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• Adventures
• 2007:
  Best Management Practices
• 2006:
  Watershed Event
• 2005:
  I Hit the Jackpot!
• 2005:
  Chloride City
• 2004:
  Get Out the Vote
• 2004:
  Over the Top … or not
• 2004:
  No. 8 Wire
• 2004:
  Trampers
• 2004:
  Dark Carnival
• 2003:
  A Walk to Nowhere
• 2003:
  Beach Idyll
• 2003:
  Tall Trees
• 2003:
  Dead Horse Canyon
• 2003:
  Slippery Slope
• 2002:
  'frayed
• 2002:
  Rae Lakes Loop
• 2001:
  The Grand Adventure
• 2000:
  San Juan Islands
• 1999:
  The Bear Story
• About this site

I could see that the second rope was frayed. Repeated scraping on the rock, over who knows how many years, had worn away the colorful outer casing, leaving the white strands of nylon lying across the smooth dark granite, leading left and up over the brink of the falls. I looked down to make sure that the toes of my boots were still lodged firmly on the narrow footholds.

Maybe I should just let myself back down the way I’d come. I steadied myself, feeling the rough rock against the palm of my right hand.

Here’s what I was thinking at that moment: about how old age creeps up on you insidiously. It wasn’t that I was more afraid. I’ve always been afraid. Nor did I feel less able. A little stiff maybe, and a bit clumsy. But my hands gripped the rope strongly.

No, what seemed so insidious was my sudden lack of desire to see what was up there. Like I didn’t really care, and would just as soon have my feet back on firm ground and be happily walking back down the canyon.

I reached up with my left hand and gave the second rope a good yank. It held, so I grabbed it with my right and pulled myself up.

What a jackass stunt, I thought. I’ll be embarassed to tell the story – if I’m lucky enough to live that long. What the hell am I trying to prove?

The rope, which extended above to where I couldn’t see, was anchored further left than I’d thought – much further left. Above, the rope moved chuk-chuk-chuk where it was stretched over the lip of the falls. My feet swung helplessly loose as I was pulled sideways toward the spray, my knuckles scraping on the rock. I glanced down below, to where Jennifer had cried out. My feet cycled, seeking a foothold.

These dark canyons slice the face of the Inyo Mountains, winding steeply toward the crest thousands of feet above. Downstream, vast alluvial fans, cut deep by sinuous washes, spill out onto the dry basin.

Jennifer and I made our camp out on the valley floor, the folding table and chairs arranged beneath a 50-mile arc of sky. Soon after our arrival, we were in rhythm with the days: At dawn, walking on the dunes; in the heat of the day, exploring canyons and prospectors’ abandoned camps; in the afternoons, sitting in the camp chairs, watching the sun going down and the stars coming out.

Our quietude contrasted with the seeming anxiousness of the (mostly) younger weekend denizens of the hot spring, We drove there one evening, up the unmarked dirt road on the opposite side of the valley. After showering in the evening chill, we hobbled barefoot through the dark, crowded camp and slipped into a tub with a dozen others. The conversation, at its high point, was wonderfully silly – as any conversation among naked strangers should be – but after a while everyone was talking about their jobs or where they went to school. We left and drove, still naked, back to the dunes.

We had tried walking up two other canyons they day before, but each was blocked by high waterfalls after only a hundred yards or so. But we had managed to climb nearly a mile up this canyon, clambering over talus, pushing through tangled willows, and gawking at fern-covered rock walls, until we reached this sheer-walled gorge.

There was nothing to it, really. Once I got my feet planted against the rock, I was able to pull myself hand-over-hand and up to the brink of the falls. Standing upright now, I made my way a few yards through the thick growth to where I could see another falls ahead. There, an old rickety ladder reached about half way up.

I settled for a picture, put the camera back in my pocket, and walked back to where I could see Jennifer standing below. I checked the anchor before I carefully roped my way back down.

Set a folding chair out in the sand, facing the night. Wrap yourself up warmly. Sit down, and keep sitting, as the dark hours wear on. Watch the stars if you must; listen to the quiet if you can. Or just watch the darkness that stretches for miles in every direction. Watch until your eyes ache and your head feels hollow.

In the weak morning light, walk on the dunes. Admire the patterns left by the wind. Follow the trails of cats and lizards. Look up! The sun is on the mountaintops. Breathe, and let the desert come to you.

In the heat of the day, seek out some abandoned prospector’s camp, made of rusted chicken-wire and old fence pickets. Wonder, for a moment, what desperate hopes brought him to this dry ruin. Then clamber up a canyon, sniffing for water, and press on until the way is blocked by sheer rock or dense willows.

Back at the canyon mouth, look to the other side of the basin. Measure that distance in in steps, in years, in chances to come back and have another look.