We left Salt Lake City before sunrise with two trucks, a week of water and a loose route traced across the basin. The plan was to stay off pavement wherever the map allowed and to let the weather decide how far we went each day.
By the second morning the valleys had opened into long, empty flats, broken only by ranges that rose out of the ground like islands. Each crossing took most of a day. Each camp sat higher than the last.
The First Range
The climb into the first range was slow and rocky. Tire pressures came down, the pace dropped to walking speed, and the trucks did exactly what they were built to do. At the top, the temperature fell twenty degrees in an hour.
“Out here the distance is measured in hours and water, not miles.”
Nights in late autumn are long. Dinner was finished by dark, and most evenings ended early in the rear cabin with the heater running and the next day’s route spread out on the table.
Coming Home
The last two days followed old mining roads back toward the interstate. Nothing broke and nothing was left behind. The trucks went back into the shop for inspection the following morning, ready for the next departure.
