Summer Backpack in the Hidden Forest of the Desert Refuge

Written by Bill Huggins, posted by Nick

Nick Dobric and I drive into the Desert National Wildlife Refuge on one of the first hot days of the year here in southern Nevada. It’s near noon and the temperature is creeping into the 100s. A dry wind blows and keeps the sky clear, not a cloud to be seen except maybe the dust-tail we create on our twenty-mile drive over rugged dirt roads. The wind makes quick work dispersing it – the reality of southern Nevada, dust and wind.

The Hidden Forest turnout appears, a two-track cut off to the right. Nick makes the turn and we bounce our way for four miles until the road ends. We park on top of a promontory looking into a deep, wide wash that spills fourteen miles from the peak we’ve come to climb, Hayford, the Refuge’s highest point, near 10,000 feet. We make quick work switching out of sandals into boots, giving my Australian shepherd Trix a sip of water, applying sunscreen. Then we shoulder our packs and walk down the incline into the wash.

The arroyo tightens as we walk, collapsing into itself over two miles as its course narrows. We’re in the desert zone still, cactus and dry, thin bushes all around us. I remind myself for the hundredth time that I really need to learn more about the plants. I spend enough time out here, enough to reinforce the names on a weekly basis, at least. We make good time, break for water in a cleft whose rocky points nearly meet, sign of a zone change. Brush becomes thicker, the plants packed more tightly together, less cactus and more greenery. Cliffrose is abundant, bright yellow flowers open to the sun. Trix has never seen them before and stops near each one, taking a noseful.

Halfway up we’re in the Hidden Forest. Signs of people are everywhere: logs pulled out to sit on, firepits, rock arrangements. It’s a cool place to be, escaping the heat, and we rest for a few moments to take more water. The breeze moves through the shade, promise of cooler things to come.

We reach the cabin more quickly than we’ve expected. It’s a sudden shock to see something manmade after ten miles of walking through relative wilderness. Its appearance comes suddenly, like an unexpected glimpse of an animal – almost furtive, it shifts in and out of trees until we walk into its clearing and it has nowhere else to hide. To the left is an old corral, weather-beaten and worn but still of use – some people still ride horses up here. We drop our packs on a nearby picnic table and take the water filter to the nearby spring to recharge our water, passing a guzzler along the way, reminder of the intrusion of the human into this ocean of wilderness, our island for a night and a day.

The cabin is surrounded by odd artifacts: a toilet seat on a wooden box, firepit, and a bathtub on its side up against a tree. Rusted detritus is everywhere, maybe remnants of an odd mining attempt or two decades ago.

The wind picks up before sunset so we cook in the relative shelter of the cabin. It’s full of emergency supplies, in case one might get caught here in a storm. I’ve heard stories over the years of people shoring up in here when a squall blew through in winter, dumping snow. Twilight is still clear for us, a hopeful sign of good weather for our attempt on the peak the next day.

We start a fire and sit around its warmth as we eat, talking of simple things. Food always seems to taste better to me in wild places, maybe because there are fewer distractions and you can really appreciate the basics. Trix eats and then patrols the area. She’s a veteran hiker but this is her first overnight trip and I’m wondering how she’ll deal with it. We poke the fire, make a last run to the spring, set up our sleeping bags in the spots we’ve chosen, then settle around the fire until bedtime. The sun disappears over the final ridge and then spends another hour letting go its grip on the day, the light growing ever weaker until the last vestige rolls away and stars begin to gradually appear and take its place. In spite of all the light pollution, the nights in Vegas remain filled with stars, but nothing like this. Nevada’s still one place where you can see the Milky Way with the naked eye, and in time its smoky trail appears.

Eventually the fire burns low and we retire to our bags. Nick’s down near the corral; I’ve chosen a tree near the cabin under which to sleep, a pine at least a hundred feet high. Trix moves back and forth between us for a time until she settles onto my bag. Away from the fire the chill moves in quickly. I can’t get enough of the night sky, crystally brilliant even without a moon, and it takes me some time to fall asleep. I finally do, only to be woken sometime in the early morning by a frozen dog licking my face. I tried earlier to get Trix into the sleeping bag with me but she wouldn’t come. Now she squeezes in, pressing tight against me, shivering. I adjust to make it as comfortable as possible for both of us, then we sleep until dawn.

I wake first. There’s a woodpecker somewhere in the dawn, picking bugs like some kind of avian alarm clock. I wait for the sleep to clear from my head and eyes while I enjoy the sound, smiling. Trix is still socked out, eyes closed, breathing deep. I enjoy the dual warmth of dog and bag while I wait for the sun to clear the ridge. It takes about twenty minutes or so until the shade clears and warm light bathes the clearing. Time to rise.

We feed the dog and eat breakfast, then make another trek to the spring for water. The peak is only four miles away. We get above the spring and hit a major ridge, very steep and challenging. We push hard. Once up that stretch it’s a long easy push along a gradual rise with incredible views to all sides. We’re moving through a high region now, a good pine forest studded with bristlecone, as well. We emerge on a T-shaped ridge and break right toward Hayford which suddenly looms in view a few hundred feet above. We drop down a final time and begin the last ascent.

The climb gets rugged. We lose the trail and have to scramble over sharp rocks which I know have to tear into Trix’s paws. Then a final challenge: we hit some kind of bush whose only purpose seems to be to rip our legs since both of us were dumb enough to wear shorts, another reality of southern Nevada: sharp plants. I get a major cut on my left knee, three inches long, that bleeds down my leg into my sock and boot, along with who knows how many other scrapes and cuts. Needless to say I love it. What’s the point of going into wilderness if you don’t have a few marks to show for it?

Summitting is always great, and no less this time. It’s surprising, though, to see the peak covered in towers and other mechanical gear. Like the cabin below, the peak is like a reminder of humanity in an otherwise wild space. The closest road is about fifteen miles away. Las Vegas sprawls to the south, half-hidden in smog and dust. We shoot some photos, drink water and eat. I take a look at Trix’s feet and sure enough some of her pads are rubbed down, but there’s no help for it. I can’t carry her fourteen miles. Besides, we got a good look at how we came up the peak and will not have to descend through the briar patch again. On the way down we skirt it completely and make phenomenal time. We’re back at the cabin before we know it, packed up and on our way back toward the truck.

Then the day gets interesting. Clouds that had been building suddenly join forces and the air above us, up on the peak where we were only an hour or so ago, turns dark gray. The wind picks up, strong enough to sway us even with packs on. I like to hike quickly anyway but I move it up another notch, a little concerned about walking down a wash for ten miles, especially in the narrow spaces. The cloud cover helps keep the day cooler, though. We make great time moving down swiftly. But when we hit the Hidden Forest a few miles below the cabin it’s clear that there’s major weather brewing above.

We drop with the storm on our heels, a bit of drizzle hitting us now and again but nothing too serious. The real storm’s above us. I wonder how it would have been if we’d been an hour later in our ascent. By the time we hit the zone of cliffrose again it’s clear we won’t get hit with anything bad. The wind and moisture brings out the best in the flowers, filling the canyon with the cliffrose’s rich scent, and we walk for a mile or so paced by the smell like a fourth companion. When we leave the cliffrose behind the arroyo widens and swings to the right, and we can see the end of our journey. The last mile’s always the hardest; it’s only a cliche because it’s true.

Back at the truck we switch boots out for sandals, slug water. Trix lays in the shade under the truck’s belly, just enough energy left to slurp water from a small bowl. In the truck, she finds a way to sleep as we rattle over washboards on the way home. Behind us the mountain hides in swirling clouds, the strong wind from it pushing us away. But it gave us a great day and night, one not soon to be forgotten.

For more details on the route, check out Jim Boone’s Bird and Hike website