Mount Grant, Mineral County, NV

In our world today, it’s uncommon to be first at something simple and straightforward. According to the Population Reference Bureau 108 billion people have ever lived, and more than 7 billion are alive today, meaning it’s almost definitely more difficult than you’d think to do an activity that someone else has never done before.

But, the day after I turned 20, I’m almost certain that I became the first person to ever ride up to the summit of Mt. Grant on a bicycle from Walker Lake. I could be wrong, but I sure doubt that I am. And, dear reader, it was quite an experience.

I suppose I’ll start at the very beginning. In October 2015, I was scouring maps of Nevada for special places to ride as much of the state is covered by mountain ranges and lacks people. As my eye was naturally drawn to the rare bodies of water within the state, I found myself staring at Walker Lake, a saline reminder of the once-massive ice age Lake Lahontan that covered the entire state.

To the west side of the lake, I saw something that confused me. The contour lines on the map around a certain ‘Mt. Grant’ were much more densely packed than on any of the surrounding ranges. Interest piqued, I switched to a 3D view overlaid by satellite imagery, and I was profoundly shocked by what I saw: a massive mountain sticking out into the sky over 7,000 feet above the valleys around it.

More impressively, the 11,200’ peak had a road at the summit, which I followed all the way back to US-95. Intrigued, I marked a route to the top to ride if I ever had a chance to pass through the place.

Two years later, a major milestone happened in my life. It was not the fact I was no longer a teenager, or that I’d gotten a real job, or anything of the sort. It was even better. I got a car.

Up to that point in July 2017, my life was something of a logistical nightmare. I was usually trapped within a 50-60 mile bubble from where I stood. I limited to the places that I could possibly snag rides to from campus, which were usually only towards the major urban centers of San Francisco and Los Angeles.

But now, as the proud owner of a three time hand-me-down 1997 Chevrolet Suburban with 205,000 miles, a squeaky clean interior and a copious amount of external ‘character’. I was suddenly free to travel to places I’d only dreamed of beforehand. Furthermore, I could comfortably stay inside of my insulated glass-and-steel vehicle instead of pitching a tent. Saying I was ecstatic would have been a gross understatement.

So, for my 20th birthday, I loaded up the ‘burb after I got home from work and headed east, setting my course from Truckee to Twentymile Beach campground, a lonely clearing in the sagebrush on the west shore of Walker Lake. In my excitement, I managed to rather violently slam my knee into the door on the way out.

I arrived at the lake shortly before midnight. Strangely, my entire drive through stereotypically arid Nevada was mired by torrential downpours (perhaps due to the ‘monsoon’ season,) where it was nigh impossible to see. An unfortunately large number of inconsiderate truckers and motorists refusing to dim their high-beams didn’t make my journey any less stressful either.

But, after three hours of occasional white-knuckling and cursing my then-swollen knee, I’d made it.

The first thing that struck me when I got out at the dirt lot was the incredibly overpowering aromatic smell of great basin sagebrush (Artemesia tridentata) after heavy rainfall. Personally, it reminded me of old attics and antique furniture, with slight notes of formaldehyde. Glad to be done driving, I got out of the car, unfolded a chair, sat down, and pulled a beer out of the cooler. I gazed upward at the crystal-clear Nevada sky, and I swear I’ve never seen so many stars before in my life. A few distant lights from the town of Hawthorne and the Hawthorne army depot were the only reminders that humanity was still present.

After 15 minutes of reflecting on the fact that I finally wasn’t a teenager anymore and icing my knee, I took one last look at the infinite expanse of space and the Milky Way. and the distant lightning and crawled into my sleeping bag.

I awoke at around 7am to sound of a distant ‘Triple’ thundering by on highway 95. The desert hills were brightly illuminated in gold by the morning light. I had no idea what to expect on the mountain, nor any desire to be out in direct sunlight during a hot Nevada afternoon, so I quickly hopped in the driver’s seat and rolled off toward the settlement of Walker lake.

Getting to the trailhead was surreal. Driving next to a large body of water with zero trees and no habitation on its shoreline was strange, and it felt more like driving next to some alien ocean than a lake. I also saw a small group of bighorn sheep (Ovis canadensis ssp. nelsoni) run up the hillside next to the road. It was the first time I had ever seen any in my life.

At 7:40, I rolled into the census-designated-place of Walker Lake. Everything was dead silent, and I just pulled over and parked in a narrow dirt lot in front of an abandoned storefront advertising the sale of rocks.

Due to the uncertain nature of where I was riding, what I might encounter, and a desire to take serious photographs, I decided to take a small riding backpack, which is not what I usually would carry on a ride of this type. It probably weighed somewhere between five and ten pounds, as I carried extra food, my DSLR, an additional ‘tall’ bottle, a spare tube, a multi-tool, tire levers, a pump, my wallet, and my keys.

After a quick change and couple of glances across the deserted highway, I’d made it to Cottonwood Canyon road. I knew after ceasing to be pavement in half a mile, it would take me directly to the summit of the mountain 7,000 feet above me.

So, with the usual last deep breath and glance toward the summit, I clipped in, winced a little when my left leg made its first full pedalstroke, and I started moving.

Since I was rolling through something of a neighborhood, there were a few people out and about. Most didn’t notice me, but the one guy who did seemed surprised I was there. I smiled and waved, he looked at me funny, and waved back. Although my single data point is in no way scientific, I can’t say the locals are unfriendly.

Everything was going great, or so I thought. About 500 vertical feet above where I started, I found a large and unmarked yellow gate blocking the road. Now, as someone native to California, crossing large unmarked gates is something I’m absolutely used to. Many gates are placed near trailheads or across dirt roads in popular mountain bike areas to prevent use by motorcycles or unauthorized cars. Naturally, when I saw this gate, I assumed it was no different. On the other side of the gate were two signs. One stated that it was military land and that it was a terrible idea to venture off designated roads because of unexploded munitions and the like. The other offered some brief information about the ecosystems in the area.

Not seeing anything about trespassing, or having to return with a permit, I ventured further. I just figured all I’d have to do was stay on the existing road and I’d successfully avoid all trouble.

So I did just that, and kept going up the unrelenting grade. According to Strava, it’s an average of 9% for the first five miles and 2300 feet, although I can confirm that it was probably closer to 11-12% for the first 2-2.5 miles. I got incredibly lucky in that the previous night’s rains had made the road very smooth and grippy, far from the dusty and rough mess I thought it would be

After riding through arid desert from 4000 to 5600’, I began to notice that the lonely cottonwoods alongside the road were joined by the occasional pinyon pine tree. By 6,000 feet, it had turned into a woodland, and by 7,000 feet, it was a forest. The broad canopies of the cottonwood trees had given way to thin and quaking aspens, which almost shimmered in the late morning breeze. The dirt road seemed to broaden and narrow a bit, but the quality never seemed to degrade. I’m going to attribute that to the fact that it’s very regularly patrolled by the US Army, and was built with federal tax dollars.

Anyway, I rode by a Cabin nestled in the aspen grove next to the road. I noted its location so I’d be able to further investigate it on the return trip. Clouds were beginning to swirl around the summit, so I knew I’d have to hustle if I wanted to reach the summit before it began to storm.

After one more furtive glance upward I started pedaling uphill again. Before I knew it, I’d ridden out of the forest and back into a treeless landscape. At 8,000-ish feet, the landscape started to become increasingly barren, save for a few small Mormon-Tea plants and shrinking sagebrush bushes. The thinning air and dropping temperatures were certainly becoming more noticeable at this point.

The summit was still 3,000 feet above me, so I kept going. The only changes I noticed going up towards the top were a steady drop in covering vegetation and increasing rockiness on the road.

Then, I spotted something weird. I was approaching 10,000 feet, and off in the distanced I watched a small pickup truck* coming down the road. It was also the kind of vehicle I wouldn’t have expected to be that far up a mountain of this type.

As I was in a very specific and remote area, this out-of-the-ordinary truck made me put my guard up a little bit. So, when I passed it a few minutes later, I did my best to smile and give a friendly wave to the driver. It was not reciprocated, but he didn’t stop or react in any way, so I figured he was just a little peeved to see someone interrupt his solitude.

After that, it was a little bit of a slog to the top. It was blissfully uneventful, albeit bumpy. I ascended the gently switchbacking road into the swirling clouds.  My view of the town of Hawthorne and Walker Lake was blocked, as well as my view of the attached army depot. But looking east, it was incredible. I could see a distant mountain range I’d ascended as a dry run for Mt. Grant. When I do a blurb about it I’ll edit this into a link.

I ditched my bike just beneath the summit and walked the last 100 or so feet to the very top. I think I’ll let the pictures do the talking.

It was nice, but the distant thunder seemed to get closer, so I figured it was time to leave. So I unseated myself from the throne-like rock, and walked back down to my bike.

Oh man, riding back down was FAST. The thin air and relatively gentle road meant I was averaging close to 30mph (a serious downhill racer could easily do much more) on the way back down. As I felt a few drops of rain begin to hit my skin, I tried to keep my stops to a minimum, but I stopped to examine a couple of shrubs at 9800' (which turned out to be what I’m pretty sure are Ephedra nevadensis) and then one more at the abandoned cabin.

While I was at the cabin, a couple of non-military guys rolled up in a larger, American model pickup*. They got out and started to poke around too. I made my presence known, introduced myself and I struck up a conversation. Since part of the reason I was there in the first place was to write this very story, I asked if the building had any historical significance (it didn’t).

However, the man I’d been speaking with turned out to be the area's gamekeeper. He asked me “Have you seen a lot quail up here?” to which I said “Heck yeah, there were a ton running around around about a half-mile back from here.” The gamekeeper replied “Oh, that’s good to hear. We’ve been trying to make sure the populations are stable up here. Say, do you happen to have a gate key?”

His question was a little ominous. I said “Uh, no. Is that a bad thing?”

The game warden pinched the bridge of his nose and said “uh oh”.

To make a long story short, when I was passed by the small truck, that driver somehow reached out to the base about my presence there and whether or not I had a gate key. He brought this up upon passing the game warden, who then told me that as a result of not having the gate key I’d probably be stopped by military police and could face some serious consequences. By this point, it was clear that I wasn’t the type of person to cause problems, spy, or otherwise make my presence negative. So he told me “Kid, if I were you, I’d book it down as fast as you can and leave.”

Well, I thanked him for the information and that’s exactly what I tried to do. I did a slow “oh-man-I’m-in-it-now” nod and started to fly down the road. Through a number of sections, I averaged slightly over 30mph. I went from aspens to cottonwoods in 15 minutes.

My birthday trip took another turn for the worse just a mile from the gate as two trucks thundered up the road, lights flashing.

Two words went through my head: oh dear.

The trucks diagonally pulled across the road. I reduced my speed and an police officer got out of the first truck. He gestured at me to roll closer. Another man in military fatigues got out of the truck behind him.

Me: “Is...is everything okay?”

Base Policeman: “Negative.”

Inner me: “why is it that combat fatigues make anyone look scary? Am I going to go to jail?”

In brief, the base policeman wanted to know why I was there, asked to see the contents of my backpack, made me delete all the photos from my DSLR (but he never asked about my iPhone!), and explained that I could potentially end up in a federal court in Reno for trespassing. He took my ID as I explained I was there for my birthday, which, sure enough, was the day before, as stated on my ID.

Further, I explained that I was way out in Nevada as I wanted to do something that hadn’t been done before and visit a place that was completely new to me. At this point, the tension was easing, and both the police officer and the man in military fatigues were curious as to why I hopped the gate. I told them the truth: that there was no signage indicating anything about trespassing, and that gates are all over CA to keep cars off of dirt roads, and that I figured that’s why it was there in the first place.

Due to my honesty, cooperation, and most likely the fact that they’d likely never seen a cyclist there before, I managed to get off with a verbal warning, and the officer returned my ID at the gate 500 feet below me.

Part of that verbal warning was that if I ever returned without consulting the base first, I’d be arrested on the spot. If you, dear reader, would like to do this ride, (as I’ve likely used up all free passes for cyclists at this point), go to the base first to fill out a permit/background check to obtain a gate key. It's in building 15, wherever that is.

After that ordeal, I finally made it back to the ‘Burb. I was relieved, bewildered, and wanting to get the hell out of Walker Lake.  Better yet, my knee even felt better. I loaded up, stopped at the Hawthorne Safeway, and acquired three pounds of Rainier cherries at $2.99 a pound (they're normally very expensive and I love cherries, what can I say?). Describing my mood as just stoked would be a gross understatement. I restarted the car and drove south to further enjoy my days off in the vast expanses of Nevada and the Eastern Sierras.

On a final note: if anyone ever finds a cherry tree growing off of Nevada Highway 359, I accept full responsibility for the consequences of shamelessly spitting my pits out of the window.

*details omitted because I don’t want to give away anything that might compromise the security of the area or make problems with the military. I got off with a warning and I’d like to keep it that way. Considering I was reported by a random civilian and the risks of being caught, this is one I would definitely not ever try to poach. I'm posting it with my images as they offer no strategic insight and are more artistic than anything else. Always try to be respectful of the land and the law.