D. Craig Young

A Good Day in the Cedar Range, southeastern Nevada

D. Craig Young · November 3, 2026 · Leave a Comment

Obsidian nodules drape the old alluvium of the Cedar Range, flowing statically from caldera slopes in southeastern Nevada toward the Escalante Basin of southern Utah. Archaeologists refer to the toolstone as derived from the Panaca Summit or Modena sources, depending on whether their eccentricities begin in Nevada or Utah, respectively. My eccentricity revolves around the Great Basin, with little consideration, like the obsidian cobbles, with state boundaries. I am here to characterize the setting of the toolstone source and map its distribution.

But that’s the field task, where much work remains before I can tell that story. In between wandering transects, note-filled pauses, and pencil marks on maps, I have time to see and hear other things. A variety of birds, including the Pinyon Jay, aware of its own laugh, and the enigmatic Greater Roadrunner, sprinting after lizards.

I have known rumors of the Common Raven who prides herself on the independence of her and her mate, but here at a Aermotor-fed waterhole on the Prohibition Pediment, hundreds have gathered in a soaring, congressional murder. Something’s up.

I have learned to carry a longer lens on these mapping excursions. It is attached to a full-frame camera, and this kit pairs nicely with my binoculars; this is about the birds and any other wildlife that I am lucky enough to encounter. I keep these separate from my field camera, which is a crop-sensor body with a wide zoom lens for outcrops and settings needing consistent documentation. For those who keep track of such things, my use of crop-sensor, which can be good for reaching distance subjects, is merely an economical choice. I like its small size for the immediacy of field studies, but prefer the heft of full-frame equipment when pursuing the zone of wildlife or landscape photography. I almost always have both cameras with me on or off trail. I am a Canon user out of long habit and retain a blind faith in the sturdiness and sealing that once set the brand apart from most others. Probably not as true today, and I really wouldn’t dare to differentiate the brands as I have little awareness of the others but in name only. The best camera is the one (or two) you have with you.

An amazingly cloudless morning is replaced by the dramatic rumble of monsoon storm clouds. These approach from the southeast, climbing the Cedar Range in dark, rolling masses. My radar map shows red-centered, yellow blobs slingshot from the canyon country of southern Utah, spasms of lightning reaching into Nevada. A juniper tree bursts into flames after the hot bolt of a direct-strike; it glows ominously long after the rain quiets its initial fury.

I have set my tripod in the lee of a pinyon grove to capture scenes of the storm. After experimenting with exposures and intervals, I guide the camera to create frames where bolts seem likely. Each seeming success is followed by inevitable rain, building from the first widely spaced spatters to the ultimate downpour that finds me running for cover.

It’s over and clear soon after sunset, where a crescentic sliver of a new moon guides me into night and back to camp. A good day in the Cedar Range.

Keep going.

Please respect the natural and cultural resources of our public lands.

#naturefirst #keepgoing

Outbound roadside in black-and-white imagery

Inbound roadside in black-and-white imagery

“These images and words are a reflection, simply and wholly, of my respect for our public lands and the public science and occasional art I am, and we are, able to do there. Our ability to create and think are not trivial, and wild space and healthy ecosystems nourish such things. It is here that we will find our better selves, even as the misdeeds of a few threaten much that, until recently, provides for our common good. Keep going.“

A Traverse from Antelope to Stone Cabin Valley, central Nevada

D. Craig Young · November 1, 2026 · 2 Comments

Storms looked promising over the central Great Basin, as weak monsoon moisture drifted northward. It is Second Friday, and I am focused on a long traverse, almost 150 miles, linking Antelope Valley with Stone Cabin Valley. Wandering the alluvial fans and pediments between the Monitor Range in the west and the Antelope and Hot Creek Ranges in the east, it is one of the longer north-south traverses missing from my Nevada maps.

I leave Highway 50 turning south into Antelope Valley. A vast expanse of coalesced fans extends into the distance, their surfaces stabilizing, older and older, as I work my way up-fan and southward. I climb a rough, sometimes graded road to a pass into Dry Valley. Pinyon and juniper woodlands close around me, the road damp from last night’s rain. Dry Valley and Sevenmile Wash drop into Little Fish Lake Valley where storms begin to pop along the indistinct break between the Antelope Range and the Hot Creek Range — the break seems structural rather than elevational although there is a subtle pass at Long Canyon. I stop to watch the clouds at play.

The skies have cleared by the time I set camp at Upper Fish Lake, where I watch a few wading birds and listen to the coyotes who seem to be denning near Warm Spring on the opposite side of the shallow lake. With the sun setting earlier as we move toward the fall equinox, the guiding constellations — Sagittarius and Scorpio — surround the galactic core of the Milky Way come into view. I am going back in time a bit, using a Canon 6D and its nice sensor to revisit astrophotography again. I lack a compelling composition, but this is practice, getting my hands around a camera I have not used in a few years.

In the morning, I traverse the amazing Box Canyon before climbing to McIntyre Summit and into Stone Cabin Valley. I push along a long bajada to reach Highway 6. I can continue the extent of the valley after an eastern detour to avoid private lands. The boundary of the Tonopah section of the Nevada Test and Training Range turns me back toward the Monitor Hills (a high point excursion earlier this year). I regain Highway 6 in Ralston Valley where I turn west on pavement toward Tonopah.

Keep going.

Please respect the natural and cultural resources of our public lands.

#naturefirst #keepgoing

The recce roadside in black-and-white imagery

It’s What We Do: Robert Montgomery at the Hard Rock 100 Endurance Run

D. Craig Young · July 18, 2026 · 4 Comments

Robert Montgomery kissed the rock at two in the morning. Bathed in low light beneath the scrolling digits of an event timer, the kiss marked the culmination of years of training, patience, and learning. Kristen, Rowan, and Koa (wife, daughter, and son), along with a few others, including several enthusiastic runners who had finished earlier in the evening, were there to cheer him. Kevin, his pacer, peeled away to let his steed have his moment. And in that moment, his alone, it meant he had finished the counterclockwise running of the Hard Rock 100.

Watching from the shadows, I was seriously envious. You see, this is my fault, and I am the one – or more likely, my brother Darren – who was supposed to be kissing the rock. Not Robert. He simply married into the cadre of “Young Mountain Runners” when Darren and I were testing our mettle on mountain trails doing 50- and 100-mile running adventures – some call them ‘races’, but I wasn’t ‘racing’ anyone. And anything like toeing the line at Hard Rock is long behind me. But there is a lively magic in Robert that brings success and essence to trail running. He’s taken “It’s What We Do” to another level.

We arrived at the Silverton School Gym a little after 5 AM, two days earlier, joining the typical scrum of entrants, crews, and well-wishers found at any ultra (i.e., anything longer than marathon distance). The race director, a busy man, announces that the Air Quality Index is a robust 151 due to vast, western wildfires – the Grand Canyon Lodge would burn this weekend. With smoke settling into the valley, the director announces that any and all lottery entries for this year (2025) will be honored next year (2026) if anyone feels adversely impacted by the conditions; there are no takers.

There are, however, three runners missing. This is quickly resolved as two have missed the sign-in table accidentally. The third is more hesitant. It would be his 11^th running, an amazing and rare feat. He decides ultimately to ‘retire’, and the entry is passed to the first alternate. Suddenly, a guy called Julio finds that in 12 minutes he will be running one of the most challenging 100-mile races on the planet. I cannot tell if the remaining three alternates are disappointed or relieved.

Sunrise is having its moment, reddened behind a smoky veil. A pale but warming glow pervades the starting area as the somewhat informal countdown begins. In his typical non-plussed, lollygagging fashion, chatting with just about everyone, Robert is late to the starting chute. I knew his habit, so I looked for him at the back, soon realizing that the chute filled backwards so that he was now at the front. So much for fashion, he was on the sharp end, and I missed him leaving Silverton. I knew he would let the fast and overeager pass him as he settled into his easy, happy pace, climbing to Cunningham.

A seriously fit and thoughtful athlete, Robert surprised me nevertheless when he asked to join me on a run at Clear Creek in the Carson Range, near our home in western Nevada. This first trail in 2014 would lead ultimately to Hard Rock.

My parents, Dennis and Mary, running junkies themselves, joined me to meet Robert at the Sherman Aid Station. They were soon sharing stories of their mountain climbs and marathons with other race fans, holding forth from camp chairs as runners dropped in from Cataract Gulch. This is about the 30-mile point. Robert arrives happy with his pace and ready for a change of socks. He is soon off for his climb of Handies Peak; he’ll climb more than 4,000 feet from here to its summit at 14,048 feet. Mom and dad shared stories of their climbs to Handies and surrounding peaks, beginning with an early camp trip to almost this exact spot in 1983.

The alpine course of the Hard Rock 100 is relentlessly beautiful and challenging as it loops from Silverton, Colorado, via Ouray and Telluride. It has a cumulative gain of 33,000 feet and being a loop, a cumulative drop of the same 33,000 feet. As a runner, I often worried about the long downhills more than the adventurous climbs; with downhills come the dangerous over-confidence of pace and the pounding strides take a toll. I hoped Robert would pace himself appropriately; I would not see him again for almost 24 hours.

After his seminal Clear Creek run, Robert kept at it. Soon, he was disappearing regularly in the pre-dawn of weekday mornings to collect miles and elevation. He completed his first 100, with Darren, at the Tahoe Rim Trail in 2018. Finishing my last ultra in 2017, I missed the chance to share an event with him, but always cheered as his tally of 100-milers grew. This Hard Rock would be his 13^th belt buckle (the traditional prize for finishers; I proudly have three).

The Hard Rock aid station at Telluride added to the town’s crowd, a vacationing mass typical of any mid-summer weekend. The wildfire smoke had cleared, even as several ominous plumes remained hidden beyond the alpine valley. Here, I met Kevin and Tammy Bigley as we waited for Robert to come in from his traverse of Virginius Pass, a notoriously difficult section even when it isn’t snow-filled. Kevin, a Hard Rock finisher, would be joining Robert as his pacer for the remainder.

**Ready, out**. Kevin helps Robert gear up at Telluride Aid, Mile 75, Hardrock 100, CO, USA

Kristen had reported him in good spirits at the 58-mile point in Ouray, where she met him in the very early morning. He was little different when he came into Telluride City Park, 17 miles later; it was now almost noon on his second day. The larger aid stations along the Hard Rock course are events in themselves, providing the runners with a buffet of calories and temporary comforts, some of which practically entice you into staying for a while (or forever). Nope. Robert fueled up, took care of his weathered feet, and he and Kevin left for the climb to Oscars – 75 miles behind him, two high passes ahead; a looming cutoff time of 48 hours begins its creep closer.

Robert thrives in the company of Kristen and his children, who often meet him on the trail and celebrate his finishes. He mentions quite often that thinking of them at a finish gets him through the rough patches that inevitably come during any long run. My daughter Kristen, too, has joined our ultra-family of “Young Mountain Runners”; our silly ‘team’ – Dennis, Mary, Desna, Darren, Robert, myself – in working toward and experiencing the success of trail-running adventures beyond the marathon. Grandparents, parents, siblings, and children; trail runners past, present, and future. The personal success of completing a long trail run cannot be taken away – as with most challenges in our lives, it is wonderful to share our individual journeys with each other.

**Into Chapman**. Kevin and Robert coming into Chapman Aid, Mile 84, Hardrock 100, CO, USA

I am waiting for Robert and Kevin at Chapman Gulch, in the heat of the afternoon. This is a wonderful aid station in a high meadow, requiring a nice walk from a nearby community where kids have refreshment stands set up for aid station visitors. But my short hike is forgotten quickly as I watch runners descend the open switchbacks from Oscars Pass; they are approaching Mile 84. It is late afternoon when Robert and Kevin come into Chapman. All is good, but it is clear that the miles are adding up. They do not linger, however; there is another pass to KT to tackle. After refueling and repairing a shoe, they are away again, climbing into the falling evening.

**Keep going**. Robert leaving Chapman Aid, on the way to KT, Mile 84, Hardrock 100, CO, USA

I traverse busy highways back to Ouray to meet Kristen and the kids at our campsite. The wait feels interminable, but we soon head over the pass to Silverton to await Robert. His pace is steady according to the tracking information, but he had slowed. He is deep into the second night and the forested descents from KT and Putnam are long. Things get tedious this late in the journey. I have had blissful, ‘second wind’ moments near the end of long, successful runs, but I have also had to dig deep and fight the demons that seem to pop up with every step. For me, the demons have won more than I have – I have more dreaded DNFs (“Did Not Finish”) than 100-mile finishes. Robert slays the demons, mostly with his smile, beauty, and thinking of his family at the end.

And so, a couple hours after midnight, I am lurking in the dark of Silverton as a pair of headlamps emerge from the forest. The lamps belong to two runners who jog slowly toward small cheers and one cowbell. The yellow digits of the incessantly ticking clock turn to 43 hours just as Robert greets his family with one corner to go. The hugs, high-fives, and quiet cheers slay the last of the demons as he kisses the rock; the rock that all of us ultra-runners have dreamt about.

**Greeters**. Kristen, Koa, and Rowan join Robert for the 2 AM finish, Hard Rock 100, Silverton, CO, USA

43:01:32. Only 100.5 miles, >33,000 feet gain/drop, average elevation of 11,000 feet above sea level, one awesome pacer (special thanks to Kevin and Tammy). Crazy. Perfect.

**The Kiss**. Worth waiting and running for, the Hard Rock 100 Finish, Silverton, CO, USA

Robert and I still jog together regularly, and I am fortunate that he, Kristen, and my grandkids live so close. We talk about our 100-mile adventures often; he has finished two more since Hard Rock. The Young Mountain Runners continue: It’s what we do. You can’t take that away from any of us.

Keep going. Robert does.

KEEP GOING

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American Avocets in Surprise Valley, California — A morning on the causeway

D. Craig Young · April 25, 2026 · 6 Comments

I can almost remember the first time a saw an American Avocet. I cannot, of course, recall the exact day, but it was on an early excursion to Warner Valley, Oregon, sometime in 1988. Probably. I loved birds, but I was not as quietly infatuated with them as I am now. I recall, however, the dramatic coloring and upright stance of this confident shore bird. My wife has similar memories of brilliant Avocets at the Fernley Wildlife Management Area between Winnemucca and Reno. Because the Avocet is distinctive and lacks the relative sameness or subtle distinctions of so many bird families, I can see why it might be many western birder’s ‘entry point’ to a lifetime of birding. And they are so fun to photograph.

In June of 2025, leaving a geoarchaeological study in northwestern Nevada, I crossed into Surprise Valley, California, traversing the basin floor on the causeway through Middle Alkali Lake. The shallow lake, sometimes nothing more than a dry lakebed, is the floor of the once vast pluvial Lake Surprise, its relict, Pleistocene-age shorelines ringing the much higher valley-margin hillslopes. Small, gravel islands emerge from the shallow lake, paralleling the roadway. The gravel, left from roadwork along the causeway, catch the rising sun and glow warmly in the shallow water. Clear skies reflect from the smoothness of the mirror lake.

I am moving slowly westbound along the causeway when I notice a Willet wading calmly in grass protruding from a narrow shoreline. At the same moment, I notice a flat-bed pickup, the only other vehicle for many miles it seems, practically tailgating me. A pair of collies stare intently from the sides of the cab. No fault of the guy heading to chores, or whatever, I’m barely moving. There are no turnouts on this section of the causeway, so I pick up the pace to get to the other side. I will turn around and let the man and his impatient dogs get on with their morning.

Working my way back to the wading Willet I find a turnout on the eastbound side of the causeway that will fit my rig. While Willets are nice to see, what had caught my attention just as ranch-life had barreled down on me was the flash of contrast; the black, white, and pink, of American Avocets! There were six or so outstanding birds wading or roosting on the gravel bars poking above the reflective waters.

I waded slowly from the causeway shore, staying close to the road but getting to level ground. The birds did not seem to care. Avocets tend to be less skittish than many shorebirds. I move slowly getting low to the water – the Willet had already had enough of me – but the Avocets went about their business. Two more flew in, landing with easy steps in the shallow water.

The light was perfect. I spent an hour with the birds, getting a myriad of singles and pairs reflected easily in the low-gradient light of early morning. A pair seemed to be considering nesting spots while others foraged in the grass and gravel. It is a pleasant pause before my journey home, as I am soon southbound on Hwy 447 toward Gerlach and Pyramid Lake. The Avocets have a summer ahead of them, wading the segmented lakes of Surprise Valley, I am better having spent some time with them.

Keep going. (Thanks to Desna for the Avocet as birding ‘entry point’ story idea).

Thru the Heart of the northern Great Basin: A brief transit of Hart Mountain and Warner Valley

D. Craig Young · March 31, 2026 · 1 Comment

After meeting with a team from the Idaho Museum of Natural History at Owl Cave, a lava-tube rockshelter on the Snake River Plain, I turn west on Hwy 20 to traverse toward Craters of the Moon National Monument. It is a busy, blue highway*, not as enjoyable as I hoped. It winds around lava flows and mountain slopes until dropping to Mountain Home, Idaho. Here, I find another blue road along the Snake River from Grand View to Marsing, where I jump west to Hwy 95. It is a long loop, and I would have liked to take an overland route from Grand View, ID, to Jordan Valley, OR – I must save that for another day.

Well into Oregon, I eventually turn west at Burns Junction. My goal is Hart Mountain, so I traverse along the base of the Steens Mountains in the Alvord Basin; one of my favorite routes, in an area I have yet to explore enough. It is a perfect time to drop south along the base of the Steens’ eastern escarpment. The late sun rakes low and casts long shadows toward Whitehorse Valley. It is a good road to Alvord Hot Springs and on to Fields. I turn toward Catlow Valley as it gets dark.

Image Gallery

I need to find a camp spot somewhere on Hart Mountain. It is turning into a long drive-day and now going deep into the night. I decide to turn onto a two-track where I find some closed roads intersecting. The closures provide a small turn around, so I set a camp just before the marked sign. I am short of refuge lands, and it is time to stop. It is a lovely, dark evening, I set the tent and turn in.

A Sage Sparrow and a Brewer’s Sparrow sing to greet the sunrise, and I am out of the tent before dawn. Beattys Butte, an ancient volcano with very good obsidian, looks nice in the south distance. There is color in the few clouds over the Steens Mountains, so I get some nice simple photos.

Driving through the refuge, I feel the desperation of the Hart Mountain fire of 2024; it did incredible damage. It is greening now, but woodland groves are mostly gone. A few interesting but distant ‘white elven’ trees – skeletons of once flourishing trees – stand in lonely silence. There is an historic-era rock wall at the summit of the Hart Mountain switch-backing road. I have passed this spot dozens of times before the fire, I am sure I have not noticed it previously.

I drop off the Hart Mountain fault block to visit the CCC camp in Warner Valley. At a nearby campground I meet a couple working on the Oregon Bee Atlas. Their passion is contagious as I hear about the systematic work around individual plants where bees are observed and netted. They have an interesting, if morbid, collection. I learn that bees are not long-lived, and these have given their short lives to science and census. It is a little confusing.

I taught an archaeological field school in Warner Valley for several summers in the early 1990s, after attending my field school here in 1988 and being a crew-chief for a few years after that. I basically lived in this historic camp at the base of Hart Mountain for over a year, cumulatively. Like many places of fond memory, it has lost some of its aura as it ages, and I age along with it. I photograph the CCC building, sad in its new paint. The waterfall above the camp is in bad shape, the fire burned the canyon as in a chimney, obviously raging upward, destroying a vast aspen grove in its path.

After checking out the relatively high water levels in Flagstaff Lake, one of the many segmented lakes in the basin of Warner Valley. It was dry when I was here in the fall of 2023, and I spent many years trying to understand the processes and landform evolution, including the distribution of ancient wetlands, that were influenced by the lake level variation. The birds bring hope and resilience after the scars on the mountain.

Ducking out. A Hooded Merganser takes flight, sloughs of Flagstaff Lake, Warner Valley, Great Basin Desert, OR, USA

I follow the backroad between Plush and Adel, Oregon, down to Twelvemile Creek. I turn up the two-track that Des and I had followed with Todd and Rollie, the fish-squeezers working for Fish and Wildlife who shared our camp during several Warner Valley field seasons. I had collected rounded obsidian nodules in the drainage over thirty years ago, and I collected more from upper reaches of the creek recently. I can document their setting more completely today.

The road from Adel continues to Surprise Valley where I rendezvous with Desna at our friend’s place in Lake City. Des arrived just before I pulled in. Sandhill Cranes are singing in the lower fields, a lovely afternoon. It is nicely motivation for our annual breeding bird census on our designated track through Surprise Valley. We do our annual bird count tomorrow.

Keep going.

*Blue Highways: A Journey into America, by William Least-Heat Moon. Little, Brown, and Company, 1982.

Please respect the natural and cultural resources of our public lands.

#naturefirst #keepgoing