Gold Butte: A challenge, but a wonderful adventure

It’s not for the casual day tripper, the foolish person (me) who says, “It’s in the news. I’ve never been there. Let’s go.”

If it hadn’t been for the website of outdoorsman and ecologist Jim Boone, I would probably not be writing this now. Although my friend claims he saved my life, Boone’s website www.birdandhike.com was the real lifesaver.

Boone warns people they must be self-sufficient in Gold Butte, a two-hour drive east of Las Vegas. Without cell service, you couldn’t call for help. Few people traveled the rough, rocky roads to help the stranded.

I believed the website. I just didn’t understand how vulnerable I’d feel the first time out there.

Boone didn’t write, “Don’t be a fool and go out there on 100-degree-plus days.”

Guess I needed a little more detail. Or more common sense.

Gold Butte is newsworthy for two reasons, both controversial. It’s a potential conservation and wilderness area, and it’s rancher Cliven Bundy’s grazing land, which he won’t pay Bureau of Land Management fees to use.

Non-wimps who love the great outdoors are hoping the Gold Butte area becomes a national conservation area of 350,000 acres. Retiring Democratic Sen. Harry Reid has a genuine love for the Nevada desert, with it’s scrubby flatlands flanked by dramatic mountains. He might make it happen, despite the objections of certain Republicans in the delegation.

Second, Bundy’s cattle like Gold Butte for roaming and eating, although on Sept. 25, I didn’t see one roamer. But there was that aforementioned 100-degree-plus heat.

The adventure began by taking Interstate 15 toward Mesquite and turning off on State Road 170. We crossed the Virgin River Bridge, where the standoff occurred between law enforcement officials and militia types supporting the Bundy family, and turned on the Gold Butte Road.

It’s always good for day trippers to have a goal, and I’d been advised the Falling Man petroglyphs were an easy hike by a co-worker who at one glance realized easy hikes were my forte. However, I was smart enough to solicit a companion who can get to the top of Mount Charleston Peak and is training to do the Grand Canyon, rim to rim.

We took what I thought was plenty of water. My pal later admitted we needed more, at least two days worth of water and food in case we were stranded, which seemed like a very real possibility as we lurched along the primitive roads.

Boone had warned: “Make no mistake, this is wild and remote country, where you are on your own. Be prepared to take care of yourself out there.”

Without Boone’s website directions, we might not have found Whitney Pockets and known to turn back to find the petroglyphs. My job was to sit in the SUV, with the air conditioner on, and wait until my friend scouted the petroglyphs’ location. Then he would lead me to them.

I waited more than an hour before starting to wonder if he needed me to rescue him. Since there is no cell service in Gold Butte, that would have been a challenge. We were 20 miles from the nearest home.

Then he returned. He had found no petroglyphs. But he was as determined as he was sweaty.

In the distance, he saw something that could be petroglyph central. So we drove to it, taking the SUV over rocky roads, with me silently praying we didn’t get a flat tire, moving farther and farther from civilization, if civilization is defined by paved roads.

Finding a parking area, we kept to the plan. Me in vehicle, him searching for petroglyphs. This time he found them relatively quickly, although he didn’t see Falling Man. Knowing my limitations, we decided it was too hot for me to scramble up to the beloved petroglyphs.

Part of me wished I had taken a personal tour offered a while back by the Friends of Gold Butte. It would have been so pleasant to be guided to just the right places, seeing the things I hoped to see.

Seeing the Falling Man. Maybe seeing the Gold Butte Townsite and Little Finland. Or the huge sinkhole called Devil’s Throat. Not wondering if this was the right rocky road. Not contemplating my vulnerability, or my embarrassment if we actually had to be rescued.

But I wanted to see Gold Butte like people without access to personal tours would, people who would have to do it on their own.

Yet I saw not one petroglyph because of the killer heat.

And when we finally returned to a paved road, and then, joy of joy, to the interstate, I felt like throwing a party. AAA could save me if need be.

Yet despite my fear (actually terror) of being stranded, it was a wonderful day, an adventure.

But it might easily have become a day of tragedy, like so many others I’ve read about when fools ignore the dangers of the desert.

Jane Ann Morrison’s column runs Thursdays. Leave messages for her at 702-383-0275 or email jmorrison@reviewjournal.com. Find her on Twitter: @janeannmorrison