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landscape photography

Nevada High Points #105 – Sinkavata Hills

D. Craig Young · January 21, 2023 · Leave a Comment

A bajada. Coalesced alluvial fans of the western front of the Monte Cristo Mountains, Great Basin Desert, Nevada, USA

Peak 6399

6399 ft (1950 m) — 1590 ft gain

2022.10.30

Sinkavata Image Collection

Sometimes you must go to the desert.

We are in the middle of a rather drastic change. Although we may have been leaning, at least occasionally, toward simplifying what and where we call home, we had rarely considered really doing anything. And then, last month, our leanings turned into a full-on run as several coincidental details led to the sale of our Gardnerville home and purchase of a much smaller property in Carson City – if only it had been in that order, we purchased before we sold. Although we are certainly fortunate to be able to do such a thing, the stress and distraction of negotiation realty and planning a move is all-consuming. We fear we have lost touch with who we are – “Why can’t we spend a normal day together,” has become a common refrain among cheers and a few too many tears. Have we made the correct decision?

So, after a bit of closure on the move, at least as far as having a nice offer and solid moving day next month, I awoke well before sunrise and, with relief, drove east into the desert of the western Great Basin. One benefit of Nevada’s multitude of named ranges (325 on my list) is that there are many smaller sets of hills and relatively low mountains that I can save for quick approaches with relatively little planning.

Peak 6399. The Sinkavata Hills highpoint rises above Little Bell Flat, Great Basin Desert, Nevada, USA

The Sinkavata Hills are small group of volcanic bumps and outcrops north of Rawhide Flat and south of Fairview Peak in west-central Nevada. I have often forgotten about this small group of hills even as I gouged around adjacent basins. After circumventing NAS Fallon’s B-17 Range, which takes up much of Fairview Valley south of Highway 50, I turned off the pavement onto a relatively easy two-track into Little Bell Flat. The sun emerged above the Sinkavata Hills as I bounced easily along, the cold autumn sky free of clouds; it is the first morning below freezing this fall. I could feel the day warming, however, as I walked from the truck, traversing a set of alluvial fans and washes to gain a sandy drainage that originated in the outcrops above. I would follow this.

Dry washes. Looking back on the short, dry walk from Little Bell Flat, Great Basin Desert, Nevada, USA
Fairview Peak. Fairview Peak stands above the north end of the Sinkavata Hills, Great Basin Desert, Nevada, USA

I wandered among tuffaceous outcrops, banded on this west-facing slope, for a couple miles before negotiating a steep cleft in a small summit band of volcanic rocks. A barbed-wire, drift fence, likely separating grazing allotments, surprised me on the upper slope. It seems relatively new. I can drop my pack and crawl under easily enough, but I am often perplexed by these expensive and hard-earned boundaries. I do not suppose they are arbitrary – I have worked with the local agencies enough to know the difficulties of range management – but I often think these might be better-placed around springs and other sensitive habitats rather than draping the high-country ridges and summits. At least the newer fences have a barbless lower wire so that pronghorns, coyotes, and others can duck under to move about their home ranges – as I squeeze under, I also appreciate it, and, yes, I am at home here.

Strands. A drift fence in the altered wild of the Sinkavata Hills, Great Basin Desert, Nevada, USA
Summit cairn. Summit cairn and register jar at the top of Peak 6399, Sinkavata Hills, Great Basin Desert, Nevada, USA
Gabbs Valley distance. The long view to the southeast of Sinkavata Hills, Great Basin Desert, Nevada, USA

As with many of the otherwise forgotten hills, the summit views are wonderful. The larger ranges crease every horizon. The glaring sky pushes my photo compositions toward the ground but I am relatively uninspired – I need to move beyond this. This is my landscape, the altered wild with its hard sky, muted color, and elusive beauty. I can feel it in the crisp calmness of the summit rocks, how do I see and express it.

Sinkavata Image Collection

Autumn remains. A rabbit brush holds its remnant flowers and color in late October, Sinkavata Hills, Great Basin Desert, Nevada, USA

I drop quickly from the summit to the drainages below the west outcrops, volcanic flows that reach to the low hilltop summit. It is a nice walk through the sandy drainages to reach the water trough that rests in the northern reach of Little Bell Flat. It is good to be out, quietly alone, among the hills of the Great Basin. The Sinkavata Hills are not obvious on any map, they do not have prominence, but they can bring mindful quiet to an otherwise noisy and restless autumn. It is good to be out, if only briefly.

Keep going.

Nevada Highpoints #104 – Bluewing Mountains

D. Craig Young · October 29, 2022 · Leave a Comment

Foothills. Bluewing Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV

Black Mountain

6617 ft (2017 m) – 2205 gain

2022.08.12

Bluewing Photo Collection


It’s hot. The sky is clear, and a parched blue horizon rests abruptly on the dusty brown of the Nevada desert. It is August, of course, when desert landscape photography is a challenge. It’s difficult to think about photography or exploring another high point when the heat is so seemingly relentless. It also seemed I could not escape from work today, so my departure moved later and later, and I considered turning around for home even as I approached my turn-off along the southern margin of the Black Rock Desert playa. I cannot, however, let the noise of the day-to-day get so overbearing that I can’t find rest in the wild. I turn south toward Bluewing Playa and begin to feel better – putting the scurrying activity of the pre-Burning Man busy-ness at Gerlach behind me and going into the quiet lonesome of Bluewing, a metaphor for the seemingly hectic week that was. I won’t see another vehicle until I reach the highway tomorrow afternoon.

Monsoon remnant. Bluewing Playa, Great Basin Desert, NV

I roll through beach lines of pluvial Lake Lahontan and drop into Kumiva Valley where sandy pediments and alluvial fans extend in a broad flat to the playa below Black Mountain, the high point of the Bluewing Mountains. If this basin held a pluvial lake it only filled a shallow pan before overflowing to Granite Springs Valley to the east. I need to spend some more time here when the days are not so hot.

Bluewing Playa. Limbo Range to the west, Great Basin Desert, NVq

A dusty plume follows until I turn slowly onto a bare two-track that leads to the southern margin of Bluewing Playa. There are a few puddles, surprisingly, but I remember that we had some productive monsoonal storms a few days ago and they clearly tracked across this valley. Feral donkeys stare as I pass slowly by. The playa is dry, and I set camp near the base of Black Mountain, letting the heat seep into every movement; I look toward evening for cooling respite.

Black Mountain, Bluewing Mountains, Nevada, highpoints, summits
Black Mountain. High point (#104) of the Bluewing Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV

Black Mountain rises abruptly, reaching 2000 feet of prominence above the basin floor. Sitting in the shade of the camp-trailer I plot a steep route to the summit, mapping a sloping descent off the backside of the mountain. I’ll leave in the pre-dawn and hopefully beat the sun at the beginning of yet another scorching August day. Night falls and there is some relief, the southerly breeze stays warm but at least there is movement. I wait in perfect quiet as the moon rises, racing its own shadow along a band of light and dark that moves west to east across the playa. When it arrives at camp, the moon practically jumps above the horizon. Sleep comes surprisingly easy as I listen to the desert silence, the quiet only broken by the rare breying of a donkey far off in the valley – maybe they trail to the remnant pool of monsoon runoff on the playa’s northern margin.

Earth shadow at Bluewing Playa. Great Basin Desert, NV
Mountain shadow. Walking the southern limb above Bluewing Playa, Great Basin Desert, NV

I am awake in the darkness of early morning, brewing coffee and preparing a quick breakfast to fuel the walk. It is cross-country from the playa edge, crossing a set of silt dunes before ascending a gently sloping alluvial fan that emanates from a canyon below the steep southern backslope of Black Mountain. I don’t need my headlamp because the moon lights the way and there is little to impede forward progress on the sparsely vegetated fan. A bat flits randomly in front of me and disappears. I turn into the mountain’s rise as get due south of the summit. I worry briefly that I might encounter scree-sheets of colluvial talus that could impede upward movement, but the talus cones are inter-locked nicely and the clasts provide relatively easy steps. Hands are required occasionally but upward momentum is good, and I climb quickly. The views are splendid even if the clear skies show neither depth nor drama.

Armored talus. Black Mountain, Bluewing Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV
Rills. Bluewing Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV
Outcropping. Bluewing Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV

I move from outcrop to outcrop, skirting scree and talus where I can. Preparing for the coming heat, I reward myself with a good drink of water with each outcrop. I can almost walk steady as the upper slopes begin to lay back, so I work in little switchback to reach the northwestern ridge to look over the full extent of the playa, my camp a small speck on the playa edge. I break over the summit to meet the sun with a vast panorama of hills and valleys. I can see far south toward the Virginia Range above Reno, into the eastern distance beyond the Trinity and Humboldt Ranges, and Granite Peak towers in the north – I’ve attempted Granite Peak previously only to be snowed out, its summit pulls at me once again.

Bluewing Photo Collection

The walk off the east side is gradual and an easy pleasure. I am soon back in the south-side canyon that feeds the fan above my little camp. I have timed the excursion well; the morning is still relatively cool as I return to camp and begin preparations to roll out. It is a short outing, though I will have some time to gouge around the playa margins and explore the overland tracks eastward into Granite Springs Valley. I want to retrace a route to Highway 80 via Ragged Top and Toulon. There are several additional high points to explore in ranges of the ‘Bluewing Triangle’, that vast space between the Black Rock, the Humboldt River, and the Pyramid Lake highway. It’s a lonely, desolate space, precisely why it is such a pleasure to experience. The triangle remains.

Keep going.

Heat waves. Bluewing Mountains and eastward beyond, Great Basin Desert, NV

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

Nevada High Points #103 — Montana Mountains

D. Craig Young · July 31, 2022 · 1 Comment

Coyote dust. Evening above Coyote Point, Kings River Valley, Great Basin Desert, NV

Mine VABM

7129 ft (2173 m) — 418 ft gain

2022.07.10


Motivation is hard to find in the long, repetitive days of summer. The Great Basin Desert seems to curl and fold within itself, even as hazy heatwaves dance across the expanse. The high-pressure domes that keep moisture at bay seem to press downward and inward, sapping energy and making the horizons of endless days barren of interest. I have been in a holding pattern of field days on projects, day-after-day, rarely home for any comfortable time; the repetition threatening to deplete much interest in pursuit of geodata, of photography (either documentarian or creative), and – I’m surprised to admit – of exploration. I typically look forward to the long drives, on-road and off, from project to project or to trailheads leading to peaks and wilderness. Not lately though, this summer is burning me out – not to mention the hordes of black ants that have invaded our home, a summer nuisance, among other chores, that sucks the remaining energy from seemingly every home-time quiet.

And yet, as I make my way up Pole Creek Road into the Montaña Mountains, the air cools and the depth of evening shadows washes some of the stagnant sweat from my eyes. Even if only momentary, the wildland heights heal the ills of summer doldrums and repetition. I am here to walk the range’s high point, “Mining VABM,” a rolling swell in the Montaña escarpment rising above Kings River Valley. Because I am working with a fieldcrew nearby, it made sense to plan this walk to coincide with my visit, and now I see it might do me some good.

Caldera remnants. Outcrops on the western escarpment of the Montana Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV

Montana Mountains Collection

The Montañas are a crumpled and dissected block of uplifted volcanic rocks, with deep canyons splitting rolling tablelands where an occasional butte preserves an old eruptive vent or cone. There is still a little water in the higher streams, and a few of the ponds – often augmented for ranching – hold shallow pools. Although summertime in the sagebrush steppe can seem depleted of wildlife, and many species are definitely hunkered down or simply elsewhere, slow pauses on a canyon rim or along the transition between sage and a grassy burn scar can reveal hints of wild. Walking among rimrocks at the head of a canyon that drops steeply to Kings River Valley, I find a young mule deer, velveted antlers glowing in the setting sun. I step backward to let him be to find a rattlesnake quietly in my way. It does not seem to be bothered by my presence, neither rattling nor posturing, and I can easily bypass it in the quiet.

Sound attention. A mule deer peers from a shady alcove in the rimrock of the Montana Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV
No trail. A Great Basin or Western Rattlesnake waits on an evening hunt, Montana Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV
Motionless. The Great Basin Rattlesnake waits, Montana Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV

The high point walk is a simple wander along the escarpment edge to a broken-down cairn guarding the summit register. From the rolling summit knoll, I can look down into Kings River Valley and southward into the expanse of Desert Valley. The agricultural imprint of the valley bottom is a regularized pattern of green and brown, but an altered wild surrounds the regularity, and only the sprinkler pivots and ditch irrigation keep the inevitable arid squeeze at bay.

Mine VABM. The unassuming high point of the Montana Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV
Fading distance. Kings River into Desert Valley from the high point of the Montana Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV
Pivot and bins. Kings River Valley, Great Basin Desert, NV
Summit register at Mine VABM, Montana Mountains, NV

Although a well-traveled dirt road traverses close the summit, the cairn seems rarely visited. I register as usual, and the hike back to the truck parked well down the road. There is little elevation gain, but it is a good walk nonetheless. It cools into the evening as I camp on the escarpment edge, where a half-moon stares at me throughout the night, washing the stars in a blue-grey blur, an echo of the dusty haze that bled the color from the day.

Escarpment camp, Montana Mountains, NV

Six hens. Sage Grouse in the Montana Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV

Montana Mountains Collection

While the high points and wild lands, whether protected wilderness or the altered wild that forms so much of the Nevada outback, bring refreshment even at the height of summer, I worry that the altered wild is taking an unsustainable beating – federally protected wilderness being the one true refuge (for now) from development. As our infrastructure picks and prods at the remaining open space, and all wildlands (protected or not) breathe the global heat of economic and societal engines, I am part of the problem. I live and work in that infrastructure; and though my work seeks to understand and mitigate some of the adverse effects of local development, I am torn by opposing forces and my obvious hypocrisy. Like so many other wild places, the Montaña Mountains provide momentary surcease in the midst of the turmoil of climate change, environmental degradation, and political short-sight. What can these small, non-descript ranges teach me about adapting to and mitigating the pressures of the coming heat and aridity? There remains much beauty and refuge in the altered wild, our impacts are certain and may sometimes be necessary, but we must also proceed with caution, critique, and care.

Keep going.

On the edge of wild — Atacama Desert, Chile

D. Craig Young · July 2, 2022 · 2 Comments

Explaining Atacama. Information along B-245, Atacama Desert, Chile

With the wilds of Patagonia still fresh in our minds, Bill and I spent a short night in Santiago and then climbed on another Latam flight. We were headed north, working our way up the latitudinal expanse of Chile, exploring the regional extremes from glaciers to desert dry lakes, from sea level to the altiplano with volcano summits at 20,000 feet. And, for a time, we were only slightly higher flying into Calama in the dry heart of the Atacama Desert.

Turistas. Exploring the small pans of the high desert, Atacama Desert, Chile
Above the salar. Volcan Licancabur rises to 19,553 feet, looming over the Salar de Atacama, Atacama Desert, Chile

It took quite a while in the queue for a rental, but the little truck was perfect once we got going. I was back in my element, driving desert roads stretching to high horizons, strips of pavement and gravel bounded by salars (dry lake beds) and conical volcanoes. The mountains appear in their simplest form, symmetrical peaks with tonsures of snow, as children draw their first mountain scenes. We based out of the little tourist hive of San Pedro de Atacama; it is the obvious gateway for a short visit to the region, with key tracks leading north and south along the cordillera. While it might not be a wild adventure, it is beautiful way to taste the flavor of the altiplano. Our days do not disappoint.

Atacama Collection

Traveling in the time of covid presents some obvious difficulties. While Chileans tend to practice good caution and care, with vaccinations and masking required in most spaces, it also means many places are closed. This is especially true for those areas, even if wide-open spaces, managed or owned by indigenous communities where limited access to health services and allowing access to exotic tourists is a bad mix. We realize soon enough that some of our plans for visiting water features – springs and wetlands – that pock the vast valley-bottom salars will not work out. We are adaptable in every way, though I keep having to wake up an oxygen-hungry Bill as we drive roads at an elevation above the highest mountains in the contiguous US.

High road. Desert highway near Socaire at over 12,000 feet, Atacama Desert, Chile
Sin agua. The playa of the Salar de Agua Caliantes, Cerro Aracar rises in background, Atacama Desert, Chile

We first explore the region south of the village of Socaire. Our wildlife encounters are fabulous – a fox hunting in coppice dunes and bunch grasses, a family of vicuna cautiously grazing, and flamingos wading in the expanse of Laguna de Aguas Calientes. Our early start allowed us to take advantage of the dusty morning light. Even with the various closures, our first trips into the altiplano were all I had hoped they would be.

Morning patrol. A South American Gray Fox (Lycalopex griseus) in sparse grasses of the Atacam Desert, Chile.
Curiosity. Vicuna family in the altiplano of the Atacama Desert, Chile
Flamingo blue. Andean Flamingos on the Salar de Agua Calientes, Atacama Desert, Chile
One and two. Andean flamingos on the vast Salar de Agua Calientes, Atacama Desert, Chile

A dusty ambient light around San Pedro had caught my attention on the previous evening, and with today’s addition of low clouds, the evening held promise of a stunning sunset. We found the Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon) closed – even its back entrance near Tres Marias was blocked by an ad hoc barrier of boulders – due to covid restrictions, so we wandered various dirt tracks looking for a viewpoint to capture the expansive evening desert. We hiked a short way into the park’s margin and set up on a rocky bench overlooking badlands in washes tributary to the Valle de la Luna. I might have been disappointed that the park and various popular viewpoints were closed, but this allowed us to walk a bit, getting to places we might not otherwise see, and maybe shooting images beyond the obvious. Or so we thought. We were alone when I first set up, enjoying the patient anticipation in the early glow of evening. As our wait continued and the light progressed, however, a crowd grew on the hills behind us, dozens of cameras (phones, of course) pointed in the same direction. We were furthest in, maybe half a kilometer down-canyon, so it looked as if the crowds along the roadside (including several tour buses) had turned out to watch me work the scene. Oh well. The sunset was putting on a splendid show, and, with the closures, this stretch of highway provided accessible theater for everyone – I was happy we had walked in a bit.

Dust of dusk. Valle de la Luna, Atacama Desert, Chile
Evening alight. Sunset in the Valley de la Luna, Atacama Desert, Chile

Bart met us after we had been in San Pedro for a couple days; his trip paralleled ours for a time after we left Patagonia. Picking him up in the pre-dawn darkness at the edge of San Pedro, our rental truck joined a train of white vans on the highway to El Tatio geyser. Although we had seen clues around town that the geyser trip was popular (and open), we did not anticipate the early morning rush of guided tours. Trying to not submit the rental to an undo beating on the teeth-shattering washboard of the over-used, multi-tracked road to the geyser, I was passed by an incessant stream of vans, sprinters, and buses of various sizes, a long string of red taillights cresting every hill and switchback for miles as we climbed steeply into the darkness. It was not a pleasant drive.

Early arrival. Visitors at dawn at the El Tatio Geysers, Atacama Desert, Chile
Geyser Bill. El Tatio Geyser, Atacama Desert, Chile
Precipitate I. El Tatio Geyser, Atacama Desert, Chile
Precipitate II. El Tatio Geyser, Atacama Desert, Chile

The geysers – after one navigates the various covid sign-ins – are fascinating and it is a nice walk on the necessarily restricted trails of the park. If there is an up-side to tour groups, it is that they seem to be built on rather strict itineraries, so the groups move quickly through the ‘attraction’ and move on. I’m not sure where they might go next, but not long after sunrise (the promise of the ‘sunrise geyser tour’) the trails empty rather quickly. And, not very long afterward, as the day warms and the steam clouds that highlight the geysers and pools dissipate, the park basically closes. Nothing to see here, I guess.

Green and yellow. Atacama Desert, Chile
Morning watch. Andean Flamingo (Phoenicoparrus andinus), Atacama Desert, Chile
Giant coot. The Giant Coot (Fulica gigantea) of the Atacama Desert, Chile
Not yet. A chick considers the options, Giant Coot (Fulica gigantea), Atacama Desert, Chile

With the tours departed for somewhere and someone else’s great attraction, we have the road home to ourselves. This is the highlight of the day. We stop often, looking for little groups of vicuna on the dry hillsides and wandering among the few isolated wetlands to see birds mostly foreign to us. It takes us quite a while to get back to town where our usual cantina and siesta await.

Magellenics and core. The pleasure of an unaccustomed night sky, Atacama Desert, Chile
Crescents. The early morning crescent Moon and Venus, Atacama Desert, Chile

A pleasure during the day, the drive also highlighted a location or two that would provide good foreground for night-sky photography. With this long-held goal in mind, I picked up Bart at 3.30 AM the following morning; Bill wisely chose not to join at this ungodly hour. We retraced the geyser highway, but we beat the rush and were alone. I had chosen a canyon near the village of Guatin, hoping to get a foreground with cardon cacti spread among red-rock outcrops. We walked into the spooky shapes making sure not to wander off any cliff-edge; the southern milky way and Magellanic clouds glowing above us. The nightscape of the Atacama Desert is unequaled, it was almost tactile. While my technical skill at astrophotography is lacking, it was a pleasure spending this time with Bart marveling at the sky, trying different compositions, and laughing as the bolus of tour buses motored by on their way to another El Tatio sunrise. My resulting images did not work for various reasons, mostly because I failed to capture any foreground, but one or two provide memories of the amazing night above San Pedro de Atacama. Our galactic pleasure was followed by the appearance of a new moon and Venus leading to a dusty sunrise above Andean volcanos. Was this really my last day here?

Volcanic dust. Along the frontier of Bolivia and Chile, Atacama Desert, Chile

Atacama Collection

It was, all in all, a short desert excursion; our four days were not nearly enough to get to know anything about this great landscape, much less of its wild interior. The magnetic attraction of this desert will have a hold on me for a long time, and its pull will allow me to plan for a deeper, slower visit when (if) possible. Bill and I left Bart to his worldly travels and returned to Calama to catch our flight out. And yet, the journey had one more surprise in wait for us.

Balanced nap. Andean Flamingo (Phoenicoparrus andinus), Atacama Desert, Chile

Once back in Santiago, we made our preparations for our outbound flights. This included the requisite covid test, available conveniently, as planned, at our hotel. We lunched and watched sub-titled movies waiting for our results. When my phone lit up with the negative notification, I was ready to go. Bill, however, stared blankly at his screen; he was covid positive. Now what? How could I be negative, having traveled with him for so many days, in such close quarters? He had no apparent symptoms, but we decided quickly that I should get a new room so he could isolate. The hotel was very accommodating; I moved down the hall, and Bill began the process of re-testing in case of a false positive. Bill is a very experienced traveler and though cautious, was not overly concerned – he encouraged me to continue with the planned itinerary. My wife and doctor – two people – thought that if I was going to present symptoms, it would be better for me to get home to deal with them; it seemed even more likely that I managed to dodge the viral bullets shot at me.  I would travel home carefully. Yes, I had been in close proximity to Bill over many days, but with the news of rising variants, it seems travelers are likely in proximity to positive fellow travelers (and so many others), knowingly and unknowingly, throughout any trip. It is clearly going to be common characteristic of travel, especially air-travel, now. The vaccinations and boosters are the best things we have for keeping us going. So, with Bill’s zen attitude and approval, I boarded our scheduled late-night flight home. He would stay isolated in Santiago for an additional week, until a negative test allowed him to reschedule his flights home. If not asymptomatic, his brief encounter with the virus was barely noticeable, he says. Our two-legged itinerary – Patagonia and Atacama – had thrown a final curveball at us, but we made it home without too much inconvenience, though Bill got more room-service meals than expected (or usual).

Mudras de Atacama. Cactus in the early morning of the Atacama Desert, Chile

Looking back, I realize we had the good fortune to experience the edges of only a fraction of the amazing wild lands of Chile, getting powerful glimpses of the interface between these spaces and the indigenous, development, and tourist economies that try, along a vast continuum of success and failure, to accommodate those remnants of the wild and natural world. It is good to walk among the wildness, even if at its edges, and to seek some way to communicate this struggle – I travel to learn, experience, and document, but this trip has made me strongly consider, maybe reconsider, my role in the struggle. I have few answers at this point; I’m hoping that that awareness leads in a helpful direction and, sometimes, maybe that is enough.

Keep going.

Nevada High Points #102 – Pinto Peak

D. Craig Young · June 13, 2022 · Leave a Comment

Shadow approaches. Early summer cumulus bring hints of darkness to the warm evening light, Pinto Peak, Great Basin Desert, NV, USA

Pinto Peak

6711 feet (2046 meters) — 630 feet gain

2022.05.25

Pinto Peak Collection


The ancient Cottonwood Caldera, a massive volcano that erupted sometime around 17 million years ago, dominates the landscape west of High Rock Canyon and the Black Rock Desert. With basin-and-range faulting, several small ranges form the rough bounds of the much older caldera. Obsidian that formed during the eruption drapes many area landforms, so I have been gouging around this area for several decades mapping the natural distribution of this traditionally important toolstone to provide geographic setting for archaeological study of the technology, movement, and economy of people who have called northern Nevada and the larger Great Basin home for millennia – the geochemistry of obsidian provides direct connection to these things.

Caldera edge. Evening light on rhyolite outcrops with Granite Range in the distance, Great Basin Desert, NV, USA
Toward Fox. Looking over the Pinto Basin at the edge of the Cottonwood Caldera, Great Basin Desert, NV, USA
Donnelly Peak. A view to the east across the Cottonwood Caldera, Great Basin Desert, NV, USA

But this is a high points blog. I mention calderas and obsidian because quite often, if not always, and among other things, this research motivates my backcountry travel, at times it even funds it. I am fortunate that my vocational and avocational activities are intertwined and embedded with almost everything I do – it is who I am. So here I am out with my field team in the middle of the Cottonwood Caldera, drawn in the evening to Pinto Peak on the caldera margin.

Pinto Peak. An unassuming summit at the edge of the Cottonwood Caldera, Great Basin Desert, NV, USA

Pinto Peak is a simple walk of about a mile from the old ‘Bonneville DC line’, at one time rumored to be one of the few, if not only, untapped DC transmission lines of its size, spanning the distance from the Columbia River to Los Angeles. Coincidently and maybe unfortunately, the line bisects basins I have long been interested in, from the northern Great Basin to the Mojave Desert. I have followed its maintenance road for hundreds of miles mapping landforms and obsidian. Here I am again, parking under a pylon and walking away from the setting sun.

The line tower. The DC line on a corridor from the Columbia River to Los Angeles, coincidently traversing several major obsidian sources along the way, Pinto Basin, Great Basin Desert, NV, USA

There is no trail and I simply make my way up a gently sloping western ridge. The light is nice, with false storm clouds building into the evening. There doesn’t seem much to photograph but the light and shadows are special tonight. The distances glow as ridge lines and outcrops stand out momentarily and are as quickly gone in shadow and haze. It is a special night even if the climb is little more than a walk among sage, perennial flowers, and rhyolitic boulders.

There are only five other signatures in the register. That’s five signatures since 1999 when the register was placed – I sign on the second page. This is not a peak that would draw your attention from anywhere, one visits when collecting highpoints or hunting birds maybe. Still, the view of the caldera is great and I can see many of the ranges we have visited in the past. The light fades just as the sun cuts through the low western sky and I drop to the truck very satisfied, even though I didn’t hit my usual goals for elevation gain and distance on this minor peak. I did, however, very much enjoy the evening.

Pinto Peak Collection

Driving to camp I could only consider the good fortune I have to work and travel in the Great Basin, especially when evenings like this are revealed. I chased dust on the dirt of Highway 34, rolling along among wild horses and dispersed pronghorn. The vague Irish green of fading spring seems to glow in the early dark. Wind rushing past the open window. Evening like this, watching the light fade and dust settle, make the increasing anxiety of a tumultuous world – even if was volcanic and tectonic tumult that formed this landscape. At least I can smile for the long moments of the drive to camp, and all is good for the evening.

Keep going.

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