Black/Bristlecone/Fire

I was excited when I found out I'd have a few free days in Vegas, but after twenty trips in five years and a mild case of Sin City burnout, I didn't gamble, party or jump in a limo. I put on my backpack. Within an hour of The Strip are endless opportunities to explore southern Nevada's surreal geography. To the west of the city, the snow-crusted summit of Charleston Peak shimmers 10,000 feet above the valley floor, crowning a range dark with ponderosa, fir and bristlecone. Across the valley, beyond Boulder City, the Black Mountains rise in a chocolate-dark jumble, hiding Hoover Dam and the Colorado River in their depths. At the bottom of Black Canyon, the river races away from its squat, gray jailer and celebrates release with a splashy run past feathery green tamarisk and the nervous quack of mallards. Somewhere between these extremes is the Valley of Fire, a state park northeast of Las Vegas protecting a fantastic scarlet-orange gash of rock erupting from the muted browns of the Nevada desert. Colorful humps of sandstone stand squished together, eroded into caves and arches and smeared with dark streaks of desert varnish.
I kicked the whole expedition off on a Friday afternoon with a pint of IPA at the Boulder Dam Brewing Company. My goal was to hike down to the Colorado, check out a hot spring and sleep on the beach. Since it was 96 degrees and I still had four hours of daylight, I decided I might as well stop in downtown Boulder City for a cold beer. A few hours later, after a three-mile hike down a gravelly wash, a dip in the hot spring and an icy bath in the river, I was wishing I had another beer. I settled instead for a sublime sunset/moonrise in that dark canyon bottom, listening to the water and watching weird shadow patterns in the sandstone crags. In the morning I hiked back up to the Arizona Hot Springs, sandbagged into a slot canyon above a twenty-foot ladder. After loosening up in the warm water, I climbed back down and retraced my steps to the beach, surprising a heron as I dove into the river. After a handful of apricots and a Clif Bar, I started the tough slog back up White Rock Canyon, every step feeling like two in the soft gravel. I pulled my visor down and bowed my head to the heat, trudging past creosote bush, bursage and smooth white boulders.

Black Canyon, Colorado River

Tired but exhilarated from the fresh air and purity of the light and heat, I stopped in Boulder City for coffee and a block of ice. An hour later I was driving through miles of Joshua Trees, climbing steadily toward the Spring Mountains. A local had given me a tip on a remote, quiet overnight in the Mount Charleston Wilderness, so I headed up Lee Canyon. My ears popped and the scenery changed with elevation. The Joshua Trees gave way to huge shoots of cliffrose, covered in creamy yellow flowers, pinyon pine and juniper. Soon the low shrubs were dwarfed by towering ponderosa pines, thick orange bark cracked like plates on a dinosaur. Higher still were remnant groves of green-leafed aspen and white fir, while gnarled stands of bristlecone pine covered the high ridges over 9000 feet.

Charleston Peak 11,916'

Bristlecone Pines

Clifftop camp near Wood Spring, 9,000'

It was a perfect day for a hike, warm and dry under bluebird skies. From the parking lot at the Lower Bristlecone Loop trail head, it was 13 gorgeous miles out to Wood Spring. The undoubted highlights were the near views of big peaks and a miles-long ridge-top jaunt through ancient bristlecones. Considered the oldest trees on earth with an estimated 5000-year lifespan, these primeval evergreens survive only in a few high ranges in Utah, Nevada and California. After climbing the bowl across from the ski area, the trail crossed to the southwest side of the ridge, with views opening to a dozen desert ranges south of Death Valley.

I set up camp on a bluff near Wood Spring, the only water for miles, and made a cup of coffee. From my sleeping bag I could see Charleston and Bonanza Peaks and the town of Pahrump far below. As the sunset sky turned pink over the purple-shaded mountains, the lights of town came. Instead of ruining the feeling of wilderness, seeing that modest grid of civilization miles away created a sense of wildness. I felt very far removed from humanity, knowing nothing that happened in town could affect me on my clifftop. No sound reached me on the mountain.

The sun woke me early the next morning, and after a couple clifftop coffees and a little Grateful Dead I headed back across the ridge. It felt a lot longer than 13 miles, but I let my mind wander and took a the opportunity to add to my collection of tree photos. I realized it was Father's Day, and started thinking about my dad and my first camping trips in southern Vermont years ago. In honor of old Walt I played John Hiatt as I drove out of Lee Canyon with the windows down, singing along to Slow Turning and Buffalo River Home.

That night I camped in Valley of Fire State Park. My walk-in tent site included a picnic table tucked into an alcove between two sandstone fins. From this vantage point I watched the ground squirrels dart back and forth to their burrows beneath clumps of bursage. I listened to a little country and made a few notes. The sun sank and the colors softened. A large bird swooped overhead, then another, before I could get a good look. Owls? Hawks? Soon the bats appeared, dipping and diving in the twilight.

Desert vista in Valley of Fire