Bob Riding
Special to the Chronicle Progress
Several months ago I asked my great friend and Joyce Moody’s daughter, Deb Jenkins, who may be as whacked as I am, to take me for a hike up Notch Peak.
Notch Peak or Sawtooth, at the south end of the House Range, is a West Millard County landmark that is unmistakable on the western horizon. It and Swasey are a big part of my favorite memories when they turn purple in the evening light—the “blue.”
At age 17, in the summer of 1962, I was “incarcerated” on Wallace Holman’s farm in Sutherland.
(I had always thought working on his farm was just my summer job until nearly 40 years later, when I was informed by my sister, Lynette, that the Justice of the Peace, Emil Pearson, in the spring of `62, had declared to my parents, “Bobby will work on the Holman farm this summer or be sent off to juvenile hall! Take your pick.” Justice Pearson knew me very well; I had “visited” with him four times in his chambers for my involvement in some nefarious activities in and around Delta in the early 60s.)
On the Holman farm in late August of `62, in the evening after chores were done, I’d climb up on the silo and sit and gaze out to the west over the hay fields of Sutherland and my eyes would settle on the horizon. I’d watch the storm clouds build up over Notch Peak and Swasey and then see the lightning and hear the rumble of thunder. Then, the “cool wind on the desert” would bring to me the sweet combined scent of rain on sagebrush and new mown hay.
You haven’t lived until you’ve smelled that bouquet wafting on the breeze. Even as a young delinquent, I realized I was seeing and experiencing something special. I was making a beautiful memory that would calm me and serve me well over the ensuing years and the vision brings tears to my eyes even now, 60 years later.
I had been up to Amasa Valley on Notch Peak several times, hunting deer with my dad many years ago and have always wanted to hike the peak but had never done it.
As it turns out, I would have been much wiser to have attempted the ascent as a much younger fellow than the current model, a 77-year-old geezer/ wheezer.
I’ve made the trek up the well-worn Iron Mountain trail, here in San Diego, many times—but a mere six-mile round trip hike at sea level didn’t prepare me for 8.2 miles and 9,600 feet in Utah.
And, staying true to my stupidness, I didn’t even consider that I should acclimate myself to the change in elevation.
Deb had invited two of her girlfriends to hike with us and I couldn’t have asked for better companions. Laura Henderson and Misty Day have personalities that make it a joy to be around them. With three sisters and no brothers and five daughters and no sons, I was right at home with these three non-stop talkers; and the three girls kept up the conversation and encouraged me to “Come along old man, you can do it!” With their constant chatter, giggling, and outright laughter, they used up a lot of the available oxygen, which may have made me more susceptible to my upcoming altitude sickness.
There were several rugged areas on the trail where we had to discard our trekking poles and actually find hand and foot holds to scramble up some gigantic granite rock outcrops.
This was rapidly becoming a significant and arduous hike for me.
As I was navigating these boulders, finding the finger holds I needed to pull myself up, and terrified of falling backwards, it occurred to me that in a couple hours I’d have to come back down these same treacherous rocks. The descent has always been the most concerning part of any hike for me.
But, I could hear the girls chattering above me and a lingering remnant of Marine Corps pride forced me on. Stupid old bugger am I.
As we continued up, up, up the mountain, after about two and a half hours into it, I started to feel my legs turn to “noodles” while leaning on my poles and gasping for each breath. I had to draw again on my decades-old military training and lower my head and just keep placing one foot in front of the other. The girls were still talking and laughing— no problem for them.
At about this time of severe respiratory distress, I inhaled a flying insect the size of a hummingbird, which gave me a coughing fit that couldn’t be stopped. Getting air in my lungs was difficult enough, but now there was a dragonfly crawling around in my trachea!
We were now a mere 200 yards from the very top, with the trail going straight vertical, no switchbacks. I was still coughing, desperately trying to get the flying beast out of my lungs, and then I began to get very dizzy as I looked longingly up at my goal. I could look to the east and see the dry hardpan of Sevier Lake and the Cricket Mountains, further north and east stood Sugarloaf. To the west and north, I could see Tule Valley and the Deep Creek Range, all of it beautiful and spinning in my head.
As I continued to gaze at my “homeland,” my eyes went berserk and the desert was a blur; it was like staring at one of those hypnotizing pinwheels, or a grid of bright lights going off and on.
I sat down where I was, and puked my guts out. I laid down on the trail and the retching continued and became painful. Then I lost consciousness.
