County Quest: California to Texas (V2)

Leaving the fire lookout is always bittersweet. On the one hand, I’m sad to be leaving this beautiful place I call home each summer. On the other, it’s a new opportunity to have an epic road trip and see as many new places as I can. I’ve been able to see and experience so much of this country over the past few years, and this year’s trip back home did not disappoint.

Starting from Lassen Volcanic National Park, I drove through seven states, visited four national parks and monuments, did two ridiculous hikes, and had one full circle moment. These are the highlights…

This was my first time visiting Lassen Volcanic National Park. As I approached Lassen Peak from the north, I entered an enormous burn scar. In 2021, the Dixie Fire tore through seventy percent of the park’s total area, and the forest has barely started to recover. There’s a strange beauty to the stark landscape all around — the grey dacite rock of the mountains blending with the warped grey skeletons of conifer trees that stretch as far as the eye can see. The weather was temperamental the day I visited. Low clouds enveloped Lassen Peak, adding to the bleakness all around. I had wanted to hike to the summit, but because it was shrouded, I had to settle for basins and smaller heights if I wanted any sort of view.

After driving all day, I wanted to get out of the car and push myself physically, so the first hike I did was to Ridge Lakes. It was just what I wanted — a steep, thousand-foot climb over the course of a mile. I was panting and sweating once I reached the twin emerald lakes. While the view was nice enough, the real pleasure came from the exertion. When I returned to the trailhead, I made a quick detour over to the Sulphur Works — a steaming pool of boiling mud that stank of sulphur and made me grateful for the concrete path I was walking on.

As the afternoon light faded, I did one final hike to Bumpass Hell. Bumpass Hell was one of the most interesting sections of the whole park. The 1.5-mile hike through gnarled grey trees felt otherworldly, and ushered me into this volcanically active area full of steam vents, acid pools, and boiling mud pots. It felt truly alien, a landscape stained ochre, silver, white, and grey, with stunted trees eking out an existence on the periphery. And the expected silence was interrupted by the jet-engine roar of the massive steam vents in the middle. Bumpass Hell was a unique experience for me, made even better by the fact that I had it all to myself. I enjoyed my time at Lassen Volcanic National Park, and it boded well for the rest of the journey.

It was a short thirteen-hour drive to get to Dinosaur National Monument, but the change in surroundings was extreme. As I exited California, the towering green forests of the Cascade and Sierra Nevada mountains weathered away into rolling grasslands sandwiched between the scrub-covered ranges of Nevada and Utah. After a stretch of the flattest land I’d seen for months (the salt flats west of SLC), I entered the Rockies and made my way to Dinosaur.

I only knew two things about Dinosaur National Monument — it was home to an incredible exhibit hall filled with dinosaur fossils and it was ground zero for the fight to preserve public lands in the 1950s. Unfortunately, the Quarry Exhibit Hall was closed for renovation, so I contented myself with hiking in the red rocks of Eastern Utah. First, I hiked 1.5 miles along the Fossil Discovery Trail, passing some petroglyphs and touching a real stegosaurus leg fossil embedded in the rocks. Next, I hiked 7.5 miles along the Sound of Silence and Desert Voices trails. I had the park completely to myself, and was steeped in the silence and peace emanating from the desert all around. I walked along red washes, past white cliffs, through painted hills. As much as I love being at the fire lookout, nothing fills my soul as much as the pinyon-juniper shrubland of the West. It’s where I feel most at home. And with a final short hike to Hog Canyon, my feet were ready for some rest, and I drove on into Colorado.

The drive from Dinosaur to this park was pretty incredible. The western half of Colorado is sparsely populated, and I had long stretches of highway to myself, crossing over mountain passes and driving past golden aspen groves. Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park felt like it came out of nowhere. The area was pretty nondescript and the mountains seemed distant. I was slightly confused when I entered the park, since nothing was standing out, but that’s because it’s doing quite the opposite. At this park, the view is not up; it’s down. Black Canyon is one of the steepest and deepest canyons in the United States. I pulled over and stood as close to the edge as I dared, soaking it all in as I stared over two thousand feet down to the river below. It makes a dramatic first impression. Once you adjust to the view, however, the park itself becomes a bit underwhelming. The South Rim mainly consists of a six-mile drive along the canyon, with viewpoints instead of trails. I prefer hiking over driving when I’m in a national park, so it wasn’t my favorite experience. There was a small consolation prize of a 1.5-mile hike at the end of the road, but once I completed it, I was ready to leave and have more time to spend at the next stop.

This was by far my favorite park of the trip. Great Sand Dunes National Park is such an unexpected sight. As you drive toward the heart of the Rockies, you suddenly realize that you aren’t looking at foothills, but towering sand dunes that feel so out of place. Why are there sand dunes in the mountains? Why are there sand dunes when there isn’t a desert anywhere nearby? It’s a quirk of geology, allowing the mountains to catch windblown sand from the basins nearby and gather it into these towering piles. While there are trails and viewpoints, the best way to experience this park is to go into the dunes, pick a ridgeline to follow, and start climbing. My goal was to climb to the top of High Dune, a seven-hundred-foot monstrosity that dwarfs the other dunes. It was hard to comprehend the scale of the dunes, standing at their base. It was only while I was scanning for the best route up that I noticed the little human pinpricks along the crests and realized how tall the dunes actually were. I had my work cut out for me, not least because every step up sand usually includes a half slide down. But still, I was excited and set off.

It was the perfect day to climb. The sand was pleasantly warm, not scorching like it is earlier in the year when it bakes under the hot summer sun. I began barefooted, although quickly put my sandals back on because the coarse sand was ripping my feet apart. I climbed the first few ridges with ease. As I got closer to the halfway mark, however, the altitude and steep grade started to catch up with me. I flopped down onto the crest of a ridge, sweating hard, breathing hard. The people at the base of the dunes already looked like ants, but when I turned, I could see that there was still plenty more to climb. I set my eyes on the highest ridge I could find and climbed toward it, hoping that there wasn’t much left. But after a couple more breaks to catch my breath, I reached the top, and saw the ridge line continuing to sweep to the west. I felt sure that it was High Dune, but as I crested it, there was yet another sandy peak reaching even higher. Thankfully, this was actually the high point of High Dune. And with another push, I finally climbed to the top where I was met with an incredible sweeping view of the whole park. The windswept dunes continued stretching on for miles before butting against the majestic peaks of the Rockies. The amber aspens shone like gold against the coniferous mountainsides, which rose higher and higher, concentrating into rocky peaks piercing the azure sky. It is as close to perfection as I can imagine.

I lingered for a couple of hours, wandering off the crest into the surrounding dunes. I was completely alone and the silence was all-encompassing. I sat and watched the shadows stretch as the sun went down, turning the dunes a kaleidoscope of colors — gold, red, tan, black. A crescent moon rose over the mountains in front of me. I could have stayed forever. I don’t know what it is about sand dunes — their dynamism, their permanent transience, their soft coarseness, their ability to hold light — but so many of my favorite moments in life have occurred on or around them, and this one was no different.

A day after climbing High Dune, I did the most difficult hike I’ve ever done. Rising around two thousand feet in less than a mile, the Manitou Incline is not for the faint of heart. The trail follows the path of a former funicular railroad that literally goes straight up a mountain. I had previously attempted to climb the incline in 2021, in what feels like another life. My sister and I had taken a trip to Denver a couple of months before I headed back to Atlanta to finish my walk across America. Coming out of the pandemic, I was very overweight, out of shape, and struggling somewhat with my mental health. I barely made it up a quarter of the way before I told her that I couldn’t do it, and had to turn back. Now, when I realized that it was on my way back home, I knew I had to go back and climb it to measure the growth I’ve experienced over the past four years.

Looking up the Incline from the bottom of the trail is intimidating — even more so when you realize that the highest point you can see is a false summit, and there’s way more to go after that. But I shrugged it off and started climbing. I felt great. This time I was fit, acclimated, and passing people on the way up. After a third of a mile, I took a quick break to sit and catch my breath before continuing on. Now, the effort was starting to catch up with me. There’s no end to the steps on this trail, no flat sections to give your legs a break. It’s just one step after another after another. I had to take another break at the halfway point, knowing that if I pushed on without catching my breath, I’d probably throw up. As I continued on, the breaks started getting closer and closer together. For the final quarter of the hike, I had to take a breather every twenty steps. But while it was incredibly hard and the trail felt never-ending, I had no doubt in my mind that I would complete it. And with a final surge of effort, I pushed on and finally reached the top.

The view was gratifying from the top, to say the least. And it wasn’t just the view of the city down below, but having a clear vantage point to see how far I’ve come in the last four years. Since that first attempt, I’ve walked across America, become a fire lookout, learned surrender, and become the healthiest I’ve ever been — physically, mentally, spiritually. And there at the top, I could clearly see how much I’ve grown.

And with that, I left the mountains and headed into the plains. The time for epic views and hikes was over. I entered the quiet flatness all around me, sad to leave my mountain friends for another season, but ready to return home. I always look forward to a change of scenery after spending several months anywhere. And after four months driving around the West and living at the fire lookout, I was looking forward to spending time with family and friends and having some well-earned rest.

Merry Christmas!

Ben