Elevation gain: 3800ft
Elevation loss: 40 miles down
Temperature: 92 then thunder showers
Ralph smells like a wet dog, O'Reilly is passed out at 5:30pm, and we are parked behind a Douglas fur off a dirt fire road in Nevada. Falling asleep was easy until an inquisitive state took hold upon a neon green rain fly where carrot butts littered our sides. Being eaten alive by massive ants and sneaky Mosquitos, curiosity took an twilight wander.
Stalking our campsite for story of history, a desolated house, scattered with old shattered linoleum bits, disaster stood within remnants of a concete foundation. The fascinating list that decrepit and abandon buildings hide for wild imaginations: rusty nails, a headless angel, 3 toddler size wooden Jesus death poles pinned with sun burnt plastic flowers lay in rummage of someone's past life. This is the kind of place where one wonders where the decaying body lies. Rusted tin cans that must have been from the days when canned veggies lined the cabinates with pride, bullet shells withstood frozen winters, yellow and red cassette tapes still playable, and a San Francisco Chronicle dated August 1st 1991, about the Gulf War. Coffee cups, disintegrating iron bed frames, and torn carpet mounds trashed the land like a feverish tornado swept through here 23 years ago.
Tired eyes were suddenly adrenalized and the day recapped itself like a faint daydream. By noon we have already started our caloric cravings, like a pregnant lady and farmer, for copious amounts of grey poupon and jugs of grapefruit juice. The afternoon heat turned to clouds, grey sky's turned mountains a vibrant dusk blue. Jagged riffs of geometric historic lava draped the landscape, just a tease to what could possibly lay miles of blisters within, only accessible to a weathered hiking boot. Happy to be cruising down the peoples hwy, and not solomly gripping for shelter on a lightening infested mountain, the remains of a torrential downpour refreshed laidened sweat, rejuvenated depleted minds, and suddenly Canada didn't seem so far away.
Having routed ourselves along the scenic hwy 95 west to Tahoe, a mother and daughter at the carrot resupply shop advised us any other road then this terrifying shoulderless, windy, steep, curvy, trafficked pass death route through the mountain. So the day was spent 88 miles along HWY 395, the corridaor on the eastern Sierras, with a shoulder wide enough for an Omish Wagon and their horses. That's how we made it to some unknown fire road in Nevada, sleeping under some rainy stars, and with no complaints except a few murderous nightmares.
