DEATH VALLEY AND ELSEWHERE
May 2006
It was the end of May approaching Memorial Day weekend and I chose then to leave on a road trip I had been meaning to do for some time. Nice thinking to leave into a holiday weekend. Considering rising gasoline prices I shelved my idea of going to Eureka and Saline Valleys north and west of Death Valley. I just gave up, figuring on going to the coast staying closer to home. Yet as my time to leave grew nearer I pulled my original plan down from the shelf and said “Gasoline prices be damned, I’m going”.
Sinbad and I left home on a Tuesday at eight A.M. hoping to avoid any commuter traffic. It was nice to be on the road again in the easier to drive Isuzu Trooper but I soon found myself just not into the trip as much as I thought I would be. There seemed to be a pattern developing here with road trips and me and it was very disconcerting. Maybe all there is to it was the fact that when I was working, the chance to get away and go somewhere was so much more appreciated, but being retired now every day is like a holiday for me.
Four and half hours later we were at the junction of Highways 89 and 50 just on the outskirts of South Lake Tahoe. I decided to fill up the tank at a nearby Chevron–eleven gallons at $3.60 per gallon. I guess I could have went on but the fear of running out of gas always is a bother with me not having any auxiliary fuel tanks as I did with the Land Rovers. I needed to know the Isuzu Trooper better. Up Hwy 89 through Luther Pass, Markleville and Monitor Pass then down out of the High Sierras on the eastern side. This is beautiful country and I always enjoy this route. I turned south onto Hwy 395 probably my favorite highway in the state if not the entire country. Forty miles further I rolled into Bridgeport, a small quiet little town with not a sandwich place to be found. Oh I’m sure there had to have been at least one somewhere but I wasn’t really trying very hard. I was just not into it for some reason. I chanced upon a diner advertising ‘Homemade Mexican Food’. Well the burrito was okay, but “homemade”? Not in the sense I was used to around home. I should have known better so far away from the border without a Mexican to be found for miles around. Still as I sat outside in the warm sun sharing my burrito with a blackbird, I really appreciated how peaceful and quiet this little town was. No traffic noise, no Harleys, no sirens, no dogs barking; it was like Heaven.
Sixteen miles further down the road was the turnoff to Bodie Ghost Town but I decided to save that for a return trip as I had been there several times before, and my wife wasn’t with me. Perhaps this is part of my problem−it’s not quite the same exploring around without her to share in my adventures. I moved on to Mono Lake and turned on Cemetery Road along the north shore stopping at the County Park. This lush green little oasis later on in the trip will prove to be a very useful piece of information to have and a lifesaver. I walked out on the newly constructed boardwalk noticing how everything was in good repair with informative signs all the way to the shoreline. It was not how I remembered it from years ago−a battered weather-beaten walkway a hundred yards from the water. The designating of Mono Lake and its surrounding area as a National Scenic Area by the National Forest Service showed. The slowly rising water level too was apparent after the State Water Resources Board ruling years ago for the City of Los Angeles to restore the water level of the lake to the level as it was in 1964. It is estimated that ten to fifteen years from now this goal will be met.
I drove out the road a few miles further to Black Point off onto a gravel road. Here I could see the two islands, Negit and Paoha, which once again are “islands” made so by the slowly rising lake level. Years ago there was a land bridge to these islands providing access for predators (coyote) to the migratory bird nesting areas. Now the birds and their chicks are safe once again, hopefully forever. I was tired, had a headache and needed to find a campsite for the night. I drove around to the south shore then on out a four-wheel drive road where I had camped in the past with the Land Rovers. At eight P.M. the sun was down but it was still light out. I called it a day and hoped for a good night’s sleep with no more headaches.
It was so cold that night and I had to dig out my sweatpants and stocking cap while not wanting to get out of the warm sleeping bag to do so. Thankfully the headache was gone. I had discovered that the batteries were dead in my flashlight and realized also I did not have a back-up can of fuel for the stove. Why don’t I think to check on these things at home? A very peaceful and quiet morning greeted me at dawn. Not even a hint of a breeze. This is what it is all about and why I take these road trips I reminded myself. Yet in the Trooper I’m faced with the all too evident fact that I needed some organization, more space, less crap or a combination of all three. Its moments like this I missed the 109 (1967 Land Rover).
In Lee Vining I bought two batteries (later I discovered the flashlight took three−whoever would design a flashlight to take an odd number of AAA batteries?) and a spare can of propane. I toured the visitor center and one other store, but just went through the motions of doing so. I was simply not into it. Why? What’s with me? In the visitor center I overheard the young lady suggest to a couple of guys that the mini-mart store at the Mobile station was a good place to get food to-go. It was ten A.M. and I could use something myself so I drove up the hill on the closed Tioga Pass Road and found the two guys already there. I picked out a Monster Lemon Muffin pre-packaged in Anaheim, CA, (how long has this muffin been on the road) and ordered a sandwich to go from the deli.
“I’ll have a turkey on whole wheat to go please.” In a couple minutes I received my sandwich, split open at the top, packed with turkey and a slice of provolone laid across the top, all tightly wrapped up in Saran Wrap. “The sandwiches come dry,” the young lady advised me as I stared at what would be my lunch later. “You can find the condiments over there.” ‘Over there’ were a couple of bins with packets of mayo, mustard and catsup. By this time I not only realized this sandwich would have to be eaten like a tostado, but there was no way to get these condiments in the sandwich without destroying the thing (later I noticed on my receipt a separate charge of one cent for ‘to-go’!). I sat outside and ate my Monster Muffin enjoying the wonderful view of Mono Lake with more peace and quiet as an added bonus. A sign posted on the lawn read: PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE GULLS. ENCOURAGE THEM TO EAT THEIR NATURAL FOOD. Good point. A similar sign should be posted on the door warning customers of Whoa Nellie’s Deli.
Back on the road I enjoyed the drive down to Big Pine. This is where I had planned to gas up and head east into Eureka Valley and the unknown beyond. Concerned about running out of gas, I brought along my five-gallon GI can. For miles and miles now, and even early on in the planning stages at home, I contemplated whether I would need to bring extra gasoline or not. I eventually decided I should be okay but since I had the can along I decided to put in three gallons of ‘insurance’. I wanted to do a test also to see how the fuel can rode inside−any fumes?−and let it sit on its side in the sun at camp, to see if it would leak at the filler cap in the event I wanted to carry a gas can lying down up on the roof rack.
Once on the Eureka Valley Road the first twenty-five miles was paved. I had forgotten this thinking the entire road was gravel. The next eighteen miles was a well-graded gravel road all the way to the sand dunes. This was very nice compared to the teeth rattling washboard road I remembered from the last time out here in the 1967 Land Rover 109. It was so bad then that the winch lever vibrated free and is probably still lying on Eureka Valley road somewhere to this day. I reasoned since this is all National Park land now that money is available to keep the road well maintained.
At the Eureka Sand Dunes I found one guy in a white van in a newly established camp area and a mile away at the end of the road another fellow in a tent. I set up my camp midway between the two. Although it was not hot air temperature wise, the sun was intense so I set up a shade structure, a first with the Trooper. It went up fine and I stood back to admire my creation. I opened a beer to celebrate then sat down in my shade to enjoy the quiet afternoon writing up my notes. A few flies were buzzing around pestering me and this was about all the animal life to be seen. Yet the landscape was a minefield of little burrow holes everywhere, many of them caving in under foot as you walked about. I sat my notebook down on the table to review the map when a big gust of wind flipped the notebook up spilling my full bottle of beer all over me. Why? Why all on me and not off in any other direction? It couldn’t have done any worse. The flies now were concentrating on the free beer on my soaked pants. As it dried on my legs and feet it became a sticky mess and I couldn’t stand it any longer. I stood up, stripped down and rinsed my pants out the best I could. They should dry quickly in this heat. I rinsed off my legs, feet and clip clops and while I was waiting for everything to dry I went for a walk out to the dunes in my underwear.
By the time I returned to camp the sun was setting low on the horizon behind a line of thin wispy clouds. The heat was over for the day and I tore down my shade creation. While doing this, the guy in the white van came by. He and his dog Blue were from Nashville, Tennessee. His van had at least eight antennas jutting skyward from the roof rack. He had all the appearances of being a storm chaser so I just had to ask. It turned out it was just into ham radio stuff. He and Blue had been on the road for three weeks and were ready to head for home after meeting up with a friend in Bishop. I had to ask another question−did he live out of the van all the time on the road? He confessed that two-thirds of the time was spent in motels, usually Motel Six which will take dogs.
Dinner for the night was something new for me. I had brought along several packets of the freeze-dried backpacker’s food by Mountain House. First up on the menu was Sweet & Sour Pork in Rice. It proved to be very easy to prepare, no mess to clean up afterwards and best of all, surprisingly quite tasty. I was impressed. I was already looking forward to dinner for the next night. Maybe the days of Dinty Moore stew, tamales in a can, and Chef Boy-R-Dee Spaghetti O’s were over.
Thursday morning I woke after a good night’s sleep. I felt much better and more into the program. As in the past it seems it takes a couple days to find my groove for life on the road. Still this doesn’t take away from the fact that living out of the Trooper was work compared to how I remembered it in the 109. I squared things away in the truck and moved down by the pit toilet to eat my morning cereal and take care of business. I was now ready for a nice drive to the Racetrack.
At the junction of the main road I found the road again to be paved as it wound its way up through Hanging Canyon. Once the road spit me out of the canyon it instantly deteriorated to how I remembered it from years ago−a horrible bone-jarring washboard instrument of torture. As I suffered along I wondered how I did this in the 109, as being in the Trooper was bad enough. After a few miles I saw the reason for the poor road conditions. The county road grader was parked off road. The crew was working their way up the canyon from the other side and this was as far as they had progressed before knocking off for the holiday weekend. Beyond the grader was just a slight improvement in road conditions. They still had more work to do. I rounded a downhill turn and square in my path was a watermelon size boulder and there was no stopping or avoiding it. Wham! Bam! as it rolled beneath the undercarriage.
I was instantly sick at my stomach. I skidded to a stop twenty feet beyond and climbed out to look underneath fearing the worst. Miraculously there was no oil or transmission fluid spilling out onto the ground. I looked at the front differential and saw no damage. I then noticed the point of impact on a cross member. It was on a direct line, a narrow path between the front diff and oil pan with less than an inch to spare to either side of what otherwise would have been disastrous results. But there had been a second hit somewhere in the back. The rear diff looked good too but I couldn’t find where the boulder had made contact. [Later at home I found the second impact off to the side on a skid plate] Then it had rolled into the exhaust system leaving a noticeable dent. I contemplated the thought of the exhaust having been ripped apart. Although everything appeared okay this didn’t take away the nausea and shaking I was experiencing as I stood there in silence. The more time I had to think about what could have been, the worse I felt. I was over fifty miles away from the nearest point of any assistance notwithstanding the cost that would be involved to bring a tow truck all the way out there and then the repair work needed in a non-descript little town on Hwy 395, even if there were such a facility that could handle the repair. All the while these thoughts were running through my mind I took pictures and went about moving the boulder out of the way of the next unfortunate soul that happened by, probably days from now. When I went to move the rock it instantly became apparent this was no ordinary rock. It had a ringing sound to it as if it was of steel or iron, not the dull sound of an ordinary rock. If I had the room I would have brought it home with me; it was that odd.
I drove on slowly still shaken from this near disaster and began to question my plans for the Racetrack and beyond into Saline Valley. I had a few more close calls with similar sized boulders left in the roadway by the grader and a couple skidding incidents which I imagined would have sent me off over the side into a ditch. I kept telling myself I had no business being out here alone. Finally I was into the broad flat expanse of Death Valley proper when I saw a snake in the road. I had both feet on the brake and I was still not stopping. I thought a brake line had been broken from the accident. Finally the Trooper skidded to a stop. Evidently it was just the marbles I was driving on that prevented any normal braking action. I went back to take pictures of a not too happy gopher snake. He was hissing, bluffing and striking out at me. At least this wonderful diversion took my mind off of the watermelon rock incident and I settled down some at last. On the move once again I decided the condition of Racetrack Road would dictate my plans.
The washboard road was hell even in the Trooper. The noise, the rattling about, the vibration, all was overwhelming. Finally I reached the junction of Hwy 190 at the north end of Death Valley. Scotty’s Castle was to the left six miles, Ubehebe Crater and the Racetrack Road to the right two miles. I had planned on lunch at Scotty’s before venturing out to the unknown but decided to turn right and check road conditions first. On Racetrack Road the first few hundred yards told me the story for the next twenty-seven miles, constant Class A washboard, just as I remembered it from all the other times I had been on it. There was no change, no improvement and I knew it’d only get worse. That’s it. I’ve been there, I’ve seen it and I’ve had enough of getting abused and thrown about on these roads. I stopped, made a three-point turnaround and drove out up to the top of Ubehebe Crater. I had the place all to the hurricane-like wind and myself. Sinbad wanted no part of it. I felt good about my decision, as I’ve had enough ‘adventure’ for one day. I did not want to think about what may lie in store for me the next several days of poor condition dirt roads miles from nowhere. “Let’s be play it safe Sinbad.”
Up at Scotty’s Castle there were only a few cars; practically not a soul to be seen and I had the cool shaded green grassy picnic area to myself for lunch. Sinbad enjoyed the cool grass to munch on when I wasn’t looking. It was now on to Stovepipe Wells and out of the Valley. Death Valley has always been bad juju for me. One time the brakes failed coming down from Stovepipe Wells. Another time a timing chain gear broke at Wildrose Canyon. Both incidents were with my first Land Rover, a 1971 Series 88. Nearly every time I’ve been here some misfortune had taken place. Back in the Trooper I enjoyed a leisurely drive down the Valley all the while thinking I’m not ever coming back again. Why should I? I’ve seen it all many times before, I always have bad experiences here, and the Park Service had just charged me $20 only to do a drive through!
At Stovepipe Wells there were only one other car and one RV with their generator running their air conditioner. After I parked a beautiful pale yellow BMW 1200 motorcycle pulled in. The rider went inside the store to buy an ice cream. I needed a bag of ice, briefly looked at all the souvenir crap and then walked back out into the 110-degree heat. I said goodbye to Death Valley (maybe for good) and started the long pull up the Panamint Range towards Wildrose camp.
Midway up this road is a shady rest area where one can cool down their car and top off the radiator. There in the shade was parked a red, white & blue painted Mercedes expedition type truck. It had huge knobby truck tires, stood what seemed over three feet off the ground, complete with a cab-over roof rack, cargo carriers, off-road lights, a covered motorcycle on the back, and lettering up front: ALEMANIA GERMANY. The couple were in their mid to late forties. He was lying on the bench of the picnic table in the shade while the pre-maturely grey woman read the Death Valley Gazette at the table. I discreetly took a couple of pictures neither of the two taking any notice of me. I felt I had to say something.
“I’m sorry and I don’t mean to bother you, but I had to take a picture of your truck for this friend of mine who lives in Boston. He’d love this.” I rambled on. “I know what it’s like. I had Land Rovers for over twenty years and people were constantly pestering me about them. It became so bad that I sold my ‘67 109 a couple years ago and bought this.” The lady in her German accent said “No problem”, nothing more. The guy never raised an eyelash. Some would think they were rude but I understood completely and could well imagine the attention they drew having most likely driven this monster all the way across the country.
From previous trips I knew that Wildrose Campground was fully exposed to the sun so I decided to press on to the higher elevations of Thorndike or Mahogany campgrounds, which have shade from the Pinion Pine and Juniper trees. It is a steady seven-mile long grade on a paved road to the charcoal kilns past Wildrose. At this point it gets steeper and rougher. The Trooper started to skeeter about so I shifted into four-wheel drive. After three miles of being thrown about I reached Thorndike Campground and saw it to be empty. I drove on three more miles to the top of the mountain where Mahogany Flat Campground stood all the while being bounced around with gear clanging about in back. I guess I am getting old because I found myself getting tired of the rough roads very easily. The Trooper did a great job though and at the top the first car I see was a late-model Mustang convertible. How did that get here? I wondered out loud. Most likely someone drove it not complaining about the rough road as they did. Four-wheel drive, who needs four-wheel drive? It is moments like this I considered selling the Trooper, buying a mini-van and taking up golf. But the discomfort and humiliation was worth it with the spectacular view from 8133 feet elevation all the way down to the Valley floor at Badwater 280 feet below sea level. There were quite a few campers there so I bounced back down to Thorndike sniveling all the way.
With camp set up it soon became apparent why I had this camp all to myself−the flies. The campground should be re-named Fly Campground. There were flies at the Eureka Sand Dunes although not as many as there were here. What in God’s name do they have to live and breed off of here other than the pit toilets? This was what I thought about as I watched one walk around the rim of my beer bottle. It had been a drama-filled day. I was tired and the flies eventually drove me inside the Trooper long before dark. Incidentally the Mountain House freeze-dried meat lasagna that evening was very good.
Friday morning began my fourth day on the road and it felt like I had been out twice as long. I had a restless night and was spent. When I climb inside the Trooper each night I would sit there for awhile looking about studying my plan to move crap around, get undressed and crawl in the sack while keeping in mind the morning, setting things where I would be able to find them when I awoke. I was tired of the work involved and was constantly reminding myself that I don’t remember it being like this in the 109. Maybe I am just getting too old for this sort of thing too.
I had woke up at seven A.M. and planned to be rolling by eight thinking I’d be out of there before the flies woke up. I wasn’t. I decided to move down to Wildrose Campground and have my cereal while enjoying the morning sun. As soon as I started the vehicle the CHECK TRANS light began flashing. Why? I don’t need this to start my day off with! I shut off the engine, re-started and the light remained off. Cautiously I drove down the hill to Wildrose. There I checked the fluids, ate breakfast, took care of morning duties all in the glorious sunshine, with no flies.
We continued on Hwy 190 towards Lone Pine leaving Death Valley and all its issues behind me. I noticed on the map I would be going by Darwin and remembered an article I had read long ago about this little town off the main road and the nearby Darwin Falls. Having seen pictures of these falls I had always wanted to see them in person. I nearly missed the unmarked road just past Panamint Springs. I backed up on the highway and turned onto the poorly maintained dirt road. Washboard! Why did it have to be washboard? After seven miles of this I came to the parking area just as a young girl was pulling out in her Toyota Corolla. We slowed down as we passed each other and I asked her if the water had been turned on yet for the day. She told me it was flowing well. She went on to inform me that once at the base of the falls if I climb up the left side, traverse over and continue on a little further I’ll be treated to an even better sight with a fern-filled canyon and a better waterfall. “It’ll involve a bit up scrambling,” she warned. In a vain attempt to impress a young lady of the adventurous abilities of this old man I replied that I was up for some scrambling. She then said there were two guys there now and with a “have a nice day” we parted.
After a half hour hike along a broad rock and boulder strewn riverbed I reached Darwin Falls and was smacked in the face with the revealing fact−the waterfall looked just like I remembered it in the picture except it was only about twelve feet high and never really fell. It was just two small rivulets of water gliding down a rock face. Pictures can be deceiving. Still it was lush and shady at the base around a shallow pool hidden among the trees, plants and reeds. The water was clear, clean and cold. There was none of the usual human detritus; in fact I had not seen any litter at all along the entire trail. The two guys were not there so I figured they had moved on up to this other area the girl had told me about. In little time I had seen all there was to be seen there so went about seeking this route to the upper falls.
To the right of the falls was a sheer rock wall so I could see what she meant by going up to the left. The rock surface although dry was polished smooth by years of water flowing over it. I was facing a climb equal in height to the falls with narrow hand and footholds. I studied the route, thought about it, and then took my first few tentative steps with the sun bearing down and streams of sweat equaling Darwin Falls itself pouring from my body. After about a four-foot climb I sat down and reviewed what I had just covered which from this new vantage point looked about eight feet. Then I looked up at what I had yet to cover. My second revelation of the day then came to me: it was very clear to me that I was no longer the adventurous, agile, risk-taking hiker that I had once been in my younger days. I no longer felt having the sure footedness and confidence I always did in the past. I knew going up is always easier than coming down. I was out here all by myself once again, with absolutely no business attempting to do what I was doing. A simple slip would surely result in an injury that I did not even want to consider. At least with age comes wisdom for I had the maturity of mind and common sense to not climb any further, abort the mission and retreat, nervously and unsteady as an old man on the front steps of a rest home. I soaked my shirt in the pool of cool water, took one last look at Darwin Falls then sad, dejected, disillusioned, demoralized and broken-hearted I hiked back to the trailhead. I beat myself up all the way thinking how unfair it was that at this stage in my life when I had the freedom and desire to do everything I’ve always wanted only I now did not have the skill, agility or courage to do them in these advanced years. Getting old sucked!
I stopped the Trooper at the junction of ‘washboard road’ and the parking area. To the right was eight miles of rough Four-Wheel Drive Recommended road to the town of Darwin. That had been my plan. I turned left back to the highway and moped the fifteen miles of smooth paved highway to town. I wonder what those mini-vans cost?
Darwin though was a nice detraction for my low self-esteem. It had all the appearances of a ghost town except people do actually live there, all forty of them. I only saw two and they never raised their heads to watch me pass by. No stores, no services, no nothing of any kind. Just a lot of run-down derelict houses with junk (or maybe it was ‘art’) strewn about in yards. If one ever wanted to drop out of society or hide from the law, this was the place. I walked around, took a few pictures then left the town of Darwin to its loneliness.
I drove on to Hwy 395 and aimed north for the White Mountains. I filled up with gas in Independence and felt I should call my wife to let her know I was okay and ahead of schedule. But just as I was reading the directions on the pay telephone some asshat pulled in to get gas with his rap music blasting leaving it on all the while filling up. That’s it, I’m out of here.
At the edge of town I pulled into a county park to clean the mess I had made of washing the windshield while at the service station. It was a nice park, with large shade trees being torn apart by the strong wind coming down off of the Sierras. A small shallow stream flowed through the park. I took advantage of this refreshing feature and proceeded to soak and clean my feet but this didn’t last long. The ice melt water from the mountains was freezing cold to my feet. Sinbad enjoyed getting out sniffing around but stayed clear of the stream. He doesn’t like bodies of water. I continued on to Big Pine then retraced my track east from earlier in the week on State Route 168 to the Bristlecone Pine Forest.
Everything had changed from when we were here many years ago. There was now a nice visitor center at Schulman Grove complete with boardwalks, interpretive signs and the usual array of souvenirs to be had. I paid the $2.50 entry fee and almost felt like asking the young blond Ranger lady with the translucent silver-grey eyes, why so cheap?
Back outside I found the air invigorating at this 10,100 foot altitude and immediately started off on the four and half mile Methuselah Trial leading to the oldest tree, over forty-six hundred years old. A hundred yards into the hike I asked myself what was I thinking? It was late in the day, I was tired and hungry, plus I had just learned earlier in the day how incompetent I now am in the wilderness. I stepped aside to allow a couple coming towards me pass by. They were in their mid-thirties. I asked the attractive blond wearing a straw hat if they had just walked the entire trial. She said yes and as her husband carrying a daypack came by he added, “Yeah, we hiked here from the campground so now we’re going to try to thumb a ride back. Don’t feel like walking the five miles back down the road to camp.” I really don’t think I said anything in reply. I probably just had a dumb look about myself with my mouth hanging open. I let them get out of sight before I turned around and followed their tracks back to the visitor center. I took the one-mile Discovery Walk then drove back down the road to the campground taking note before I left that the center and nearby Nature Trial were both ‘handicapped accessible’. Good to know for when I return.
That evening I set up a minimal camp expecting to depart for home early in the morning. Just how early I did not know at the time. I had another restless night waking for good at two-thirty A.M. I gave up going back to sleep, crawled out of the sleeping bag, put on my clothes, placed the water jug and ice chest inside and quietly drove away at three A.M. in the morning. Right away I was having fun for driving at night is always a pleasure for me and it was comforting to have my little buddy by my side. We reached the little Veteran’s Memorial Park on Hwy 395 outside of Big Pine an hour later and took time to eat some cereal and brew another cup of coffee. By the time we hit Lee Vining at five-thirty A.M. a bathroom was in dire need. Fortunately I had discovered that little County Park on the north shore when we first came through here four days ago. The only question now as matters were reaching critical mass, was could I make it in time and were those bathrooms open twenty-four hours? Thank goodness they were and I was now ready for a pleasant drive through the Sierras and on home.
With the morning sun rising in my rearview mirror I turned onto Hwy 89 and began the climb up to Monitor Pass. Approaching Markleeville I had to take a double look through the windshield−snowflakes! That’s kinda neat I thought, but kind of neat turned into not so neat a few miles further on. The temperature dropped, the wind picked up and a barrage of snowflakes slammed into the windshield. I looked off the side of the road to campers in their tents along the Carson River and smiled imaging what they might be thinking waking up to this.
Past Markleeville the snow was building up on the road and visibility became poorer. I was following the track of one car that had passed through earlier and had one car following close behind me. At Pickets Junction I pulled off to the side to let him pass, slipped the Trooper into four-wheel drive and began the climb up Luther Pass. Now I was seeing