The Ruby Crest Trail
People generally know at least a little bit about the Ruby Mountains, compared to the other 313 distinct mountain ranges in the state of Nevada. My objective in many of these stories is to highlight places in the Basin that people do NOT know about, but I would be remiss to neglect the Rubies, because they really are spectacular.
My first time seeing the range was way back in the summer of 2014 on my way back to Colorado from California, where I crewed a friend at Western States 100 miler. It’s a little fuzzy, due both to the effects of 10 years time on memory and the fact that I was solidly in my pothead days at the time, but I remember driving up Lamoille Canyon looking for a place to camp. I marveled at the towering granite walls, the bristlecone pines and aspens clinging to steep hillsides. I knew nothing of my future adventures in the area, just that I wanted to look at rocks and lakes and act like a wild animal in the American West. Similarly, when driving through Reno earlier that day I had no glimmer of my future destiny in that Biggest Little City. In fact, I was pulled over for speeding only a mile from my future house, the streets and buildings and people and mountains entirely a mystery to me, to be revealed in a future life. My endless journeys along the highways of Nevada were still cloaked in the prophecies of the stars, and my first pilgrimage across this wild land was here. I ran up to Island Lake and was stunned by the stark contrast between the dead sagebrush hills visible from the highway and the glittering glacial lakes, forests, and peaks in the sky more reminiscent of California than of Nevada.
That summer was a wild blur of living between my parents’ house and the open road, Colorado and New Mexico and Arizona and California and Nevada flashing by in long runs and campsites, lake swims and friends and loneliness and wild mountains and deserts. At the time I was an undergraduate student with loads of time and without the faintest desire to do anything besides run around in mountains. I threw myself into every race I could: Pikes Peak Marathon, San Juan Solstice, Grindstone 100, even Barkley Marathons. My life and training was unhinged and quite insane, which I look back on fondly.
Little Silly Darren
Flash forward through the infinite lives and places and people to October 2021, and I arrive at Harrison Pass, the southernmost terminus of the Ruby Crest Trail. Heavy rain pounds at the windows, Adrienne and Pike dog and myself trapped in the back of our Honda Pilot wrapped in sleeping bags. Through the grapevine of friends in Reno, I had heard first-hand of adventures in the Rubies, and mostly of the prized Ruby Crest Trail stretching 37 miles from Harrison Pass to Lamoille Canyon somewhat following the lofty ridges of the range. The following day I planned on running the length of that mythical dirt, hopefully faster than anyone had. Despite my intentions on enjoying mountains and taking in the scenery, I can’t help but puff out my chest and go for records. In lieu of a psychological profile discussion about the reasons behind the imbecilic human’s desire to do anything like this, I will move on.
I woke up in a tumultuous abyss, wind and rain thrashing the hillsides around the small dirt parking lot. Even the stout sagebrush bent to the will of the elements, drooping and cowering into the dirt as if the even lower-lying grasses would protect it. My brother had driven from Colorado the night before, to meet in this desolate and tormented wasteland. We all emerged tentatively into the fog, yelling greetings and ignoring the fact that I probably shouldn’t go anywhere besides back home. Call it hubris (and you are right), but I just started the trail thinking that everything was fine. The plan was to run 6 hours to Lamoille Canyon, where my loved ones would meet me after going on their own adventure in the more picturesque northern region of the trail.
As you probably know, temperatures generally decrease as elevation increases. This physical law was upheld in this particular case, and I soon found myself trudging through increasingly deep snow instead of rain. Of course, the weather would get better, the snow wouldn’t exist 2,000 feet higher up, the sun would come out, and I would have a perfect magical day in the Ruby Mountains. I would break the record, be lauded by People Magazine, visit the White House. I would toss back hearty beverages with admiring crowds, scantily-clad women carrying me in a throne from the foyer to the dining hall.
Instead, the wind mercilessly beat me. Every slight inkling of sunlight was swept away as soon as it emerged. Snow continued to pour upon the massive cliffs around me. I ignored it, looking at my watch like a lunatic on the street, wondering why my splits were slower than I planned for. I neared the halfway point of the trail after stumbling through the snow, the GPS track on my watch the only point of reference in the wild white wasteland. This particular section is the largest climb of the trail, about 2,000 feet up to a pass at 10,000 feet looking down on Overland Lake. For some reason unbeknownst to me and disregarding the knowledge of the temperature and elevation relationship I previously mentioned, I expected the view at this point to open up upon a dry and warm paradise of ridgeline and dry trail. Alas, I was now in almost waist-deep fresh snow and stumbling downhill to my demise. I could not feel my hands, I was shaking uncontrollably, and I was an impossible distance from anywhere or anyone that could help me. Even if my cell phone had reception in this lonesome perch, it had succumbed to the conditions before I had. At Overland Lake I squeezed into the abandoned cabin on its shores, stopping to think for the first time that day.
From looking at maps, I knew there was a trail from Overland Lake all the way down to Ruby Valley. Note: Ruby Valley is on the opposite side of the mountains from my intended destination and is even more desolate and remote than the moon. But what choice did I have? I could not retrace my steps in the appalling mountains, and I certainly could not continue. So down I went. Each step seemed to escape the grasp of the storm, the laws of physical nature satisfied again. My first view more than 3 feet in front of my face appeared, an infinite flat valley of nothingness bathed in a gray light giving it a menacing appearance. Relative warmth assuaged my fears of the valley. Down, down, down thousands of feet to the dismal floor and I began to have hope of survival. Limbs and extremities regained function, and as I neared the depths of the basin I saw people! Orange and camouflage, trucks and guns. It be deer season around these parts. If not for the grand hunting community, I would have likely been waddling around the Ruby Valley to this day. Fortune upon fortune, I stuck my thumb out and rode in a pickup of the most charitable and kind humans imaginable. Not only did they drive me out of that forsaken valley, they drove me all the to Lamoille Canyon, where my extremely nervous wife and brother and dog were their exact fears of my whereabouts confirmed.
I have only stories from this time. I took no pictures. In fact, I never saw a single mountain the entire journey. The range was cloaked in whipping clouds and mystery, unveiled at a later date. I had no parade or knighting ceremony. Instead, I had a Subway sandwich, an Airbnb in Spring Creek, and the company of my loved ones to relay my story to. Nothing could be better.
Take 2
Not quite as horrendous a story, but one very worth relaying: August 5th, 2023. Please reference my prior essay about the Jarbidge Traverse, which contains background info regarding my job and the reasons behind why I end up in the lonesome places I do. Late July and August of 2023 I found myself in a dusty hellscape at the southwestern edge of the Owyhee Desert, three hours from any paved road. I was there to supervise and consult some well drillers in their quest to discover sufficient water to provide to exploration drillers who had a quest to discover gold in these barren hills. These exploration drillers were commissioned by a mining company who had a quest to make a lot of money. So there I was, day after day soaking in the sun and windblown dust, besieged by Mormon crickets the size of my thumb. I was not exactly sure what my purpose for being there even was, as I provided little knowledge not already known by the intrepid drillers. I ran lonesome dirt roads in the mornings, sat and watched a large machine tunnel through the earth all day, and sat in my tent watching the glowing sun set over the scorched and barren infinity, at last a reprieve from its heat.
Long story short, the drillers encountered problem after problem and the project dragged on for day after aching day, until the machine completely broke. Now was an opportunity to escape the torturous despair of this place, as my compatriots were required to drive 3 hours to Winnemucca to fetch some new supplies. I eagerly departed the project, inching closer to civilization through turn after turn of dirt wasteland along the murky Humboldt River. I stopped at Willow Creek Reservoir, a lonely duck pond teeming with mosquitos and algae, and dove in with the hopes of making myself a fraction more presentable to the outside world. After a full morning of driving, I arrived in Elko, a dazzling metropolis of gas stations and hotels, grocery stores and fast food. Brothels and casinos. I passed through and visited my friend Vince, a Spring Creek local who lives right up against the Ruby Mountains and graciously offered me a meal and a bed to sleep in. Why anyone would take in a despicable dust-laden gypsy like me, I will never know. All I know is that I’m grateful, and the ensuing evening of big horn sheep steaks, excitement for the trail, and human interaction drifted by in a magical daze.
By now you may realize that my intention for my singular morning off was to run the Ruby Crest Trail and then head immediately back to the project, where I would simmer in the desert for an indeterminate amount of time and offer no value to anybody. You would be correct. Vince and I shuttled my truck to Lamoille Canyon and he graciously drove me to Harrison Pass, where a year and a half earlier I had almost met my demise. The journey was full of history, tales of the olden days of Western States Endurance Run. Runners wearing jeans because of Levi sponsorships, liquids held in glass syrup bottles. My fancy Salomon pack and water filters and sun protection began to seem not very cool.
The Beginning of the Ruby Crest Trail
Just as before, but without the obviously threatening deluge, I began. No fanfare. Just me and the trail ahead with no hope of escape until the terminus. Other challenges soon reared their head. If you don’t remember, the previous winter had been off the charts for snow in the Sierra and Great Basin. As a result, the undergrowth exploded. In this case, the entire first half of the trail resembled the tropical rainforest, with me as the running back smashing through wildflowers and bushes desperately trying to claw myself to higher and drier ground. The first half of the trail is hardly visited; there are no glittering glacial lakes or easily accessible overlooks. Instead, it travels over small passes and through basins of aspen forests, stunning in their own right. The mountains this time revealed themselves to me, towering granite in all its glory. The climb I had forced myself through to reach Overland Lake was stunning, steep but well graded, views down the drainage inspiring.
I was definitely enjoying myself this time, but the haunting whisper of the record and its required splits spurred me on. The time to beat was David Mitchell’s 6:28, a time I thought was surely within reach. At this point I forgot to mention that I hadn’t ran over 2 hours on a single run in over a year, after I tore my plantar fascia in May of the previous summer. My obvious lack of fitness began to catch up to me as I entered the hardest, highest, and most beautiful section of the trail. From Overland Lake, where I abandoned the trail on my first attempt, the trail follows a glorious bench overlooking Ruby Valley. The trail is studded with flowing creeks pouring out of the rocks above, wildflowers everywhere. I filled my bottles here; it was getting pretty hot even at 10,000 feet and the next water source lay beyond a formidable 10 mile trail section over the highest and driest portion of the trail. Then began my slow descent into despair.
Not enough water, not enough calories, too fat, too hot, blah blah blah. All I know is that I slowed down gradually, not slamming into a wall but more like sucking into quicksand. The notion of finishing with a record transformed into the desperate hope to just get to the end. Four distinct summits lie along the high ridge from mile 21-28, each just little bumps with switchbacking, smooth gradual climbs. Four distinct summits that seemed like Himalayan massifs, each one reducing me to a pathetic shuffle. Massive canyons and mountains protruded all around me, but my drugged mind could not appreciate any of it. Any uphill more than 1 foot in elevation gain seemed impossible. Yet on I trudged, time slipping away like sand through my fingers. I descended off the high point of Wines Peak, into a delicious valley with tall bristlecone pines, running creeks, and wildflowers. I now knew my attempt on the record was over, unless the Holy Spirit launched me to Lamoille Canyon without my own crippled will. Another climb, the final uphill to Liberty Pass, hovered above me. I walked the whole thing, looking around me in a daze at the wilderness around me. I still had seen no people the entire time. I got what I came for.
Liberty Lake could be out of the annals of Sierra Nevada photography, its deep blue waters an absolute treasure. With my ego fully destroyed, I stopped at its banks and dove in, feeling ecstasy that I can not describe. Finally I wandered to the top of Liberty Pass, encountering humans that wisely parked their cars in the center of the good stuff and took a relaxing day perusing the lakes and trees. I, in my stupor, ignored everyone and floundered down the switchbacks through what would be a paradise with a sound mind. I saw my truck in the parking lot at the end of the road, a speck that grew closer at the rate I imagine a desert tortoise approaches. Finally, I was rescued by food and beverages and another icy dip in the creek. I’m not sure what my time was, and it didn’t matter.
I then hurried to Elko, bought four burritos, and drove straight back into the purgatory of the Owhyee Desert. A pervasive exhaustion chased me all the way to the drill rig I had left not 30 hours before. I sat stupidly in the shade and watched the work commence without any input from me, then crawled into my tent and passed out instantly. I’m ignoring a lot of details, but I ended up finishing the project 4 or 5 days after returning, with an overnight finale of 30 minute naps next to a running pump to measure water level decline before crazedly driving out of the mountains, almost hitting a deer, swerving and hitting a guardrail and deploying my air bags, waiting to get rescued in the early morning light while being feasted upon my mosquitos, and finally delivered to Reno and the loving arms of my wife.
Take 3
You would think I would have gotten everything I wanted out of this trail, but two years later I was back again: October 9th, 2024. This was at the tail end of yet another work project, one that was not quite as crazy or as long as the prior one. I had just finished stream monitoring in far southern Oregon with a coworker, on an impossibly nice October day. Dry, tinges of cold in the air, the days filled with flashes of football games and leaf piles. I had a spare day again, so went to Elko and got ready for the third time. This time I was relatively fit, had experience on the trail, and was not as wild of a beast as I was emerging from the burnt lands of the Owhyee. Also this time, the record had been lowered to 6:12:05 by Cole Campbell. Again, I met up with the angel of the Earth Vince, who dropped me early in the morning at Harrison Pass before his own work day. What a darling. It was deer season again, and I was instructed to 1) scout for deer for my friends and 2) not get shot by hunters.
It began is it did before; it just began. Up the first climb towards the high mountains I went. By this time of year, the jungles of the canyons had died and all I had to contend with was some perennial overgrown bushes. There is not much to note here, except that the aspens were all in peak October glory, a blinding yellow standing out from the soft green of the sagebrush. I was way ahead of Cole’s splits by the halfway point of Overland Lake, a location I had now begun to regard as hallowed ground. I filled up bottles at the same creek as before, its trickle a relic of the geyser it had been the previous summer. Here’s where I went wrong; I should have filled an extra bottle or two, because again I was walloped by the high peaks of the crest. I may have started up the climbs in the first half too fast, or was dehydrated and punished by the altitude, but again the interminable ridgeline with its obnoxiously easy trail reduced me to a crawl. I may have even “ran” this section slower than the previous attempt, but summited Wines Peak and knew I had at least a shimmer of a chance at Cole’s record.
I began to feel better descending 1,000 feet and grabbing more water at the creek in the paradisical valley below, and ran at a frenzied pace up the final climb. Unfortunately, the penultimate descent down dizzying switchbacks did not pass faster than the same desert tortoise’s progress, and I hit the parking lot with a time of 6:17:12, about 5 minutes back of Cole’s time but much faster than the previous record. I suppose I felt satisfied, yet the death-defying previous two runs held much more value in terms of excitement and story-telling. The record remained elusive, but the trail remains the same: lonesome, wild, HARD, beautiful.
At this point my only mission was to return to Reno without crashing any cars, so I hustled through Elko (again purchasing 4 burritos) and sped across the basin in its autumn glory. A few days of peace I treasured dearly, then to Wells and Jarbidge.
