West of Huntoon Spring

"Of what avail are forty freedoms without a blank spot on the map?" --Aldo Leopold

There is a USGS topographic map in the 7.5-minute series called “West of Huntoon Spring.” Maps in this series are typically named for prominent features that occur on the map. “West of Huntoon Spring” has no notable features that are worthy of a map name, so it is named for a feature on the map that is to the east: Huntoon Spring. This empty spot is simply “West of Huntoon Spring.”

A 7.5-minute quadrangle covers 7.5 minutes of latitude by 7.5 minutes of longitude. As you go from the equator to the poles, the maps get skinnier because the longitude lines converge, but they are always the same height because the latitude lines are consistent. At our latitude, it covers 6.9 miles wide by 8.6 miles tall, or 59 square miles, or 38,000 acres. It is bigger than San Francisco. So why are there no notable features worth naming in this large area that is west of the map called Huntoon Spring?

There are no named mountain peaks. The mountain ranges in the area are more prominent on adjacent maps, so this map doesn’t get to have their names. There are no big valleys. There are no places inhabited or named by humans. And I think there is one primary reason there is so little human interest in this area.

Water.

Or more accurately, the lack of water.

The most important thing, common to all life, is water. It is heavy, so it is hard to move long distances against gravity without expending a lot of energy. As a result of these two factors, where it occurs determines where life—including human life—is concentrated.

In the desert, water is scarce, and because it is necessary for survival, it takes on an outsize importance in your daily routine. Desert travelers are always thinking about water. In my explorations of remote, dry areas, desert springs are waypoints across the landscape. Without them, you can’t go there, or you have to carry a lot of water.

But when it is a question of survival, how can you trust that a spring on a map is really there? Maybe it is only there in the springtime, or in wetter years. Maybe it dried up. Desert travelers often cache water ahead of time, so they don’t have to carry it on a longer trip. But that requires more time and energy—multiple visits and moving a lot of weight.

So when I lived in the Eastern Sierra, during the three relatively dry years I didn’t have a car, I started a spring water collection.

Now, I understand this is an odd thing to collect. But I’m an explorer. It motivated me to visit interesting desert springs, determine how reliable they were, and instead of carrying heavy water testing equipment, I could take a spice-jar-sized amount of water and test the water quality later. Then I could mark my map collection (an admittedly less-odd thing to collect) with reliable, good-quality springs, which would aid in planning future trips.

Old topo maps show ruins and petroglyphs next to Huntoon Spring. This sounded like a really interesting spot. I wanted to go there. But if the spring was dry, I’d need to carry all my water.

One November, I borrowed a friend’s 4WD truck and drove to within a day’s hike of Huntoon Spring. At my trailhead I cached a gallon of water that I could find on a return trip. I woke up early the next morning and hiked out the jeep trail to Huntoon Spring, carrying all the water I’d need plus another gallon to cache for a future visit. When I crossed the California-Nevada state line, I buried that gallon in a spot I’d be able to find again—if my notes and memory were good enough.

After a dozen miles I arrived at Huntoon Spring. I tasted the water—it was salty. Later, its conductivity tested at 345 umhos/cm, which is potable but noticeably salty—about a pinch of salt in a cup of water. I didn’t want to drink it. I crossed it off my list of springs upon which I would rely.

I hunted around for the petroglyphs, which I didn’t find. On my way back I slept near a canyon filled with the beautiful sound of a rock wren.

The pinyon pines near here were full of dwarf mistletoe, something I hadn’t seen in pinyon pines before. It was not affecting the junipers.

The next morning I retraced my steps ten miles through the glorious lovely quiet desert devoid of water—to busier places where good-tasting water could be had.