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The Nine Essentials — A True Story

Tom Barnhart

On the day before Mothers’ Day, I decided to hike the trail to Ashland Lakes east of Granite Falls. I grabbed my pack containing my nine essentials (no map) and headed up the trail. I soon reached the first lake where some snow still remained, and as I followed the boardwalk around the lake, I noticed a trail leading through the trees. Before long I reached a second lake, and sat down on a small dock to enjoy my lunch in the sun. I had the entire lake to myself.

After lunch I started back, but soon noticed the trail was unfamiliar. I doubled back to the last recognizable section, but was unable to locate any trail junction. I continued on the unfamiliar trail to its end at a place signed “Falls.” Two waterfalls cascaded over steep cliffs, not quite obscuring the sound of gunfire on the ridge above. It was 3 p.m. with about four more hours of daylight. I had told my wife I’d be home for dinner, and my parents were expecting us for Mothers’ Day dinner the next day. I was getting a bit concerned. Although I had extra clothes, food, and the shelter of an outhouse for an overnight stay, I didn’t want to worry my wife or parents.

After another futile search for the junction, I returned to the Falls sign and decided to travel cross country toward the earlier gunfire. I was sure I’d find a logging road in the vicinity. Within twenty minutes, I indeed reached a logging road. The road ended about two hundred yard uphill, so I began following it down the mountain. I had already hiked over eight miles. I was hoping this road would turn north and eventually lead me back to the junction near where I had parked the truck. Unfortunately, it kept leading west.

After about 5 miles, I reached a major logging road. I followed it northwest. Several vehicles passed me in the opposite direction before I finally waved one down. I learned that the highway was about five miles away. By this time, my feet were getting a little tired but I continued walking.

Thirty minutes later, I caught a ride in a small pickup. I sat on open tailgate next to an aluminum boat. As we were raced down the logging road, the rear tires kicked up gravel which pelted the backs of my legs. The two men in the cab were laughing and having a good old time but I wasn’t sharing in the fun. On the curves I held on for my life. Thank God, it wasn’t long before we came to a stop. I breathed a sigh of relief, jumped off the tailgate, and walked around to the cab to thank them for the exciting ride. It was only then that I noticed they were both drinking beer and were quite intoxicated.

As I watched them swerve onto the blacktop road, I realized I still didn’t know were the heck I was. But not twenty feet away was another pickup and three more good ol’ boys. Two were sitting on the tailgate each holding a can of beer, and the third was sitting on the ground with his rifle on a tripod, firing at a target set up in a roadside gravel pit. I was sweaty, dirty, wearing my backpack, hiking boots, capilene shirt and tights, and cute safari shorts. I walked over to the guys sitting on the tailgate and said, “You’re probably not going to believe this, but can you tell me where I am?” When they finally stopped laughing, they told me I was about five miles south of Granite Falls.

That was just great! I’d already walked about thirteen miles. In order to get back to my truck, I had to travel the five miles to Granite Falls, then fifteen miles to Verlot, then four miles up the dirt road to the trail head, and it was going to be dark in an hour.

I started walking up the road holding up my thumb as each car passed. I’m sure I was quite a sight for these country folks as they sped by. Finally, a young couple in a pickup pulled over. I rode in the back with a labrador retriever who licked my face all the way to Granite Falls.

I thanked the couple for the ride, and noticed a couple of young boys climbing into an old junky Datsun sedan with bald tires, chipped paint, and torn upholstery. By this time I was desperate. All I had in my wallet was a $20 dollar bill, so I asked the driver if he’d like to earn $20. He looked at me suspiciously and asked, “What do I have to do?” I explained my situation and he said, “No problem.” I jumped in the back seat and off we went. Soon we were approaching 70 m.p.h. careening down the highway on four bald tires like we were competing in the Indianapolis 500. I was starting to think I would never make it home alive. As I clung to the back of the front seat, we turned off the highway and headed up the gravel road toward the trailhead. I closed my eyes as we raced up the hillside hoping we wouldn’t meet anyone coming from the other direction. Finally, the car came to a skidding stop. I opened my eyes and, low and behold, there was my truck. I gave the driver the $20 bill, thanked him for getting me there so quickly, and hobbled over to my truck as the last rays of daylight vanished behind the horizon.

I was late for dinner that night, but was able to keep my Mothers’ Day commitment the following day. I vowed to go back to Twin Falls someday and find that elusive trail junction. But, the next time I ’d take a map.