I knew there was no chance I was going to make it to a gas station in time… might as well just enjoy the ride. After passing what seemed like the fifth exit in a row without services, I hoped that when I inevitably had to pull over to the side of the highway, I would at least find cell phone service, so I could call AAA. But I wasn’t optimistic. Southern Idaho seemed to be a dead zone as far as the petrochemical industry was concerned. Perhaps people drove around on potato-based biodiesel in these parts.
With its gas gauge a quarter-inch below empty, my Jeep still managed to cruise down the highway until, beyond all expectations, we came within sight of an exit and a big sign for Exxon-Mobil. Saved! But then the Jeep sputtered and died right at the end of the off-ramp. So close.
I jumped out the door and cranked the steering wheel while I used some leg muscle to move the Jeep off the ramp and onto the side of the road. The gas station lay on the opposite side of the highway. Now, what to do about a gas can …
When I packed up my Montana home that morning and hit the road, I had brought a quarter-filled milk jug with me, even though I knew the milk would curdle within hours in the summer heat. It was a senseless action, but perhaps intuition had played a part. Once the jug was rinsed out, I was able to easily carry a gallon of gas back to my vehicle and continue onwards to the Jarbridge Mountains in Northeast Nevada.
My plan was no different than the usual… to climb the highest mountain in the Jarbridge Wilderness: 10,838-foot Matterhorn Peak. Approaching from Idaho, the long, narrow mountain range looked like a ship capsizing in a sea of sagebrush. With bits of snow clinging to its cliffs and ledges, the ridgeline looked out of place, unsure of what it was doing out there in such arid country. Come to think of it, I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing out here either, except that there was a mountain on a map, and I felt obligated to climb it.
Usually one swims away from sinking ships, not towards them. Nevertheless, I rumbled down a series of dirt roads and got as close to the trailhead as I could before washouts forced me to abandon the Jeep and proceed on foot sooner than anticipated. The Jarbridge Range was the setting for one of the last gold rushes in the American West, but while ascending the valleys I could see little evidence of mining operations. Perhaps avalanches had scoured the area clean. The streams were clogged and the hillsides were littered with desiccated, splintered logs from past avalanche events. Even the trailhead sat at the base of Snowslide Gulch, so I wouldn’t be surprised if winters around here were a little destructive.
My first eagerly awaited destination was Jarbridge Lake, which the trail description indicated was more of a pond. I bypassed it because it wasn’t much a pond, either. More of a pool. But I was overheated and weary after seven miles of hiking in the hot Nevada sun, so I backtracked and swam in it anyway. It would be the last water I would see for another seven miles, since I was about to leave the valley in order to traverse the backbone of the Jarbridge Range.
The route to Matterhorn Peak was a straightforward, narrow ridgeline walk that occasionally featured sheer cliffs on its eastern side. The main complication was that tough and ancient bristlecone pines were hogging the top of the ridge, grasping for access to the maximum amount of sunlight. Their stunted limbs obscured the rocks near the cliff edge, increasing the likelihood that I might accidentally step out into open space. I had to try to look through the branches and pay attention to where the ground should be, placing my feet with extreme care. It felt rather like tightrope walking across barbed wire.
