This doesn’t seem stupid at all.

We thought we were going the right way.

My friend Paul and I had set out on a plan to hike up Shepherd’s Pass in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, with the goal of climbing both Mt. Williamson and Mt. Tyndall on the same three-day trip. Physically, we were prepared, having independently tailored our workouts to the rigors of the 30+ mile roundtip topping out at over 14,000 feet of elevation. Our route was mapped out, too, along with precisely how much food, water, and equipment to bring along for the trip. As long as the weather held up–and it appeared that it would–the only thing standing between us and the summits were, effectively, ourselves.

“What could possibly go wrong,” I said to Paul.

We were about to find out.

We’d scheduled ourselves to begin hiking around 2:30pm. After a bit of confusion about where to store our in-vehicle scented items (so bears wouldn’t be tempted to break into my truck), we found ourselves deep on Foothill Road, a two-way path of graded gravel winding through the arid underbrush, heading towards the trailhead. It seemed odd to us that there’d be concerns about bears in this country. It was desolate, almost desert. In fact, Death Valley itself is only a hop, skip, and a jump east of the 395. It seemed like an odd place to have unloaded all our non-backpacked food, just for bears. We forged ahead, looking for the trailhead sign.

When we finally saw it, it indicated we turn right on Forest Road 14S102.

But soon that road dead-ended, leaving us wondering what went wrong.

Turn right, people. OR ELSE.

There was no parking lot, no cars. Just a lump of sugar sand at the end of a spur road. And a whole lot of manzanita bushes.

“Where’s the people?” Paul said.

Thousands of people climb Mt. Williamson each year. So why, on a prime-weather weekday in August, was no one here?

We decided to turn around. In a million-point turn. Carefully.

Hiss…

Not carefully enough. The sound came to me like a haunted serpent, swirling air ricocheting through the walls of a waking nightmare. Either a very angry rattlesnake was shadowing my front driver’s side wheel as I inched forward, or…

Courtesy of your local manzanita root, sharper than a fourth-grade spelling bee champion.

We had ourselves a flat tire.

One instant-ass, flat-as-a-board strip of formerly inflated strip of rubber between us and safety.

It was already 4:00. Well beyond our 2:30 projected start time.

After the usual obscenities, my first thought was to dig into the extended cab and get the jack. I knew a spare tire was hanging from under the bed of the truck. But when I opened the compartment for the jack, every piece was there BUT THE JACK ITSELF. I guess the previous owner had taken it with him as a fucking parting gift. Brilliant. Word to the wise: Check your safety equipment before heading into the wilderness.

Hey, you got a jack, rabbit??

I had Paul ready our gear for the hike while I called AAA. Fortunately I had phone service, otherwise we’d have had a long hike ahead of us–back into town. Unfortunately this turned into a series of conversations with the dispatcher with more twists and turns than a telenovella. It went a little something like this:

AAA: We’ll have a flatbed out for you right away.
AAA: Wait, no one is willing to drive down those roads.
AAA: Wait, someone is willing to drive down those roads. But it’s going to take 4 hours.
Me: Fuck it, we’re just gonna leave the truck here. Can we call you when the hike’s over?
AAA: Um… okay?

“Night hike it is,” said Paul.

Five hours later than scheduled, worn down from the ordeal with the flat tire, Paul and I set out to bushwhack northeast towards the trail. A hike starting out with such luck ended exactly how you might imagine. We’d expected the first leg of the hike to take 6 hours; instead, it took 11, getting us to sleep around sunrise. The rest of the journey went a little something like that. Paul and I are relatively experienced at this too, having completed several mountains together and separately, from the Grand Canyon to Mt. Shasta to Longs Peak and the Cactus to Clouds superhike. But luck was not on our side this time.

By the time we returned, we’d logged over 30 miles of strenuous wandering, nearly forgetting that we were returning to a tilted mess of truck-home disrepair. We hobbled into camp at sunset and put a call into AAA. Again, the series of calls resembled an Emmy-winning soap opera:

AAA: We were mistaken. The driver who originally said he could come says he can’t.
Me: I am wild, I am fierce.
AAA: Shit, okay. We’ll send him.
Merciful Driver: I could get fired for doing this. I’ll meet you halfway as a compromise. At 11pm.
Me and Paul: (walk a mile downhill to meet him)
Merciful Driver: (pissed, gives us 30 lb. jack)
Me and Paul: (walk a mile uphill back to truck)
Jack: (breaks)
Tire: (remains flat)
Me: Hey, Merciful Driver, wtf?
Merciful Driver: I’ll get my brother to help. Walk back to me.
Me and Paul: (walk a mile downhill back to meet Merciful Driver)
Merciful Driver’s Morbidly Obese Brother: How far to the flat tire?
Me: Um… Oh… like a mile-and-a-half
Merciful Driver’s Morbidly Obese Brother: (narrowly survives mile uphill walk to truck)
Flat: (becomes fixed)
Thanks: (Given)

Hint: Pay CLOSE ATTENTION to the letters at the end of the signs when navigating shitty forest roads.

Walking 30 miles up and down 9,000 feet of elevation gain might seem hard, but try tacking on a 4-mile back-and-forth after doing all that. I guarantee it will help solidify a few lessons for you.

One: CHECK YOUR SAFETY EQUIPMENT before heading into the wilderness.

Two: Don’t expect flatbed drivers to drive along graded, gravel roads. And understand that this is completely reasonable–when our guy did, he nearly lost his toolbox because it was rattling loose on the drive in. Sympathy for that guy.

Three: Shepherd’s Pass is stupid. If you have to choose between hiking this route and punching yourself in the face repeatedly for seven hours, CHOOSE THE LATTER.

And finally, FOUR: There are no bears at the Sierra foothills. So bring your food cache with you. You might need it when you blow a tire on a manzanita root.

Keep surviving, y’all.

-TOH