I celebrated my 50th birthday
a few years back by just about killing myself on a desert hike. I
lived atop a 3,000-foot plateau called Grapevine Mesa, an
extraordinary place that towered over the far eastern end of Lake
Mead, a huge man-made body of water that sprawled through desert
canyons 80 miles distant. My then-husband, a ranger with the Park
Service, was working that day but knew I planned a descent from our
mesa to the reservoir below, a six-mile hike I’d been
dreaming about.
Nearly a half-mile down, my route —
picked out carefully from a topo map — started following a draw
that I was pretty sure would lead gently through a looming
ridgeback. Suddenly, a drop-off appeared, one called a dry-fall in
these desert regions. It was only about a 10-foot drop, but there
seemed no way around with slick canyon walls abutting on both
sides. I looked over the fall in search of bighorn sheep droppings
on the canyon floor below. None. Not a good sign. I might become
trapped, not able to go forward or back. My better judgment said to
backtrack; my reckless judgment said, “But you might miss something
really interesting.”
I loosened the pack and dropped it
over the dryfall. Then, poised on the over-hanging lip, I jumped,
landing with a jarring jolt into the sands below. The risk
immediately seemed worth it: The narrow and winding canyon walls
became more enchanting with each turn.
Another turn in
the deep gorge brought reality back as a sheer precipice appeared
at my feet, one 30 feet straight down. I sat on a granite boulder,
took a swig from the water bottle and settled in to think. After
studying the cliff faces, I noticed a ledge about three inches wide
crossing the perpendicular wall. I approached the narrow ledge to
take a closer look, then peered down toward jagged boulders below.
I then began edging slowly along the cliff wall, hugging the smooth
surface. No turning back now. About midway, I began teetering
dangerously backward. I hesitated, breathing carefully. The
backpack had to go. With delicate effort, I carefully slid one arm
from the pack, then slowly, the other. The pack landed with a
clatter. The sound was unnerving.
But the remaining
balancing act became easier, and finally, I gained some boulders.
The narrow gorge widened into a gentle open valley below, and the
descent became a stroll. It felt great to be alive in the thin dry
desert air, to take in the silence and see forever. I felt
privileged to be in this grand place. Soon I approached a smaller
ridge of rocks and passed through with no problem. Bighorn Sheep
droppings were abundant along the draw. The last mile was an easy
walk down a rock-bedded wash.
The sun was high overhead
and hot as I reached the shoreline in a secluded cove. The crystal
blue water looked delicious and inviting, so off went the boots,
the socks, and finally, my shirt. I just had to sit and wait for my
ride. My husband would be patrolling the lake along 20 miles of
shoreline that day and would pick me up wherever he found me. I
stretched out on a flat white boulder.
A pebble turned
from somewhere back up the wash. Must be a bighorn coming down to
water. Another rock turned, this one closer. I thought,
“That’s an unusually noisy bighorn.”
I rolled onto
my side to see a young man from nowhere, who came to an abrupt halt
when he saw me. I said what seemed natural: “Hi.” “Oh, excuse
me!” he blurted, and fled back toward where he’d come.
A topless older woman was probably not what he’d expected to
see around the corner.
A half-hour later, I heard the
familiar drone of the Park Service boat, and there was my husband,
who seemed in good spirits as he pulled to the shore. “You
won’t believe what happened to me awhile ago,” I told
him.
“Oh, but I would,” he replied. “I just talked to a
young fellow in a kayak in the next cove. He wanted to report
coming across a woman who was absolutely alone, stranded with no
boat, and sunbathing partially nude. I told him not to worry…
that it was probably just my wife. She’s out here having the
time of her life — celebrating her 50th birthday.”
Mary McBee is a contributor to Writers on the Range, a
service of High Country News (hcn.org). She’s still hiking
and climbing in Tama, Iowa.
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