When we last saw poor Larry, he had found water in the desert by relying on his super-cool outdoor guy instinct alone because someone (who?) neglected to get maps ahead of time (like she said she would) and very stupidly left the Park's trail tips and directions in the car. But never fear. Our hero is on the job.
Day 2 dawns warm and sunny. We fill our Nalgene bottles (2) and gallon jugs (2) with water from the spring that feeds these cottonwoods. Our goal for the day is to walk out of Cottonwood Canyon, across the desert beyond, then down Marble Canyon to where it is joined by Dead Horse Canyon. There is water at Dead Horse, or to be more accurate, we think there is water at Dead Horse, but the paper that says so is in the car, so we are not actually sure. Larry finds this unsettling, but to me it is an invigorating challenge for Larry to overcome.
Larry, carrying all our water, climbs out of Cottonwood Canyon. It's the perfect moment for Larry's next installment in a series of unsolicited science lessons. "The weight of a given container of water," Larry explains as he climbs, "is equal to the density of water times the volume of the water." Larry does some quick mental math. "This means that water weighs 8.3 pounds per gallon and 2.2 pounds per liter. I have 2 gallons and 2 liters of water in my pack, for a mere total of 21 pounds."
As we leave Cottonwood Canyon, Larry delivers a botany lesson, showing me Matrimony Vine, the brown piles at the base of these trees. "Matrimony Vine," Larry explains, "is like marriage: it smothers and kills the thing it loves." I'm so depressed by this news that I can hardly go on, but since Larry is carrying 21 pounds of water, half of which is mine--not to mention most of our food--I decide to keep my depression to myself and press on.
After leaving the trees behind, the trail goes cold and the sun gets hot.
We spend a lot of time looking at our (bad) map, comparing it to what we see around us. Could that peak over there be this peak here on the map? If so, are we here or there? If not, where are we? Larry gets out his compass and uses his orienteering skills to make sense of things. For once, our hero fails and tension mounts.
Larry's next teaching moment comes when we stumble upon this bleached Bighorn Sheep skull.
"This is what happens," Larry tells me, "to sheep dumb enough to travel in the desert without maps or directions." ["This is what happens," I silently amend Larry's lesson, "to sheep dumb enough travel in the desert without a man along to carry 21 pounds of water."]
We move along, looking for the pass into Marble Canyon. It might be between one of the hills you see below. Or it might be somewhere else. Only our hero can tell (or not).
There is no trail, and our map (as you've already been told) doesn't have enough detail for us to pinpoint our location. Still, Larry is convinced that if he looks long enough, everything will become clear.
It's the perfect opportunity for a lesson in compass reading.
"Fred is in the shed," Larry intones and shows me how to line the little red arrow up with the black arrow outline. It's a pretty cool trick, I admit, one worthy of admiration, but it gets us nowhere. Fred is in the shed, but where the hell are we?
Hours later, we find this hopeful sign and consult the map.
We find Keeler on our map, but it's 38 miles away, and this fact does us absolutely no good. Jackass Springs seems to be more of a reference to us than to anything else.
We walk all day, following footprints like these, never quite sure we're on the trail. Still, all these people must have gone somewhere, right?
Apparently an unbelievably large number of people get lost on this hike. We follow these footprints on and on. We follow them right past our turn into Marble Canyon. We march along those footprints many miles out of the way. In the wee distance behind us we see two hikers turning off down what we are certain is the wrong canyon. "Poor bastards," Larry says, "look at them wandering lost in the desert."
On we go, further from Dead Horse Canyon with its life-giving spring. Our water becomes dangerously low. We have only a few hours before dark.
Using an old chukar hunters' trick, we climb a peak to get a bird's-eye view. Larry puts Fred back in the shed and does a little swearing.
Meanwhile, I photograph the Joshua trees.
Larry tells me to put up the camera and quit screwing around. I point out that we would have missed the Joshua Trees and the magnificent view had we not got lost.
From our lofty perch, we look behind us down on the valley where we've been wandering thirsty and lost all day.
We were supposed to leave the valley and turn down one of the canyons to the left of this photo. Which one? Only God (and the hikers we saw earlier) know for sure.
In front of us, we ponder the myriad of canyon options available to us now.
Only Dead Horse Canyon has water. Probably many horses died trying to find it. I ask Larry if he'd like a canyon named after him: Dead Larry Canyon.
We decide to cut back along the top of the ridge--chukar hunting style--to where we think we missed the trail. I have the fleeting thought that Larry has gotten lost on purpose for the sheer fun of running up and down these canyons like a goat.
We leave the mountaintop and head into what we hope is Marble Canyon which we hope leads to Dead Horse Canyon where we hope the spring might be. Larry quickly leaves me far behind, dashing ahead in search of confirmation that we're on the right track. I ask you: How heroic is it to leave me alone to fall and break my hip on this steep pebble-slick slope? The tiny blue speck in this photo is Larry leaving me behind. Thanks a ton, Larry.
There are no photos to document what happens next. We find the trail and immediately lose it again, taking a wrong turn down the wrong canyon in our haste to find Dead Horse before dark. In a replay of our entire day, we're not sure we're on the right trail nor in the right canyon. We suspect that we're in the dry canyon with impassible dry dry falls that the Park directions warn hikers to avoid. Finally, with night setting in, we stop, spread our tarp on the dusty ground, and make our humble camp. We have a very sad dinner of raw carrots and red pepper on this desolate night, having no water to spare for cooking. (Only Larry can explain why he is lugging such heavy food around in the desert.)
We sit in the black night and continue our map study. We hope the stars will shed new light on our location. With Fred back in the shed, we engage in a heated discussion about where we are in relation to Dead Horse.
Larry sets out our remaining water where everyone can see it. This way, neither of us can sneak a drink in the night. I take a picture so that when our bodies are found next week or the next, someone will look at our photos and know why we died.
Finally, we decide to turn in for a sleepless night. I run endless mental scenarios involving impassable dry falls, a broken leg, and Larry shouldering his blue pack and disappearing up the canyon, leaving me to wait days and days for help that never arrives.
Suddenly, Larry sits up with something important to say:
"Hey," he says with amazement, "I forgot until just now: today's my fucking birthday."
Larry rejoices when he spots the green of a cottonwood tree in a the bottom of the next canyon. This must be Dead Horse Spring. We are saved.
Larry sets right to work pumping 21 pounds of water after engineering a fine dam from rocks and sand.
Now that we're not going to die, Larry decides to be nice to me again. To my dismay, I notice I'm starting to dress exactly like our hero. Maybe I'll grow a beard.
Eventually the water all seeps into the sand, and we're without water again (except for the 21 pounds in Larry's pack). The next water is a day away, back at the car.
"Look how cinchy," I tell Larry, "we don't need a map after all."
"Marble is a metamorphic rock formed by alteration of limestone or dolomite. It's composed mostly of calcite, a crystalline form of calcium carbonate, or CaCO3."
The car is a few miles ahead, but it's getting dark. Larry's still packing a gazillion pounds of water, so we decide to camp for the night on the hardpan.
In the morning, Larry gets up early to take a picture of camp before the moon sets. Exhausted from [not] carrying all that water, I sleep late.
Larry rejoices that the ordeal is over and vows never to leave the car behind again.
As we leave the mountains behind, we count up: four days of vacation left.
"Let's find a nice hotel and a golf course," Larry begs. "I'm tired from packing all that water."
"Absolutely not," I tell him, "you're such a wimp."
