Great Basin Traverse: Toiyabe Crest

5/3-5/6
~114m

The wind whistles and zips like a careening train. Constantly the wind pushes at full force, like a gale, and the whirl of the high pitched invisible air is deafening. The cold borne of the wind is biting, annoyingly so. It's all quite dreamy actually. I drift in thought hypnotized by the wind, by its metronomic whips, that every Eastwood Western should have been filmed in Nevada and the Great Basin. No extra filters needed, no additional sounds. It's all here. Sagebrush and juniper, gold mines and saloons, desert and mountains, barrenness, emptiness, loneliness, the whistling wind; philosophy.

I have not seen a trail yet. And that is what makes this route so appealing, that alluring freedom of not have any judgment from yourself or anybody else. You do what your personality needs, you go where your feet guide you, and you let your instincts take over. I have not seen a running stream or creek yet. Salt encases my clothing, dirt cakes my legs, and my skin is weathered like someone who has lived, worked and played outside in Phoenix all their life. I still get scratches from sagebrush or other spindly brush but I hardly get any skin punctures, just a dry slash mark. 

I squint. My brow is furrowed so I take on the look of a curmudgeon, yet I know the squint is an adaptive quality to my environment. Out here, I have no name, sometimes no voice. Only muted footsteps and muffled breathing. The wind pulses through everything out here.

North of Tonopah sits the San Antonio Range. Rising up to over 8,000ft, hardly a soul sets foot on the peaks where the dirt road ends. Beautiful pale-green sagebrush dot the hillsides, grassy shoots sprout up in between the sagebrush, and the occasional juniper makes an appearance. The rhyolitic rocks 'bluff' out the range in blocks painted with orange or green lichen. For miles you can see mountain range after mountain range as well as the basins that fill the void between the bulky mounds of mountains.

After crossing the Big Smoky Valley, I entered the Toiyabe Range from Peavine Creek on the south end of the range. I expected to see water further up the drainage but surprisingly found none. Guess it's been a dry year in most places. The cottonwoods bloomed in the lower elevations, while higher up the aspen had not quite leaved out. I immediately understood that I had arrived a tad early for a normal season, yet the snow was gone and the creeks were running dry. Either way, I was happy to be in the mountains.

I made my first camp at about 8,000ft under a cow-carved pinyon as huge tumbling clouds steered in threatening rain. All night my tarp flapped. My makeshift camp spot proved not only to be uncomfortable but the only place around to even set up a tarp, for there was no way I was venturing up to the divide with the way the wind was blowing. I slept well enough though. Up early the next morning with my excitement, plain sheer joy of being in the mountains, I scrambled up to the divide amongst a clear sky with a brisk wind. At the pass I spotted the pyramid peak known as Arc Dome that simply dominated the sky and landscape. 

I scurried down to the Reese River, which was basically running like a small creek. I passed beaver ponds, willows and dogwood along the river, and pine trees. I wanted to get as close as I could to Arc Dome to see if I had a chance to summit the lofty peak. As I hit the pass between the Reese and Twin Rivers large cumulonimbus clouds towered above me. I could scope out curtains of rain hitting other tall peaks. I forged ahead and took a side trail that would put me at a low point on the ridge beneath Arc Dome. Steeply I hoofed it up along overgrown trail. Cairns had been placed to mark the route but the sage grew over them. Eventually, I met a ridge that abutted a cirque filled with snow. The trail disappeared and I picked my way across boulder fields of clumpy talus and snowy slopes. The ridge I had wanted to attain rimmed out in an overhanging cornice. I continued picking my way until I found a manageable way up to the top.

Clouds continued marching in. The wind howled and screamed right in my face. I decided not to summit with the conditions. I did not want to be stuck up on an 11,000ft ridge with a thunderstorm hammering down on me. Up and down the ridge I went, northward along the Toiyabe Crest Trail. The views from the high alpine zone were stunning. I marveled at the vistas all around me. Enormously looming shadows moved swiftly over the golden alpine tundra and turned a bright environment to an ominous one. One after another, a massive cloud would move in. The wind shellacked me from the west, the gentler side of the ridge. I leaned in and powered on. I encountered a few large snow fields at sketchy angles. One in particular I maneuvered along the spine of the slope and a cliff. Block-shaped boulders peeked out of the snow and I lumbered down them very carefully, for below the cliff dropped a 500ft abyss. Now, in a steep gully I began to chatter my teeth and my extremities became numb. The air temperature was not the issue, rather it was the wind. I finally managed to get to some trees and take cover for about 5 minutes. I couldn't stay longer because I had become too cold. I hurriedly ate, put on all my clothes and left. Within a half hour I warmed up. 

All day I hiked on the crest. Snow flurries occasionally flew and the wind blew constantly at about 30mph. Gusts would sometimes push 50mph at least. I earned this day, to say the least, but god damn what an amazing day. To top it off, I was rewarded by a refreshing spring and a beautiful saddle to camp on top of with lush, fragrant sagebrush and large mahogany, even a pretty sunset.

I continued in the Toiyabe Crest Trail the next day. Rather than keeping to the crest itself like it did in the Arc Dome Wilderness, the trail stayed lower, around 9,000ft, for a good 15m or so. However, this meant running water sources and wind coverage. In and out  of drainages the trail meandered, even zipping through corridors of aspen. More mahogany groves embedded in the hillsides. These mahogany trees are as big as any as I've ever seen, including the Bighorn Mountains. Speaking of mountains, the Toiyabe Range reminded me of the San Juans of Colorado in the southern portion while the northern portion reminded me of the Beaverhead of Montana. I became amazed at how isolated the beauty of these mountains. The Crest Trail runs 71m, built by the CCC in the 30's, hardly sees any usage or maintaining, yet it is in primo condition, just ripe to be tromped. I did not see even a single soul, let alone a single footprint.

After the ins and outs of the drainages, the Crest Trail takes you up to the actual crest for the last 8m or so. It felt good to be back at 10,000ft again. Exhilarated, I pushed on quickly. Then, the savage wind hit. Pushing me and thwarting me side to side I hiked dead straight into the screaming wind. I marched entranced by my gait and rhythm. I soaked it all in and embraced the brisk and harsh invisible air. Near where the trail descends the crest for the last time, I spotted a large coyote. So large I thought maybe it was a wolf. Being that I was up wind from the coyote I ran a bit to get a closer look. The coyote trotted across a snow bank heading straight towards me with his head down. Finally he looked up and I ran faster. I had to catch the 'wild'. A fever took hold of me as I saw the coyote lope down the trail bobbing up and down between the sage. I felt alive, so fucking alive.

I got into the tiny town of Kingston before the storm hit. I waited it out for two days. You can spend all your time planning a route or an adventure, however, you can never plan for the random encounters with incredible people. Ann and John Miles at The Miles End Lodge B&B treated me like family. Secluded from the rest of the world, they helped me get centered, relax, and most importantly breathe.

Great Basin Traverse: To Tonopah

4/30-5/2

~89.5m

Within 2m of Willow Spring I passed an innocuous orange carsonite post and crossed into Nevada. The Great Basin Traverse now began. I followed the Desert Trail maps to guide me through the Sylvania Mountains. Mining dominated the range, however, Steve Tabor, author of the guidebooks, found a cross country route through the range using drainages to tie the highest peaks together. From thick Joshua tree groves to pinyon pine and juniper, the 8,000ft range showcased a fecundity not seen from the basins and valleys below. From a few thousand feet lower the trees looked like tiny black dots.

At Magruder Spring, I tallied up my food. After some mileage calculations I figured I was a good day and a half short in food. I had to make a decision. Do I take a cut off and bust out some high mileage to end the section in a less scenic way? Or do I hitch all the way to Tonopah, gather some supplies, and hike the Silver Peak Range and make the Great Basin Traverse a more quality drive route? I decided on the latter. But hitching to Tonopah on a rural desert highway straddling two states proved to be way more difficult than I expected. This hitch gave me the perspective I needed: I am in the middle of fucking nowhere.

And that's exactly what I wanted in this route.

After 3 hitches, including the last one into Tonopah with an old showgirl/pot grower/chiropractor/gold miner from Alaska/Sierra Vista/Yuma/Las Vegas in a gutted out Ford Astrovan with a dog named Taco Bell, I finally ambled into Tonopah. I tell you, that was the only hitch I've had where I felt really uncomfortable. But I truly needed the ride. So, after re-grouping, assessing my needs and the hitching situation I decided to trek southbound and reconnect from where I initially hitched from. I figured that way I could get back on the route way sooner.

There's much of this route that is 'on the fly,' or adapting to what is in front of me as it happens. I under-stocked myself with food due to emotions running high with recent personal events, a tad disorganized with the route because of personal events, and the Death Valley route taking a little bit longer than expected. I would like to hope I learned from this mistake, nevertheless, flexibility and being able to be resourceful and adaptable are of my biggest concern.

I left Tonopah relatively early and legged out a 35m day. Of note, I had another 40m waterless stretch. Despite the lack of water, leaving from Tonopah helped me out. Trekking through Paymaster Canyon under Lone Mountain and the Weepah Hills turned into a pleasant surprise. The colors of rock represented a palette of incredibly interesting shades of reds and blues. Then, after the canyon, I entered the expanse of an alkali lake bed. The various types of soils and dirt struck me as astonishing. The squishy type, the hard cemented sort, the fluffy, the dusty, the rocky, you name I crossed it. The occasional sand dune buffeted the arid-loving plants. Bristly and thistle-like, the shrubs clung to life in a moonscape. Most of the landscape was shaped by water but the wind left its unmistakable mark. Some shrubs' roots held the caked dirt in a piled up casing, as the windswept sand left a circular furrow around the shrub. I had seen the Devil's Cornfield in Death Valley, so with the similar shapes that these shrubs made I dubbed the round, big clumps Devil's Haystacks.

Unbeknownst to me, Silverpeak is a mining town still populated by miners who work in a Lithium Plant. The mine seemed relatively new and because of that the town still shown its old ghost town appearance. No new buildings, except portable trailers, nor businesses, just old junk, a boom town starting back up again. The stench of hot springs sunk the air and metal scrap yards littered the fields and lots. I camped on a barren ridge line anxious to get to the mountains.

Up early the next morning as the miners and their beefy Ford trucks lumbered up the newly graded road. I pushed hard to get out of the unsuspecting traffic. The good thing was that I found 3 springs, the last of which came out of a giant cave. From there I went up Argentite Canyon with purple basalt rock formations peppered with green and orange lichen. A few old miner's cabins, a tagging of Piper Peak, and I flew down to Big Spring, where I sat beneath a large sagebrush and had a five minute staring contest with a young jackrabbit. He couldn't quite gather what I was as he nibbled the green grass near the rivulet. He even stood on his hind legs to observe me more, his nose wriggling constantly. 

I left the spring fat with water. Up into the Oasis Divide via the Desert Trail and eventually found camp on the crest and a wide saddle. I was blessed with a beautiful sunset. Thunderheads loomed to the west but I could still make out the White Mountains. Snow dappled the chutes and the northern aspects under a pink and blazing orange sunset. In the far west I could see the High Sierra cloaked in a purple haze. I could even make out the ubiquitous serrated ridges of the Sierra and the Palisade Glaciers. I relished the thought of why I was on this route, of being so far away from the popular places and still finding this unknown and unseen beauty. With everything that has been happening with me personally lately, I simply stared into the Sierra so faraway and thought 'What if?' and 'Why couldn't?' I owe the High Sierra something. The clouds moved on, the cloak of darkness quickly dimmed the alpenglow, and I fell asleep with a whistling wind singing to me.

Death Valley No-Name

heart to the wind, 

mind to the raven, 

blood to the water, 

and my soul to the rock

4/25-4/28

~102m

Death Valley seemed an appropriate place to start. In the past week I have had to attend to personal matters and essentially slide into the proposed No-Name Route as if I had hiked it continuously. Since I had to pick up 2 packages within the area of Death Valley National Park, I basically had to recall what I had in store for the route ahead of me. This proved to hit me later on in this section. Nonetheless, I was afforded with incredible challenges, some even bordering stupid on my end; amazing scenery, and the freedom of creating something without any barriers or obstacles, philosophically speaking.

After getting things situated in a hurry, I left Stovepipe Wells into the teeth of an ominous storm. Because I could see the curtains of rain pounding in 'island' formation, I felt fine enough to push forward. Besides, the rain seemed to be hitting the highest peaks the hardest. I walked along the bajada of Death Valley as the world of rock and mountains loomed all around amidst the shadows and grayness of a huge thunderstorm. I was in the bottom of a basin and heading straight towards Marble Canyon.

After a couple of hours, I entered the first narrows of Marble Canyon. On the way up I marveled at the indomitable power of water and its erosion, its control over time. Indelible marks of water shown in the landscape surrounding yet the layers of rock showed characteristics of weathered times, like a classical statue that erodes and rusts over time yet the 'value' of the artist is still there and the meaning endures for eons. Nothing more shown the endurance of rock and the power of water than the narrows.  Smooth, polished gray and ebony stone with the occasional pearly vein. I stood astonished at the dizzying, narrows heights above me. All I wanted to do was to leave my hands feeling the marble rock. Echoes and weird sounds reverberated in the slot and I recognized baby crows squawking in a nest high above and out of sight.

Eventually, I came to the second narrows, which had a high flood mark about 20ft high. Unlike the first slot, caked mud spackled the white and black-lined marble walls. The slots meandered in a water slide fashion, where you can see the vestiges of careening water cascading and carving its way through utter rock virtually impenetrable. That is what baffles my mind, that something as meaningful to life, as precious and soft, and fluid and refreshing, like water, could etch itself forcefully through something so fortified as rock. I can understand water eroding the crumbly kind of rock, but marble!

I laid down on an elevated shelf under utter rock everywhere. Despite my emotional feelings of recent events I kept my eyes focused on the silhouettes of rock in the moonlight, the different layers and colors, the different tendencies of rock, until I fell asleep.

The next morning I bundled up with my wind parka and navigated up to the mouth of the canyon. At the head of the canyon I found an old mine, a first of many in the next couple days. I used a pretty large scale map of the area, the NatGeo Trails Illustrated version, and began a fairly easy navigable cross country section. I walked through Joshua Tree groves and up through washes where I found gastropods fossilized in a dark gray slab. I found these regularly while I found no footprints. I cherished thus easy amble through the high desert. To my nearest right stood menacing black, craggy peaks, while all around me low colorful hills dotted the scene. I could not help but think who has been in this area before.

I moved quickly though my water was getting low. My next goal was to crest the Cottonwood Mountains and venture down the rugged Bighorn Canyon. However, if the previous day held and truth was that the storm that raged through did not leave much water to be had. I recall taking a leak and seeing how fast the water sunk and disappeared into the sand. So, I set off up a gully to find a spring that was 'marked' in the map. I went up nearly a half mile before I turned around. I again noticed an awkwardly tall Joshua Tree. I kept eyeing it as I went by. Something strange it was. As I took my last glance I spotted the spring, well, an old adit of some sort pillared off with rotted wood framing. I threw a rock inside and heard a plunge. Sweet!

After my fill of water, I neared the Cottonwood crest and White Top Peak other high peaks showed off their pigments of rock. Looking at these peaks, I swore to myself that I will be a geologist someday. I wanted answers to why everything out here was so uniquely different. Pine trees, lush sage, and large juniper greeted neat the top before I lumbered down into Bighorn Gorge. Quickly, the route descended and before I knew it I clung along in some narrows. The level of difficulty escalated and before I knew it I came to the conclusion that I some how ended up in the wrong narrow. A rather large drop-off fell beneath me. I felt incredible. And a tad scared. I wasn't sure where I made the mistake. So rather than go back from whence I came, I climbed up and over a burly ridge to get a better vantage point. The gorge adjacent to the ridge looked more walkable. Somehow I made it up and over after clinging to rock and huffing it up, which is hard to do with 3 days of food and a gallon of water. Further down the line, slots continued and even some tinajas which only a tiny bit of water settled. The chasm to Bighorn Gorge suddenly was in front of me. Water and time took an immense gouge out of the mountain and split a gap right in two. Impressive to say the least. The canyon snaked incessantly and I had to down climb some tricky chutes. One large pour-off of about 100ft dizzied my head. I found a way down a nasty gully lined with huge, loose boulders. Something took hold of me, the feeling of route blazing, the adventure into the unknown. Shit, I had no idea if I was to get rim-rocked but I didn't care. I just gave my heart to the wind and prevailed.

The idea of a Death Valley No-Name Route blossomed in my mind as I bedded down in the gorge. Something that will rival any 200m route anywhere. It's in the works and I intend to finish the last half, hopefully, in the Fall. The route will be a popular challenge for very experienced hikers: very rugged, a ton of elevation change, dry, hot and cold, lack of water, and incredibly scenic and so different than anything. I'm finding all the water sources, breaking the route up for a thru, route blazing, gathering further ideas, etc. to make this route something special.

So, the next morning I continued down the gorge. I had a massive climb around and down some slots and narrows, which were littered with bighorn sheep spinal columns and skulls. The descent wasn't the most sensible thing I've done. I spent a good hour trying to figure out a way down and this chute seemed like my only option, as this route is not marked with cairns. Precariously slippery descent through scree and loose rock, in which I had to show ski or slide on my rear on 50-60 degree slopes for about 400ft down.

Out of the gorge I ambled up Death Valley Wash which proved to be great walking with a cemented bed from previous floods. The heat, of course, baked the ground like an oven, which is to say I had a 30m hike in the bottom of the wash with mid-90s heat. Scorched and sun-drenched I continued through colorful badlands, even some ancient sand dunes caked with volcanic dust and small pumice rock, and had endless views. In particular, I couldn't quite get enough of Tin Mountain.

I ended up spending a little bit longer in Death Valley and my mind drifted to my food supply. I maybe had 3 days max with 3.5 days left of uncertain hiking. I kept telling myself to get out of the park, then tally up. So, an easy walk up Last Chance Canyon turned into a pure white-knuckle adventure. At the headwall of canyon I hung a left when I should have stayed right up a lesser tributary. Once I figured it out, I again decided to push on through. The headwall had the terrain of the Badlands. Small ridges, large truncations in the land perforated the bowl in front of me. A kaleidoscope of earthy colors skewed my determination of climbing the blasted wall. 'Take the brain out, leave the heart in,' I kept repeating as I dug into the very steep slope. I would slide down, then zoom up. All this, at the end of a 40m waterless stretch. I kept at it, same mantra, until I finally hit a large, ribbon of a backbone that I hoped would take me to the top. I skittered on a catwalk about a foot in width that went straight up. I doggedly persisted; there was no turning back. Bushes and juniper and pine clung onto the crusty dirt. I dug in with my claws to keep me from tumbling 500ft. I grabbed roots, branches, rock that jumbled loose, anything to attain the top. 

I got it. Down to Willow Spring I went.

State of Wilderness and the Impact of Thru-hiking

I left Los Angeles, many years ago, because I saw the severe encroachment of the urban sprawl envelope the once beautiful surrounding hillsides. There became no place to truly roam free. You had to go elsewhere. Although I have since found beauty within that bulging metropolis, especially during my LA urban thru-hike, I left to develop a wilderness ethic. I believe that my ethic is stronger because I grew up in that urban environment. As I saw suburban housing tracts takeover natural grasslands, oak woodlands, desert expanses, and lush waterways I coined the term 'free dirt' as in rid the land of the concrete that binds, as in connect with the wild without human obstruction. As I am venturing on a route this year exploring public lands seldom visited I think of our overuse on popular trails and ponder the 'voiceless' wilderness and other wild places no one wants to go to visit and explore. Some places are even non-existent in public memory save for a few hardy individuals who choose their own path and keep wilderness alive and valid.

I feel we have a responsibility to walk, to explore. As I say that statement, we have a duty to not neglect our farthest to reach places. Our 'home' should spread wider than our walk to our vehicle or our jobs or around town. Our 'home' should also extend to the least popular places. Even as the Big 3 gains in popularity, which explores vast public spaces, many parts of the wilds remain neglected and overgrown, absent from public memory. This holds even more true out in the wide West. While the corridor of the PCT and CDT receive more boot prints, other wild places seemingly become farther away and the vestiges of trail vanish.

 

As thru-hikers we need to be the voice for wilderness. I get a sense there is a 'me' attitude in the community when in essence why we experience the wilderness is for ourselves and in the spirit of wilderness. Rick Potts, former Chief of the Wilderness Stewardship and Recreation Management Division for the National Park Service, wrote in an article:

The danger to wilderness is no longer from recreationists who are coming to wilderness, but rather from the vast majority of Americans who are not visiting wilderness.

I feel it is my duty as an American, as an adventurer, and just a plain human being to go into these faraway places and wild areas. In a way, I feel I am keeping the 'no-name' wild spirit alive, that I am validating the existence of wilderness in our world, because it is the freedom of our world. Within my career of thru-hiking I feel to be an explorer and a steward of trails and routes first. Public attention for what I'm doing serves no purpose, only my actions and my respect out in the wild. As I see hikers looking for that public attention or trying to be the cool kid, as I witness public arguments between reputed hiker figures, as I see things getting 'easier' for hikers with not-so-random trail magic, I think of the places faraway and the respect these wild places deserve. To explore means going where the herd is not, to explore means branching away. I think love can 'overkill' and 'over-populate' an area, while apathy and irrelevance can diminish the memory and love we have for a wilderness; wild places fade into the 'no-name.' If we do not use wilderness we will lose it.

 

Why has a lapse in wilderness ethic shifted to a more social experience? I have a theory. When the America Recovery and Reinvestment Act (ARRA) passed it put a lot of young people to work. A lot of those young adults served in AmeriCorps, in particular the Conservation Corps around the states that put those same young adults at work in our public lands. They were working in places faraway from local society. They worked and lived in the woods with a crew, a family if you will. Our job economy was pretty feeble at that time, yet ARRA employed thousands of young adults everywhere. During their service tenure, transformational experiences of great magnitude shifted the lives of adults that otherwise may have been left with a bleak future. I was one of them. I say to this day, a season in a Conservation Corps is very similar to a thru hike. So, fast forward about 6 years later and ARRA ended and Congress decided to cut back on AmeriCorps. Around that time, our job climate was in the shits even worse than before. Also, long distance hiking was gaining some popular momentum with books being published, bigger social media presence, the blogosphere, and speed record attempts. I correlate this popularity of long distance hiking with the U.S. experiencing a 'European shift,' in which young Americans forsook the tradition of graduating college, starting a career and a family, working until retirement, and finally traveling and exploring in the 'golden years.' With this shift, young Americans have been seeking some sort of transformational experience. Couple that with a jobless economy in which highly educated people cannot find work, then traveling seems like a plausible endeavor. Whether riding a bicycle cross-country, volunteering overseas, thru-hiking, etc. the common thread among the adventurists is the transformative experience one obtains.

My theory is not to naysay a transformative experience or to not hike a popular trail. In fact, I encourage folks to follow their dreams and live a life off instinctual impulses. My theory, if anything, is a call to action to spread the love. I may sound like a curmudgeon but these transformative experiences can happen anywhere and not solely on the Big 3. I have to say it: The land comes first. Wilderness comes first. The one thing I can say I have learned the most from long distance hiking is balance. Another valuable lesson that I cannot leave out is that wilderness has taught me that my actions have direct consequences. If we overload the popular corridors then more money gets filtered to those areas. Hiker and trail associations get bigger, hiker impact on trail becomes more crucial and noticeable; a veritable highway is developed. I see an eerie parallel to overcrowding our main corridors as urban development encroaching on wild lands. In contrary to overfunding, little used areas receive hardly any funding and become less accessible and overgrown. Only the seldom trail crew or a backcountry horseman clears the paths. Small trail associations go defunct or scrape by on the passion of the folks protecting the trail. But the job is too immense. We end up losing what we love. What stings even more to me is, nowadays, the access to receive thru-hiking tutelage and ethics is ever the more accessible, yet 'how to act' is not held accountable by other experienced hikers. A lesson or the awareness of the climate of the trail becomes a hiker rant. I am not looking to settle the field and condone actions, I am looking to hold thru-hiking in a special light. I am striving to protect our wilderness by being in wilderness. I think of all the ones before us that have enhanced our experience by simply following their heart into unknown territory. The trailblazers who had the vision and bushwhacked a route before it was a path; the researchers of places, maps, and local lore; the authors of guidebooks who painstakingly tabulate valuable information; the naturalists who investigate and scrutinize the world around them microscopically; the mapmakers who constantly read the land and translate what the world is communicating to us on paper; the wilderness fighters who protect what we love; the no-namers, the wildland firefighters, trail builders and trail grunts; all the work and workers going into a route is beyond comprehension. Yet we often choose the most popular path. The gist behind this is that people are seeking that transformational experience at the wilderness expense.

We take for granted the land and the wild by protecting it with closed arms and hugging it close to us thinking if we do not tell anyone then it will always be ours, when in fact, if we do not speak out loud and stand as stewards of the trail and the wild then it will vanish and be used up by big industry. I think, as thru-hikers, we need to be the assertive voice. We have an opportunity to answer the call of wilderness as it sits on our shoulders beckoning us with signs to recover it and to bring its true meaning and value to light before the greedy hands take over. That transformational experience will always be there. Wilderness and those faraway places, on the other hand, may not be. Understanding that our actions affect the land first and not our social constructs will help us make conscientious choices that balance out our land use and land neglect. 

I often think that in order to hike one of the Big 3 you must give back to the trail in the form of service. Maybe in order to get a long distance hiking permit 8 hours of trail work must be performed by the hiker on that particular trail with a certain timeframe. Understanding is gained through education, especially through experiential learning. Maybe then we can truly respect the wild places. Maybe then we can understand how much effort goes into the trails we love. Maybe then we will develop a wilderness ethic. Maybe then our furthest faraway places will be preserved through love rather than neglect and apathy.

.