Flint Hills, Badger Draw 

I dropped down into the basin from the low ridge road, and watched the plume of dust fly behind my car as I ripped out along a barely worn track that leads across the sagebrush sea, toward a tower of cliffs against the eastern side of the valley. 

This part of the valley was desolate, save for a few birds. Animals rarely passed this way, as the land held little surface water this time of year. I was truly alone, excepting for the occasional falcon or raven, rabbit or coyote, mouse or snake. 

My tires crunched over grasses and small brush, dodging large rocks and rattling over a roughly textured lakebed that bore the evidence of being churned into a jagged mess by the hooves of cattle a thousand times over. 

Breezes played at the edge of my window, but otherwise the air was still and hung heavy with the aroma of crushed sagebrush and dirt. A fine layer of dirt had settled across the dash of my car, coating every item in a thin, grimy film. 

The plume of dust behind me sent up a flag that could be seen for thirty miles in any direction. That’s how I knew I was alone in the valley today. No other plumes in sight. 

As I approached the eastern cliffs, I began to make out the thick band of rim rock that sets this canyon apart from the rest. The valley floor is littered with giant boulders, some as large as a house, scattered along the perimeter of the cliffs.

I’ve been to this canyon twice. Today, I’m exploring the face of the cliffs beyond the canyon, where the biggest boulders form an unusual landscape at the base of the cliff. Something about it has always called to me from afar, and today I have finally carved out the time to see what it’s like. 

I pass through a series of intersections, taking sequentially worse roads at every turn, until I am bashing through shrubs on both sides, with tall grasses between, the jeep track ahead barely visible. 

After dropping down into a wash at the mouth of the canyon, the road climbed back up the other side of the draw, towards the face of the cliff, where the boulder garden and the road came together. 

I find a place to park among the boulders, some of which are easily twenty feet tall. Cautiously, I approach each house-sized rock, watching for snakes in the grass as I go. Earlier in the day, I had found a large snake skin shed wound among the grasses and buckwheat flowers and it put me on high alert. 

The boulders were composed of a porous, bubbly rock with small bands of tumbled obsidian pieces striped throughout. Some were large and blocky, others were broken and jagged, bearing evidence of their impact with the earth. 

Passing beneath the shelter created by one of the largest boulders, I spied a stash of firewood hiding in a deep crevice. I smiled to myself. It was too windy tonight to have a fire, and I knew after a long day of driving that I wouldn’t last long past sunset, but I could imagine the satisfaction of building a fire here, sheltered from the winds, and watching it glow beneath a sky full of stars. 

After inspecting each of the large rock formations, I came to the edge of a barbed wire fence that demarcated a boundary between two parcels of public land. Beyond the fence, the boulder garden continued, even as the road pulled away from it and took a more central route up the valley. I made my way back towards my car, where I began the nightly ritual of preparing my bed and my evening meal. Sagebrush & rabbit bush aromas filled the air- I was grateful for the gentle winds we’d had the past few days. 

This time of year is known for powerful winds that churn up the finely pulverized playa dust, a mixture of clay and ten thousand years of fermented goose poop. Playa dust catches the breeze and stays airborne, building into a giant wall of brown that grows skyward and looms over the valley like a mushroom cloud. 

Not three days ago, I’d spent most of an afternoon waiting out a dust storm from inside my car, as wind lashed the windows with dirt and tumbleweeds blew across the highway, stacking against the cattle fence, embedding themselves in the wires. 

And then as quickly as it had come, the winds subsided. Tiny airborne particles floated in the sky for some hours afterwards above the playa, and they slowly came to rest again in the dried bed of the massive ancient lake. 

Back in the boulder garden, the sun was setting and the shadows of the western walls were growing east across the valley floor. The air temperature dropped rapidly as the shadows made their way towards my camp. I circled my way back around to my car, where tea was brewing in my thermos and my dinner was soaking in a bag of boiled water on my car hood, attempting to capture some of the heat coming off the engine after a full day of driving in the outback.

I was a little disappointed that my day hadn’t been more successful, but adventures aren’t planned- they unfold. I had wanted to access this canyon from the flats on the rim above, so I drove two hours up to the top of the mountain, spent another two hours roaming out across one ranch road after another, only to hit a dead end each time, and then two more hours to drive back down the mountain, across the valley, and then north again on miles of endless dirt road. Six hours of travel and all I’d seen was bushes and dust, driving in a big circle with nothing to show for it. 

With just a few more days left before I had to return the city, I wanted to see as much as I could, while also maximizing my time outside of the car. I felt like I was just floating around, waiting for something to happen, not yet fully in the flow. 

With the light fading, that old familiar feeling of unease began creeping in. For many years, I tried to deny the anxiety that rose each night as the sun began to set. I tried to fight back, tried to talk myself out of it, but each night it came, claimed its place in my chest and throat as a tightening, heavy feeling, and I was powerless to do anything but allow it to wash over me. 

I resented its presence at first. Making my way across these places is the thing that fills my heart with joy, and also the experience is going to be uncomfortable. I am testing my edges, being shown where I still feel weak, where my fears are. It shows me where I still have room to grow. 

Name it, acknowledge it and accept that it’s real. This is the work I came here to do. 

It takes time to integrate with the intensity of the elements here, the slower pace, and the aloneness. Being alone in a wide open space, without the distraction of other people’s presence, there’s a rawness to it I will never be able to shake. There was no humans, no cell service in this uninhabited valley, or the next one, or the one after that. Every problem I encounter out here is mine alone to solve. Do I trust myself? 

Yet, there is no place for rigidity or tightly held control. You are as much at the whim of the elements as any other living being who makes their home in the harsh conditions of the basin & range. Just like falcon or raven, rabbit or coyote, mouse or snake.

Learning how to anticipate and adapt to changing circumstances requires a level of attunement that does not come naturally to those of us who were raised in modern homes. Coming to the desert, I’ve had to develop a keen sensitivity to my surroundings. There are layers to awareness, there is always more to notice. 

I wished I had more time- to explore every canyon and drive every road, to see every inch of it for myself. Back home, I had poured over maps of this area for the better part of a year, examining the clusters of tiny lines that describe rarely visited landscapes, like this one.

I had examined this very spot many times, from afar as I followed the canyon back towards the heart of the mountain, as well as topographic maps and satellite images. I’d scoured books and online resources for mention of the area, but there was none. A place with no name, just a strip of land covered in rocks at the northern end of a road that leads from one uninhabited valley to another. 

I claimed my tepid bag of food from the hood of my car, and settled in to eat my dinner, watching the light slip from the sky and stars slowly come into view. By the time I was finished, the Milky Way was fully lit up above me, the air cold and fresh. 

I heard a coyote howl in the distance. I smiled. It made me feel less alone. 

Under the light of the stars and moon, I boiled a small pot of water. Carefully, I washed my face, my hands and my feet. Something about the warm and familiar feeling of the water brings me back home to myself, makes me feel more human again. The anxious feelings have subsided. I nestle myself down into the blankets and watch the night sky for a bit before I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

In the morning, I wake to cold, biting air and the blush of dawn. Fumbling with my clothes, I dress quickly beneath the blankets, and then step out onto the soft ground. I squat to pee beside my car, and watch the first rays of light come screaming across the edge of the rim. Daylight in the desert comes on softly but quickly turns harsh and unrelenting. I know that the soft morning moments are almost gone, and it’s time to get ready to move again. 

I stow my items and prepare the car, hiding my cooler beneath a mountain of blankets to protect it from the sun. 

It was time to climb the big ridge. 

I said goodbye to the boulder garden, half wondering if I’d ever make it out this way again. I felt a longing as I watched my camp disappear behind me as I went back the way I’d come the night before. Down into and out of the draw, past the big canyon, and then… it was time to find my way to the ramp. 

The ramp is a blocky slope leading from the edge of a dried lakebed to base of the rimrock just beneath the northernmost part of the big ridge. I was pretty sure I could find a route through the rimrock and up to the summit- not certain, but at a distance it looked doable. 

Once I got to the base of the ridge, I wasn’t so sure. From far away it was easy to see a way up, but once I approached, the route was no longer visible. Maybe there is no passage up through the rocky band after all? There was only one way to find out. 

There was a small jeep road leading up the lower part of the ramp, and I didn’t know how far it would take me, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. As my car began to climb up, the anxiety I felt the night before began to creep back in. 

The road was steep and barely visible in places, with large rocks that sometimes shifted beneath my tires, causing my vehicle to slip. My anxiety grew as I imagined how sketchy coming back down this road could be, especially if the condition of the road continued to deteriorate. A few times the track disappeared- I had to guess where it would reappear and then correct course once I spotted it again. 

Eventually the road got too hard to follow and it seemed like it would just be easier to walk, so I found the flattest spot I could and threw it in park. 

Looking up toward my objective, I couldn’t see much beyond the top of the nearest rise. Nothing to do but start walking, and so I began. 

As I climbed the first rise, my nerves fell away. I had planned for this moment, I had prepared for the journey, and now here I was- living out the experience. 

The sky around me was bright and the air was warm in the moments without breeze. Sunlight reflected off the grasses that covered the ramp and they shimmered a golden velvet glow that contrasted beautifully with the cloudless blue sky. I crunched along as I climbed, periodically taking a break to catch my breath and take it all in. At last, I reached the top of the rise and saw the route in full for the first time. 

Beyond the rise, there was a low spot at the base of the cliffs where melted snow pooled and perhaps sometimes even spilled off the face of the ridge. The grass grew green in a small patch fringed with other plant life, a tiny meadow nestled in the face of the big ridge. 

Looking up toward the rimrock, I could see a few places where it looked like one could ascend the rock band without too much issue. From my position on the rise, I need only climb a few hundred more feet and cross the draw that opened up between the ramp and the face of the ridge. Then it was simply a matter of choosing the best course of travel up to and through the rocks and onto the top. Once up top, I could follow the gently sloping hillside upwards another few hundred feet to gain the summit. Easy. 

I set off on my course going upwards, slowly arching my way up and across, so I could cross the draw beneath the rimrock, losing as little elevation as possible. I was hoping to pick up an animal trail that would lead me  through the steepest parts- animals always take the most direct route possible, and following their paths when ascending steep terrain is usually the best course of action. 

From a distance it seems like this would be easy hiking, but uneven terrain and thorny, scratchy plants make it so you must choose every step with intention. Not only is it slow, it’s also mentally taxing. I took any chance I could to hop across the large rocks that were scattered along the ramp. 

I was almost to the rimrock, when I looked down for a place to put my foot and saw the last three inches of a snake’s tail sweep into a crevice between two rocks. I had been telling myself there probably wouldn’t be snakes way up here at nearly 8000’, but there was, and I needed to be more careful. 

I ascended the rimrock with no problem, although my nerves were a bit shaken by the snake sighting. Upon reaching the top of the big ridge, I paused for a moment to look back and celebrate my success. Below me, the ramp I had just ascended and my car a tiny dot in the distance. To the east, the low grey mass of the Catlow valley and in the distance, the Steens mountain. To the west, I could see out across the northern Warner valley to the backside of Abert Rim, a span of about eighty miles. 

An uncontrollable smile broke across my face as I made short work of the summit and admired the views. After soaking it all in for a while, I began my descent back down through the rimrock, along the ramp and returned to my car. 

I was ready to move on. I said goodbye to the valley- the boulders, the dust, the mountain and canyon. The snakes, the rocks, the ghosts, the rabbits. 

The road back to the highway was well known to me, and I flowed with the turns, anticipating each rise and curve, even as the backend of my car gently fishtailed over the washboard gravel at 45mph, dust rising in the rearview mirror. 

The big ridge stayed in view for a long time, before I finally had passed through so many curving, dusty rises and draws that it fell back to the horizon and the low hills around me continued to climb. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I smiled to myself, feeling satisfied. 

Shortly before I reached the main highway, I spied an interesting-looking valley beyond the folds of two neighboring ridges, just north of the road. A long, moderate ridge forged a narrow valley ringed with distinctive grey rock, and a small jeep track carved through the center of it all. My eyes danced back and forth, between the road ahead and drinking in quick views of the valley, and I slowed my car to a stop on the shoulder. 

Stepping out of my vehicle into the mid-afternoon sun, I spread the map out across the hood of my car as I gazed longingly into the valley who’s name I didn’t know. Flint Hills, Badger Draw, and the mysterious Juniper Mountain lay in the distance. 

I wonder how many lifetimes it would take me to see all this for myself. I am just a visitor, just a dreamer. 

I close my eyes and return to the edge of the roadside, tracing the length of each rise and fall of the land. Every journey builds on the next one, and all you can do is attune to the subtle messages and show up without expectation, trusting that there is always another lesson to be learned.