“There are years you think about for moments and moments you think about for years.” (Mitch Albom, “Twice”)
This is a story about a “moment” I have thought about over the years; in fact, for all my adult life. I was a senior in high school (1961) and the end of deer hunting season in late November was only 9 days away. Dad said that we would go hunting on Saturday, but a few days before he told me he had to work.
Deer season had become a favorite time of the year for me, not only for the deer hunting itself but because of being out in the mountains on a cold fall day, walking in the woods, drinking sweetened coffee and canned milk from a thermos and enjoying the crisp air and fall colors. I begged him to let me go on my own. He surprised me by agreeing to let me go.
On Saturday morning I got up early to make a pot of coffee, eat breakfast and head out for our favorite hunting area. Dad got up just before I left. He told me that Mom was worried about me going on my own and said to be home by dinnertime. I reassured him that I would.
It was dark and cold as I left town, heading south out of Ely on Highway 93. I left the highway at Comins Lake, taking the gravel road toward the Ward Charcoal Ovens. The 1951 Ford pickup’s heater was blowing full tilt but not doing much to warm me up. It was still dark when I arrived at the ovens, so I parked on the side of the road to wait for sunrise. I would be looking for an unmarked two-track road that led toward the Ward Mountains. I didn’t want to miss the road in the dark, so I drank a cup of coffee from the thermos.
When daylight came, the sun was hidden behind a pewter-gray sky. The road I was on led to Horse Camp and Cattle Camp. I drove along the road for about 15 miles before I found the road I was looking for. Two-track roads were called that because they were made by pickups driving through the brush, making two ruts. The road curved around larger trees and large rocks. I drove along in low gear, taking my time and watching the woods for signs of deer on the move.
For the next several hours I stopped occasionally to get out and walk nearby ridgelines, hoping to scare up a buck. I wanted to see a deer, but I also wanted to be where I was, hunting and hiking in the woods. At midday I stopped, put down the tailgate on the pickup and ate two ham and cheese sandwiches and an apple I had brought for lunch. After eating I hiked along a game trail for about half an hour. The day had warmed up enough to thaw the snow on the hillsides.
When I got back to the pickup, I realized I would soon have to turn back home to make it by dinnertime. I decided to continue up the road for another half hour. The road became steeper as it went higher up on the mountain. I noticed water was running slowly down the ruts. As I drove to the top of a ridge line, I spotted some deer moving through the mountain mahogany and pinon pines. I stopped, grabbed Dad’s rifle and started through the trees. I picked up the deer tracks and followed them for about 20 minutes. They had no doubt heard me behind them and had gone down into a ravine ahead. I knew I wouldn’t be able to catch them or get a clean shot, so I gave up the chase and retraced my steps back to the pickup.
When I got there, I saw that the pickup had sunk into the muddy ruts. I grabbed the shovel from the truck bed and started trying to dig a way out of the mud. After a few minutes I laid down on the ground and saw that the rear differential was touching the ground. The ground between the tracks was rocky and hard. I cut down a small tree and tried to put the trunk under one tire, hoping to back the truck out. Nothing I tried would budge the truck.
When I looked up from my efforts, I noticed two things. It was soon going to be dark, and a snowstorm was rolling down the mountain toward me. I got in the pickup and thought about my situation. The storm was dropping a lot of snow, and I had no way to communicate with anyone. As night fell, I knew two things: this was going to be a heavy snowstorm, and I could not stay there hoping to have someone come along to help me.
I ate the Baby Ruth candy bar and two cookies I had left, slung my dad’s rifle over my shoulder and started walking down off the mountain. Night fell just as I set off. Eastern Nevada is noted as one of the best star-gazing spots in America as there is so little artificial lighting anywhere; the darkness was almost absolute. I focused on walking on the right side of the road, adjusting my path when I felt the brush against my leg. The snow fell heavily but not wet as I walked. My mind kept focusing on the fact that I was truly alone, and no one knew where I was.
I had been walking for some time when I sensed that I was not alone. I slowed my pace and strained to hear some sound. I put a gloved hand in front of me and slowly moved forward. My hand bumped against something, and I heard a cow moo softly. It stood crosswise in the road. After a moment I moved slowly around the rear end of the cow and stumbled back onto the road. The cow encounter somehow calmed my nerves as I continued to walk.
I don’t know how much longer it took me to reach the gravel road, and there was no point trying to look at my watch anyway. Knowing the time would not have provided any useful information. But I felt a bit more at ease as I started walking north on the road. The snow was deep enough that I could not feel the gravel underfoot. I began to walk a little faster and realized that I had a long way to go before I would get to the highway.
Walking became hypnotic as I continued along the road; the only sound was my breathing and my pant legs rubbing together. I walked for probably another three and a half or four hours. Then I heard a faint sound behind me, muffled by the snowfall. After a few minutes I knew that a vehicle was coming. I kept walking and listening. Finally, the headlights pierced the darkness as the truck came slowly along the road. As it approached, I raised my left arm. The flatbed truck drove past me without seeming to slow down. I had started to pull the rifle off my back and fire a round, but the taillights brightened as the driver applied the brakes and stopped.
I walked up to the passenger side of the truck and opened the door. The driver, a tough looking rancher, said, “I thought I was seeing a ghost or something. What the hell are you doing, son?”
“I got stuck on the mountain, so I decided I better walk home.”
“Well, you’re damn lucky I wanted to go into town for a Saturday night. Get in. You want a smoke?” I thought a cigarette might be the best thing in the world at the time; but I had only tried smoking a few times, and I thought I might start coughing and embarrass myself. I said no, thank you.
As we drove along, the rancher asked me where I lived. I told him just off Main Street across from the cemetery. He said that was fine as he was headed uptown anyway. About half an hour later I realized that we were driving past the coke ovens. The warmth in the truck and my fatigue from walking made it hard to stay awake. When we came to the highway, we saw that a snowplow had made its first pass. The rancher drove on the left side of the plowed side of the road.
When we arrived in town, I told him where to stop and stepped out of the truck. Our house was the fourth one down the street. I was so tired that I didn’t know whether I would make it home. I walked through the kitchen door to find Dad and Mom sitting at the dinner table. The clock on the wall showed it was 2:10 in the morning. As is usually the case in such events, I was greeted with the mix of “where the hell have you been?” and “thank God you’re okay.”
Dad called my brother-in-law, who had a Land Rover, and asked for his help in retrieving the pickup before it was snowed in for the winter. Mom fixed breakfast for me while we waited. I had to go with them since I knew where it was located.
After we passed the coke oven road, Ken turned on a spotlight to help me find the turnoff. When we came to approximate spot where I had been picked up, I asked Ken to check the odometer so I would know how far I had walked. We turned up the two-track road and stopped to measure the snow. About ten inches had accumulated and the storm showed no sign of letting up. When we got to the pickup, Ken said I had walked a little less than 20 miles. He used a winch to drag the pickup free. I have no idea what happened after that as Dad drove the pickup and I slept like a log going home.
In all the years since then, whenever I faced a difficult challenge, that walk would come into my mind. I knew that since I had made that long walk home, I could make it through whatever challenges I faced.
A Long Walk Home 