Stubbe Springs

Adventures are rarely fun while you are having them. Actually, you don't typically think of an adventure as an "adventure" while you're having one. You're more likely to think of it as--"it's pouring rain and my tent is flooded," or "the road is mostly washed out and I don't know if I will be able to get my car down the mountain and back onto pavement," or "uhh...where did the trail go?" It's not until later that you realize it was a real adventure.

Adventures of the tamer kind--"yay, we just followed the trail to the top of the mountain," or "that was a nice 70-mile bike ride" pale in comparison to the real adventures, the ones that produce some amount of adrenaline and make you question why you wanted to hike/camp/bike/snowboard/be anywhere but warm and dry at home that day. The real adventures are much more fun the next day, or the next week, or the next month, when you're safely at home, warm and dry, and recounting the story to friends. So you can imagine how I felt yesterday when I realized that I was in the middle of an adventure--a real one.

New Year's Eve was a beautiful day for a hike in Joshua Tree, and I was far from the only person who thought so. The park was swarming with people, and I saw four sets of hikers on a trail where I have hiked previously (twice) and never seen anyone. My first mistake was starting a little too late, and over-estimating the amount of daylight I had left. My second mistake was forgetting my flashlight. (Also, I neglected to see how much moonlight I would have once the sun went down.) My back was a little sore as I started hiking, so I didn't hike quite as fast as I typically hike, which even further decreased the amount of daylight I had. I hit the overlook before sunset, took a short break, and then as I headed back up the trail realized that the shadows were starting to get long.

It wasn't an issue until I realized that the wash I was following had fewer footprints in it than it had previously. Since I was a little pressed for time, I decided not to turn around and try to find where the trail had left the wash, but instead keep pushing and hope I could find another place where the trail passed by the wash. Needless to say, hope is not a course of action, and I soon realized it was unlikely that I would find the trail again by following the wash. I thought I saw what might be the trail, checked it out--nope. By this time, back-tracking would have taken too much time. And so the adventure began--no trail, and daylight quickly fading.

I first took a few seconds to put the detachable legs back on my hiking pants. If I was going to be hiking cross-country in search of the trail, I didn't want my legs to get needlessly scratched up in the process. The trail was supposed to head northwest to a pass in a major ridge, and then back northeast into the valley I'd come in on and then link up with the main trail. If I headed north, I would be heading towards higher ground, where I would be more likely to be able to see the trail again. As very last resort there was a high point on the ridge to the northeast, where I would be able to see everything, including what I thought of as "home valley" where the loop met up with the main trail. The cross-country travel would be slow, and it was questionable whether I would be able to find the trail from that hill once the sun set, but sooner or later I would be able to find my way out.

I hiked up a small ridge off to my right, hoping to see the trail, but all I saw was another ridge. I hiked up that one, too. At this point, I still hadn't found the trail, so I figured the trail must have cut south or west from the wash (I was headed northeast), and that it was unlikely I would find it again in that valley. At this point, that wasn't a big deal, since I'd abandoned the idea of finding the trail in that valley anyway. Fortunately, from this second small ridge I could see the main ridge I needed to cross before I reached "home valley".

I looked at my map again and realized the trail likely cut through a pass off to the west. I decided that heading down to that pass and try to find the trail was probably not going to be as fruitful as heading up to a saddle in the ridge, where I could see everything. Also, if I ended up fighting northwest and then back northeast without a trail, it would probably be a lot slower than simply heading north without a trail. I identified the saddle on my map and started heading towards it as fast as I could--I needed to have some light left once I got up there in order to find the trail again. The adrenaline was pumping full volume at this point. If it got dark before I found the trail again, I would have to decide between sitting in one spot and waiting for daylight or risk actually getting lost while stumbling around in the dark. I wasn't lost at this point--I knew exactly where I was and exactly where I needed to be. If I stumbled around in the dark and couldn't recognize where I was once it got light again--then I would have real problems.

Fortunately, less than 60 seconds after I started hiking towards the ridge, I stumbled across the trail again. I breathed a huge sigh of relief--there would be no cross-country navigation. No trying to find the trail in the dark, or deciding between waiting it out or risking getting lost. However, I didn't know what lay ahead of me on the trail, or how easy it would be to lose the trail again (a problem compounded by fading light and no flashlight). I started walking as quickly as I possibly could, following the trail through the wash I had identified earlier. I was almost grateful for the adrenaline, because it meant that I couldn't feel any nagging pain in my back, and it didn't hurt to hike as quickly as I could.

As I hiked, I paid close attention to the trail in front of me, double-checking places where I thought it might branch. The other danger I identified was tripping or twisting/spraining my ankle. I've hiked/walked on twisted ankles before, so I knew I could do it, but it would slow me down significantly and cost me precious daylight. I didn't have a back-up plan should I happen to lose the trail  again once it got dark, except that I figured it would involve a lot of sitting and thinking and straining my eyes to try to identify peaks. I could feel the temperature drop, and my hands started to get stiff. I tried to ignore it--thinking about the cold wouldn't make it go away, and if I stayed moving I would probably be fine. Chilly, but fine.

The trail emptied into a large well-defined wash, which I was grateful for. It would be difficult to lose the wash, and there were copious footprints to tell me I was still on the trail. Also, there was a sign at the location I'd entered the wash, so if I paid attention there would more than likely be a sign telling me where to exit the wash as well. Unfortunately, even with my elevated pace the wash stretched on for what seemed like forever (but was probably only half an hour), and the stars started to come out as the last of the daylight faded. Now I paid close attention to the footprints in the wash, which indicated that the trail had indeed not left the wash yet. Finally, I saw the sign with a single arrow pointing left. The map had indicated that once I left the wash, it wasn't far until I joined up with the main trail again. And sure enough--after a couple minutes I saw the sign marking the junction of the loop and the main trail.

The adrenaline started to subside; I had hiked the main trail in, and it was easy to follow in daylight. I hoped it would be as easy to follow during the night. I relaxed slightly, but I was on my last slivers of daylight. I didn't realize it at that point, but the light from the moon and stars had already become a factor--a few minutes later I realized that I could see my shadow. YAY!!!!!! I had moonlight! It wasn't going to get any darker, and if I was careful, I wouldn't lose the trail on my way out.

I breathed a gigantic sigh of relief, then forced myself to relax. I looked up at the moon and stars--something I enjoy anyway--and saw that Orion was easily identifiable. I took a picture of my last sliver of daylight and the moon, and then a picture of the moon. My day hike had turned into a night hike, and although I was chilly, I wouldn't be spending the night, so I could deal with a little bit of cold until I got back to my care.

I don't know if you've seen the movie 127 Hours, in which the protagonist gets trapped in a canyon and cuts his own arm off in order to get out. I read the book several years ago so I didn't see the movie, but it was obvious in the book that the author had been almost seeking a life-or-death situation like the one he found himself in--going off on his own for days, not telling anyone where he was going or how long he would be gone (one thing I always do when I hike on my own), taking risks, etc. I've never thought of myself that way, but I realized on that hike that I might be more like him than I think.

I have a lot of training and skills, and they've never really been tested. I'll test myself physically all the time, but I've never put my skills to a real test--this was the closest I've come. As an outdoorsman/woman there's a certain pride that comes from knowing that yes, indeed, I have the abilities to work myself out of a sticky situation, and I proved it when X happened. I could have prepared better and reduced my chances of getting lost in the first place with a flashlight. Instead, I found myself testing my skills and my ability to assess situations and make decisions under pressure. Although I believe I made the right decisions, I got lucky when I found the trail again, because I really did think it was behind me, and I was fortunate that I had a half-moon to provide some light even though I hadn't verified the moon would be out that night before I left. When things go wrong, it's usually the result of multiple failures. I made several mistakes, but they weren't enough to put me in my worst case scenario of spending the night in Joshua Tree.

Anyway, I made it to my car safe and sound and actually did manage to enjoy the night portion of my hike. I have added flashlight and compass to the things I will always bring with me on a hike from now on, and will be more careful with rationing daylight. But you can bet I will not stop hiking. :-)

I apologize that I have not been writing as many blog entries as of late. The work I do now is actually slightly more sensitive than what I did in Afghanistan (crazy, right? but true), so I have shied away from writing about that. And although I do have some fun stories from the weekends I go to drill, I usually get back late and launch right into the work week, so I never have time to write about them until several days later. I will try to do better, as I do enjoy writing, and I know that you all enjoy reading.

Semper Fi! And please, if you take one thing away from this story, let it be this: if you are going to go hiking around outdoors, then please tell someone where you are going and how long you will be gone! It will give you a fighting chance when you make every mistake in the book and don't manage to stumble across the trail.