Three Days in the Wilderness
Contrary to popular belief, the desert is full of life. Shrubs, desert moss, rodents and insects of all varieties, hawks and eagles, not to mention the human settlements that have persevered through the ages. Seemingly no matter how far off the beaten path one travels, you will inevitably find signs of human activity: an empty beer can, some plastic bag, remnants of a fire, tire tracks.
Springtime in the dessert is especially budding with new life. Temperatures are more temperate, but lack of shade make it a harsh place nonetheless. It was one such spring I felt inclined to venture alone into the wilderness. I prepared as best as I thought I could, but the one critical item is water. It’s easy to underestimate your need for water. In our comfortable air-conditioned lives and cars, we surely don’t drink enough water as we ought to. But in the harsh unheralded wilderness water isn’t a variable, but a constant. In a survival situation, even sugary drinks qualify as water. Armed with a few gallons of fresh water and a few more gallons of Hawaiian Punch, I left my home in southern Utah and ventured north.
As a child, my family lived in small pioneer town in south-central Utah called Oak City. Don’t let the name fool you - the population holds steady at around 500. Nestled up in the hills, it feels like an oasis. As of my most recent visit, there isn’t even a way to spend money in the town. There are no stores, no gas stations. There used to be a little general store and video rental store but that’s since shuttered. It feels quaint and peaceful.
The nearest town is about 25 miles west towards the Nevada border. Delta mostly exists to serve the nearby coal-firing power plant that provides most of the electricity for Los Angeles county. The railroad goes directly through Delta, and as predictably as vultures to a dying beast, the town was built to sustain the business. It’s by no means a metropolis, but as a child it felt like it may have been New York City. There’s a McDonalds, a grocery store, and a few gas stations. A small hospital serves the area and that is where my youngest brother was born and later re-hospitalized with pneumonia as a toddler.
Some time ago, I had a dream that I was in Delta and I continued westwardly until I came to a great canyon that looked something like Moab, Utah. Pondering that dream I realized I don’t think I’ve ever been west of Delta. We’d go from Oak City into town for school and groceries, but never ventured further. Quite simply there’s nothing out there to go see. But I had my dream and I needed to see for myself what was out there.
So, I packed up my 1994 Toyota Land Cruiser and set off. I drove north, taking Highway 18 towards Veyo. Not too far along the way is an area known as Mountain Meadows. It was here that a group of poor, desperate European settlers were mercilessly attacked and betrayed by the Mormon settlers in the area. Estimates say up to 120 people were murdered there, and countless more children were illegally adopted in attempt to cover up the massacre. But we have the better part of history on our side. Selfish wicked men enterprising to protect and enrich their pathetic lot in life perpetuated possibly the most damning event in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints’ history. Today, there stands a rock cairn dedicated as a grave to those who died there. In front of the memorial stands an inscription with a dedication remark from the now Second Counselor in the First Presidency of the church Henry B. Eyring gave in 1997 at the sesquicentennial anniversary of the massacre:
The truth, as we have come to know it, saddens us deeply. The gospel of Jesus Christ that we espouse, abhors the cold-blooded killing of men, women, and children. Indeed, it advocates peace and forgiveness. What was done here long ago by members of our Church represents a terrible and inexcusable departure from Christian teaching and conduct. We cannot change what happened, but we can remember and honor those who were killed here.
Seeing this firsthand and reading it that day, I was moved to tears. We cannot change what happened, but we can remember and honor those that were killed. After some friendly conversation with some tourist parties, I continued north to the town of Enterprise.
Enterprise is a crossroads. Highway 18 comes to a full stop and you must decide to turn left or right. One direction leads to a dead end in the mountains, the other continues the northerly route to an area known as Beryl. It’s not a town. Some people live there but it’s mostly uninhabited wilderness. I had ventured this far in the past but was unable to find an interesting route and turned around. Indeed, this time was no different. From studying maps of the area, I knew there was an unpaved road that led through the mountain range to the north, but I couldn’t figure out how to get there without trespassing or generally alerting another human of my presence.
I ventured east, ending up in Cedar City. But I knew that wasn’t where I wanted to be at all. Cedar City is along the interstate which means trash, people, and noise. I turned around and went back to Beryl. Following dirt roads that circumnavigate the fencing either the Bureau of Land Management or it’s leasees erected, I felt my way through to a path north through the mountains.
The road was bad, but my Land Cruiser is capable. I decided to stop in the mountains near an area called Indian Peak and make camp for the night. It was beautiful and solitary. I didn’t see or hear another human in the 12 or so hours I was there, other than the occasional jet airplane flying overhead. “I wonder where they are going?” I asked myself out loud as I sat and ate my dinner of saltines and potted meat.
It’s quite anxious to be out that far alone. Fortunately in today’s day my iPhone is equipped with free satellite messaging, which all but eliminates the chances of death. I’m not worried about dying, I’m worried about having to walk out of there or pay for a tow truck. As night fell, I was reminded how exposed I was. A bad rain storm, a belligerent cow, an enterprising rattlesnake could all quickly end my fun adventure. Living with that fear, setting up a tent, and going to sleep is a very freeing experience. I said my prayers extra hard that night.
The following morning, I had a decision to make. I had about half a tank of gas left and wanted to continue into the wilderness. I wasn’t exactly sure where the next opportunity to fill up my tank would be, but I did know that it would be about a 2 hour round trip to go back to enterprise or Cedar City and then back. So I decided to just keep going.
I eventually passed out of the mountain canyon and entered an area known as the Hamlin Valley wilderness. You see, Utah used to be mostly covered by a great body of water we now call Lake Bonneville. That all dried up, and what’s left is a series of desert valleys with completely flat floors flanked on both sides by mountains. Seeing this level of wilderness was thrilling. There were fences, and maybe some cattle, but no signs of human life. No towns, no houses, nothing. Just what I was looking for.
As I entered the valley, I followed it north, my bearings on the general direction of Delta. Keeping a close eye on my fuel level, and still having no cell reception to look at directions, I started growing more and more anxious. I might actually run out of gas out here. How stupid that would be. I followed the unpaved roads. I knew that the interstate was to my east, so I started meandering north-east in hopes I would reconnect with some form of infrastructure that would, at the very least, allow me to hitch hike to the nearest fuel stop if worst came to worst. There was nothing.
I pointed due east and figured the interstate was just on the other side of the mountain range. It was not, another desert valley identical to the one I’d just left. No pavement, no cars. Climbing each hill, watching as the fuel gage dropped lower and lower, only to be relieved as I descended and it went back up. How much fuel did I really have? How far could I make it? What should I do?
Keep heading east. I knew there was something there, and I knew for sure there was nothing north, west, or south. Climb hills, descend into another desert. Again and again, the fuel gauge dropping precipitously all the while. Finally - a sign of life! A truck parked in the dessert. I pointed at it, but as I approached it became apparent it was deserted. Nobody to ask for directions. However, a glorious sight was some vinyl lettering applied to the truck: Beaver County. I knew it! I knew I had to be close to Beaver, which, like Cedar City, is nestled just along the interstate. I was heading in the right direction at least. But the road was still unpaved and I still couldn’t see any signs of life.
Continuing my north-easterly route, I eventually saw my salvation: a stop sign. If there was a stop sign, it meant there was enough people coming through here that some government agency felt so inclined to dictate how they should travel. It proved to be the salvation I was hoping for as well! The dirt road crossed a paved highway. There were no cars visible, but I knew that if it was paved that if I ran out of gas I would for sure not die, and could hitch a ride from someone to somewhere. The highway ran due east and I continued.
Hill climb after hill climb, desert after desert, this highway seemed to go on forever and to nowhere. After another eternity, my fuel tank somehow holding on for dear life and my knuckles white and stomach upside down with anxiety, I finally saw a sign that said the town of Milford was ahead. It was far, but if there was a town, I knew I’d be able to get gas. Pulling in to Milford and filling my tank, I don’t think I’ve ever been more happy to pay $4/gallon for fuel in my life.
I took a needed rest. I sought out the tiny town library and used their computer to do some basic research while my phone slowly download an offline map of the area. Oddly enough, I was pretty much exactly where I wanted to be! Delta was about 100 miles north, with a nice paved highway taking me straight there.
Now, I was trying to be in the wilderness. I didn’t want to die, so my rule was to stay off paved roads, but never more than a few miles from pavement. If you’re not familiar, paying for a tow truck to recover your vehicle is about 100x more expensive if they have to go off-pavement at all. It doesn’t matter how good the dirt road is. They’ll charge you an arm and a leg. My strategy is to travel parallel to pavement.
Just north of Milford, I found a turn off that took me back west, to the desert. Well, technically it took me to a lake, but if you know anything about Lake Sevier, and if you’ve been paying attention, you’ll not be surprised to hear that the lake is dried up and is now a flat desert. I found myself on a off-road trail the took me into the lake, and then turned back north traveling parallel to the lake. It’s huge. I think when we fly half way around the world and complain that they don’t have our favorite beverage, we lose sight of how small we are. On a map it’s barely a blip. But it was gigantic in real life.
I had a blast traveling north along the lake and sightseeing along the way. There’s something strange that happens to me when I’m that far off. When there’s nothing on the horizon but the landscape, the rate at which the foreground scales into view creates a hypnotic, nearly psychedelic, effect visually. I love that. My Land Cruiser served me well, I felt as if I was Father Escalante himself, seeing this area for the first time in documented history.
As my thankfulness for my well-equipped vehicle grew, I was reminded of the great classic song by America:
I’ve been through the desert On a horse with no name It felt good to be out of the rain In the desert, you can remember your name ‘Cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain
After spending the day playing in the wilderness, I decided I needed to get on with it and made my way to Delta. I started elementary school in Delta. A girl in my Kindergarten class had a father who worked at the McDonalds in town and I can remember touring it as a lad. I decided a memorial dinner there wouldn’t be too indulgent and I enjoyed my $1.19 hot n’ spicy chicken greatly. It was late afternoon at this point, so I decided I needed to find out once and for all what exactly was west of town.
West of Delta, there is nothing. Nothing at all. There is a paved road. There is little, if any traffic. Well, there’s an abandoned energy scam, but nobody is there. Somewhere there’s the remnant of a World War II Japanese internment camp, another stark reminder of what is possible when men are overcome by greed and wickedness. About 60 miles west, you’ll pass through the Confusion mountain range. Just before that, Notch Peak stands as a sentinel. Notch Peak is “the second-highest pure vertical drop in the United States”, second only to Yosemite’s El Capitan. I traveled towards it, closer and closer. By now it was late afternoon and the sun would be setting sooner than later. I eventually made my way to the base of the canyon that Notch Peak stood in, but felt I was too exposed and far for my comfort. I didn’t like being out in the open like that.
I backtracked to the pavement and continued west until I entered the confusion mountain range. Passing through, I kept an eager eye out for any turn offs that might lead to somewhere remote and interesting I could pitch my tent that night. Finally, an opportunity presented itself. Out in the wilderness, they’ll build power lines and radio towers up in the mountains. As a result, there are ill-graded dirt roads in various stages of disrepair left that usually take you all the way to the top of the hill. I found one such road and ended up on the top of one of the first mountains in the range with an incredible view of the desert valley I’d just crossed.
An abandoned radio tower let me know I was somewhere I could be safe for a night, and not anger anyone. The best part about being on top of a mountain surrounded by nothing is that my cell reception was 5 bars. I was actually able to join a discord call with The Bullpen as some tried to pre-order the Switch 2. Where were you when the Switch 2 preorders launched? I also took the opportunity to do a live stream on my YouTube channel, because why not?
The next morning I was treated to an incredible sunrise over Notch Peak. It wasn’t cold, but the warmth of the sun felt incredible. I quickly packed up my supplies and continued west, towards Great Basin National Park. Maybe that was the place I’d seen in my dreams?
Another 50 miles and I came to the twin towns of Garrison, Utah and Baker, Nevada. Just outside of Baker, I visited the remnants of the Freemont Native American archeological site. Estimates say it was occupied from approximately 1220 to 1295. There’s not much there now, but it was truly mind opening to stand in their small village and wonder what life might have been like for them. What were they excited about?
It was just a short journey up into the Snake Mountains until I reached Great Basin National Park. It’s a small park, but the views are incredible. It’s also home to Lehman Caves. The park offers guided tours year-round but apparently they sell out daily so a reservation is recommended. I had none such, but was able to secure the last slot available for the morning tour. The highlight for me was the park ranger turning off all lights and experiencing true, disorienting darkness. Also, adults behave very annoyingly and absurdly in group settings. Maybe it was just 48 hours of total social isolation but man, it was a stark contrast to the anxious peace I’d experienced so far. People need to learn how to shut up and get with the program.
I’m digressing here but my primary motivation for the trip was to escape the judgemental gaze of other people. Opinions really are like butt-holes. Everyone has one but the only one you should care about is your own. No matter where I go or what I do, someone is there with some opinion they’d like to inform me of. They feel entitled to their opinion, which is actually a logical fallacy. Just shut up! You don’t know anything about anything other than yourself. At one point we entered a section where it appeared there was graffiti all over the walls. Random names, initials, hearts. One of the old ladies literally gasped and moaned with disappointment. “How could they?” The park ranger explained that the cave was privately owned and for a dollar, you’d be given a candle and permission to enter the cave. If you didn’t return in 24 hours, they’d look for you. She explained that a hundred years ago, folks would literally crawl in the darkness to enter the opening we were now standing in. They would take their candle and burn their initials into the ceiling of the cave. She explained we now call these “inscriptions” and they’ve become just as much a part of the cave’s history as anything else. Should we remove them? Could we even do that without further damaging the extremely fragile ecosystem of the cave? The gasps subsided as understanding crept in. People are capable of learning and growth but it seems like they usually aren’t too keen to undertake it without being forced into it. Why?
There wasn’t a whole lot else to do in Great Basin, so I picked up a cool t-shirt and a sticker and made my way back down the mountain.
My goal had been mostly accomplished. I knew what was west of Delta. It was even more fascinating and other-worldly than I could have ever imagined. I’d traveled across the desert on a horse with no name. I’d pooped directly in the warmth of the morning sun. I can’t tell you how liberating that felt. to be so far from another’s judgemental gaze that I could literally drop my pants and expose my bare balls to mother nature. I’d almost run out of gas but had some of the most psychedelic adventures in the wilderness I could ever hope to have.
I pointed back south, in the direction of home. My other rule of thumb is to never go back the same way you came. Do a loop, not a line. I followed the pavement highway back to where I was so lost and worried just 24 hours before, back to Milford. Instead of taking the well-paved path south, I went due east up over some more mountains to Beaver. It was getting later in the afternoon, and I considered hopping on the interstate to get home quick, but I’ve driven that path so many times I couldn’t bear it. Instead, I cut south-west back to Minersville.
Due south of Minersville, the highways opens up into some beautiful high tundra landscape ripe for my gaze. Along the highway, I found yet another archeological site, this time some rock carvings made by the Paiute.
Continuing south, I eventually came to the town of Enoch, then Cedar City and back to the direction of Newcastle, Beryl, Enterprise, and back the way I’d started out on day one. The spring sun was setting and I stand here today to say that I believe northern Washington County and Iron County are some of the most scenic and beautiful landscapes I’ve ever seen. I’ve seen it hundreds of times and it still took my breath away. As my journey concluded, I was filled with gratitude that I’d been safe, had fun, and finally found out what was west of Delta.
I pulled into my driveway, parked the car, and entered my house. My kids were glad to see me and couldn’t understand where I’d been or what I’d done. It didn’t matter to them. I don’t think it matters to anyone except for me. Why should it?
It’s been fun to reflect on this experience. I’ve regaled some of these tales to various reactions. Some people are green with jealous rage. Others are offended I’d abandon my family for that long. Most simply have no clue why anyone would ever do anything like that. We need influencers to tell us what’s worth seeing. We need marketing and advertising to let us know what we’re allowed to enjoy, and what we should avoid. You have to read the reviews before you go! Everyone must gather around the same random location at the same time or else you didn’t really see anything. What about this? What about that?
Life isn’t a checklist, man. I don’t have a goal. I literally had a dream about what was west of Delta and needed to find out. That’s it. I saw a lot of amazing things. I had some great thoughts. I’ll remember the experience for the rest of my life. It was just me, only me. I can’t share someone else’s memory and opinion about the trip because there wasn’t anyone there. That solitude is so incredibly freeing.
I can’t wait to do it again.