He lured my typically eccentric uncle into an obviously uneventful commitment by swearing the landscape was chalked full of coyote. My uncle liked coyote; he liked to shoot them. My dad needed a truck capable of traversing what the map labeled “dirt road.” Armed with the Trails West Driving Guide and an old 250cc Yamaha motorcycle, the two brothers set out for High Rock Canyon, a treeless plane of sagebrush and long, sweeping canyons quietly hidden behind Nevada's Black Rock Desert. (The title of "Black Rock" comes from the desert's jewel, an oasis of charred ebony jetting up at the end of a long alkali flat. British drivers broke the land speed record here once, but its current claim to fame is the annual Burning Man festival held on its playa.) Far above the desert floor, my dad was able to locate the elements of the history he so eagerly sought. He pointed out landmarks chronicled in pioneer diaries, showed my uncle rock carvings left by weary westward travelers, and immersed himself in the beauty and isolation offered by such a stark, lonely country. My uncle never saw a coyote.
Then it rained. A lot. Frustrated, wet, and angry at the darkness, the brothers broke camp, bunched it into a sopping pile, and started driving (and cursing) along “dirt” roads that now resembled small streams, flash-flood channels, and drainage canals. But the boys returned home with plans for another trip, for while the rain had soaked their resolve, it had not washed away their ambition.
My first trip to High Rock Canyon came the next year, in May of 1997. The camping location changed, my dad and uncle opting for the permanence of an old homestead at the edge of a shallow lake, far better suited than the roadside turnout used the previous year. The guest list grew, with my uncle bringing his son and my dad packing my brother and me. My grandfather, the obstinate sage proudly leading his lineage, joined us to oversee the adventure.
My first trip wasn't about history; it was about survival. Though my dad spent the year upgrading a rickety trailer and scouring the classified ads for motorcycles small enough for his kids and cheap enough for his budget, we arrived under prepared. The elements were against us. The rainstorms saturated the powdery dust so the sun could create a hard, thin layer of dirt over a soupy, muddy gumbo. The weight of the tires and bikes shattered the trail, and we fell, slid, and skidded our way through the sagebrush. We were filthy. The bike my brother saddled that year never ran well—-at least not in the high desert. The engine seemed to choke on the air. It sputtered through the mud, and the narrow handlebars seized up every time the tire became caked in slippery gumbo. We struggled to make four miles in any direction from camp. The children sulked while my grandfather and his two sons stared longingly at the horizon at the untapped possibility and at the country they wouldn't see.
When it didn’t rain, dry summer winds roared across the treeless countryside. Embers from the fire blew through camp and burned wholes in our tent. The hollow windows of the homestead whistled in the gusts. Dad's two-wheel drive Ford Ranger struggled to carry the load of 4 days worth of food, three motorcycles on the homemade trailer, and three people. There were streams to cross, hills to climb, and time to keep. Looking back, what amazes me most is how much we accomplished with how little we possessed. This includes knowledge. We fancy ourselves experts on the country and the history. This knowledge, I think, is something that compels us to return.
The trip has since evolved. The motorcycles have grown. The homemade trailer snapped an axle one (excruciatingly long) year, so it became a new trailer. The two-wheel drive Ford became a Dodge Ram. The four daily miles we once struggled to ride turned into to 20, 40, even 100-mile day trips. The camping grew more elaborate. We blueprinted a ride-in camp one year and staged the trips from mid-way up the canyon. A year later, my father, uncle, and grandfather split the cost of a grand's worth of sheepherder’s tent so we could base camp at the opposite end of the canyon. The bigger motorcycles turned into ATVs. It kept raining. New guests joined. The uncle left. The lake dried up. The grandfather died. New guests left. More guests joined. I missed trips. It snowed. My brother missed trips. But my predictable father kept his annual excursion alive; he kept people interested, enticing them with his vivid yarns and histories and romantic stories.
The very nature of the trip evolved as well. In those early years, the trip was about emigrant wagon roads. It was about seeing the deep ruts worn into the soft stone. We followed reprinted pioneer maps through river crossings and to their various camps, and imagined their hardships, their stories, and their hopes. Then, the trip became about native history, and on certain trips we made daily beelines to spots rumored to hold arrowheads, spears, and other relics of the Piute who once roamed the lands. One year, my father and I found the hot spring, and the camp morphed from a dusty, grimy sunspot into a luxuriously remote relaxation station. The more we explored, the more we needed to explore. As we increased the mileage, we found ourselves spooking numerous packs of wild horses, antelope, big horn sheep, rattle snakes, and cutthroat salmon.
This year, as I think back on Memorial Day weekend with my father, brother, (a different) uncle, and some of the other usual suspects, I can't help but feel overwhelmed by the progression of time. My predictable father will plan this trip until no one returns his calls—-which will likely never happen—-because the trip, like the stories we tell and the pictures we take and the history we recall and whiskey we drink, needs preservation. My fiancé understands this. My "Dirt Trip," as it’s called in my new family, stands as time when she and I agree to endure the six-day separation in the name of tradition. It's a time for endurance itself, for awe and isolation and tradition, just as my father unknowingly predicted 13 years ago.
Nine years ago, the year of the ride-in camp, I left my mark in the only dry spot available.
My grandfather never asked for remembrance on this craggy hilltop, but he's woven into the trip's history to the extent that my father felt he needed one.
While the focus of the trip has changed, our plans have revolved around a soak since we found this hot spring.
This year we saw more horses in more places than in years past. Far be it from us to praise the Bureau of Land Management for this.
Roughly 25 miles from camp we received an ominous sign it was time to head back.
"Dry Black Rock Trip" has become our favorite oxymoron.
The trip will always be about history.
My dad will always refer to it as a good trip, but it just isn't the same if his kids can't make it.
