Towne Peak is Not the Goal | Following Giants #4

On a dark, cold night in January 1952, a distress call went out over Death Valley.

“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is Air Force 001 bailing out north of Barstow, California,” the official crash report would later read. Soon after, the crew of six jumped out of the CIA's 16-ton, dual-engine, SA-16 Albatross plane into total darkness. The plane - under power of only a single engine and its backdoor hanging open - continued on course for several minutes before scraping a couple of summits. Then, against all odds, landed on its own - with surprisingly little damage - on an insanely steep talus less than a mile south-southwest of Towne Peak.

More than 70 years later, the wreckage - severed in its midriff, its two halves resting at a mortal 90° angle - is still there.

- - - - -

With a story like that, there was no way our hike up Towne Peak would be solely to reach the summit. Though we knew that the trek itself - climbing more than 2,900 feet from Towne Pass over 3.5 miles (one way) - would be a surreal experience, finding our way to a spy plane - another mile and 1,200 feet of elevation - would surely be a highlight of our discoveries in a desert with no shortage of secrets.

Having decided to spend the night in the lower, warmer elevations of Panamint Valley, we got underway early - half an hour before sunrise - knowing we'd need every last minute of daylight in order to conquer the longest hike of the trip on nearly the shortest day of the year.

Descending the last few miles of Wildrose Road, the Argus Range glowing across the valley.

Towne Peak (high point on right) reached up into the morning light.

Just after 7:30am, we left the Tacoma at the cool, shady trailhead.

From the get-go, the route to Towne Peak was imposing. West of CA-190, a steep ridge rose 800 feet in less than three-quarters of a mile. Trailless, our ascent to the crest of the Cottonwoods was an exercise in finding the easiest path through a mountain of basalt, black with desert varnish. We did our best to gain a localized ridge, straying from its spine only to avoid the larger boulder fields that punctuated the already steep terrain.

Up, up, and more up.

After half an hour of quad-busting, we glanced back to see the Tacoma, now bathed in sun.

The most notable thing when we initially reached the crest was the wind. Ripping across the bitterbrush and ephedra at a near-constant 20mph, the extra layers we'd shed on the climb were quickly put back on so we could soak in the dramatic views that presented themselves to the west. There, the land spilled down into the rough, 2-mile-wide Dolomite Canyon, a spectacularly colorful caldron in which simmered a mosaic of faulted and warped Paleozoic formations.

Reaching the ridge was like opening a door to a whole new world.
(Can you find the Albatross wreck, visible in the distance?)

Soaking in the scenery.

The entirety of Dolomite Canyon, wiggling through sharp ridges before eventually emerging into Panamint Valley, the Argus Range rising in the distance.

From here, our route followed the ridge to the north, eventually looping around the head of Dolomite Canyon as a serpentine route climbed - and descended - several false summits before finally ascending to the summit of Towne Peak. Here, high above the heavily travelled highway, we were in a world of our own. Faint foot trails - when we could find them - were welcome discoveries, as our legs, chests, and hearts pumped in rapid succession as our elevation increased rapidly.

We would wrap our way around the ridge to the right and eventually approach Towne Peak (center, high point) from the left.

As we wrapped around the head of Dolomite Canyon, the views to the Panamint Valley Playa - and the Argus Range beyond - continued to improve.

We first noticed a steel fence post when we gained the initial ridge, but after a quick inspection - and not finding anything but a single rebar pounded into the ground nearby - we moved on. A quarter mile later, as we stumbled on a bundle of posts, our curiosity was piqued, and after a more thorough search, we discovered a survey marker embedded in a nearby stone.

Why are you up here fence posts?

Ultimately, we would find five of these survey markers, each labeled with "DEVA 1977 BDY ####" as well as two arrows pointing to the adjacent markers. This, we realized, must have been the boundary of the National Monument in 1977, or perhaps the surveyed boundary for what would eventually become the National Park in 1994. And, perhaps the fenceposts - and associated wire - were never erected, as the boundary then changed to one running up the Panamint Valley floor.

Markers B439, B435, B430, B428, and B411. Clearly, we missed quite a few!

Climbing the first false summit was a reasonably quick affair - our legs still fresh from a long night's sleep. The second took more effort. The final ascent - up Towne Peak's 30% southeast ridge - was a slog, the trail following the crest over a floor of silvery rocks (quartz-olivine basalt), formed when lava flowed over wet ground and shattered.

By the time we reached the first false summit, the sun was high enough in the sky to shorten the shadows in Dolomite Canyon.

Above us, planes danced in the sky, their thunderous roar, music to our ears.

At the second false summit, the summit was closer, but still seemed every bit of the 1.2 miles - and 700 feet - away.

Just before the final ascent, we could clearly see the Albatross, precariously perched on the steep hillside, the snow-capped Sierra rising in the distance.

Four hours after our departure - and with five hours until sunset - we reached the summit. It was 11:24am. We were hungry. Searching for a sheltered area on the southern flank of the peak so we could assemble the PB&J sandwiches without fear that our bread would blow away, we scarfed down a quick meal before opening up the ammo box that contained the summit log to search through the entries of those who'd come before us.

A view from the high point.

Someone has been watching too much Foresty Forest.

The three 1949 survey markers - No. 1 (left) and 2 (right) pointing to the marker at the high point (center) - of Towne Peak.

It was nice to see Mike Reynolds - who became park superintendent in 2015 - still out and about, enjoying this wonderful place.

Following in the footsteps of giants. Jeremy Stoltzfus (left) and Steve Hall (right) showed up within only a few days of each other, back in April 2006!

The earliest entry we found - from 1967!

Late to the party.

Having painstakingly lifted ourselves to this remote height, we'd found outrageous vistas - glimpsed by few - but we hadn't yet achieved the ultimate goal: visiting the wreckage of the CIA Albatross scattered across a steep talus slope, a mile beyond - and 1,200 feet below - the summit.

After a quick conversation as to the remaining daylight as well as the difficulty of reaching the site, we decided that it would be a journey that I'd be making alone.

Dropping off of the summit and continuing north along the ridge, several wind-brushed juniper and a few Joshua Trees decorated the terrain, the microclimate that existed on the northern face of the mountain providing just a little more water than the southern exposure.

In the hot summer months, the shade from this juniper would surely be a wonderful place to take a well-earned break and soak in this sumptuous panorama

A family of Joshua Trees, basking in the glory of Panamint Dunes, the Nelson Range, and in the distance, the Sierra.

For the first half-mile to the crash site, I made spectacular time. Following the GPS route I'd found online, I quickly dropped elevation as I worked my way towards the end or the trail and a waypoint that marked the crash site.

Except, it didn't. Instead, reaching the waypoint after only 20 minutes, I realized that it marked a rocky outcropping that had a view of the crash site, still approximately half a mile away. Chuckling to myself for not validating the route against satellite imagery before embarking on the trip, I pushed on, the terrain becoming significantly steeper, my rate of progress significantly slower.

I suppose, technically, you can see the crash site, but if you've come all this way, do yourself a favor and keep going.

At a saddle, I found a large geocache and stopped to take a look.

Once again, in the good company of Steve and Jeremy. (left) | Bringing up the rear. (right)

From the saddle, it took another 10 minutes to descend the steep talus slope to the crash site. This was most definitely the trickiest hiking so far, with only one wrong step between me and a tumble down the mountain. How a plane could stay perched - much less land - on such a precarious perch was top of mind as I struggled for secure footing. And then, I arrived!

 The tailsection is the most recognizable part of the plane, and is the first part I encountered.

An engine - though I have no idea whether this is the one that initially failed.

That crash - later known as "Operation Albatross" - illuminated a shadowy chapter from the Cold War. But the real story wasn’t just about the crash - it was about what the Albatross was doing in the air that night and the lengths to which the CIA and Air Force were willing to go in the name of national security.

The Albatross wasn’t on a routine training flight. It was part of a covert operation born in the secret corridors of the CIA. Back then, the United States was locked in a high-stakes chess match with the Soviet Union. Every move had to be calculated, every pawn a potential game-changer. The CIA teamed up with the Air Force to form the Air Resupply and Communications (ARC) Wings, specialized units tasked infiltrating Communist-controlled territories with agents, supplies, and sensitive equipment. These were the cloak-and-dagger days of Cold War espionage, where missions like this operated under the radar, often with no safety net.

The 580th ARC Wing flew out of Mountain Home Air Force Base in Idaho, practicing their routes under cover of darkness. On this particular night, they were enroute to San Diego and back - flying over Death Valley, then a remote national monument, with jagged peaks that offered little forgiveness for mechanical failure.

At first, everything was going according to plan. But around 6:30 p.m., one of the Albatross’s two engines gave out with a violent blast. It jolted the crew awake, shaking the plane as they scrambled to stabilize it. They funneled all the power into the second engine, but it wasn’t enough. The plane was losing altitude - 500 feet per minute and dropping fast. Telescope Peak, standing at over 11,000 feet, loomed somewhere in the darkness.

With no other options, the men bailed out at 9,700 feet. It was a leap of faith, the kind where survival depends on the thin threads of a parachute and the grace of fate.

Decades later, the wreckage remains on that lonely mountain, but its story speaks to more than just a botched flight. It’s a reminder of the risks CIA operatives and their counterparts have taken - then and now - to protect the country. These missions were dangerous by design, conducted in the murky world of espionage where failure wasn’t an option, and success was rarely celebrated.

OSINTNews

While any markings on the exposed side of the plane have all but faded away, those on the underside are still clear and bright.

A single seat, still secured to the floor, with no protection overhead.

The rear door, through which the CIA operatives abandoned the plane.

By now, it was 1:30pm and I knew that - with my hike back to Towne Peak plus the hike back to the Tacoma - we'd be pushing it to arrive by sundown. Radioing @mrs.turbodb to let her know that I was wrapping up my investigation and on my way back, I kicked my already-tired legs into overdrive and pushed for my second summit - of the same mountain - in a single day!

Covering the mile - and more to the point, the 1,200 feet I'd dropped to reach the crash site - I arrived at the summit right 35 minutes later, my legs nearing a state most similar to Jello.

Not wasting any time - of which there was none to waste - we set our sights on the ridge and plowed over the edge. Downhill - no surprise - turned out to be significantly faster than our ascent, and with only a couple of stops to admire the view along the way, we covered the 3.5 miles in record time.

Or at least record time for us, given that it was our first and only time.

A few minutes after sunset and two hours after leaving the summit, we started down the final descent towards Towne Pass and the waiting Tacoma.

What a day!

We'd used every last minute of daylight that we could muster on what was nearly the shortest day of the year, but we'd done it! Flush with success, we climbed into the Tacoma and sat for a minute, our legs overjoyed to surrender our weight to the seats.

It was time to go to camp - still more than an hour away - for a well-deserved rest. We'd rest for an entire day - in fact, the first "down day" we'd ever taken - just sitting around and enjoying ourselves in a place we love. But that is another story...

 

PS - Remember the crew at the beginning of the story? They survived.

 

The Whole Story

 

Filed Under