audience with such a creature, and still look forward to more such times in my life.
Once the trail turns southwest at the first sighting of Telescope Peak, the abundant forest dramatically thins and the footpath is visible to the ridge far ahead, with the drop-off to the left side quite steep and rocky. It is wide enough most of the way to comfortably walk without fear of slipping off, especially if one has knobby tread hiking boots and a pair of hiking poles. I do, however, notice what appears to be tread marks left by a popular runner's shoe, so not everyone who comes up here seems prepared for the more precarious portions of the trail, which can be off-camber and unstable due to small loose rocks and sand. A proper pair of shoes for this hike is a comforting aspect of my gear that allows me to enjoy the scenery rather than worry about falling down the side a few hundred feet.
By the time I reach the first level ground at the ridgeline, I am convinced that the two hiking poles are well-worth their initial financial cost. Not only do they place a portion of the workload on the upper body, thereby keeping the legs and buttocks from tiring as quickly, they also aid significantly in balance and stability on the side-slopes and over those areas that are off-camber and somewhat unnerving. I like having the feeling of muscular exercise in my shoulders, arms, and upper back also. It is more of a whole body workout that is not felt without poles.
At the ridge, the Panamint Valley to the west is now also visible, so I can look east to see Death Valley and west to see Panamint Valley. What a treat! I remove my small packs to take my first rest. Occasional light breezes cool the warm skin that had just been covered by the packs, bringing that great feeling of relief. A few gulps of water feel good as I look above me to the north at 9,994 foot Rogers Peak and notice a solar-powered communications structure of some sort. The road to this tower departs from Mahogany Flat a few feet from the hiker's trailhead, but is always lock-gated to keep out vehicles other than those driven by properly authorized maintenance personnel. Solar power up here is a perfect solution to run any power appliances since it pretty much has intense direct sunlight most days of the year.
Directly south of this flat ridge area is a 9,980 foot peak called Bennett, and around which the trail proceeds on the western slope, placing it in the welcoming shade this early in the morning. Of course, I know that by my afternoon descent, the cooler shaded area ahead will then be in the direct afternoon sun. Oh well, you take shade when you can get it. At least the weather on this warm day is very pleasant at this elevation, with little thought even given to it, but folks in the valleys below me on either side, especially at Badwater, are probably feeling the heat, being that it is likely about 36 degrees warmer down there. I am glad to be in the high country this late September.
The trail to the sky is making my day a marvelous one, with awe-inspiring views every direction. As far as I can tell, I am the only person on this mountain today, which makes it an even more special and personal experience. According to my self-imposed designation, I am now entering the second of three discernible sections of the climb. This is the long, gradually curving stretch heading south/southeast along the ridge, still gaining in elevation for the most part, but not quite so dramatically as the initial third.
The walk eases up a bit on the cardiovascular demands for a while, yet in the distance, the final third is now visible as I approach it, and it is obvious that at some point the trail will become intensely steep again. The ridgeline walk is a pleasurable stroll between the initial steep climb and the final steep pitch to the summit. Vegetation is sparse, consisting mostly of stubby sage bushes, with rocks everywhere. Since this is a fault-block mountain range, which rose to its current configuration through massive movements in the Earth's crust, it is not surprising that rocks will be a large part of this hike. Walking up here provides the same views as seen from airplanes, but without the considerable negative environmental impact that results from those human-made transportation devices.
Interestingly, the floor of Death Valley is composed of sediment that has been worn down through untold thousands of years of erosion from the Panamint and Amargosa Ranges that flank it on each side, and to reach solid bedrock, one would have to excavate into this ground another ten-thousand feet, more or less. That is an unimaginable amount of earthen debris. If this massive aggregate of material were not there, and one were to look down from the top of Telescope Peak, it would be a dizzying twenty-thousand plus feet to the bottom. Oh well, so much for fanciful cogitation ... back to the climb.
Shadows cast by my body are changing direction as the day progresses. Not wearing any timekeeping device, I can only reckon that midmorning is alive and upon me as I near an area where I realize it is unlikely that the trail will continue to follow the ridge due to the steepness of the approaching crest. My path heads onto the east side of the mountain now, with the Panamint Valley beginning to disappear from view. It is easy to see Badwater, Dante's View, Furnace Creek, and all the other landmarks below in Death Valley. The white salt flat is brilliantly visible and dramatic as I finally begin to notice that the Bristlecone Pine trees, previously off in the distance, are now beginning to tower above me on the precipitous slopes.
I love these ancient trees, and know that my digital camera will come out of my pants' utility pocket more frequently now to capture these absolutely stunning images of colorful twisted, and incredibly aged, wood trunks. Each tree is different, some with much vegetation sprouting from the branches, and others that appear to have none. Some are just a few feet taller than me, while others have trunks large in circumference, and are obviously the most aged. All are a magnet to my imagination, providing me with a time of humility, knowing that they have lived for so long up here in an environment that does not support human life without shelter.
It is also in this area that the third and final zone of the hike commences ... the concluding portion that stops some folks because of the steepness and elevation. This last part of the hike to the summit consists of fourteen switchbacks on steep and sometimes unstable sidehill terrain, with quite a bit of vegetation to arrest a person who might fall.
On these lofty switchbacks many will begin to feel that deep fatigue that sets in after three and a half hours of climbing over two-thousand vertical feet during the previous six miles. The air is not as dense, and for those not athletically fit, it can be like a wall that bars further travel. Some entries in the trailhead register attest to the fact that a few determined souls had to retreat back down at this point, for breathing had become so labored that their bodily functions were deteriorating and making the hike pure misery. This is a personal test of one's fitness level from here on up, with some folks used to climbing fourteeners barely slowing down. When I lived at 9,000 feet in the southern Colorado Rockies years ago, I climbed 14,309 foot Uncompaghre Peak a couple of times, surely more difficult than this current climb, yet while the slowdown is not nearly as pronounced for me on Telescope Peak, it begins to gradually appear on the switchbacks.
Another factor is that I have not taken time to eat any of my healthy energy food bars so far, being overly excited to feel the satisfaction that comes with such hikes, so I am running really low on caloric fuel now. I have kept the water intake high, but now I need food, and figure that I better take some time to consume a bar even though the peak is not far above (and out of sight during this final climb portion).
At switchback number twelve, where two gigantic Bristlecone Pines formed the turn of the trail, I decide to take a rest from my slow-moving progress. The uppermost Bristlecone provides complete shade, as well as a handy wooden seat upon which to rest my weary bones. Off comes the poles, packs, and hat as I happily sit in the comfort of my ancient friends. Out comes one of seven health food bars and one of three water bottles. Time to fuel and hydrate for my last stretch of trail to the sky.
Gentle breezes cool me as the breathtaking views inspire me. I am one very happy nature-loving guy, doing what I like best. No cares, no worries, no pressure. This might as well be thousands of years ago as easily as it is the here and now. I am in my element and never want to leave. They say to take time to smell the roses ... well, there certainly aren't any here, so I take time to mingle with the Bristlecones.
Ten minutes later, my internal systems are sending me the signal that additional upward progress is now again possible, and that, along with my earnest resolve to reach this crown of Death Valley, sets me in refreshed motion as I can feel that it won't be long now. After switchback number fourteen, I wonder how many more are to come, and now I notice what looks like number fifteen is actually a turn westward over a small saddle, and then a quick turn southward along the final narrow ridge to the summit, which is now clearly in view only yards ahead and above me. The ground levels out a bit in the saddle, and then rises sharply one last time to the rocky perch overlooking it all.
On my right in the final few feet, I notice a primitive rock shelter wall about a foot high in the rough outline shape of a human body, next to a minimal dwarf tree. It is the first of several such walled shelters that appear to have been constructed by folks who have spent the night on this mountain, just large enough to hold a sleeping bag inside the stubby walls. I think to myself that sleeping up here would be one of the ultimate adventures to be had in this region, especially if done in this lovely weather, where the coolness of the night is just right for a great slumber, with no fear of freezing to death (figuratively speaking, of course). Hmm, another goal sometime in my future?
I am not tired as I take the last steps to the top. In fact, I feel fantastic! I stand on rocks that are higher than anything around in any direction. There is no place else where I can climb that exceeds this elevation. I stand 11,331 feet above Badwater Basin below to the east, 11,049 feet above the levels of the Earth's oceans. I see Mount Whitney to the west about a hundred miles, the highest mountain in the lower forty-eight, at 14,994 feet, higher than the highest mountain in Colorado, albeit only by a few feet.
I see the results of human activity murkily displayed in the brown sky above the Las Vegas, Nevada area. I see the unusual shape of the Owlshead Mountains to the south, the oasis of Furnace Creek to the northeast, Hunter Mountain to the northwest, Ballarat to the southwest, and Tucki Mountain to the north. I see the overlooks of Dante's View and Aguereberry Point that most tourists claim as the highest viewpoints, however today, I am gazing far down upon them.
I am looking everywhere, eager to locate everything I have ever seen while exploring this mind-boggling place during the past fifty-one years. I am trying not to forget anywhere. I have always looked at Telescope Peak from all these places far below, but this time I am looking back in the other direction! I am awash with jubilant emotion during these first few moments, reaching the highest point of the largest National Park in the contiguous United States.
There is no rush to descend from here. I don't want to leave. I want to savor the moment in every conceivable manner. A great peace flows through me.
Before I survey further however, I must, as promised, notify family of my safe arrival via cellular telephone, a device I have borrowed for this trip. When I am out in the wilds, I want to be wild, and modern human technology is one of the last things I wish to engage. But I understand others' fear that doom might befall me somewhere in these hinterlands that have been painted so devilishly by fortune seekers during the past 150 years, so I agree to make this one concession. Not only that, but there is a certain pleasure to share the moment with someone who cannot make the ascent, so I place the calls.
Technology makes it relatively easy to phone home in much of the Death Valley territory, with repeaters placed in key locations, and Telescope Peak is the epitome of ease. The connection is crystal clear, and sounds as though we are conversing side by side. For my own curiosity, I ask the time while on the phone, and learn that I reached the summit at 11:20 this morning, three hours and forty-five minutes after my departure from base camp at Mahogany Flat. My calls are finished, the little high-tech wonder is placed back in my pack, and I break out the meal bars and water once again as I finally relax to enjoy the fruits of my labor.
No Bristlecone Pines exist at the top on which I can rest my rear, so I choose the most chair-like solid piece of rock that I can find, making sure it is the highest one around. This peak encompasses little ground at its uppermost point. I eat and drink in a euphoric state, satisfied that my long-held goal is now real. I don't even feel the hardness of the rock as my mind is engaged in things other than personal creature comforts.
I am here, I am a million miles away, I am everywhere all at once, I am caught up in the emotions that engulf one who tops a mountain or achieves an important objective. My intellectual vision is both vastly wide and clearly focused. There is more range to my thoughts than can ever be typed on a keyboard for others to read. You who have done these types of activities understand what I am trying to say.
My senses are heightened. Even my food bars, which I sometimes eat as a last resort, taste great, better than they ever have (even though one of them isn't vegan)! My precious water supply further hydrates my existence as I sit on what seems like the top of the world. There is no place higher in Death Valley National Park that I can go! This is most certainly off the beaten path, a place that 99.9 percent of the million-plus yearly tourists will never see from this vantage point except in a book or video. My backcountry exploration vehicle allows me to explore roads that most will never drive, but my trained body allows me to explore locales that are far beyond the reach of even the most well-equipped vehicle. The sensations available to the adventurous foot traveler give a more accurate meaning to the concept of wilderness experience.
Time to explore this small and truly wild plot of elevated Earth some more!
Nine inches below the summit, and slightly southwest of it, I find an old, olive green, military ammunition box with several rocks piled on top to keep it secure during times of strong wind. Inside is a small logbook for those who make it to the top to sign and comment. Under this spiral notebook is a variety of essential survival items that might assist an unprepared hiker in need of help, much of which is food-based. I am happy to see the spirit of camaraderie that exists among those daring enough to make it to remote and exhilarating places like this. I open the somewhat weathered summit registry to a fresh page, take the pen that is also supplied with it, and enter a few words of my own, and then I read what others before me have written. What a special book!
After replacing the metal box and its contents as it was, I scan the canyons below me in all directions, and walk down the mountainside to the south for a ways to get a couple of photos. Travel beyond the top of Telescope Peak in any direction other than on the dedicated trail to the north is a primitive and challenging affair, for the terrain is rough and steep, with no other trails to be found.
I identify Surprise Canyon to the southwest, and the ridge on its north side on which Mary's cabin sits. I know that out of my sight in the upper reaches of that canyon is the old smelter chimney that was the focal point of wealth seekers who once lived in the wild and dangerous town of Panamint. The silver boom in Surprise Canyon was short-lived during the 1870s, and like most of the mining ventures of this lonesome land, went bust when the realization finally hit home that the flamboyant promoters had been grossly over-hyping what really existed here … even the sure bets often didn't pan out as expected.
Scanning the world below the summit, I think about all the human activity that has lived out its drama over the past ten-thousand years or so, and realize that the first cultures here made these mountains and the surrounding deserts their home, during a time when a lake existed in what the European rainbow chasers of the recent 1800s called Death Valley. I find it fascinating that folks who were not concerned with amassing large amounts of money in short periods of time were able to live with this land of harsh environmental contrasts harmoniously, raising families, and adapting to live as one with the natural world. This paradigm of living calls powerfully to my own spirit as I sit atop the crowning apex of the Valley of Life.
My mind wanders in many directions, seeking fulfillment and meaning, as often happens to those who love ascending the peaks of this land. Somehow, up here, things are very different. I might as well be on another planet, compared to the masses of humanity far away who struggle in the material uniformity of chaotic civilization.
Nearly two hours pass before I realize that I should be heading on down the trail to basecamp, so that I can leisurely go about all that campers do each evening, leaving enough time to enjoy the last hours of the day after dinner. Since the trail down will be lower in front of me as I progress, I lengthen my hiking poles by ten centimeters to keep them functioning in a manner that will enhance my stability.
Once I take a final long look around visually, intellectually, and emotionally, I don my two small packs and hat, put on my glacier glasses, and slowly begin placing one foot and pole in front of the other. It is with genuine reluctance that I leave this unique world that few will ever know. For me however, I do personally know it now, and it will remain within my being for the rest of my existence. Telescope Peak is real, and I can say, "I've been to the top. I have spent time visiting that sentinel of the Panamints." It is yet another distinctive terrestrial locale on the road and trail not taken.
The weather is still quite pleasant and warm, with afternoon breezes coming across now and then. When I reach the saddle above switchback number fourteen, I pause for a moment to savor one concluding survey of the absolute pinnacle of rock upon which I sat, for this view will disappear as soon as I turn the corner on the east side of this short ridge and begin my descent in earnest. I audibly bid Telescope farewell, turn my head to the north, and drop down onto the steep and Bristlecone-laden hillside.
Although I walk slowly to prolong the pleasure of this hike, the ground passes beneath my feet much more rapidly than it did on my ascent this morning. I am glad that my hiking boots have a generous toe box so that my feet will not be a limiting factor in my travels. The two hiking poles arrest two minor slips prior to my second entry onto the mid-third zone of this climb. The going is easy and my mind is happy, yet the seven miles still take time. Rocks are everywhere up here, often being encountered on the trail, and in a few spots care must be taken with foot placement between them. Hiking up, I saw mountain rising before me, but hiking down presents a wide panorama of lower mountains and desert spread out as far as the eye can see. I say goodbye to my ancient Bristlecone Pine friends as they begin to shrink with every glance I take over my shoulder.
The bottom-most third of the hike down is now in the shade, which feels great at last. The sun is still high, but I am now on the shady east side where the Juniper and Pinyon pines become more thickly populated, and upon my return to Mahogany Flat, I will be in their dense forest once again. At basecamp, I return to the truck hidden in the trees, place my gear on the aluminum picnic table, and check the time on the dashboard so that I may walk back up to the trail register to assure any who follow that I did in fact make it back in one piece at 4:10 this afternoon.
Two of my liter water bottles are empty, and the third partially consumed. Mahogany Flat is still quiet as can be, with no human visitors around anywhere. The trail registry book does however indicate that a family of four stopped by around noon, spent about a half hour at the campground, and then left ... must have been their lunch stop, but they are now long gone. At least they had a superb day for a picnic at 8,133 feet on the ridge of the mighty Panamint Range.
After the sun has set just north of Rogers Peak, and all my evening doings have been accomplished, I am contemplating hitting the sack for some much needed rest. Deep blue daytime sky is slowly being consumed by an ever-darkening celestial panorama, with an orange strip of clouds, visible through Wildrose Canyon, on the lower western horizon towards the Inyo Range.
Just as I think that I am about to spend my second night as the sole human inhabitant in this untamed setting, I hear the unmistakable sound of an internal combustion engine motoring up the grade from Thorndike Campground a few hundred feet below. I walk out to the cul-de-sac dirt road from my secluded camp to see a man driving up. His name is Ted, he has just flown in from New York to Las Vegas, rented the car, and driven for hours to reach Mahogany Flat! His plan is to attempt the summit of Wildrose Peak, Telescope's smaller and less strenuous cousin, just north of the Charcoal Kilns. As we speak while he pitches his tent, we are privileged to have a large owl swoop immediately overhead. It is getting dark, so I bid him goodnight, and head back to my camp, figuring on seeing him again after sunrise.
Rachel Carson was particularly astute when she once wrote, "Those who dwell among the beauties and mysteries of the Earth are never alone or weary of life." In this secluded location of my planet, I feel the company of all things around me, both living and breathless. I have many companions of varied sorts, and the rhythms of our existence intermingle at levels discovered only in the wild country.
Saturday morning I arise again to the gorgeous orange streaks of the eastern pre-sunrise drama, break down my overnight setup, and eat a needed breakfast since I am still craving calories from yesterday's ascent. I carefully maneuver my vehicle through the tight forest up the short earthen driveway out of my campsite, and quietly motor past Ted's tent since he is still sound asleep, small rocks shifting under my tires providing scant evidence of my passing. There is another truck a couple of sites south from his that had come in really late last night.
At the trailhead, I speak briefly to some happy folks from a southern California chapter of the Sierra Club who had just driven in as I was eating breakfast. They are readying for their own climb up the mountain this morning. They ask me a few questions about yesterday's hike, we share our love of the wilds, and then I am on my way down the steep backroad through Wildrose Canyon to the Panamint Valley.
Returning to the world of the twenty-first century, I am a refreshed terrestrial spirit, who appreciates that my periodic stints with civilization are fortunately only an interim means of existence as I await my next self-affirming exploratory adventure into the wilds that mysteriously and forever beckon.
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