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 Desert diary: Jerry Freeman chronicles his
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Main Story Diary entries
Archives 'New Lost 49ers' complete successful trek across West Modern 49ers struggle over historic Nevada trail
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Thursday morning, April 24, 1997, 3 a.m.
I slept soundly for six hours. About mid-morning, still groggy, I cooked up breakfast: chicken with rice. Because Cane Spring was my only source of water, I knew I must return here on the homeward-bound leg of this expedition. I decided to store some of my provisions. Filling my canteens from the cave, I started out, hugging the north side of Mount Salyer, descending remote canyons for cover. Traveling during the day was not without risk. Originally, the plan was to confine movement to darkness. Only when I reached Papoose Lake and the Nye Canyon region would I dare the daylight hours. But, after the "City of the Dead" fiasco, I was a day behind. No choice. Daylight it would have to be. If I avoided travel corridors and remained deep within the buffer regions, my chances of going undetected would be good. Thursday afternoon, April 24, 1997, 3 p.m. Mid-afternoon found me near the west side of Frenchman Flat, the site of much nuclear testing in bygone days. Brush was becoming scarce and I was fast approaching a building complex at the edge of the lake that certainly would be occupied. A huge blue-and-white hangar dominated the skyline. Fearing another encounter with armed guards, I altered my track westward. One-tenth of a mile later, my path was blocked by a barbed wire fence. It was in disrepair and appeared very old. Did they graze cattle in pre-nuclear days? Affixed to a single pole was an ominous warning: DANGER: POTENTIAL CRATER AREA, KEEP OUT.
I gazed across the fence, fear beginning to cool my resolve. What were the mechanics of subsidence, anyway? Would it be a seething crescendo of avalanching rock and sand that would catapult me into nothingness? Or would it be a quiet surprise, a sudden drop through an eggshell crust, a moment of weightlessness, a silent rocket ride to plutonium hell? One fact was certain: There would be no guards inside this perimeter. Cutting a stout limb from a manzanita for a probe, I scaled the wire. Treading lightly, I chuckled out loud at the sudden recollection of my meeting with Ken McCall a few days ago. Spreading the maps out on the table, his fingers traced the proposed route and came to an abrupt halt. "Plutonium Valley?" he said. He looked up with raised eyebrows and deliberately enunciated each syllable. "You're going into Plu-ton-i-um Valley?" Well, actually I wasn't, but this little side trip to "crater land" sounded equally ill-advised. Fortunately, I crossed safely. The surface bulged in places, but the footing was firm. I gave one section a wide berth, because it lacked vegetation. Its center appeared to be pure sand. I chucked a number of baseball-size rocks as far as possible, and they disappeared without a trace. Thursday night, April 24, 1997 Came upon a ship "stranded" in the desert. I think it was a trawler, slated for atomic destruction and postmortem analysis, but it didn't happen for one reason or another. I spent the night on its decrepit stern. Cruise anyone?
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