Telescope Peak

There was wind. Lots of wind. And it was blowin' the clouds over the high mountains, big, dark, scary lookin' clouds that snarled and spit and probably bit for all I knew. And I drove around the north side of Las Vegas, avoiding the hullabaloo, taking Highway 95 to freedom, stoppin' only once for expensive gas at a casino in the middle of nowhere. And the wind was rippin' and tiny little raindrops were blowin' all the way from the high mountains to the south and they were dark-lookin' mountains, scary-lookin' mountains, things mighty stormy up there, definitely not a good place to be. 

And I drove on through Amargosa Valley and south on State Route 373 to Death Valley Junction and hooked a right and coasted on down to the park, eyeballin' Bat Mountain and Pyramid Peak along the way. And the wind was roarin' down there and kickin' up dust and sand across the horizon and I stopped at the visitor center at Furnace Creek and asked the Ranger for the weather on Telescope Peak para la mañana. And the Ranger said that there was a high of 40℉ and a chance of snow showers in the afternoon. Said it was "gonna be cold up there," but that was expected; I had brought all the warm stuff. Puffy jacket, long underwear, sleepin' bag, extra socks. I was good to go. 

And so I drove on up the road, right on past Stovepipe Wells and Emigrant Campground and hooked a left onto Emigrant Cyn Road and drove all the way up through the desert and into the high country, nothin' but sagebrush and yellow flowers for miles and miles and miles. And the snow-capped summit of Telescope Peak rose in the distance and it looked nice and good and fine, a feast for the eyes, sustenance for the soul. And I drove on past Wildrose Campground and the road suddenly turned to dirt and I followed it all the way to the famous Charcoal Kilns, the things tall, empty, silent, reticent. Those things don't talk, they reveal nothing, nothing but a faint smokey aroma, pleasant on the nose, a nostalgic fragrance, one that calls to mind memories of family BBQ's and stories 'round the campfire and stuff like that.

Charcoal Kilns

And I poked my head inside a few of 'em and they all looked the same and the acoustics on the inside tripped out my mind and so it was time to get out of there. And I coasted up the road, careful on the ruts, careful not to pop a tire, goin' slow and steady, my gasoline-munchin' beast slowly crawlin' up the grade to Mahogony Flat Campground. And there were only two other folks there and they were all cooped up inside their vehicles and at 8,133ft the wind was blastin' through the Pinyon Pines and it was mighty mighty cold up there I tell yah. 

And so I picked a spot and decided to sleep in my car (a tent in the wind...nah nah nah, no thank you) and I set up my bag and stuff and put on the puffy jacket and walked around the camp, lookin' at some of the views. And Wildrose Peak could be seen to the northwest and it looked mighty mighty fine, and off to the east, thousands of feet below, sprawled the glowing white saltiness of Badwater Basin, things lookin' mighty mighty warm down there. Ahh, to be in the warmth. And so I retreated to the car, got in the ol' sleeping bag, read Life, the Universe and Everything until it got dark, went outside for a brief tinkle, the last rays of light casting brilliant colors on the horizon, the wind roaring, my face freezing, the spindly branches of the Pinyon Pines moving this way and that, the evening absolutely gorgeous, the stars already brilliant. And then it was back to the warmth of the car and an evening of tossin' and turnin' and ever so slowly fallin' asleep to the sound of the wind blastin' through the pines into the infinite night. 

View from my chosen campsite

Wildrose Peak from Mahogony Flat

And when I awoke there was frost on the inside of my vehicle and I really didn't want to go outside but I had to, I just had to, and so I munched on some junk food, suited up, and then began the nice walk to the summit. 

The wind was long gone, the sky, endless, not a cloud to be seen, the dirt crunchy underfoot, the sun yet to make its dramatic appearance over the serene desert landscape. And I moved up the trail, breath steaming out of my gaping mouth, the views already mind-boggling, and I walked and walked and walked and then—ZAM—ahh yes, the sun, it had finally arrived, bringing with it beautiful orange light and much needed warmth. 

Telescope Peak

And Telescope Peak finally came into view, brilliantly illuminated in an early morning sunbath. And I walked along, following the trail, the thing now heading west, views of Panamint Valley and rugged desert mountains stretching as far as the eye could see, the distant snow-covered Sierra standing tall in the distance, Mt. Whitney clearly visible, the thing lookin' cold and scary and wonderful and fantastic all at the same time. 

Panamint Valley and the distant Sierra

And I rounded a corner and Telescope Peak was there, a bit closer now, the summit calling to me, beckoning me to continue onward, and I eagerly listened and obeyed and floated on up the trail, hungry to reach the top, my soul full of longing to see what I imagined would be the best views I'd ever see in my entire life. And the sky was clear and bright, the desert sprawled around me to the east and west, everything grand and wide and expansive and incomprehensible, simply incomprehensible.

Gettin' closer...

And the trail crossed over to the east, the grade gettin' steeper, patches of snow on the ground, footprints marking the correct path. And there was a faint little wisp of a cloud in the sky, barely noticeable. But it grew bigger and bigger, and it must have called its friends 'cause soon there was a whole bunch of little clouds in the sky and they all converged into one big gigantic gray opaque wall of churning coldness, completely blocking all views to the east. And they grew and grew, growing more and more dense by the minute, rising up into the sky, spilling over the ridge to the north, obscuring most of what I'd just walked across. And the peak was still visible but not for long, so I scurried on up the rest of the way at maximum speed with the hope of reaching the summit before it became hidden in the ever-growing clouds.

Telescope Peak summit

And I walked and skipped and slid and hopped and finally— there it was—the glorious summit, and it was rocky and gray and cold and the clouds had mostly beaten me to the top and so I sat down and put on more layers and looked around at what I could. And the clouds rose like steam off a boiling pot of water and they blocked most of the views to the north and east, nothin to see but an opaque scene of churnin' and swirlin' chaos. And they were spreading out to the south, spilling over the rest of the Panamint Range, reachin' for the desert on the other side but vaporizing before they could even smell the sand. And off to the west, way out there, the Sierra had clouds of their own, Mt. Whitney no longer visible, things lookin' stormy over there. And so I sat down on the summit and shivered in the cold, the sun obscured behind the wall of gray, sat there and read the entries in the register and hoped for a miracle that these clouds would bugger off while knowing full well that they'd only get bigger and darker and crazier. They were there to stay. All the hoping in the world couldn't move those clouds. Nor sirree bob. 

North

East

Northwest

South

The register was brand-spankin' new; the thing only had four entries in it (not including mine) with one for April 9th and the other three for April 11th, just two days prior. And I made my marks and closed it up and looked inside the other ammo cans near the summit, one containing an empty plastic water bottle and the remnants of an old register booklet and the other with some binoculars and a polaroid and business cards and stuff like that. And though it was still early in the morning I knew that a storm was brewin', I knew that the forecasted "chance of afternoon snow showers" was gonna hit a lot sooner than expected, and so, with nothing better to do, I gathered my things, said goodbye to Telescope Peak and retraced my steps off the mountain, the massive wall of gray nothingness swallowing me whole. 

A snowy section

And I popped out the other side and continued to lose elevation, walking along an alpine ridge full of sagebrush and limber pines, the clouds spilling over the side like ocean waves into a lifeboat. And sometimes I'd enter one of these waves and it was back to gray, and then moments later it would disappear and I'd be back the the land of visibility, the land of color and sound and texture and depth, and the clouds were winning their battle, no longer evaporating over the side, now breaking up into little chunks and casting crazy shadows on the spunky desert terrain thousands of feet below. And the light danced on the sand and rocks and I looked around at the clouds and the snow and the sagebrush and it was all unbelievable; I ain't ever seen something so unique in my life. 

Telescope Peak in the clouds

And I continued along, Telescope Peak's summit now deeply enveloped in clouds, thing lookin' a little stormy up there. And I left the trail and went on up to Bennett Peak, 'cause, why not? It was right there and it looked easy and so I scampered on up to the summit, the thing completely soaked in a thick soup of grayness. And little tiny snowflakes began to fall and my face was freezin' and I started heading off the summit, visibility awful, couldn't see no more than 50ft in any direction. And I got turned around and had to use the GPS for the first time in my life (just to get reoriented) and I found the trail and then hit up Rogers Peak, a small bump covered in radio towers and such. 

Bennett Peak 

Rogers Peak

Headin' back...

A break in the clouds

And I got turned around on the descent from Rogers Peak, headin' a little too far west, and I had to use the GPS yet again to get myself back on track. And I hit the trail and coasted on down the thing, the temps droppin' little by little, the air rumblin' with a slight breeze, the tiny little snowflakes gettin' slightly bigger with each passing moment, the clouds churnin' and swirlin', not a slice of blue sky to be seen.

And then I ran into a dude making his way up the trail. We chatted, mostly about the weather. He seemed hopeful, expecting the clouds to break up any moment. I told him that it would likely get worse. "You think it'll get worse or you KNOW it's gonna get worse" is what he said. Good lord. What am I, a meteorologist or something? I told him that yes, I didn't know for sure, but by the looks of it, the weather was likely to worsen in the coming hours. He said, "alright" and continued on regardless, headin' up the trail to some unknown destination. 

And I walked on down and made it back to camp and there was a group of three heading up, all of them wearing rain jackets and gloves and stuff. And I sat in my car and munched on some Pop Tarts and the snow was letting off now, things were clearing up, patches of blue sky started cropping up, the coming storm possibly withering away. Perhaps my prediction was wrong. I thought about it for a while, the weather holding steady, more blue sky appearing as the minutes passed on after the other. Yep. Alirght. Ok. Things were definitely lookin' better. And you know what that means. Time for another peak!

Startin' to clear up

The trail to Wildrose Peak

Wildrose Peak

And so I put the beast in 1st and coasted down the road out of Mahogany Flat to the Charcoal Kilns, parking along the side of the road and immediately hittin' up the trail for Wildrose Peak. I'd seen it yesterday and it looked like a cool summit and hopefully, hopefully, the thing would have some views. And so, dressed in sweatpants and fleece and tie, carrying with me a water bottle, rain jacket and GPS, I speed-walked up the trail, the scenery pleasant on the eyes, the temps finally warming up a bit.

Heading up the trail

Nearing Wildrose Peak 

Things lookin' stormy on Rogers Peak

And my legs were tight and I was drippin' sweat and I passed a few folks, all of them heading down. And Wildrose Peak suddenly came into view, the summit no longer clear. A small line of clouds decided to set up shop at the top, and they didn't look like they were gonna leave any time soon. Ah well. I was close. I was gonna climb it. It had to be done. And by cracky, I was gonna do it. 

Switchback after swithback, up and up, some views coming into focus now, the desert far below, the bumpy mountains of the Panamint Range stretching off to the south. The weather over by Rogers Peak had definitely worsened; the thing was shrouded in these dark, menacing, angry lookin' clouds. But things were still lookin' good for Wildrose so I pressed on, reaching the top in good time, views to the west, south and east decent, a thick wall of gray blocking all views to the north.

Storm clouds on Wildrose Peak

. 

And I sat on down and opened up the register and made my marks, the most recent entry made just the day prior. Some crazy duo from Chicago had decided to climb up during the wind advisory; "windy, but amazing" is what they wrote. And as I was sittin' there a bunch of snowflakes began to fall on the pages, and I looked around me and the weather had changed dramatically for the worse, and things were lookin' stormy all around me, and the wind picked up and the flakes dropped with purpose and the clouds swallowed me whole and before I knew it I was right in the middle of a snowstorm on top of a dang mountain. Damn. Not a good spot to be.

Gettin' stormy...

Gettin' real stormy...oh man...

And that woke me up and I started jogging off the mountain, cuttin' the switchbacks, trying to get out of there as fast as I could. And the clouds got darker and the wind, stronger and everything smelled wet and cold and crazy and the snowflakes got bigger and bigger and they were comin' down like somebody spilled a gigantic salt shaker in the sky and they were covering the trail and I couldn't believe how quickly things were turning for the worse and then—CRRRACK! BANG! WHOOSH! Oh lord, oh hell no. CRRRACK! BANG! WHOOSH! Oh HELL no.

It sounded like the sky was ripping apart. Felt the rumble in my chest, felt a buzzin' in my ears. 'Twas the loudest thunder I'd ever heard in my entire life. And it was close, REAL close. Didn't see the lightning, but I knew it was there. And so I picked up the pace, my sore legs no longer sore, my feet no longer cold. Damn near sprinted down the trail, my heart skipping a beat every time I heard another earth-shattering rumble in the sky. And the snow pelted my face and the trail was slowly disappearing, but I was locked-in and focused and firing on all cylinders and I managed to find my way back, finally stopping the sprint once I'd made it a good ways down the mountain. 

Real stormy up there...

And I walked along, my feet crunching in the brand-new snow, the flakes still coming down hard, the thunder still roarin' in the sky, but it was fainter now, the storm moving away from me, at least for the moment. And I laughed and chuckled and said, "Well, at least the forecast was correct" and I enjoyed this interesting winter weather in the high desert, the air filled with the pitter-patter of fat snowflakes hittin' the cold, hard ground.

And it made it back to the trailhead and there were a few other folks there pokin' their heads in the Charcoal Kilns and there were little kids runnin' around enjoying the snow and screamin' and laughin' and just having a jolly good time. And I hopped in the car, turned the heater on full blast, wiped the snow off the windshield and then coasted on out of the mountains, driving through snow and sleet and rain until finally encountering some blessed sunshine. 

Down the road, out of the high country, back into the desert, back to the land of rocks and sand and sun and warmth. Ahh, warmth. What a treat, what a wonderful thing. And I pulled into Stovepipe Wells and ate another Pop Tart and I changed clothes and walked over to the benches just outside of the gas station and I sat and soaked up the sun and watched the stormin' chaos taking place over the Panamint Mountains, infinity glad that I was no longer there, grateful to be far, far away from all that jazz. And my phone was nearly dead and my battery pack was dead from the cold and so I walked inside and bought me a cable and the six pack of Pacifico called to me like the Green Goblin mask does to Norman Osborn but I resisted the temptation and drove on out of there, windows down, scattered thunderstorms everywhere, the air heavy with moisture. 

And I was enjoying the ride and feelin' about done for the day, but the afternoon was just so terribly scenic and splendid and I couldn't let it go to waste, so, rather stupidly, I decided I had to do at least one other thing before callin' it quits. And so I drove over to Zabriskie Point and quickly hiked up to the little overlook, the views great, the scenery barren and strange and alien looking and awesome.

View from Zabriskie Point

Zabriskie Point on the way to Red Cathedral

And I wanted more and so I hit up the weird trail to Red Cathedral, the lighting and scenery absolutely crazy, scattered thunderclouds dumping rain at random spots across the barren desert, the wind rustlin' my shirt, my legs runnin' on nothin' but hopes and dreams. I'd hiked to the base of Red Cathedral about two years ago on my little day trip to the valley to see the ephemeral Lake Manly, but I never knew you could actually reach the top. Well, the time was now, and I had to seal the deal, finish the chapter, make it official, wrap it up, no loose ends, no unfinished business. And I walked along, the trail awesome, the views far superior to those seen at Zabriskie point, the terrain rugged and rocky and insane, the colors fantastic, nothin' but red and purple and yellow white and brown.

Scattered thunderstorms

And I reached the summit and it was nice and fine and good and I could see the snow-capped Panamint Mountains across the way and it was still stormin' up there and I wondered if that guy and those three folks in rain jackets ever managed to get out of there before things got real crazy. And I didn't stay for long and retraced my steps and kinda jogged the rest of the way back, runnin' on fumes, my steady diet of Pop Tarts and beef sticks and crackers and lemon poppyseed muffins finally catchin' up to me.

View of the Panamints from Red Cathedral

Crazy desert terrain

And I scampered on down to the parking lot and my legs were officially dead. Twenty-four miles, nearly 7,000ft of vertical gain. Hadn't done something quite like that in a good long while, but it was nice—at least—most of it was nice. Snow, sand, desert and rain. Beautiful country, rugged canyons, crazy mountains, a gnarly little storm, lovely sunshine, nice roads, good trails. Yep. It had been a terrific day, one I'm sure to never forget. And what better way to end it than a scenic drive up to Dante's View. So that's what I did. Hopped in the car, started 'er up, and then drove on up there, raindrops ploppin' on the windshield, late afternoon lighting and crazy, puffy clouds elevating the wild desert landscape into something truly sublime.

Dante's View

And I got out of the car and it was cold up there but not as cold as it was in the snowstorm, and there were a few folks out and about taking photos and such, enjoying the sunset, walkin' around, passin' the time in their own unique ways. And I lingered for a bit and took some photos and then my stomach rumbled and I knew it was time to leave. And so I drove on out of there, down the road, off into the desert, pulling off into "The Pads" and settin' up shop on a concrete slab that was covered with lyrics from various Hall and Oates songs. And I wolfed down a feeze-dried meal and got in the ol' sleepin' bag and read a few pages of Life, the Universe and Everything and then promptly passed out, bone tired, sleeping like a baby the whole night through. Good thing too. I had a busy morning ahead of me. But that's a story for another time...