September in Basin and Range Country: Part IV (Nevada’s Great Basin National Park)

(Remember that you can click on the photos to see a slideshow, and then hit "escape" to get back to the text. Also, a note on the photo credits: as always, both Felice and I took these shots, and many of my shots resulted from her suggestions.  I do the photo editing using Lightroom; my goal is to reproduce just what we saw, as faithfully as possible.)

         Sept. 22:  We drove from Twin Falls to Great Basin, less than 350 miles.  It rained on and off all the way, but it was still an easy and pleasant drive.  The road (Highway 93) was absolutely empty, the road drainage was fine, and it was not hot!  Northeastern Nevada is a hilly desert, not as bleak as the area around Las Vegas.  We passed the time listening to podcasts that Felice had downloaded at home – very enjoyable.

         As with most of the territory we saw during this whole month, this was “double scan” country:  turn on the radio, hit the “scan” button, and nothing comes up, neither on the AM nor the FM bands.  Just static.  That is wonderful, as far as I am concerned – it’s a sign that we are really out in the boonies.  The only problem is that we were completely out of touch with the news during the height of election season.  (On the other hand, not such a problem at all, especially this year.)

         We got to Great Basin in the mid-afternoon in a rainstorm and snagged a campsite at Lower Lehman Campground (or so we thought).  After unhitching and paying, we drove to the nearby Lehman Cave Visitor Center to ask a few questions, and we spotted this great rainbow over Baker, Nevada, to the east of us:

         

         But when we got back to our campsite, there was some unfortunate guy in a beat-up old van parked in front of our trailer.  He told us that this was his campsite!  It turns out that he was so broke that when he had taken the campsite and had later left for the day, he had nothing in his van that he could have left on the pad to show that the site was taken, which is the universal practice – not even a chair or a bucket.  He had attached a little paper tag to the clip on the campsite pole, but the rain had plastered it to the pole and it was not visible.  Moral of the story:  even if a campsite looks vacant, check the clip to see if there is a current tag.

         So we re-hitched and drove over to the Baker Creek Campground and got the last open trailer-friendly site.  We were surprised that all of the campgrounds had filled up on a rainy Thursday in late September; this could have been a problem, since all of the campgrounds are first-come, first-served at this time of year, and we would have had to go elsewhere.  As it turned out, we really liked our campsite – we could hear the stream, the campground was very quiet, and there were four wild turkeys who paraded comically back and forth through the bushes, a mother with three chicks.  (We later figured out that they were gorging on pine nuts -- pre-stuffed turkeys!  Just add sage . . . . )

         Sept. 23:  It had rained on and off during the night, and we could see snow in the higher elevations.  Let’s go!  So we took the Wheeler Peak Road all the way up to the trailhead at 10,000 feet, hoping to get to the Bristlecone trees, the oldest living things on Earth, and then up to the only glacier in Nevada.  (5 miles and 1100 feet of gain.)

         On the way to the trailhead, we stopped off at Mather Overlook:

         Right at the trailhead, there were snowy bare aspens next to trees still full of color:

         There was fresh snow on the trail to the Bristlecones:

         According to the plaque, this tree (still living) is 3200 years old – that kind of perseverance deserves a picture: 

         The snowy, gnarled Bristlecones were silhouetted against the storm clouds:

          Beyond the Bristlecone grove, we had the trail to the glacier completely to ourselves.  There were no footprints in the new-fallen snow except ours:

         These pictures make the hike look more adventurous, difficult, and cold than it was.  The temperature was in the high 20s, perfectly comfortable for hiking.  It was windy and sometimes a little foggy, but not too bad at all.  The snow was only about six inches deep.  And we were wearing our snow gaiters, which are knee-length and waterproof.   

         In this next shot, Felice is in the lower left corner.  The hilly stuff in the middle of the picture is a rock glacier:

         Apparently, the rock is thickly laced with ice that thaws and freezes.  As it re-freezes, the ice between the rocks expands, pushing the pile of rocks slowly downhill.  The trail took us up onto the rock glacier, fairly close to the headwall, over some pretty blocky talus.  The drifted snow on the trail actually made the hiking easier because it filled in some of the rougher patches.

         As we were getting ready to turn around, the sun came out for a moment and illuminated the stratified rock:

         Sept. 24:  We took the Timber Creek Loop, 5 miles and 1700 feet of gain.  Most of the route up was very steep, but at least the surface was good.  There were plenty of old aspens along the trail:

          Up at the crest, near where the Timber Creek trail joined up with the south fork of Baker Creek, there was a grove of really huge aspens:

         There was more fall color on the trip back down:

         The trail down was right along the creek, with many small cascades – very shady and pleasant.

         That afternoon, we drove up the Wheeler Peak road to the 8500 foot level, where we had spotted a dense grove of piñon trees.  We had been told that the pine nuts were in season and that there were two ways to harvest them:  directly from the cones, or else from the ground where they had fallen from the tree.

         Frankly, we were skeptical – if the pine nuts were any good, how could there be any left on the ground?  Wouldn’t the squirrels eat them all?  It turns out that there were so many pine nuts under the trees – thousands under each one – that the squirrels were probably sick of eating them.

         We were also told that the cones were full of sticky sap – as this photo clearly shows.  That white junk on the tips of the cone segments is like glue:

         Each of those nutshells is around 3/4 of an inch long -- maybe a little less.  The nut inside is about a half-inch long and a quarter-inch wide.  We decided not to touch those cones and opted for the “just pick them up from the ground” strategy.

         To protect our hands from the sap that had dripped from the cones onto the ground, we wore disposable nitrile gloves – the ones we usually use when dumping the black and gray water.  (News flash:  gathering pine nuts is more fun.)  We also brought a small step-stool, so that we wouldn't have to kneel or squat -- too hard on the knees!

         In much less than an hour, we had gathered two decent-sized plastic bags full of pine nuts, while working in the pine-scented shade on a mountainside at 8500 feet.  If you have to do stoop labor, this is the place to do it:

         When we got back home, we discovered that they were easy to prepare – rinse them, soak them in salty water for a few hours, drain, and roast at 325 degrees for 20 minutes.  They're done when the nuts turn a butterscotch color -- frequent testing is required.  Delicious!  But kind of a lot of work to eat – you have to crack each shell with your teeth (gently) and extract the nut.  A little time-consuming, but in a good way.

         That night, we again indulged my Milky Way obsession, since we were in a place that is known for its “primeval” dark skies, to quote the Park Service publication.  We drove up to the Mather Overlook at around 9000 feet (cold and breezy, of course), and this was the result:

         (That picture might be worth clicking on.)  If you look closely, you can see that the mountainsides are faintly illuminated:  the stars were so brilliant that they were dimly reflected by the fresh snow on the north face of Wheeler Peak.

This is a similar shot, oriented horizontally -- I have re-worked it in Lightroom to bring out more of the snow:

         Sept. 25:  We attempted the Wheeler Peak Trail, actually covering about 7 miles with 2000 feet of gain.  At the trailhead, there were great views of the sheer canyon below the peak:

         The first part of the trail was pretty flat and smooth, winding around the base of the mountain.  After a few miles, though, the trail ascended through the talus on the north slope.  At the 11,000 foot level, we ran into a lot of snow and ice.  The views were astounding – we could see for well over a hundred miles in every direction.  When we got up toward 12,000 feet, the wind started to howl over the ridge, making it really hard to stand:

         In this brief video, I am actually leaning into the wind at about a 45 degree angle, and the pressure of the wind is supporting me -- fun!!

         But in a few minutes, it got significantly worse – we could no longer stand up safely, even in a deep crouch.  We had to sit down.  The wind was so loud that we could not hear each other shouting.  Sticking a hand up felt exactly like putting a hand out of the window of a car on the freeway.  Bits of ice were sandblasting our faces.

         Basing my opinion on some Internet research and a series of videos shot at the Mt. Washington Observatory in New Hampshire (where they have a wind gauge and they showed the effects of wind on humans at varying speeds), I am fairly sure that the wind was gusting between 70 and 80 mph.  Especially with all of the ice and snow, it was no longer safe to keep climbing, so we had to head down.  Fun is fun, but there is a limit to adventure.

         On the way back to the trailhead, we stopped to admire the 13,000 foot peak:

         This multicolored aspen was right along the road on the way back down to the campground -- all of those colors are on one tree:

         Later that afternoon, we stopped in at the Lehman Visitor Center to see if they had a wind gauge on the peak (no), and then we noticed a fruit orchard just east of the parking area.  The trees looked ancient, and they are – we later found out that this was the Lehman Orchard, planted over a hundred years ago by an early settler, the discoverer of Lehman Cave.  (I think his name was Lehman.)

         One of the apricot trees still had ripe fruit on the branches – little reddish-orange apricots, and some of them were pretty good!

         Overall, Great Basin substantially exceeded our expectations.  It is such a cool and green anomaly, set in the middle of the high desert.  There aren't very many hiking trails available, but this park is certainly worth a stay of three or four nights.  And it would make a great stopover on a trip from California to Utah or Colorado.

Part V: Eastern Sierra

September in Basin and Range Country: Part III (Idaho’s Sawtooth Range and the Salmon River Valley)

(Remember that you can click on the photos to see a slideshow, and then hit "escape" to get back to the text. Also, a note on the photo credits: as always, both Felice and I took these shots, and many of my shots resulted from her suggestions.  I do the photo editing using Lightroom; my goal is to reproduce just what we saw, as faithfully as possible.)

         Sept. 15:  It took us about an hour to drive north from Boulder Creek to our new campsite on the Salmon River.  There were so many great sites available; this is probably the best boondocking area we have ever seen.  We chose a spot right on the bank of the Salmon River, with a sweeping view of the river valley and of the White Cloud Mountains to the east.  The Sawtooth Range was to the west, but we could not see much of it from the campsite due to the trees.

         As soon as we got the trailer situated, it was time for refreshments by the river.  That’s Galena Summit on the left, and the south end of the Sawtooths (Sawteeth??) on the right:

         Sept. 16:  We took the Alpine Creek trail, in the Alturas Lake area, about 7 miles and 700 feet of gain.  This was our first hike into the Sawtooth Range, and we were struck by how much this area looked like the Eastern Sierra – craggy gray granite:

          The hike was not at all steep and stayed pretty close to the creek for most of the way.  Felice really liked these delicate groundcover shrubs – the tiny leaves, slightly bigger than pencil erasers, looked like dots of fall color:

          That afternoon, back at the trailer, I took another “door shot” for my collection.  Someone had built a picturesque little cabin, right in our field of view:

          Just after I took that picture, a small herd of pronghorn antelopes came trotting through the meadow, across the river from us.  By the time I grabbed the camera, they were gone.

         It is impossible to fully capture the “Western movie” Technicolor quality of the high country of Idaho, especially in the big valley north of Galena Summit and south of Stanley.  Imagine dark, rugged mountain ranges looming on all sides, a ten-mile wide swath of yellow prairie grass between them, clear creeks rushing down from the hills into the river, orange sunset clouds drifting across a wide blue sky, yellow willows along the river, and the cool wind rattling the sagebrush:

        (That picture might be worth clicking on, to see it in a larger size.)

         That night, we watched the full moon come up over the river:

         As we stood by the river, we could hear elk bugling in the forest, far away, an eerie sound.

         Sept. 17:  We took the Antz Basin trail out of the Fourth of July trailhead, over 6 miles and about 1300 feet of gain.  As we headed up Fourth of July Road, we looked back to see the trailer against the backdrop of the Sawtooths:

         There were stands of orange aspens alongside the roadway:

         The hike up the ridge to Antz Basin was not too difficult – well-graded, and wide enough that Felice did not feel the effects of vertigo.  The view into the basin from the ridge at 10,000 feet was worth the effort:

         We had lunch on a ridge leading up to Blackman Peak.  The Sawtooths are off to the west:

         The geology of Antz Basin is technically described as “a mess.”  On the east side of the basin, the rock is igneous:

         But on the north side, it appears to be uptilted sedimentary-trending-metamorphic.  Check out that 90 degree bend in the strata, which was revealed when the glacier shaved off the side of the mountain:

         (If you like geology -- and who doesn't? -- that picture is worth clicking on.)

         And on the southwest, look at those metamorphic layers – if these twisted beauties don’t excite you, don’t become a geologist:

         On our way back down to the trailhead, we stopped for one of my mandatory schmaltzy “here we are by a stream” shots:

         Except for the area around Fourth of July Lake, the whole lower portion of the Fourth of July drainage had been badly burned – it was a vast forest of black sticks.  Very depressing.  But in the newly-created clearings, clusters of aspen were springing up everywhere:

         Sept. 18:  We took the Flatiron Junction hike out of Redfish Lake, 7.5 miles with 700 feet of gain.  The views were spectacular, especially the views from the boat that took us from the lodge to the trailhead.  This was taken with Felice's iPhone:

         On the trail, Felice was swept away by the fall color of the foliage in the understory:

         The trail passed through the "Garden of the Giants," an area of huge boulders that had fallen from the cliffs above -- imagine the noise that these things made when they came crashing down through the forest:

         The granite on the north side of the canyon was a little unusual – the tan granite seemed a lot softer than the gray granite of the Sierra.  Below each canyon, there were deep beds of decomposed granite, halfway between gravel and sand.  The rock had eroded in rounded turrets, rather than spiky crags:

         The ridge to the south was made of much harder, sharper rock:

         That afternoon, after the requisite cocktail and snacks on the riverbank, we were treated to another peaceful sunset:

         This was a time exposure at 30 seconds, stopped down, to blur the water and the clouds as they streamed by.  (That shot might be worth clicking on.)

         The last light of day hit Horton Peak at almost 10,000 feet:

         That evening, the stars came out before the moon rose.  We could see the Milky Way, even though there was still a little sunset color in the sky:

         Sept. 19:  We took the Horton Peak trail in the White Cloud Range, on the other side of the valley from our campsite.  (Seven miles and a gain of 2750 feet!)  The trail was really well-graded – it did not seem like an 800 foot per mile climb at all.  And it was a perfect day – chilly and breezy, with unlimited visibility.  (In the heat, this would not be a fun hike.)

         From the top, at nearly 10,000 feet, the entire Sawtooth Range was spread out in front of us:

         We ate lunch at the summit and headed down.  The aspens along the trail were backlit:

         Instead of heading north back to the trailer, we headed south along the foot of the White Clouds on the rocky forest roads, just to see what we could see.  A pronghorn antelope obligingly posed in front of the aspens.  These critters are unbelievably fast and skittish – we were lucky to get a shot of one standing still.

         As we crossed Pole Creek, we noticed some undershot water wheels.  These did not seem ancient – they looked like a modern mini-hydro-power installation. I've since been told that they are fish counters:

         Throughout the Salmon Valley, we saw these unusual “snake fences” or “zig-zag fences” made entirely of wood – is barbed wire frowned upon?  (I have since been told that yes, barbed wire is not favored -- the goal is to keep the area looking like the Old West, which it does.)  I really liked the simplicity of the design – the vertical supports, driven into the ground, essentially lock the stacked intersections of the rails.  The only drawback is that the fences take up a lot of real estate, but I guess they have plenty of that in Idaho:

         Back at the trailer, I could not resist another shot of the campsite and the setting – this may have been the most beautiful boondocking site we have ever found:

         Sept. 20:  We headed toward Stanley to Sawtooth Lake -- this is the view of the Sawtooths from the Stanley area:

         The Sawtooth Lake trail was (for us) a major hike; with some off-trail exploration, we went 11.6 miles with 1800 feet of gain.  But the trail was well-graded and not too difficult.  Even better, the weather was cool and breezy, which made it much easier.  By the time we got to the lake, it was cloudy, and the sun was in the wrong place for photography.  But it was still pretty spectacular – that’s Mt. Regan on the left, at over 10,000 feet:

         On the way back down, we hung our boots over Alpine Lake:

         Late that evening, we stood on a bridge over the Salmon River near our campsite and took another shot of the Milky Way:

         Except when the moon was up, the skies were usually so dark and clear all month long that we were able to spot the Andromeda Galaxy instantaneously, by using Cassiopeia as a guide.  At home, of course, Andromeda is invisible.  But not in Basin and Range country – it’s a big white smudge, and Cassiopeia forms an unmistakable arrow pointing right at Andromeda.   

Sept. 21:  We reluctantly pulled out of that wonderful campsite and headed south to Hailey for another day of doing chores in the rain (laundry, shopping, and so forth), and another visit to Hailey's terrific library, before driving down to Twin Falls, to stay at an RV park on Highway 93 south of town.

         To sum up our time in Idaho, we have got to come back soon.  The area south of Galena Summit was excellent, but the area north of the summit (the Salmon Valley) was superlative:  great camping, great hiking, world-class scenery.  We are also intrigued by the areas north of Stanley, especially the Frank Church Wilderness.

Part IV: Nevada's Great Basin National Park