by Clint Thomsen
GUEST COLUMNIST
There must have been 40 of them. At least that's what we figured when we averaged our counts. A pack of 40 wild horses flowing together in a calico streak across the plateau with a single gray mustang at the lead. We knew we were in wild horse territory, yet still the dusk encounter took us aback.
John parked the Jeep at a weathered trough and Tyler, Matt and I got out to stretch and get our bearings. The chilly twilight air punctuated a deep sense of isolation, and we leaned on the wooden posts, scanning the quiet hills around us. This neck of the Cedar Mountains was foreign to us, and we wandered the hoof-trodden no-man's-land free and happy, just like the good old days.
Sometimes the best plan is no plan. In the course of my deadline-structured and meticulously planned out weekday life, I frequently recall the carefree days of my youth -- the years when the guys and I would get an itch and escape to the wilderness on a spur-of-the-moment adventure. Never did a week pass in those days without some combination of us setting off to bag a peak or explore some forgotten corner of the state. Each outing seemed like a condensed version of Homer's Odyssey. We went wherever the trail led, camped when we were exhausted, and returned home when we felt like it.
As the years passed, this happy-go-lucky lifestyle took a backseat to the practicalities of adulthood, and spontaneous adventures grew few and far between. But periodically the stars align and schedules synchronize, and a fortunate few of us find ourselves driving along a desert road, chasing visions of campfires and mountain peaks.
That night in the Cedars was one of those lucky nights. The adventure began where it always does for us -- the meat section of the grocery store. We'll head west, we agreed, as we stowed our food in John's Jeep, then go where the road takes us.
We began on the north side of the Stansbury range in Skull Valley. After exploring side roads until they faded, we worked our way south, then west to White Rock. We continued north along the eastern bench of the Cedar Mountains, documenting our journey with Tyler's video camera.
We passed the mouth of Rydalch Canyon and drove for about 23 lingering miles on a string of roads that took us deep into the mountain range. Occasionally an antelope would bound alongside the jeep, effortlessly matching our speeds of up to 30 mph.
We spotted the horses somewhere just south of Hastings Pass. A few minutes later we saw another group of 30. Most of them were shades of gray with distinct black manes and tails. A few were a dark chestnut color and some were jet black. The horses kept their distance, and we couldn't tell if they were running to evade us or just for the fun of it.
The herds are part of the Cedar Mountain Herd Management Area, which spans nearly 180,000 acres in the Cedar Range between Dugway Proving Grounds and Hastings Pass. The mustangs have called these mountains home since the late 1800s, when their progenitors escaped or were turned loose from area ranches. Nothing personifies the spirit of the Old West like a herd of wild horses galloping across an untamed landscape.
As night fell, we continued northward and turned west onto the history-rich Hastings Pass road. John commented that the pass reminded him of something out of the "Lord of the Rings" movie trilogy. Indeed, the whole area had a fantastic, almost-ghostly feel. And while I certainly wasn't spooked, I was glad I wasn't there alone. I thought of the past, and pictured the emigrants and explorers who passed this way. I imagined Capt. Howard Stansbury and his emaciated men taking refuge here in the fall of 1849 after crossing the Salt Desert.
We followed the BLM dirt road through a juniper forest, past the crumbling ghost town of Aragonite and into Puddle Valley just south of I-80. The lights of the Clean Harbors incinerator and the cars on the freeway seemed alien compared to the pristine terrain we had just covered.
We decided it was time to settle in for the night, so we caught I-80 at the Aragonite exit and headed back toward Skull Valley. Somewhere between the Delle and Dugway exits, John noticed a slight vibration that he might have rationally chalked up to road conditions. He pulled over anyway, and we discovered a large bulge in the front passenger side tire. It looked like it was seconds from bursting, which at 75 mph would likely have resulted in an ugly rollover. We speculated that a rock has scraped the tire somewhere in the mountains, weakening the sidewall. A passing sheriff's deputy stopped to check on us as we changed the tire, and we chatted for a while before we parted.
It was long past midnight when we made camp southwest of Lone Rock. We roasted chunks of meat and spun yarns by a small campfire, then laid our mummy bags on a tarp and slept under the stars. The night was cold, but we were too tired to be bothered much, and it wasn't long until sunrise.
We woke up groggy and sore, yet content. After breakfast, we took some video of the mud flats before packing up. Our plan-less trip had turned out just how we planned -- or hoped -- it would. And we drove back home with a few new canyons explored, and a lot of good memories under our belts.
Clint Thomsen is a Stansbury Park resident who grew up climbing mountains, wandering desert paths and exploring Utah's wilds. He may be contacted via his Web site at www.bonnevillemariner.com.