Sunrise on the Inyo.
One of the things I'd really appreciated about my time with Matthew @Beardilocks was the speed at which we moved. It was slower. As someone who lives in his truck and spends several months a year in Death Valley, he's in no real rush. On the other hand, I always feel like I've only got a couple of days to squeeze in as much as I can. It was freeing to move at Matthew's pace, but hard habits die hard and given that I'd be hiking Saline Peak solo, I was - once again - up with the sun.
Matthew was taking a down day, still snoozing as I headed out of camp.
My hope - as silly as it might have been - was that I could complete my hike and be back in camp by 3:00pm, in time to grab the big RF 100-500 lens I'd brought along in order to shoot the fighter jets I was sure would be barreling through on their final runs of the day.
Turns out that I should have just delayed my departure by about five minutes, because I considered trying to run back for my lens when the familiar growl of a low-flying, fast-moving jet - racing towards us from Steel Pass - caught my attention.
Lead F-16.
F-16 wingman flying in front of a cloud.
Kicking myself for rushing out of camp, while simultaneously pushing my pace so I'd be back as soon as possible, I headed up the alluvial fan toward an unnamed canyon. This short canyon would be my entrance into the Saline Range, quickly leading to a bench and ultimately to a ridge that allowed access to Saline Peak. All of this would happen in just under 4 miles, every mile steeper than the last, culminating in 3,800 feet of elevation gain by the time I was at the summit.
First though, I had an alluvial-fan-cactus-garden to admire.
Cholla skeleton. (left) | Mojave bunch cactus. (top right) | Beavertail. (bottom right)
A baby barrel cactus was showing off in the sun.
Most interesting was this "ghost" fishhook cactus. I found it on the ground, all spines, with no interior plant. I've heard that there's a roaming Cactacabra in the area...
I set a fantastic pace for the first mile of the hike. As is perpetually the case, I hadn't internalized - or even really seen - the elevation profile of the hike before setting out, and I found myself wondering if I'd be back in camp by lunch time, rather than midafternoon. Ha!
First look at Steel Pass.
At this point, I still couldn't see the summit.
Half an hour later, I was three-quarters of a mile closer and 750 feet higher. Finding my way - even with no trail - wasn't difficult, but there was a definite feeling of "one foot in front of the other" as I tried to pick my way up the least steep slopes. Little did I know, I hadn't even reached hard part!
It was fun watching my perspective change on Steel Pass, which I could see for much of the ascent.
At this point, I could see the summit, and I knew that my hopes of being back by lunch time were wishful thinking. I also had a new appreciation for a back-and-forth that Matthew and I had when planning our trip into the Saline Range. I'd mentioned summiting Saline Peak and was a little surprised at how quickly he'd bowed out of reaching the top a second time. Turns out, climbing a mountain with more than 3,500 feet of prominence isn't just a walk in the park. Even if it is - technically - a walk in a National Park.
Guess I'm going the right way. Thankfully, this is the only cairn I'd see all day.
As I gained a ridge that would lead me to the summit, I caught my first glimpse of the Inyo Mountains to the south.
After another hour on the Saline stair stepper, I'd climbed an additional 1,200 feet over three-quarters of a mile. It was slow going. One step at a time, I'd count each one, pushing myself to reach 100 between stops, at which point I'd give myself a minute or two to gaze out over the valley below while my legs protested the never-ending ascent.
Looking south toward the heart of Saline Valley.
I was now high enough to be looking, mostly, at the northern side of Steel Pass.
Almost three hours to the minute after leaving camp, I reached the summit. Quickly shedding my hip pack, I found the summit log and plopped myself down on an inviting looking boulder to let my fingers do the wandering for the next few minutes. As usual, there were several names I recognized, but I was also surprised that a few I expected, were absent.
Only as I reached the top did I get my first good look at Eureka Dunes below.
Made it!
As usual, Jeremy Stoltzfus (top left) and Mike Reynolds (bottom left) were prominently featured. I added my entry to their good company (right).
My entry would be the last one to fit in the original log, placed at the summit by George Barnes during the first recorded climb on March 18, 1973. A second log was already present in the coffee tin, so I added an entry there as well and carefully stowed the original for transport back to camp. These logs - which provide a historic insight - are collected by the NPS as they fill up, and I planned to deliver it to Jeremy (who places many of the new replacement logs) when I had a chance. I've also archived the log, for anyone interested.
With a few minutes of rest, I grabbed my camera and meandered across the large, relatively flat dome to admire the 360° view.
West-Northwest - Saline Range and Eureka Valley.
East - Last Chance Range.
South - Inyo Mountains.
By this point I was mostly done with the nuts I'd brought along for lunch, and it was time to make a decision. When I'd mentioned climbing Saline Peak to Matthew, he'd sent me his GPS track that turned the summit - with a four-mile detour - into a loop that included the nearby Black Top benchmark. Given my goal of reaching the high points of each Death Valley range, I wasn't sure I really needed to summit Black Top, but as usual, the "might as well do it while I'm here" mentality - that gets me into all sorts of trouble - was too much to resist.
I suppose that technically, I'd already made the decision when I signed the register - if not before - but with one last look back down the way I'd come, I set out to the south, making my hike into a loop.
Telescope Peak sported a white cap as the Last Chance, Cottonwood, and Panamint Mountains stretched out in the distance.
In what was becoming the story of my day, there was a lot more down - and up - on my way to Black Top benchmark than I'd hoped. At least, without use of a personal helicopter. Still, the views were splendid the entire time; where I wasn't able to see Saline Peak for most of my climb from the east, it was wonderfully visible from the south.
Saline Peak and the Last Chance Range.
It took just under an hour to cover the nearly-two-miles to Black Top benchmark. There, a very strange sentinel - constructed long ago - stands guard atop the survey marker, its guy lines securing it against the high winds that surely ravage it on a regular basis.
Black Top benchmark monument standing guard above Saline Valley.
For Foresty.
Black Top reference marks and bench mark.
Southern flanks of the Saline Range, descending toward Saline Valley.
Eager to add my name to the register, I was surprised when I didn't find it nestled into the rocks at the base of the post. Thinking that I'd just missed it, I poked in-and-around the piles of rocks - that surrounded the benchmark and secured the guy wires - for a good 20 minutes, looking for a jar or can or ammo box that surely protected the written record from the elements. Alas, I'm not the Easter-egg-hunter I once was, and if there's a register, it remains devoid of my name.
White Mountain was sparkling brightly in the distance as I departed my second summit.
Beginning the long downward leg of my journey just after 12:30pm, I knew there was little hope of arriving back in camp for the final flights of the day - usually between 3:00-3:30pm - give the sheer amount of "down" that my knees were about to endure. Still, I tried to keep up a steady pace in the hope that whoever had drawn the late afternoon card would be on the later end of the window.
At first, the trek down wasn't so bad. A large hanging valley sat a few hundred feet below Black Top benchmark and while I had to weave my way through grasses and shrubbery, I made quick work of the first mile,, enjoying the views the entire time.
Framed range.
From the valley, my route followed an undulating ridge down - nearly 2,500 feet over the course of two miles - into the bright confines of Saline Valley's White Cliffs. At first, this too seemed like an amazing way to descend into the valley, even if I had to pick my path carefully through a few steep spots.
White Cliffs overlook. The ridge in the center - that transitions from brown to white - is my route down.
Deeply patinaed rocks peppered transition between the reddish hillsides and light volcanic tuff
A desert mystery I found along the way.
Looking back up to the top of the ridge I'd followed.
Though there were a few extremely steep segments of ridge in the first mile-and-a-half, there were plenty of rocks in these segments I could use for stability, and no real risk of sliding more than a couple dozen feet if less than ideal foot placement gave way under my weight. However, this was distinctly not the case as I reached the final half mile. At that point, the typical rocky terrain gave way the eroding volcanic tuff for which the White Cliffs are known. Here, pea-sized granules only a layer or two deep sat on top of the yet-to-erode mass, making for a very slippery surface. That alone wouldn't have been an issue, but for the fact that this was one of the steeper and narrower sections of trail, with the sides of the ridge plunging down at a nearly 60°. If I slipped off the ridge, it would be a long, fast, unstoppable slide to the bottom, 100 feet below. Serious injury - at the very least - would be guaranteed.
To complicate matters, I'd have to work my way around beautiful outcroppings in the tuff.
One wrong step along the base of this headwall could be disastrous.
Ultimately - with an elevated heart rate and a bit of butt-sliding at the end - I survived to tell the story. While I know I'm not the first to follow this path - it was clear that there had been a small number of people before me, headed through this section in the opposite direction - this is not a route I would recommend to anyone interested in executing a similar loop. Rather, I recommend making the loop into more of a lolipop. Ascend and descend via the drainage to the north of Chalk Cliffs, constraining the loop to the high points. Doing so will result in a much safer and more pleasurable experience.
Looking back up at the final descent, a (modern, I think) rock wall/shelter at the base of the ridge.
Once I was into the White Cliffs, the hiking was once again much more mellow. Reminiscent of the canyon I'd found myself in the previous morning, the white walls reflected the afternoon light in wonderful ways. The blue sky above accenting the unusual terrain.
Reflected light.
Black chockstone.
Textured tuff.
After working my way to the mouth of the Chalk Cliff canyon, there was less than a mile between me and the Tacoma. It was 2:59pm, and with a glimmer of hope that I hadn't missed the final flight of the day, I picked up my pace as I crossed the alluvial fan.
I was about halfway to the truck when I realized I wasn't going to make it. I'd kept my eyes glued to the notch above Steel Pass where I knew the jets would appear, and when I saw the first one pop through - its roar still a few seconds behind - I kicked myself for every rest I'd taken throughout the day.
Story of my life.
Banking over the Tacoma, admiring the 1st gen, best gen. 
Lighted F-35 underbelly.
Even without my nice lens, it was as thrilling as always to feel the rumble in my chest, and I let loose a couple of "whoops" and belted out a few bars of the Star-Spangled Banner as I watched the solo jet descend into the valley. There are lots of things to be concerned with in our country these days, but there are also plenty of things that we can all still be proud to call our own. I can assure you that experiencing a low-level fly by in a National Park is undoubtedly one of those things.
A few minutes later, I strolled into camp. Matthew's Land Cruiser was still there and - knowing that he was planning to take a down day while he waited for the arrival of his next hiking buddy - I assumed he was snoozing in the afternoon sun. Not true it turned out, as I later found a note taped to his windshield; he was out on a walk.
Late afternoon parting of ways.
Rolling out of camp, I had one more decision to make before calling it a night. I had planned to hike Waucoba Mountain - the high point of the Inyo Mountains - the following morning, but I'd seen it covered in snow when I reached the top of Saline Peak. That meant that my drive to the trailhead - arriving under the cover of darkness - to get an early start, was unnecessary, which gave me the option to take things at a more leisurely pace.
The only other thing I'd had planned was hiking to a remote cabin in the Inyo, so rather than push into the darkness, I decided to find a nice spot in Saline Valley, so I could wake up to one of my favorite views in the park - sunlight illuminating the Inyo at daybreak.
The Whole Story
