The Great Basin of Wyoming

My ride out of Lander dropped me off on the side of the highway, next to a barbed wire gate, and wished me good luck. Behind me, the truck with Solemate and Catch-up also stopped and they pulled out their gear.

“Welcome to the Basin,” Catch-up said.

I knew what to expect: blistering heat, long water carries between meager water sources, and… did I mention the heat? Many hikers bash the Basin for being hot, flat, and boring.

And it was hot and pretty flat, but it was not boring.

“Dull” surprises

I was mentally preparing myself for monotony. A never-ending landscape of heat and brown, the crunch of sage brush beneath my steps, the weary weight of carrying three liters of water.

Within three miles, we made it to South Pass City, a small historic mining town, complete with a visitor center where I’d sent my new shoes and they also had ice cream. A camper there pulled over when they saw us and offered us water and a full chocolate bar each. We wandered through the old buildings and then set off.

By that afternoon, we found ourselves on the Oregon Trail. Two tire tracks ran ahead of us, though we stopped by our first water source and curled up under a pair of bushes for three hours to let the main heat of the day pass us. (Nobody wanted to die of exposure, you see. FarOut comments were full of Oregon Trail references.)

We hiked into the night, a trend that continued for the remainder of the Basin. And the stars… Oh the stars. Without any sign of civilization around, the stars were tremendous. We cowboy camped that night, throwing out our air mats on the ground and fell asleep to the stars dancing overhead.

We put in long days: 27-30 miles, always stopping during the main heat of the day. But often the mornings and evenings would be cloudy and a cool breeze would blow our way. You could see thunderstorms in the distance, but they rarely came our way. Each storm seemed extremely localized rather than blowing across the Basin.

Nor was the Basin dead. We saw horned toads, pronghorns, mule deer, wild horses, cows, salamanders, and snakes. Yellow flowers bloomed and always there was the deep scent of sage brush.

Thunderstorms

Not always did the thunderstorms leave us alone though. At one point, we’d stopped for dinner on trail before continuing the last three miles in the dark to our campsite. We met Smiley there and chatted for a bit. That day, we’d seen the dark clouds of thunderstorms multiple times but had never been under a storm ourselves. But that evening, it finally hit us.

It was completely dark, each of us navigating with the red light on our headlamps. As the wind picked up, so did our speed. Then the lightning started flashing. I could tell that it was a bit away from us and hitting the ridgeline to our left, but still, it was close. Each bolt that struck the ridge was so bright that it’d blind me.

Onwards we raced, and through my earbuds, Jon Foreman sweetly crooned, “Stay wild, wildflower.”

We made it to our campsite just as the rain hit, and I threw my tent up as quickly as possible and then dove inside. It was only mildly wet inside, and everything in my backpack stayed dry.

The Basin? Boring? Heck no.

On the banks of Wanderlust

We were towards the end of the Basin now. It was evidenced by the slowly increasing elevation gain, the deepening green against the previous brown, and running water.

Coming around the curve, I was suddenly struck by how much this small creek reminded me of our North Pasture at home: the banks leading down to a small creek, the twists and turns of it, the deep smell of cattle, the green bushes, the bridge over the water. It was almost as if I could see a younger version of myself, riding one of our horses along its bank.

I knew that pasture like the back of my hand. I knew the ridges and the slopes, where it got swampy, where it was safe to ride and where it wasn’t. I knew the cows’ favorite spots and where the fence most frequently broke. I learned how to fix fence there, how to MacGyver the barbed wire and old fence posts together. I roped cows there, pulled weeds there, got bucked off there. I spent so much time tending that pasture with my grandfather: hot days, cold days, rainy days, snowy days. We worked there side by side for years, until we could pull up and he’d nod at me, saying, “You know what to do.”

Even back then, I had a streak of wanderlust in me. I remember one afternoon checking the fence line, I looked up to see a red feral dog on the other side, watching me. I picked up a stick warily, but continued walking. After a bit, so did he. Being the imaginative bookworm that I was, I daydreamed: me and this dog setting out to the see the world. Oh the things he knew, the places he’d been. We’d live in an old boxcar and explore the small Ohio landscape around us. We’d know the secret places, where the waterfalls were, where the owls lived, where to find the best berries. We’d be explorers. We’d wander. We’d be one with nature. We’d seek out wilderness. We’d…

He turned away into the cornfields surrounding the pasture and the daydream dissipated in the late summer heat.

This memory hits me fiercely as I walk up to this creek, 15 years and over 3,400 miles of backpacking later. Oh little Sparks, with your big imagination that can’t be tamed, with your wanderlust that stretches and soars, with your wide eyes turning towards the wilderness, and your drive to thrive in nature. Oh little Sparks, you have no idea the places you’ll go.

We’re not in the Basin anymore, Toto

The trail continued rising and suddenly, our road turned onto a trail. Yes, yes, and actual trail! After a week of following dirt roads, our feet touched walking trails.  And then, we spotted trees. Little groves of Aspen giving way to forests of Spruce. And still the trail continued rising. Then, we spotted a moose.

“I don’t think we’re in the Basin anymore.” And we weren’t. Saratoga and the free hot springs were less than 15 miles away, and the Colorado border was only 20 miles past that. We were back in the mountains!

Storm clouds hovered over the mountains ahead of us and the wind picked up. “Here we go again,” I laughed. We found a campsite in the trees with good wind protection and set up camp. It would storm overnight, as it had pretty much each night in the Basin, and then we could hike on the next morning dry.

But when we woke up, rain still steadily pattered down on my tent and I groaned from deep inside my sleeping bag. And it continued raining as we packed up our tents, loaded our backpacks, and started walking. The rain never stopped.

It was cold and windy, such a stark contrast from last time I walked into town, melting under the shadeless sky, so hot, and dreaming of even a slight cool breeze. Now I was shivering, muttering grumpily about how wet I was, and hurrying towards the highway.

At the highway, we met several other hikers, also cold and wet. The only shelter there was the pit toilet, and so, all six of us crammed in there, trying to let our combined heat warm us up and dry us off. There weren’t cars at all to hitch from. Thankfully Chris had cell service, and after two hours of shivering waiting for a car, we were able to call someone in town who took us to a church where we were able to stay.

The hot springs felt good, let me tell you.

Onto the next state

After this, we’re headed to Colorado! It’s our third state and ALSO the state that houses the halfway mark.

Everything’s uphill from here–and that’s a good thing.

[P.S., if you’d like to add songs to the playlist but can’t join, reach out to me directly and I can send you a personalized link to the playlist where you can add songs.]