RESN & GB 4x4 Trip Series
Twinn River, Toiyabe Range, Nye County, Nevada

In the summer of 1984, my friend, Marty W., of Mammoth Lakes,California; and I (then living in June Lake, California) went on what was to be a backpacking trip. But forecasts of inclement weather created an alternate plan for our holiday weekend out in central Nevada, to the Twinn River county in the northern Toiyabes. We ended up with an E-ticket adventure.

I wrote the original draft of this manuscript in the winter of 1985-86 while living in eastern Wyoming, where I had moved to after leaving June Lake. At the time I was unemployed and attempted to use that bleak time to develop and hone my desire to write. I sent the manuscript to NEVADA MAGAZINE, then a small and folksy state run periodical, edited by C.J. Hadley, who focused on small town and rural issues, sights and ambiance. The editorial staff sent back the manuscript with ideas, tips and suggestions, with the invitation to return it after implementing these. I tried numerous times before they finally published it in highly paraphrased form.

For sure, the story - though based on fact - was too sarcastic, too sensational, too rambling, and would likely scare potential visitors away from Nevada. But I loved the story, so have revisited it numerous times over the years and revised it each time; the result is this story, which is still based on fact, and still a bit too sarcastic, too sensational, too rambling and still may scare conservative tourists. Those whose tastes run to a bit of adventure will love the country afforded in wild Nevada places, such as Twinn River.

Edit: 1/6/2007: While on this trip I carried my trusty Konica Auto-Reflex T 35mm camera along and shot many photos. In those years it was my habit to shoot Kodachrome 64 slide film. When I moved to Wyoming in 1985, I lost many of my slides. Recently I found about a hundred of my previously lost slides and have scanned all those I took while on this trip; they are now inserted within this story. Note, I mistakenly copywrited some of the photos for 2006. All photos were taken on the trip in 1984.

“Shooting the Rapids of the Twinn River – The Hard Way”
by David A. Wright

Based Upon Actual Experiences During the Summer of 1984
(Note: This article was published in highly paraphrased form in the April 1990 issue of NEVADA MAGAZINE.)

"The weather outlook for the eastern Sierra Nevada calls for more of the same -- severe afternoon thunderstorms with extreme lightning and hail possible."

"Rats!" I muttered as I switched off the radio. There was a three day weekend coming, and the weather looked to ruin my plans. Those plans for that weekend called for my friend, Marty, our dogs, Reno and Nikoma, backpacks, food, liquid refreshment, fishing gear; and plans for us to take a short nine mile hike from our homes at the resort level of the eastern Sierra up into the unspoiled wilderness of the Sierra backcountry. Up there was plenty of time and room for fun, fishing, and canine frolic. But each afternoon of the previous week the sky turned angry black, unleashing torrents of rain, hail, snow, and lightning. We were not too fond of the prospect of being stuck above timber line to be used for target practice by lightning and hurling ice missles. With that weather report, Marty and I were not in good moods.

As usual on such lost weekends, I started to search my huge relief map of Nevada that took up an entire wall for a new spot to explore; one preferably with a creek, trees, and maybe a ghost town thrown in for good measure. The Toiyabe Range looked like a good choice for this weekend with two spots in particular: Big Creek and Twinn River. If the weather got too rough, well I had friends in Round Mountain that we could seek refuge with.

I called Marty. He being a real Sierra freak, he didn't like the sound of it -- being out in the middle of Nevada. To him, all of the central part of the state looked like Tonopah. But his wife and daughter had already left for the weekend to see grandma in Los Angeles, he had nothing to do, so what the heck?

After numerous delays and Marty’s characteristic tardiness, we had "Trucker," my old Ford 4X4 pickup loaded with all the camping essentials and dogs. Our departure time, which was to be around 9AM, was now 9PM. After all the hassles, I was not in a good mood. Into the night we sped off towards Tonopah. Following a beer stop, we headed north into the Big Smoky Valley. It was after midnight when I saw the lights of Round Mountain. I was dead tired and in a bad mood, so I pulled off onto the Jett Canyon road a couple of miles to get some sleep. Marty wanted to sleep in the cab, so I unrolled my sleeping bag in the bed with the mutts.

I was just falling asleep when Marty opened up the rear window and started to sing at the top of his lungs to a Gordon Lightfoot tape on the stereo. He didn't like to drink alone and wanted me to join in the festivities up there I guess, but I was not in the mood. After what seemed an eterinity of that ruckus, he finally fell asleep. I was now wide awake. Then it got cold. My dog Reno began to repeatedly bark and chase sagebrush goblins with Marty’s dog Nikoma hot on her heels. Subsequently, just as I again started to fall asleep, Nikoma hopped into the truck, sticking one paw in my mouth and one up my nose. In short, I was awake all night.

· A half mile -- thunder was increasing its intensity and decreasing its distance.
· A mile -- rain began to fall, at first a sprinkle, then turning to a steady rain.
· A mile and one half -- the rain intensified.
· Two miles -- Twinn River began to rise.
· A hundred yards from camp -- a bolt of lightning hit a lone piñon up the hill and the blast started a rockslide in our direction.

When we reached camp, our tent was standing in about six inches of water, our ice chest had been swept away with our food and beer, Trucker was wet inside since I had left the windows open. We were soaked both man and mutt. Marty and I picked up the tent, moved it to higher ground and crawled in. Our clean clothes and sleeping bags had received a thorough wetting. By then it started to rain like I have never seen it rain before. Somewhere in the Noacian downpour, a bolt of lightning hit close by with an immediate explosion. It was deep enough, we had to get out of this place. We were in no mood to stay.

In total chaos and panic amid the cloudburst, lightning and repeated explosions of deafening thunder, we broke camp. We didn't care how we packed, we just pitched everything into the back of the truck, not caring how and where it all landed. On top of the mess, we heaved our two soggy dogs. After that, the fun really started.

It was nearly impossible to see where I was going. The windshield fogged up from the moisture, the defroster couldn’t help because the truck’s engine had not yet warmed; my vision was further clouded because the road was now a watercourse. What appeared to be ground fog made the surrealistic scene out the windshield worse, caused by huge rain drops exploding onto the ground, the resulting fine spray hovering in the air. I was glad that I was going downhill and had four wheel drive, what with all the off road excursions I was forced to make through the sage and rocks because I could not discern where the road was. That was bad enough: I knew stream crossings were lurking ahead.

I hit the first crossing of the Twinn River with a vengeance, but I was a gear too high and the engine stalled. I was in a panic, stuck crosswise in a creek that had become a torrent of mud, water and rocks. The interior of Trucker was a confusion of sound of the pounding rain against her roof, explosions of thunder, raging water and small rocks hitting the side of the truck, and Marty yelling at the top of his lungs urging me onward. The frenzied flood waters pushed my truck sideways and threatened to roll it and us over; the angry, deep water not caring what or who it swept away in its haste to fill another Great Basin sink. I felt my feet grow cold, the cab was filling with water ankle deep and getting deeper. As I became aware of our world turning nearly upside down, I hit the starter. Thankfully the engine fired right away and I crammed Trucker into 4x4 low range-compound low, and she dug in with all that she could. We were miraculously saved as my truck clawed its way up the opposite bank a few yards downstream of the road, granite projectiles firing off all four tires and crashing against the underside of her chassis. Both Marty and I were intensely relieved.

Then the lightning hit. One bolt shattered a piñon just outside of Marty's window, the other hit the back of the truck. The blast of both light and sound was incredible. My first thought after the intense adrenaline rush was that both dogs were now two burned spots with bits of fur embedded in the disarray back there, but I was relived when they showed up on the hood. They fell off and ran along side, very much alive.

After these experiences, the remainder of the trip down the Toiyabies was rather anticlimactic, the second crossing of Twinn was much easier as we were down on much more even ground somewhat ahead of the raging surge of water that would shortly be rolling through. As we leveled out into the floor of Smoky Valley the rain faded to sprinkles.

Coming to Nevada 376, I stopped to let the dogs back in. Dropping the tailgate I noticed a small burned and blistered spot in the paint where the lightning had struck. I was relieved that the dogs were standing on firewood and camping equipment, not touching bare metal. We rearranged the stuff in the bed and started south for Round Mountain for refuge with friends of both Marty and myself.

My friend Chris' reaction was quite graphic when we pulled up to his house in Round Mountain. We were a sight. Two wet and filthy men, two soaked and muddy furballs that slightly resembled their species, and an ugly blob on four wheels with sagebrush sticking out of every conceivable spot from the grill, bumper and undercarriage. To the north, the Toiyabes and Toquimas faded into black.

The shower felt wonderful, the borrowed clean and dry clothes felt divine. We settled back into the overstuffed chairs in the living room of Chris' 1905 built home at the east edge of town as the same system of black clouds came crashing into Round Mountain. Sitting in those comfy chairs in a dry stable house, watching it out of the picture window, it was a spectacle. By then it was becoming dark and the lightning display was dazzling. The storm proved to be as severe as at Twinn River, soon the power went out. Chris’ coffee table scanner, now on battery power, was buzzing with reports from the Nevada Highway Patrol, Nye County Sheriff’s department, and the Nevada Highway Department, all of it not conducive to safe travel. It looked as though we were going to be here a while.

After uttering good-byes to my friend Chris, his wife and family, we sped off into the beautiful morning sunlight towards Austin. Clouds were forming over the Toiyabe and Toquima crests. I thought that with the clouds and probable rain that it would be nice and cool on the trip home, but it was not to be. We lunched at Austin, then sped down into the Reese River Valley.

The weather was rather pleasant until we got to Edwards Creek Valley. Then it got downright hot. Trucker had no air conditioning, windows were down, and the buffeting and racket through them got to be increasingly annoying. There was nothing on the radio, my cassette tapes were ruined in the flood the day previous. It was hot, noisy, windy, boring, and we had nothing to drink. And to top it off, Marty fell asleep, so I had no one to talk to. I was not in a good mood.

When we got to Fairview Valley, the heat, noise and boredom were getting to be overwhelming. Being an avid ghost town nut, never having seen the historic site of Fairview, I made a short detour south to check it out. I was quite disappointed and not in the mood to explore the site. It was very hot, the air still, the swarms of flies and gnats were incredible. Though I knew that part of the townsite was up in the canyon a ways, I was just not in the mood to go and explore. The tavern at Frenchman, in sight down below on the valley floor, was now the destination for something to cool us down and soothe the throat.

It was closed and abandoned. Now the two of us were in angry moods. All we could do was to push on to Fallon, hot, sweaty, parched and bored. Marty fell asleep again, laying his head on the back of the seat and on the windowsill. He was wearing his favorite fishing hat, the buffeting wind threatening to grab it and deposit it into parts unknown. Four Mile Flat seemed like four hundred. Sand Mountain looked like, well, sand. Finally, we came to the green fields east of Fallon, their irrigation sprinklers imparting a bit of a swamp cooler effect. I glanced over at Marty, still asleep with his head on the window sill. His favorite hat was gone. Further more, I was not going to turn around and get it.

As Fallon came into view, Marty woke up.

"Hey Dave Wright, where are w...... oh jeeze ... where's *#&$O%*@@#!!! HAT!!!"

We found a market and stopped to get some beer. The air conditioning in the store soothed our heat stroke somewhat. Marty followed me around the isles, muttering something about his hat and was not in a good mood. After getting the beer, we pulled across the street for gas. Both Marty and I were not in good moods and were bickering with each other.

Gas station attendant: "Fill ‘er up sir?"

Me: "Yeah."

Marty: "Gimme a beer! I can't believe you didn't stop for my #$%&*@! hat, Dave Wright!"

Gas station attendant: "Can I get the bugs off the window sir?"

Me: "Yeah, and wash his mouth out, will ya?"

Marty (slamming down beer and belching): "#$%&*@! you, Dave Wright!!"

Man who walks up to attendant: "Can I please have the key to the men's room?"

Marty [to man]: "NO YOU CAN’T!! ... I still can't believe you lost my #$%&*@! hat, some friend YOU are!!"

Man and attendant: Shocked look.

Me: "Marty you're so $@%&$#!! embarrassing, I can't take you anywhere!"

Marty: "SHUT UP you pig eyed sack of #$@%$#&#!!!"

Gas station attendant: Draped across hood shaking with hysterical laughter.

Other man: Walked away in disgust.

We sped down U.S.95, laughing deliriously all the way to Schurz.

After supper at the El Capitan, we drove to the light of a full moon along the north shore of Mono Lake and nearly home, I asked Marty how he liked the trip. Was it better than our planned trip to the Sierra Nevada backcountry?

"Well, you almost killed us by fire and water, YOU LOST MY FAVORITE FISHING HAT, and I froze my butt off and got a bad sunburn."

He grew silent for a few minutes, then said "I think we still would have of had a lot of fun up at Thousand Island Lake."
I thought to myself "Maybe, but where’s your sense of adventure?"

Driving on, Marty fell asleep and again lay his head on the windowsill. A few minutes later I looked over at him. I could not help but to chuckle. His second favorite fishing hat was gone.

©1985, 2002, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008 D.A. Wright
All Rights Reserved

Revised: 08/24/2008