Hike

Yesterday I went out for a walk to get a little exercise. Turned out to be more walk and more exercise than I bargained for.

I enjoyed Amy's and my trip to Joshua Tree National Park so much that I decided to go back and do some hiking. I selected the hike to Lost Horse Mine. From the trail head, it's a two-mile up-hill trek to the mine—four miles, round trip. But the maps also show the path going on past the mine and then curving back to the trail head in a loop—six miles total. That was my choice. Why double back and see the same scenery again when, walking only an additional two miles, I can do the whole loop?

So I left the trail not long after noon and in less than an hour arrived at the mine (top picture) where I sat to eat lunch. I saw maybe a dozen people on the trail and around the mine—a fairly popular hike.

After lunch, I struck out to finish the rest of the loop. All the other hikers headed back to the trail head the short way, so I had the path to myself. Almost immediately it began a steep descent for what might have been a quarter of a mile or more. I was glad I hadn't started at the other end so that I'd have to hike up this climb. It looked well nigh impossible for a person like me—not terribly out of shape, but not a well-conditioned hiker either. Along the way there were outlooks over a vast flatland below that the map called Pleasant Valley. From up here it looked flat, huge, barren, and desolate—more like purgatory than paradise.

There were occasional signs of other mine works like the lone chimney in the picture. The terrain was rough and tiring, but do-able, and it all belonged to me.

Maybe another half mile past the chimney, I came upon a post in the middle of the path with "8" written on all 4 sides. The post was modern and well-established, not a miner's hold-over. Eight whats, I wondered. Probably miles. But surely not back the way I'd come and not back to the trail head either; neither of those distances should be anything near eight miles. I walked on about 100 yards, but the path (an old two-rut road) headed off southwest, not back north toward the truck. I went back to the mile post and sure enough there was another similar road heading roughly toward the trail head. Happy about correcting my error before I'd gone too far, and getting tired and eager to get to the truck, I followed this path another half mile or so.

At which point it stopped. It didn't peter out, get narrow, get faint. It just stopped. The vegetation was so sparse that almost any direction could have been path-like, but no foot prints suggested anyone had hiked this way before. The path simply vanished.

I struggled up the side of the mountain between me and the trail head, but all that I could see from the top was more mountains. What to do? Head over the mountains toward where the truck probably was? Folly. Follow the southwestern road toward who knows what? Didn't seem wise. One more option: go back. This time fight my way up that steep stretch near the mine. At least I knew where that would eventually lead, assuming I could make it up to the top. Just two problems: the sun was already heading down, so in an hour or so it would be dark, and I was exhausted. However, it was either get going or spend the night on the desert. I got going.

Now, my water, of which I had taken sufficient, was beginning to dwindle, but I did have some lunch left if I needed it, and I was glad I'd stuffed my hoodie in my back pack, in case I needed to sleep on the trail. It can get really cold up there at night. I kept thinking about the sermon I had heard the evening before, based on Romans 8, which the minister had combined with stories about teaching his kids to swim. He pictured God as saying, "Go ahead! Jump! I'll catch you." At the time I was pretty sure God wouldn't bother to catch you if your leap was foolish to begin with. After all, Jesus declined Satan's invitation to jump off the temple spire. However, at this point, I was hopeful that God might, indeed, take care of an old geezer on an ill-advised hike.

I was really bushed by the time I got to the climb up towards the mine, and it occurred to me that I actually might not be able to make it. But I started up. Every fifty paces—in the places I could make fifty—I stopped to rest. And at long last, there was the mine. It looked like home, like heaven. The walk from there back to the truck, though primarily down hill, seemed twice as long as it had been earlier in the day. By the time I got to the truck, the sun had gone down, and I couldn't remember ever being this tired before. Only one other vehicle was at the trail head, and I wondered where they were. Hopefully headed back on a trustworthy trail.

When I finally could get a phone connection, Amy gave me a good scolding—probably deserved. Next time (and there will be a next time), I do two things: tell Amy exactly where I plan to go, in case some problem develops, and stop at the visitor's center to get specific directions and trail conditions.

Treatment count: 20 down, 25 to go.