In the unconfined primitive wilderness, with an Apex Pradator
Before the trip of 2021, had you asked me where my favorite place I have ever been was, I would without hesitation, respond with, Bighorn National Forest. However, the Red Desert has become my favorite place in the world for many reasons. I had stumbled upon this place while watching a documentary on the Red Desert and the efforts of conservationists to designate the region as a State or National park. Two things caught my attention about this region. 1. The HoneyComb Buttes. 2. The remoteness. Needless to say, I had to check this place out.
As I made my way down the dirt roads that would lead me past free range cattle and Pronghorn Antelope. Other than the cattle and Antelope, I saw nothing that was sentient. On my way to the Honeycomb Buttes, I saw these two strange, out of place Buttes sitting well over 8,000 feet out of the high desert. I instantly thought to myself, “I want to climb those and sleep on that side of that butte.” Well, once I get something into my head, I do it.
I made my way down the winding and curving dirt road to the Honeycomb Buttes. The golden sun reflected off the dirt and sage brush bouncing up to the Honeycomb Buttes, illuminating the effects of time, millions of years of erosion. From the Buttes I was sitting on, I could see my camping spot for the night, the Oregon Buttes. Little did I know, these two oddly placed formations not only had a geological history, they also had a pivotal role in American history.
I attempted to drive my vehicle up the road, to the base of one of the Buttes, however, my vehicle did not have the clearance to make it over the deep ruts in the road. So I pulled off to the side, parked my vehicle, and loaded up a minimal amount of gear for the ascent of the Butte. The hike to get to the base of the Butte was just over a mile, up a slow and steady incline that began to wear me out. I had been hiking every day and had maybe one good night's sleep on my trip. I was exhausted at this point.
As I made my way to the base, I picked out a ledge that I thought would be a great night to spend the evening on. With no trail to take me to the ledge, I had to blaze my own path up the base through the loose sand and gravel. While ascending the Butte, I spotted a trail that would lead me to the summit of the Butte. After setting up my minimalist camp site, sleeping bag, snack, water, and coffee, I made my way towards the trail.
The trail again, was a straight shot up the Butte. It's called a Butte, but let's be honest, it's a mountain. At 8,600 feet above sea level, this is clearly not an easy hike. The Butte had random groupings of Limber Pines that had to be hundreds of years old. Some of these trees were massive. Standing taller than me, holding on for dear life as the struggle to survive in the harsh conditions of the Red Desert. As I passed them, I would hear random noises, taking me back to my encounter with the Mountain Lion in Bighorn.
At one point, I had been admiring the Pronghorns that were about 100 yards from me. When suddenly they ran off into the great unknown. At the same time, I heard rustling in the pine groupings. Instantly, I placed my hand on my pistol as my heart raced not only from the scare, but also from the incredibly steep and difficult climb. Nothing. Probably just some varmants.
Slowly but surely, I made my way to the top of the Butte. At this point, I'm winded, covered in sweat, and scared out of my mind. Not from the potential threat hiding in the trees, but because I am terrified of heights. If I were to take a tumble, my chances of survival are slim to none. If i survived the fall, I would have to make my way to my vehicle, then drive at least 30 minutes until I got a cell signal. Or pray that I ran into someone. I wrote my Last Will and Testimony before this trip with the Red Desert in mind. I knew if I was going to bite the big one on this trip, it would be in the Red Desert. Alone, in the unconfined primitive wilderness.
Finally, as the sun began to set behind the Red Desert, I reached the top of the Butte. With all the air left in my lungs, I let out a massive celebratory, “Woooooo!” To my own shock, there was no reverberation, no echo. Nothing. The sound just came out of my lungs and went out into the vast emptiness of the desert. Words can not describe how excited I was to be on top of this Butte. I drove here from Ohio, hiked and drove for days, I had conquered my fear of heights (kind of), and I am now standing on the top of a Butte, all alone. With all my joy, probably the happiest I have ever been, I spin around and take in the view. As the sun was setting, every color the sun and desert had to offer danced in the sky, all around me, 360 degrees. Now it is time to make it back to camp, down the Butte.
As I made my way down the Butte, the sun set was astonishing. Not only did I have to keep my eye on the setting sun. I had to keep them out for potential threats of the charismatic megafauna, sort. I also had to keep an eye on the trail to make sure I didn't slip and tumble down the Butte. Most of my way down, I had to either side step my way down, or at times, slide down. There was no way of walking down the Butte like I would go down a typical trail. The trail and Butte was far too steep. It was nerve wracking. Numerous times, with my adrenaline pumping, I had slipped, grabbing onto trees or large rocks to keep me from falling down the Butte.
When I had set up camp, I set up my camera to record the sunset, and I'm glad I did. Without the camera, I would be unable to locate my camp. Even though I had set camp up and had my headlamp on, I was unable to locate my camp. I had become “turned around.” The only thing that gave away the location of my camp was the blinking light of the camera as it filmed the sunset.
As I sat there, eating Clif Bars and beef jerky, and as I aggressively sipped water out of my camelpack, I watched in wonderment as the sun went to bed and the stars woke up. As the Milky Way crept into view, I started to hear noises. Some of the noises were of quick rustling, such as varmints or perhaps a Coyote or Fox. All residents of the Red Desert. However, I did hear some noises that were a bit familiar. The ever so soft and slow sound of a large, elusive, and efficient killer. I turned on my headlamp and scanned the area for any signs of life. I saw numerous sets of eyes as they reflected off my headlamp in the distance, illuminated by my LED light, however, I couldn't make anything out for certain in the absolute darkness of the desert night. I did have that uneasy feeling of being watched. I had that uneasy feeling of something was with me. The larger set of eyes stayed with me all night. I knew those eyes. I have seen them before. They are the predatory eyes of a charismatic megafauna. One of the most efficient killers in North America. They did not move from their position. Neither did I.
I didn't sleep that night. I mean, who could. Aside from another potential encounter with an apex predator, the night sky was amazing. I would scan the sky, from west to east, not a man made light in sight. No cellphone towers, no street lights, no city lights. Nothing. The only light were the stars, the Milky Way, and the 3 shooting stars I saw. I heard no cars passing, I saw no planes, only satellites. I was completely alone, experiencing primitive and unconfined solitude. This is what I have been wanting all these years. This is what I needed!
As I laid there, while periodically scanning the Butte with my headlamp for the predatory eyes of a charismatic megafauna, I had to ask myself, “How many people have laid here? How many people have been here? Or “How many people have used this as a reference point?” Since I knew I was just south of the Oregon Trail Southern Pass, I knew many people would use landmarks to let them know they were on the right path. In my research upon returning home, I found that travelers of the Oregon Trail used the Oregon Buttes as landmarks. The Buttes dominated the landscape, at times for days as they made their slow and tumultuous way across the Red Desert.
As I watched the Milky Way make its way across the night sky, I heard the lone call of a Coyote. Mere seconds later, in the other direction, another Coyote returns the call. The jesters of the desert sang to me. Perhaps warning me of what was watching me. Or maybe, just calling out to one another, making sure the separated pack was still intact. Again, I scan the Butte behind me. In the same spot, there were the two eyes, staring back at me. Occasionally they would blink, or turn away. Yet, they were still there through most of the night.
Just before sunrise, before I started to brew my morning coffee, I heard some rustling. I heard the ever so soft sounds of what sounded like a stealth animal moving alongside the Butte. I did a quick scan of the landscape with my headlamp as I looked for the glowing eyes that had been with me all night. Nothing. Whatever was with me had decided to move on. I felt a bit of relief since I had to make my morning coffee and ascend the Butte one last time before I headed to Colorado.
As I made my way back to the trail and up the Butte, I noticed some tracks that weren't there the day before. I knew they were fresh tracks for two reasons. 1. I didn't see them the day before when I went up or down the Butte. 2. The animal tracks were over my “Sasquatch Like” tracks. I knew these tracks were not of a Fox nor a Coyote since I know what K-9 tracks look like and these were far too large. I knew they were not from a Black Bear tracks since I have seen my fair share of those in Yellowstone and Montana. I knew what these tracks were. They were from my old friend in the Bighorn Mountains, a charismatic megafauna, an apex predator, a Mountain Lion. Since I was close to the summit, I was jacked on java, and I had my sidearm on me. I decided to finish my goal and once again, ascend the Butte.
With my senses on high alert and a fantastic cup of coffee in me, summiting the Butte, again, was worth it. To the east, the sun rose slowly but surely over the Honeycomb Buttes.. The sun lit up the sagebrush and turned the soil and grass on the Oregon Butte to a golden rod. The morning sky was filled with every color Mother Nature had to offer as the thin and wispy cirrus clouds danced around in the light and red shift of the morning sun. I'm not sure if it was the lack of sleep, the heightened senses, or combination of everything, but this moment was purely psychedelic. It was beyond worth all the struggles and worries of the night.
