Day 8: July 13 Thursday — Keg Point to Maze Overlook

Highlights: Resupply mission to Green River; jump start Pequod; vast meadows; Canyonlands ranger station; Millard Canyon; Flint Trail; killer storm; driving through floods; brake starts to fail; freezing to death; Maze Overlook campsite.

This morning I began feeling concerned about our fuel supply. Ahead of us were four more nights on the trail in one of the remotest sections of Canyon Country, with two long days of driving, and Great White had already tapped into its ten gallon reserve. If I could convince two people to take one jeep back to Green River for a resupply mission, 45 miles away, while the rest of us proceeded on to the national park ranger station, we would lose little time and have many more options for the next four days. Also, we were running low on ice and it would be nice to fix the flats.

It did not take much persuasion for Ed and Lou to volunteer: Ed was always happy to increase our margin of safety, while Lou could not pass up an opportunity to visit Pickles. I estimated that this round trip, including the stop, would take them about three hours, since it was all on the easy Green River Road.

After breakfast we rapidly loaded Harpoon with all the empty water jugs, gas cans, and the large empty cooler. Ed and Lou zoomed out of camp while the rest of us leisurely crammed everything else into the remaining two jeeps.

Soon after they drove off, Mark hurriedly got on the CB radio to request an important item he forgot: a few packs of Marlboros. Ed, always trying to get Mark to quit smoking, responded, “I don’t copy. You’re breaking up.” This was a good opportunity to test the range of the radios. We were able to hear Harpoon for fifteen miles, while they could only hear us for three miles. I don’t know what this discrepancy proves about radios, but it is an interesting fact. I do know that electrical noise in a running vehicle detracts from the ability to receive faint signals, so maybe this is the only difference rather than something fundamental about the radios.

An hour later, as we tried to drive away, Pequod’s engine wouldn’t turn over—the CB radio had run down the battery. I couldn’t believe that an auto battery would not have enough oomph to power a CB for an hour and still start an engine, so I assumed it was a flaw similar to what caused the first day’s battery death at Slickrock. Even though Pequod’s voltmeter indicated it was charging while running, perhaps something was draining the battery with the engine off.

Like so many other problems, I decided to ignore this condition as there was nothing I could do about it. We easily jump-started Pequod from Great White and proceeded back to the Green River Road. There we turned south toward Canyonlands National Park, our destination for the next 4 nights. The drive to the ranger station across Antelope Valley impressed us with its vast expanses of incredibly green pasture, brimming with little flowers. Beyond the valley the elevation slowly increased from 5000′ to 7000′. Junipers and pinion pines began to appear, increasing in frequency with altitude to a veritable “forest” of trees spaced a hundred feet apart. This is one of the more densely forested parts of Canyon Country outside the mountains, though you would still be hard pressed to find a tree large enough for decent shade.

Between the rolling hills there are beautiful grassy meadows called “flats”: Robbers Roost Flat, Twin Corral Flat and eventually Hans Flat. Although I believe they are not within any protected preserve, I imagine most of Utah looked like these flats before it was grazed to the point where sagebrush and related shrubs overtook the landscape. In fact, randomly sprinkled throughout this area we saw grazing cattle. For some reason, the grasses here persist, either because the degree of grazing is more tightly controlled, or the vegetation naturally replenishes itself due to better growing conditions at this altitude.

We reached the Hans Flat Ranger Station by noon. The ranger station is not actually in Canyonlands National Park, but in Glen Canyon National Recreation Area, a vast area that includes all of Lake Powell and the region west and south of the park. A few years ago the ranger station consisted of a trailer with a gas pump, and nearby trailers for residences. Radio was the only means of communication, and in those days they were willing to sell you five gallons of emergency gas if you were too low to get back to civilization. Greenshit #1 in 1983 made use of this feature, since our Scout did not have the range to do a round trip to the Maze. Back then you could camp anywhere without signing in, except within the national park where you had to stay at designated sites. In the recreation area you could gather deadwood and burn toilet paper. In the summer, the slowest season after winter, the rangers would see nobody for days or weeks at a time and were always thrilled to have other people willing to share their experiences in this isolated area.

Today the ranger station is a modern, but small and simple, air conditioned building with little exhibits and lots of books and maps for sale. It has regular telephone service (via microwave dish) to the rest of the world. In the busy season during spring and fall, they see 10 or 20 parties a day. They no longer sell you gas, and camping is limited to designated sites even in Glen Canyon N.R.A. You must reserve a campsite for a specific night by making a phone call before you leave home, or risk not finding anything when you get here. In the summer, the visitation rate is still fairly low—one party every day or two—but the rangers don’t always seem happy to see you. Their purpose is more to enforce the rules than to help.

Despite these changes, the wilderness experience of visiting the Maze District of Canyonlands N.P. and the surrounding Glen Canyon remains intact, especially in the summer when the odds of running into another party are extremely small. The ranger station is still the only permanently inhabited facility that I know about in the rugged 2000 square miles between the Colorado and Green Rivers and Utah 24, the nearest highway fifty miles west. The national park policy is to do absolutely no development in the park and recreation areas, and only enough maintenance of the 4WD trails to keep them accessible to skilled drivers. They make it very clear, when you enter, that you are on your own and they take no responsibility for your comfort or safety.

The ranger at the station was more helpful and friendly than others I’ve talked to in recent years. He asked us which campground we would like from an inventory of about fifteen widely scattered sites available in the recreation area and park. The backcountry permit costs a flat fee of $25 per party. I had in mind two campsites for the next four nights: Maze Overlook #2 for two nights and Doll House #1 for two nights. The Maze Overlook site was free but the Doll House site was already reserved (the first time I ever ran into a conflict here) so I had to take my second choice, Doll House #2, where I had stayed my previous two visits. However, the ranger said that the people at Doll House #1 had reserved the site for 7 days in a row, and he didn’t believe that they would actually stay that long. It appears to be the practice for people to reserve sites for lengthy stays just in case, since there is no cost to doing so. I asked if we could just move into site #1 if we found it empty, and he said sure.

No matter how many times you’ve been here, the ranger is forced to recite to you the 15 commandments, one by one, printed on the back of the permit. Each year it seems like a new regulation is added to the list. Originally, the only rules were don’t step on the cryptogamic soil, now given the more hip name cryptobiotic soil, and don’t touch the pictographs. Ten years ago they started to prohibit fires except in pans. Five years ago it was take out your toilet paper instead of burning it, and last year it was don’t make cairns.

This year’s new rule was to pack out human waste instead of burying it. There is some logic to this. In the desert the term “biodegradable” takes on a different meaning, because things don’t decompose very well unless there is water. Toilet paper, burned or not, just sits there forever. Human waste lasts for so many years that it is difficult to find a spot near a campsite in the national park where your digging does not uncover another person’s remains. The problem is exacerbated because in the park everyone is forced to camp in a few designated sites.

Since this was the first year of the new regulation to pack it out, they weren’t stringently enforcing the rule, and the ranger accepted our promise to remove our waste in plastic bags. Starting next year, it appears that they will have yet another regulation that each group bring a bucket or contraption specifically designed to carry waste. The ranger station had brochures for a portable toilet called the Baño costing $300, distributed by a company in Green River. Then I noticed a sign on the wall about backpacking rules, where a shit shovel was recommended equipment. I asked whether they expected backpackers to carry out their waste, too. Unlike vehicle camping, backpack camping is permitted anywhere in the park except in Jasper Canyon, which is closed to people because it is the only canyon in the park that was never trampled by cattle. He acknowledged that backpackers may bury their waste, but they still have to take out their toilet paper. I interpreted this answer to mean that the removal of waste is really only needed near the campsites. Rules may be rules, but there is, after all, a thousand square miles of countryside which isn’t exactly full of shit, and hopefully will never be. I told the others that if they are willing to walk at least five minutes from the campsite, at a spot not along any trail, they can have a dump in clear conscience. According to Isaac Newton’s inverse square law, if you double the distance to the toilet you can make four times as many visits.

After a long time signing in, talking to the ranger, buying books, etc., we proceeded about a quarter mile on the main road past the station to a lookout of Millard Canyon immediately off the road. This is one of my favorite views, as here is where the world ends as we know it. Behind us to the west is the relatively flat desert plain in which we had been driving for the last four days, and in front of us as far as we can see—even to the La Sal Mountains fifty miles away—is an incredibly complex landscape of canyons, buttes, pinnacles and mesas several thousand feet in vertical extent. We are on top of the Orange Cliffs, which stretch for 25 miles north and south and define the western boundary of the Maze region. The Orange Cliffs are in Glen Canyon N.R.A. All of the Maze District of Canyonlands N.P. lies below, beginning several miles from the cliffs and extending east to the Colorado and Green Rivers. Millard Canyon is the major drainage for the northern half of the Maze region. From the lookout here at the head of the canyon we can see along the first 8 miles of its length before it makes a jog in the distance and goes another 6 miles to the Green River’s Stillwater Canyon over the horizon. As side canyons go, Millard Canyon is immense, 1½ –2 miles wide for all of its length, and consistently 1200 feet deep. The walls in this area are smooth and vertical in their top half, while the bottom is a steep slope to the central wash. Even at its head where we were standing, which is an overhang, the canyon is its full width and depth. In fact, the head consists of three similar cul-de-sacs, each 2000′ across, and we can see only the one we’re standing in. The canyon walls on both sides undulate in and out countless times between here and the horizon, with a numerous deep side canyons breaking through on both sides. In addition to its breathtaking physical structure, the canyon displayed unusually lush vegetation at the bottom wherever it wasn’t too steep or rocky for plants.

I mused what it would be like standing in the end of this canyon, 1200′ below our feet. For a person to get there, he would first have to take the 4WD trail all the way to Anderson Bottom near the confluence of the canyon with the Green River, 65 miles of difficult four wheel driving from here, which is already 45 miles from the nearest paved road. Then he would have to hike up the canyon wash for its length of 14 miles, putting him at least three days away from any kind of help. There are few places in the continental U.S. so remote. Just getting a jeep to Anderson Bottom is a major logistical problem, because the range of a jeep’s gas tank, plus ten gallons reserve, is barely enough to make the round trip from the nearest gas station, and that is only if you get good mileage and make no side trips on the way. Anderson Bottom had been a goal of mine for years, because it was the farthest point in Canyon Country that you could get a vehicle from a paved road. Greenshit ’88 attempted, but failed when we ran out of gas. Greenshit ’94 got there by driving part of the way with two jeeps, Pequod and Great White, plus 20 gallons of extra fuel, and then taking just Pequod, with its larger-than-normal gas tank, the rest of the way.

After absorbing this view of Millard we had lunch back at the jeeps, and then returned to the ranger station to wait for the other guys, whom we expected to arrive at around 2 p.m. Within fifteen minutes we heard Ed talking on the radio, but as before, he couldn’t hear us. His first reported position was over 15 miles away. While waiting for them to arrive Terry was reading his newly purchased geology book and saw a reference to tar deposits along the trail to the Maze Overlook. The ranger kindly indicated on a map exactly where we could find them.

A half hour later Ed and Lou arrived. They didn’t hear us on the radio until they were within a couple of miles. They had refilled the water jugs, gas cans, and put 9 more blocks of ice in the cooler. They also bought some additional food items, a box of red wine (we had made a mistake earlier and bought too much white) and (surprise!) cigarettes for Mark. They talked the reluctant mechanic into plugging one of the two flat tires in the sidewall, but the other was hopelessly destroyed, so they purchased a $20 used tire to replace it. The round trip to Green River did not appear to be a major drain on their morale, but they did suffer severe disappointment that Pickles was not on duty at Ray’s. However they met the owner of the tavern who offered to hang our future “Greenshit ’95” T-shirt on his wall.

The bad news was that Great White’s brake warning light began to flash intermittently on the return from Green River. We found no brake fluid leaks around the wheels, and the reservoir was full, so we decided there was not much we could do about it.

With no loss of time, we continued south on the main road, here called the Flint Trail, parallel to the Orange Cliffs, past the ranger station and the Millard Canyon lookout. The road is rough 2WD, wandering from a few feet to a mile from the cliffs. Even though we couldn’t see much because of the trees, it was always obvious that there was a serious dropoff on our left. Although there are many nice overlooks from the cliffs along this stretch of road, we didn’t stop at all, because we had an estimated 2½ hours of four wheel driving to our campsite at the Maze Overlook, and the clouds to the southwest looked troubling. Although it was still sunny and hot, we were heading directly into one of those storm fronts that had been building around us for the last few days. For the first time this trip, Terry and I stopped Pequod to put up the windshield and bikini top and I put on a shirt. I suggested that the other people keep their raincoats handy, as you would not want to be rummaging through your duffel bag looking for your raincoat in a cloudburst.

After 14 miles along the top of the cliffs we reached the most famous part of the Flint Trail: the steep 4WD switchbacks that go literally down the wall of the cliffs. This is the only way to get past the Orange Cliffs. With a storm nearly upon us as we’re about to embark on our most serious descent of the trip, I was not thrilled to hear Lou on the radio, “Morrie, my brakes are getting lousy.”

The sky became ominously dark as we put our jeeps into 4L. The first crash of thunder came just as our jeeps angled down the precipitous traverse. In a way I was relieved to be descending, as I felt safer from lightning on the Flint Trail than I did on the top of the Orange Cliffs. Within five minutes, an intense downpour struck. So far, so good though, because the trail was in great condition—hard packed dirt and rocks— and despite its steepness, it was good traction with easy driving, even while wet.

On short descents it’s OK to control your speed by riding your brake, but on a long hill like this it’s necessary to use a low gear and keep your foot off the brake. Great White had to be especially careful not to overstress its brakes.

The trail was OK while it could still soak up the rain, but by the time we rounded the first switchback, the effects of the heavy downpour started to be noticeable. Little trickles of water began running down the trail and over the side. The traction was still good even where it was wet, but I was wondering how bad it could get if the trail got soaked enough. In the back of my mind, I had visions of losing all friction on the sand-turned-mud, sliding down out of control with wheels locked, off the end of a switchback, clinging to the roll bars, screaming, while free-falling into the canyon.

Impatient to get down the switchbacks before it rained much more, I tried to drive faster than the little creeks running down the road. Perhaps that way, I could keep ahead of the water. But since it was raining down below as much as it was up above, the pencil- thin trickles soon became raging fire hydrant gushers. Still, the jeeps held their traction, as the rain, thunder and lightning intensified.

The noise of the storm was frightening and deafening and the visibility was terrible. It was tremendously comforting to be in constant communication through our CB radios. We told the others about each obstacle we encountered, and they radioed back when they were safely clear. It was a huge relief knowing that we would not just keep driving if someone behind us got stuck.

Although the violence of the storm saturated my senses and distorted my perceptions, I think the Flint Trail has improved over the years. It was comfortably wide for a jeep, there was a welcome ridge of dirt along the downhill side, and only one of the switchbacks required a three-point turn. Nonetheless, about two thirds of the way down our hearts stopped as the tail of our jeep spun out around a switchback, even though we were going less than 1 m.p.h, because of the hard, slippery mud and the steepness of the trail. The other two jeeps, apparently, had the same experience. To make matters worse, Lou complained that Great White’s brakes were now making terrible noises. “What am I supposed to do about that?” I responded.

When we reached the bottom of the switchbacks, in an area called Flint Cove, I’m sure we were all relieved that sliding into the canyon was no longer an option. We could vaguely see through the mist that vertical walls of the Orange Cliffs surrounded us on three sides, and we were clearly below them. But there were still plenty of opportunities to slide off the trail into ditches as we continued through very rough, hilly terrain. Every little depression, from an animal track to a major gully, was a swollen river. Each time we came to the crest of a hill we held our breaths in apprehension, as the descent would invariably plunge us into a turbulent wash, as much as a foot deep and ten feet wide. My main fear was becoming hopelessly stuck in mud in one of these washes and having to abandon the jeep as the waters rose. Jeeps are very prone to bogging down in mud.

As intense as the driving conditions were, the worst part was the wind and temperature. A few minutes ago it was a balmy 95° with 10% humidity; now it was 65°, 75% and windy. Each bone-chilling gust blew a torrent of cold water into one side of the jeep or the other, soaking the driver on his left or the passenger on his right. Occasionally a blast of rain came completely through the jeep. To make matters worse, water collected on our the bikini top so that periodically as we turned a bucket of water would land in one of our laps. Our soft cloth seat covers that were so soothing in the hot sun were now saturated sponges. My crotch was soaked as I marinated in a tub of water pooling in the “bucket” seat.

At this point, Ed suggested over the radio that we needed to stop and put on warmer clothes, which was a relief because I thought I was the only cold person. For the first time on a Greenshit trip in the desert, I put on everything I had: my long Capilene underwear, heavy fleece shirt and jacket, long pants, hat, and Gore-Tex rain parka. This is more than what I usually wear on winter hikes. The clothes helped only a little, as everything got thoroughly soaked in no time. The two fingers of my left hand, fully exposed to the elements as I held the steering wheel, became ghost white and numb, so I let Terry drive while I spent the next half hour with my fingers in my mouth trying to warm them up. By exchanging passenger and driver, we each got a chance to soak the opposite sides of our bodies.

It was over an hour since we left the top of the Flint Trail and the rain was not letting up. We had only traveled a small fraction of the distance to the campsite. The wind was strengthening, the temperature was dropping, and each wash we crossed was more fearsome. I counted as little as two seconds between the lightning and thunder, meaning that it was striking within 2000′—much closer to us than the Orange Cliffs we just left.

Reaching Flint Cove did not mean the end of the major descent. The last half hour of rough driving took us along the length of a peninsula, and all peninsulas must come to an end. We soon came to the edge of a very steep incline off the peninsula to the true “bottom,” the Elaterite Basin several hundred feet further down. It was probably good that the visibility was too poor for us to see all the way down, as the trail descended in a straight line, disappearing into the mist, with two rivers of water where tire tracks should be. Remarkably, the jeeps held their course.

Finally we reached the basin and were safe, right? Well, the other guys didn’t know this, but the worst was yet to come. I didn’t want to scare anyone, but I knew that at least a half mile of the trail ahead runs right down the bottom of Big Water Canyon, the major drainage in this area. All the water raining on the Flint Trail, collecting in Flint Cove, and inundating the peninsula, was channeling into that canyon. Fortunately, for my sanity, I didn’t remember the name “Big Water” at the time.

Our first contact with the canyon was a wash crossing. It was a turbulent river, completely flooding its twenty-foot width, but I estimated that it was less than a foot deep and the banks were not steep or muddy. My vague recollection (perhaps it was just a hope) was that this trail does not travel in any part of the wash that has a mud bottom. As long as the ground underneath was slickrock or pebbles, I reasoned we would not get stuck.

We plunged into the wash with a big splash and then easily out the other side. Our knuckles were white but the jeeps didn’t know it. It’s amazing how scary six inches of water can look when it’s rushing at 30 m.p.h. We were proud of this accomplishment, but it was just a prelude. We soon followed this with several more wash crossings, each more intense as the rain continued and additional rivers added to the flow. Somewhere between the crossings cautious Ed suggested on the radio that we stop and wait out the storm, because our agonizingly slow pace would not get us to the campsite for several hours, well after dark. I was opposed to this, on the grounds that we would be far more miserable shivering here all night in the rain than we would be pushing ahead, so we had nothing to lose by going on. I figured that the only good time to stop would be when we got stuck.

Finally we came to that dreaded point where the trail dipped into the wash and did not come out the other side. The wash was now huge, at least fifty feet across, running down a shallow canyon with ten foot walls. If I had not been here several times before, I would have decided this was the place to give up. There was no visible way up the other side, and since the wash was a wall-to-wall flood, there was no way to tell where in the water to drive, or even whether to go upstream or downstream. There was the possibility of missing the spot where the trail comes back out, driving too far down the canyon, and ending up at the lip of a pouroff with the prospect of having to back out— against the current. One false move over a hidden underwater ledge, and we’d be stuck for sure, bottomed out, rocking on the ledge as the water rose.

But I recalled from drier times that the bottom was pretty flat and easy driving, and I continued to believe in my heart that the park service would not designate the trail down a wash that was made of mud. I closed my mind to the fact that there are other park trails in the Needles District, like the Salt Creek Trail, that are often closed due to quicksand after a rain. I was also convinced, looking at the walls of the canyon, that the water never got much higher than this.

When I told Terry to plunge in and turn downstream in the middle of the river, I’m sure the others thought I had lost my mind. Leaving a wake behind us and huge sheets of water splashing at our sides, I told the others with false confidence that I knew this trail like the back of my hand. Driving in the water, sometimes as fast as it was flowing, was fun in a way. The water averaged about a foot deep, and the bottom was smooth and hard—not bumpy boulders that you often find in washes—and most importantly, there was no mud. Around one corner we came to large ripples and then two foot standing waves. Clearly there were hidden rocks and ledges under here, but we just drove around them where the water was smoothest— much like you do when white water rafting. In fact, it felt exactly like rafting. It was exhilarating, but terrifying. By now the rain was slowing down, but we remained wet and cold, and each blast of wind chilled us more.

With great relief, I saw the obvious trail angling up the other side of the wash, and it was an easy drive up. At the top, the trail remained parallel to the rim of the little canyon about ten feet above the water, so we could look down and witness the extreme violence below, with rocks, waterfalls and three foot standing waves. I remarked that we got out of that river just in time. But within seconds Terry cried “Oh no!” as we arrived at yet another crossing. Ahead was a very steep drop down a 20′ bank heading directly into the 30′ wide river, with an equally steep bank up the other side. The water looked like it was ten feet deep with a 50 m.p.h. current.

With our jeep perched on top of the descent, I decided, alas, that I needed to check it out on foot. I took off my sandals (so I wouldn’t lose them in the river), my long johns and long pants, and put on my shorts. My pants were already as wet as possible, but I wanted bare legs to minimize friction with the water. Carefully I stepped into the water. The bottom was solid rock, which was good, but the strong current pushed me downstream with each step even where it was very shallow. As the water rose to my knees I had to take tiny steps to avoid falling over. My concentration was on maintaining my balance, but my thoughts were of tumbling helplessly down the river slamming against the rocks and over the next waterfall. If the water had been two inches deeper, that might have been my fate.

I reached the other side without incident, no wetter than when I started. I decided the approach for the jeeps would be to use moderate, but not extreme speed. Too slow risked getting stuck on the steep slope up the other side, and too fast risked losing control on the plunge in. I had been in worse river crossings: the Dirty Devil river on Greenshit ’84 was a 200′ crossing in water above the floorboards. It would have taken much faster and higher water than this to push our CJ’s down the river. They will not float because their floors are full of holes, and the water here wasn’t high enough to reach the floor anyway. But the other guys didn’t know this and they were worried. I yelled instructions to Terry and ran up the bank to watch. Terry revved up, plowed across with a mountainous splash, and sped up the other side without missing a beat. The others exactly duplicated this maneuver while I took pictures.

High and dry (well, high, anyway) I told everyone that this should be the last stressful event of the ride. It took us another hour and a half in cold wind and drizzle on the flats of Elaterite Basin to get to the Maze Overlook campsite. It was a fast drive, because the rain was subsiding and the trail was easy. The last 10 miles of the trail to the tip of the overlook was on extremely level ground as it made a big arc halfway around the cloud-enshrouded Elaterite Butte a mile to our right. This 1500′ high mountain is a major landmark visible for many miles. To the left is the deep Horse Canyon, the overhung edge of which we approached a couple of times along the trail. I knew there were several nice views along this stretch, but we pressed on as nobody was in the mood to stop. Because this last hour was so uneventful, I was getting particularly cold and starting to shiver, which worried me because I didn’t have any more clothes to wear.

The campground has only three sites and was, of course, deserted. We pulled into our assigned site #2 that is right on the lip of the overlook above the Maze, but despite the fantastic view the only thing in our minds was setting up the tents. Lou, shaking uncontrollably, said that all he wanted was to crawl into his sleeping bag. We were soaked to the bone, it was still windy and drizzling, the temperature was down to 60°, and the humidity was 96%. It did not look like the sun was going to come out any more this evening, we weren’t going to dry off tonight, and for all we knew another big storm could hit. The six of us collaborated to quickly set up Lou’s tent followed by my tent. Setting up required all six people because the wind was threatening to blow everything into the canyon. As is true almost everywhere in Canyon Country, tent stakes are useless due to the impenetrable sandstone inches below the surface, so we lashed the tents to nearby shrubs and boulders. In conditions like this it is essential to have a modern, freestanding tent, where stakes and guy lines aren’t needed for structural support, but are only used to keep it from blowing away.

After erecting the tents, as we rummaged through our soaked bags looking for dry things to throw inside, Ed let out several anguished “Shit! Dammit!” yells of disgust: his sleeping bag was drenched because he forgot to put it in his waterproof bag. One thing I always harp on is that you should always, by default, pack your things in waterproof bags, whether or not you expect rain. By the time you realize that a storm is going to hit, things are so hectic that you forget what needs to be protected.

Smugly, I pulled out my sleeping bag which I always keep in its waterproof stuffsack: it was sopping! This was my wettest storm, and I now learned that the waterproof stuffsack I had been using for the last five or six Greenshits was not so waterproof. The stuffsack was old technology, and the seams leaked like sieves. Neither my bag nor Ed’s were totally useless, but portions of both were wet enough so that you could wring water from them. In addition, Ed found that his poncho had a tear, but this problem was easily remedied with a little duct tape.

By the time we finished cursing our stuffsacks and tossing our few remaining dry things in the tents, none of us were cold anymore. It was still drizzling, we were just as wet as ever, and it was just as cold and windy, but the modest exertion of the last few minutes warmed us up. It then occurred to me that 60° is not really so cold. It sure felt cold compared to the 110° of the last six days, and I know that it is possible to become hypothermic at 60° when wet, but it takes only a little exertion to keep warm at that temperature. Unless you’re so exhausted that you can’t move, this is not a bad temperature for most outdoor activities. In fact, despite being wet, we were now all quite comfortable and gung ho for dinner. Nobody even ventured into the tents we set up with such urgency.

We coincidentally had parked two of the jeeps next to each other at the right distance so that we could pull a tarp between them to make a protected eating and cooking area. We set up a table, chairs and stove under the tarp, and while we stood around in our raincoats, warming our innards with cognac, Lou cooked his one-pot meal, Risotto (Italian for “rice again”). Like most of our meals this trip, it took forever to prepare, this time because the hot propane would burn the food onto the pan if we turned it up high enough to properly cook the rice.

Our patience wore out before the water was absorbed, but the hot, soupy dish was perfect for this cold evening. The heat was particularly welcome to poor Lou, who got re-soaked when the pool of water collecting on the bikini top of one of the jeeps broke loose to re-drench his back. After dinner, around sunset, it finally stopped drizzling and the sky cleared near the horizon so that we could see the last light of dusk. It was a beautiful violet and magenta sliver of sky below the clouds.

I often comment that each Greenshit trip has one near-death experience, usually having to do with weather, jeeps falling off cliffs, or logistical blunders like running out of water or getting trapped on a climb. Lou asked if today’s storm would qualify. While in the throes of the experience I didn’t think so, but on second thought I realized that there were numerous opportunities to die: drowning, hypothermia, and falling off the cliff. Each time I survive a Greenshit expedition, my threshold of what constitutes “near-death” goes up—if this had happened on Greenshit #1 there would be no doubt that today qualified. Therefore, as measured on the normalized Greenshit Richter scale, today’s near-death quotient was comfortably within the acceptable range, unless something happens to us later this trip to usurp the lead.

I could not handle a night in a wet sleeping bag, but I solved the problem by lining my bag with a waterproof nylon tarp, so it felt just like I was in a nylon sleeping bag. My ground pad was waterproof, and there was enough insulation left in the bag to keep me warm and comfortable all night.

In retrospect, I was amazed at how much and how long it rained. I had seen intense desert storms that lasted a half hour or an hour, but not three hours like this. The yearly precipitation here is ten inches and we must have gotten three of them today. It is possible, though, that we were just unlucky because our trail took us in the same direction that the storm was moving. Storms here tend to move very slowly, about the speed of a jeep on a 4WD trail. Perhaps the storm only lasted a half hour at any given point, but simply followed us as we drove east toward the campsite. If I had been able to anticipate this somehow, it would have been a good idea to wait it out after all.