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Rattlesnake
Valley to Hiker's Oasis |
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April 28, 2010 I expected it to be a clear, sunny morning. I expected calm winds with blue skies overhead after what we had hiked into the day before. We awoke to the tarp thrashing at 5:30am, the winds worse than ever. In fact, the speed of gusts we experienced the night before were now sustained along with even more powerful gusts. In a bit of a panic, we packed up fast as I wanted to get down into the canyon soon. We left our hiding spot in a storm that blew the clouds horizontally, soaking us within minutes while blowing us all over the trail; into bushes, cacti and rocks. We could not see more than 30 feet in front of us. It was the worst conditions I have ever hiked in. I worried about how Amber was doing, but when I asked, she seemed fine with it all; what a trooper. We stumbled our way along the ridge before finally intersecting the road leading down to Chariot Canyon. Once down, we set up the tarp and took a long nap while the storm raged on far above us.
The clouds soon scattered and the sun made an appearance. We took this as a good omen, but it was all for not. Winds picked up in our canyon, ripping out stakes and sending gear in every direction. We hesitantly decided to leave our canyon and pray for the best. I did not take any pictures because I couldn't. The wind was simply horrific. As we plodded along, the wind would grab our packs and spin us 180 degrees before throwing us into cacti and rocks; better than the 400+ foot fall awaiting on the opposite side of the trail. I felt sorry for anyone hiking in this without the stability of poles. We passed a couple of younger guys attempting to erect what looked like a Shires Cloudburst, but were having immense difficulty. We wished them luck and plodded on. We barely made it to Hiker's Oasis as, several times, we were nearly blown off the side of the mountains we were traversing. This year was, apparently, the first year that some people set up a store for hikers. They had everything one would want; Superfeet, poles, food, but there was no one manning the store. It was deserted, and like a failed Everest Expedition, being blown apart. Poles were bending, stakes were popping, nylon was ripping and here we were, all alone. My eyes followed the Rodriguez Truck Route, leading away from the store, to find a black F150 with it's front wheel hanging over the edge of the road, out into space, abandoned. Admittedly, I was starting to get a little freaked out. We hunkered down behind one of the failing tents of the store. I thought about setting up inside of of them, but they did not look like they would hold out much longer. Just then, two hikers, Denis and Vicki, who were in the same situation. They had lost a couple of stakes as their double-walled tent broke free and went flying the night before, bending it's main pole. We all hiked together another five miles before we stumbled upon a huge wash where I hunted around for a couple of spots. We all worked together to gather huge, 60 pound boulders to place over our stakes. I managed to get the tarp into a supreme spot that cut the wind from it's tail before we all dove in to our respective shelters for the night.
Postscript: The night was brutal as F16s took off over overhead, first north to south, then back again. Each time, the two winds would collide and rush down the wash, hitting us with massive blasts. After 17 miles, Amber was sound asleep while I stayed up to support the tarp during the blasts, that is, until The One hit us. It was so loud, I immediately raised my arms to support the walls of the tarp. As the sounds grew to deafening levels, the blast hit. The pressure hit the walls of the tarp with so much force it instantly dislocated by left shoulder. In pain, I lowered my arms and all I could do was shout "Shit!" Without me supporting the walls, they flattened, lifting the rear of the tarp, pulling up the peg with the two boulders on top of it. That turned the tarp into a sail and ripped the other stakes out underneath their boulders as it progressed forward. The force of the blast tore the guyline webbing in half, collapsing the tarp, turning it into a flapping bivy sack. All this happened in about four seconds. |
