Pinto Mountain, Joshua Tree Nat’l Park (DPS)

Pinto Mountain is an obvious choice for the desert peak bagger, for as you enter Joshua Tree from the south and round the bend of Porcupine Wash, it dominates the northern landscape. The white divot of its layered summit defines the skyline, and the broad sweep of its alluvium and bajadas sculpt the intervening desert.

The basin is unique in its own right; as you set out from Turkey Flats (so named for a failed 1920’s turkey farm) the long approach to the mountain crosses three distinct habitats: first a typical desert scrub region, then a massive drift of fine sand which covers a very clear seismic fracture, and at last the nuisance of alluvial deposits: a jumbled vomitus of rock passed from the trachea of canyons to the desert floor.

As I completed the 2.5 mile approach, two potential routes occurred to me: one longer which gained the western ridge and rose gradually to the summit; the other more direct, attacking a series of piled saddles to the east in aggressive fashion. I opted for this latter option, as it seemed more likely to connect without dropping unnecessarily into the intervening washes.

Gaining the first ridge, the slopes proved very loose, littered with shard of reddish rock. Soon the combination of rough terrain and my lack of sleep began to wear on me. Still, the views opened up across Pinto Basin and I was happy to again be stumbling around the backcountry. And stumble I did, rolling an ankle and snapping a trekking pole as the route wound atop high ridges and contoured behind larger sub-peaks.

As I continued deeper into the seemingly interminable labyrinth of hilltops and gullies, the landscape began to take on an unfinished look, as though its countless hilltops had been intended for some unifying purpose and abandoned before completion.

The route became steeper and looser before at last reaching the summit. Proud views of the Coxcombs, the Hexies, and the Little San Berdoos—nearly every mountain range in the region—were on offer. A massive cairn and register marked the highpoint.

I spent fifteen minutes scouting westward but deemed the alternate route unworthy, and so returned back more or less the way I had come. I chose a poor line while dropping back to the wash and had to negotiate a particularly steep and sandy wall. By the time I was back on the desert floor, the 2.5 mile return to the road—flat and stable as it was—felt like a godsend.

Not my most heroic of hikes, to be sure. But sometimes you summit in style, and other times you just summit.