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The Days

Despite our country’s passion for such invaluable landmarks as 16,000 Starbucks and 13,000 McDonald’s, we have managed to set aside a goodly amount of land as wilderness. Picture the entirety of the Sierra Nevada park system. Or, say, the majority of Alaska. 

Compared to these, Joshua Tree National Park is rather modest—a small pocket of desert less than one-fifth the size of Death Valley. Yet its essence in uncontainable. First of all, it has no center, nor any clearly defined end-to-end route. No singular attraction, such as El Capitan or Mount Denali, encapsulates it. It is more a state of mind, which goes some way to explaining its affiliation with drug culture. Both are departures from the norm. Journeys without destinations. (I myself was guilty, during my wayward years, of traveling to Joshua Tree a number of times specifically to watch it melt.)

Joshua Tree is a playground not only for the chemically refreshed, but also for rock climbers, history buffs, and hikers alike. This is in part because of its modest size. Get your hands on a vehicle—preferably one you have a legal right to—and much of the park can be accessed within a ninety minute drive. Only five minutes beyond the west entrance lies the Bigfoot Trail, which may at first seem mundane, positioned as it is along the throughway and often cluttered with sightseers eager to snap their first selfie against the park’s iconic landscape. But persist another mile and you are thrust into the thick of it. Or, this being the high desert, I should say the immeasurable emptiness of it. In short order you’ll gain a number of high perches with grand sights across the flats to the aptly named Wonderland of Rocks, which is precisely where I was once viciously attacked by bees.

Or zip off to Ryan Mountain, which can be had in a couple hours, depending on your tolerance for heavy breathing. It boasts a well-marked trail and handsome stone staircase that, while pleasant to look at, seems to never end, and has been justly criticized by many screaming glute and calf muscles. Atop the summit, a tuft of hearty chaparral offers a spot of shade, which is precisely where I was once viciously swarmed by harvester ants. (You see the running theme here.)

As for a proper thru-hike, Joshua Tree has significantly less to offer. Its longest unbroken trail—the California Riding and Hiking Trail—which at first glance screams from the map for the backpacker’s attention, proves somewhat lacking. I traveled the trail myself, hiking solo and opting ingeniously to depart from the western terminus at sundown and proceed by headlamp. While I may have been viciously pummeled by bats, I’ll not strain the reader’s credulity by mentioning it. 

But I will say that this first stretch of trail which climbs the narrow defile of Blackrock Canyon is well worth the walking. Spots to pitch camp and evade the wildlife can be found on lush patches of cheatgrass, and the following morning spent dropping into the rugged drama of Covington Flats. This is perhaps some of the park’s most remarkable terrain, and looks very much like an Albert Bierstadt landscape; or, with the eyes blurred painfully by sunscreen, a watercolor by Monet. One walks directly through a painting, which is among the greatest joys of hiking.

The issue is that, following this crescendo, the magic falls off steeply. The landscape levels, sharp plateaus which offer cover dissipate, and the hike becomes something of a sandy treadmill. Each mile looks the same. I have distinct memories of standing sideways in the thin shade of a Joshua tree to escape the pounding sunlight—a technique which is, needless to say, completely ineffective. 

If you’re dead set on camping in the backcountry, you’d do better to load your pack with a couple days’ worth of water, have a good chiropractor’s number on hand, and then strike out from Desert Queen Mine Road to wander labyrinthine ribs of rock until blissfully exhausted. It is among the tailings of Queen Mine, high above its sandy washes, that one can stumble—either entirely by accident or by the guidance of certain websites—on what is known as the Eagle Cliff Boulder House. While the authorities would prefer to keep it hush-hush, owing to the site’s fragile nature, the Boulder House has become something of an open secret; the National Park equivalent of an unmarked dance club, if you will. And you can hardly blame them, given the tendency of teenagers to throw raves everywhere imaginable. Ironically, this was likely what the Boulder House was used for in its time, as a gathering place in which to imbibe whatever spirits were on offer.

Regardless, it is a gem. Tucked discreetly behind a cherry shrub, its single window stands jammed into the V-shaped gap between two massive granite boulders and makes one feel that they have wandered onto the set of some wild-west Harry Potter movie. A wooden lintel opens on a long stone corridor, its interior adorned by fireplace, primitive midden, a shelving system, and a rudimentary ceiling fashioned of aluminum siding and Pinyon branches. It is a transformative experience to loiter in silence here. A feast for the imagination, so long as you do not consider too deeply the proliferation of thoughtfully arranged accoutrement—medicine bottles and vintage glass jars, rusted nails and buckshot tin cans—which give the overall effect of an eager first-time set designer.

If this has whet your appetite for history, you can follow it by driving west and walking the broad, tedious wash due west of Quail Springs in blistering heat, as I did, until reaching the squat prominence of Samuelson’s Rocks. Here stands the life work of one John Samuelson, a Swedish homesteader of the early 1900’s, which is reminiscent of Slab City’s Salvation Mountain, and other such shall we say eccentric artistic statements. Scattered about the high grassland are planed and polished rocks, each sized proportionate to Samuelson’s ambitions and hand-chiseled to bear the man’s strange aphorisms, terse diatribes, and no shortage of outright non-sequiturs. A sampling:

A politician is a bird that gets in on the tax payer’s pocketbook.

God made man, but Henry Ford put wheels under them.

And the deeply philosophical,

Are you the fellow, Mr Mellow, that grabbed all our dough?

I’ve corrected these for spelling and grammatical errors, of which they are rife; but it is not Samuelson’s loose grasp of English that astounds so much as his grasp on reality. Then again, among his rambling stonework I did find a line that jumped from the rock with powerful immediacy.

The. Key. To. Life. Is. Contact. 

(punctuation Samuelson’s)

I am reminded of Henry David Thoreau’s rapturous pronouncement upon summiting Mount Katahdin (his only documented summit). “Contact! Contact!”

And this is precisely what drives us into the desert—Samuelson, myself, and you, presumably—the joyous hope that by entering a region stripped of humanity we may come into contact with the spirit. It is the same drive which propelled me up the sidewall of a mountain to the muttered comments and visible consternation of a group of some thirty or forty tourists. 

They were milling politely about one of the park’s most popular lookouts, Key’s View, a roundabout at the high end of a winding dead-end road where day trippers jostle for parking spaces and enjoy views over the Coachella Valley. There is no indication of any trail north of the parking lot. In fact, there is nothing to the north whatsoever—the walk path and its benches, the famous vista, all are situated southward. So to scramble up the steep rocks at the rear of the lookout naturally invites some speculation as to the hiker’s sanity. As it did mine. 

That said, the route along the ridgeline between Key’s View and Inspiration Peak is much like life: once the frightful moment of departure from normalcy is surmounted, a vast and expansive freedom awaits. I passed a smattering of several fellow lunatics as I traversed two spurs en route, then had the peak all to myself. I watched as twilight dimmed across Palm Springs and purpled the Salton Sea for quite some time before it occurred to me that I would have to hike the ridgeline back in darkness.

There is more, of course. Much more. Of history, Key’s Ranch. Of hiking, the Boy Scout Trail. Of peak-bagging, the Hexie Mountains, whose character is entirely unique. A broad bowl of soft-edged hilltops, their spiny grasses shivering. The whole of it littered by ghost trails, which may or may not be purely imagined. The white-belled creosote of Monument Mountain. A crest of windswept stars. Range after range after range, and suddenly the desert is not so simple. It is, all said, the ideal location to pleasantly lose your mind. And I urge you to get out there, to explore every peak and shadowed crevice, each trail and prospective campsite.

Go—before they install a Starbucks. 

The Nights

It is commonly agreed upon, and sensibly so, that daylight is somewhat useful when exploring a wilderness region. But let’s not overlook the nighttimes. 

It is tempting to seek the ease and supposed convenience of organized campsites—and admittedly there is no shortage of scenic options scattered throughout the park—but in addition to ample parking, these often boast all the tranquility of a bazaar in full trade. I have been lulled to sleep not only by the distant braying of coyotes, but by death metal and mariachi blaring through bluetooth speakers, the terrible snarl of a propane generator, and a pair of twenty-somethings arguing drunkenly as to whether Bruce Lee in all his nimble prowess could evade a US drone strike. Really.

For these reasons and countless others, I encourage campers to take up backpacking. Only three miles from Blackrock Campground stands a high plain, largely undiscovered, on which the able wanderer can pass a restful evening without the reliable nuisance of other humans. We are a fine species for team sports and military actions, but the tender balm of solitude is quite another thing.

This was driven home for me—and not for the first time—on the southern rim of the Panorama Loop Trail when, having encountered only a single jackrabbit and two red-tailed hawks in the past day, the thought of returning to a campsite littered with empty wine spritzers and burger boxes became unbearable. I had deep in my pack a 1/8” foam pad along with a thin emergency bivy and set up both on a flat dry hill that overlooked the buttes and washes. Amid a deep mantle of cheatgrass I slept, half-dreaming, to wake beneath a froth of stars, perfectly alone and missing no one.

Strangely enough, the fear of nocturnal visitation from reptile or arachnid scares more people off the thought of open camping than does that of human disturbance for overcrowded campsites. Granted, I have seen several photos of lonely rattlers dozing happily against the tent wall of some unsuspecting hiker, but this behavior is exceedingly rare. Remember, the rattlesnake will strike only when threatened or agitated. Or at all confused. Or mildly cross. Regardless, none of this should dissuade you from the joys of open camping. 

I don’t mean to disparage a good tent. Quite the contrary. The pleasant warmth of an enclosure from which you can zip away all of life’s torment is not without its value. All days are not good days, even in the backcountry, and there are times when a fixed windproof partition is a backpacker’s only consolation.

But these darker moments are easily offset by those when the miles pass unnoticed, the peaks withhold their freight of injury, and the broad beige desert becomes a trustworthy companion. In these cases it is far better to unfurl your sleeping pad directly on the hardpan with the soft breeze as your bedmate. 

Which brings us to the matter of equipment.

The Gear

As for the perennial and raging debate over tarps, freestanding tents, and nature’s own blissful exposure, I must admit that rain—even the lightest smattering—sounds far better plinking off a rainfly than it does one’s forehead. If you intend to pack a shelter, consider that while tarps perform admirably in mountains, there is the issue of blown sand to contend with when desert camping. Nothing will spoil the rapture of a high-quality quilt as surely as a fine layer of grime. There is also the benefit of a vestibule in which to store your shoes during the inevitable plague of mud that accompanies all desert rainstorms. 

I shouldn’t have to mention that anyone unfamiliar with the terrain, its suspect ravines and hidden floodpaths, has no business in open desert during a downpour. That said, I have found myself among the foothills of the Eagle Mountains during the year’s first cloudburst. The rainfall steadily increasing, slapping its countless hands on thirsty ground, the faint rasp rising to a crescendo—the sound was unforgettable.

Now, those reading closely will note the apparent conflict between all this talk of rain and my earlier endorsement of open camping. Naturally, an optimistic weather forecast will mitigate some of these hazards. But for those eager to try cowboy camping, as it is sometimes called, I offer the following solution: pitch your tent as you would normally, spend a few moments strengthening your resolve, then simply haul your sleeping pad out to the nearest stretch of empty ground. Viola, cowboy—you’re open camping.

Now that our sleeping arrangements are settled, let’s address the issue of water. Anyone who has tromped about the desert will have noticed there is not much of it. I have compromised several crucial vertebrae by attempting to carry my full allotment over the course of several days and have found it far easier whenever possible to set water caches in advance. Not only does this take the onus off the lumbar, it also lends something of a gameshow atmosphere to the proceedings. Given, the cost of losing is death by dehydration, but the unrivaled glee at hunting down one saltbush in a million and then—fairly quaking with trepidation and a sort of deranged euphoria—retrieving several gallons of life-saving water from within it is a thrill not to be missed.

An updated ruleset has recently been imposed on contestants of Hydrate or Die! The local avian population, from swallows to jays to falcons, has learned to identify the unique glint of sunlight on plastic and to recognize it as a simple beak-thrust away from precious water. Thus, water bottles of standard plastic (say, the thin and easily-crumpled variety) are no longer to be trusted. You must stalk the deeper aisles of your supermarket for the denser, glossy type. Darwin would surely agree that it is only a matter of time before the feathered thieves find their way into these bottles as well, so I advise you stow your caches as I do: deep in the most viciously bristled and inhospitable of chaparral.

A final note on water. In the modern age of thru-hiking, water crossings tend to dictate a backpacker’s choice of outfit. From gauzy mini-shorts to ventilated trail runners, the convention is to favor a more amphibious approach. Rather than strip down at every river, one can deck themselves in a minimum of quick-drying fabric and trample headlong into the water without the trouble of undressing.

Not so for desert hiking. To begin with, both within the confines of Joshua Tree as well as the larger deserts that contain it, water crossings exist largely in the mind. Only the sorry hiker, having misplaced their cache and in the grip of terminal delusion, will have any cause to strip naked on the shore of some mirage. 

For all others, the central concern of footwear shifts to that of sand. Namely, keeping it out. Gaiters offer a partial fix, but I myself have unclipped a perfectly sturdy pair to find impacted beneath the hollow of all five toes a puckered length of sand molded by sweat into a kind of expressionist sculpture. This was not only a cause for blisters but also generally disgusting. Such tried-and-true standards as Altra Lone Peaks and Hoka Speedgoats could here be swapped for a more robust alternative. Perhaps a pair of La Sportiva Mutants.

And while we’re subverting trail fashion, it is not an altogether bad idea to replace your running shorts for pants. It takes only a single romp through a bed of cholla cactus to put one off shorts forever. That’s not to say that pants will entirely deflect the vicious buggers. But, as in the case of snake bite, they can lessen the depth of puncture, and so of pain. 

I could hold forth on gear forever, singing the praises of certain products while denouncing others. As could we all. The topic of gear is one that has consumed most backpackers completely and managed to gnaw the legs of even the most high-minded enthusiasts. A writer of lesser restraint might be tempted to rail against the use of snow baskets on trekking poles, specialty mallets for securing tent stakes, and the unspeakably galling hiker’s parasol. But to do so would be petty.

Let’s not forget the purpose of backpacking is freedom. That of our gear should be the same. So long it serves to liberate us, it may justify its purchase. But beyond that it is no different than any other commercial good and can confine us just as surely. Consumerism tells us to pursue happiness by proxy. But the desert teaches different. 

Better to stalk the thing directly.