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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
Route map Archive photos |
Monday morning, April 28, 1997, 2 a.m. Just as soon as the moon rose, I began my "run for the border." The first obstacle was "The City of the Dead." I decided to avoid it. I stole quietly past the elaborate front gate and entered a rocky, brushy canyon, leading into the northeast end of Skull Mountain. Hours later, I could see the "City" gleaming far below. Focusing my glasses, I could just make out my earlier path to the spring. If I live to be 100, I will never forget that pulse-pounding night of playing hide-and-seek with shadowy men carrying weapons of war. Daybreak found me on the broad, craggy top of Skull Mountain. In the distance, I could see the notch in the Specter Range what marked my entrance into this remote land a week earlier. My spirits and confidence soared, and I had to remind myself I was hardly out of the woods. I could not afford to relax on this trip ... EVER! No lazy hiker's ambling, head down, eyes focused on the immediate terrain. Repeatedly, I told myself to stay alert. Don't clear a ridge without stealth, even under the cover of night. Turn around frequently. Stop, listen, look for reflections, stay away from man-made objects and anything that did not appear natural. I had a deathly fear of helicopters and small places. Twice during the journey, I hit the deck, only to sheepishly regain my footing, after I spotted on the horizon an approaching hawk and mistook it for a helicopter, whose distinctive clatter I had not heard. I have no military training. My clothing blended well with the terrain I was in, but I wore no camouflage fatigues, and no black makeup adorned my countenance. I am too old for that "Rambo" shit: 55 now and afflicted with prostate cancer (currently in remission). God blessed me with a sturdy frame and the ability to feel as comfortable in the back country as I am in my living room. Otherwise, I'm a pretty ordinary guy. Knowing the distant notch would soon disappear from my sight as I descended Skull Mountain, I locked my position in on the fly and thought of Donna as I tracked rapidly through the brush. I whispered a silent promise to the woman I love so much that, if the good Lord sees me safely through this one, my "cloak and dagger" days are over. I intend to be the consummate gardener, perhaps teach a bit and spend my remaining days watching over my precious grandchildren. Broke for lunch, same meal as breakfast: pistachio nuts, raisins and water. By 1 o'clock in the afternoon, I was nearing the last obstacle before the border: the paved road that serves as the principal artery connecting substations to the northwest and Mercury to the east. The road was busy, and I belly-crawled most of the last half mile in a sandy wash, which gave me some cover. At 500 yards, I considered waiting until dark. Having trekked more than 100 arduous miles, across some of the most rugged and desolate land I had ever encountered, I didn't want to get careless now, less than three miles from the perimeter. But dusk was nearly seven hours away and water was again growing short, although certainly not dangerously short. Hell, I just wanted out. I wanted to shake hands with someone who wouldn't shoot me first. Two hundred yards to go. I crawled and crawled, stopping only when cars could see directly down the wash as they passed. At 100 feet, I took off, with no vehicles in sight. Reaching the road's other side, I found myself running up a slight incline, which led to a jagged ridge. I stopped and turned about half way to the top and realized that, due to the paucity of brush, my exposure was severe. Before I could ponder further, a black truck exploded into view. I dropped like a stone, but I knew, if the driver was looking my way, he must have seen me ... I was less than 200 feet away. I saw no brake lights, and his vehicle raced on, shimmering as it slowly faded in the bright desert sheen. I ran up the hill, not looking back, and threw myself over the crest. I lay in sweat-drenched fatigue, sipping the remnants of my canteen. I didn't think he was a guard -- most drove small white pickups -- but that didn't mean he would not soon notify authorities. Double-timing it till I neared the perimeter, I cautiously climbed what I knew would be the last ridge. Was security waiting for me at the pick-up point? I peeked over the top and caught sight of a white vehicle. I hid my gear and looked again. It was Doyle. As I strode down the hill, safely on public land, my brother met me with extended hand, and I was almost too overcome to speak. We walked back to his car in silence. Neither of us knew what to say. I leaned against his car in exhaustion. "Was this a mistake, Doyle?" He didn't reply. Instead, he reached over and carefully pulled one of my canteens from its canvas sheath and raised it aloft. "This wasn't a mistake, Jerry, this was your `mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore' statement." We agreed we would dedicate this expedition to a forgotten segment of American society: the quiet people who foot the bill for those $500 toilet seats. People who never break the law, rarely protest anything, pay their taxes faithfully and only ask in exchange honesty and accountability from the leaders that serve them. Our government, and especially the Air Force, too often treats us individually with disdain, dismisses us with form letters and has the audacity to deny access to our heritage by just smugly saying, "HELL, NO!" Not for any other reason except the absolute power to do so. Well, for all those "quiet Americans" out there, this expedition was for you ... YES, YES, YES ... HELL, YES! -- Jerry Freeman's account is copyrighted and used with his permission.
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