Susanhell
By Cammi Norville
The sun-dried grass crunched under my boots as I picked my way across black lava rocks.
My pants and socks were covered in pokey cheatgrass seed heads, but I had given up on trying to pick them out miles ago. The little buggers were like hydras. You take one out and two more replace it.
Underneath my field pack, my shoulders and back were drenched in sweat. My damp, thin overshirt was unbuttoned and tucked up into my sports bra in a meager attempt to cool off in the hot, heavy air.
I work as a wildlife field technician tracking and monitoring Greater sage-grouse. I was on the border of California and Nevada near Susanville, California. This particular site had been dubbed "Susanhell,” and for good reason.
Now, I'm used to the heat. I grew up in the Mojave desert. I went to college in the high desert. I've worked primarily in the desert. I'm no stranger to extremely arid conditions.
But Susanhell was HOT today.
It was peak summer and over 110°F. The sun reflected off the misshapen black lava rocks, making it feel even warmer. My skin was slick with sweat and my buff was drenched from continually wiping my face off. I licked my lips and was met with salty bitterness.
I'd been hiking up various hills all day trying to get high enough to hopefully hear the radio signal emitting from a missing grouse's radio collar. Other than a general location for where the tracker had last transmitted several days ago, I didn't have much to go on. Now the sun was starting its descent down towards the mountains in the west.
I put my Camelback straw in my mouth and sucked. There were about three seconds of water and then… nothing. I took the straw out of my mouth, made sure it was actually open, and tried again. Still nothing.
Shit.
I stopped and threw my pack on the ground, opening it to inspect my three-liter water bladder inside. It was empty. I still had about 300 ml in a water bottle, but that was it.
"Well, I guess I'm turning around."
I was about 3.5 miles from where I parked my ATV, and then another 1.5-hour ATV ride back to my truck. I listened for the missing bird's signal one last time before accepting defeat, gathering my things, and turning around.
As I started the hike back to my ATV, I was grossly aware of how little water I had left. Four liters is the typical amount I take out with me on summer days, keeping an extra liter or two in my truck, but I just had not been prepared for how intensely hot it was that day and went through my four liters quicker than normal. I tried to ration the little bit of water I had left, but was very quickly left with an empty bottle.
My pace had slowed considerably; it was more of meander than determined hike now. I seemed to be sweating less. I hadn’t peed in hours. I had developed a pounding headache. Feeling my lip crack, I reached up and touched my bottom lip. My pointer finger came away stained red.
Here I was, still miles from my truck with the sun setting, in the middle of a cheatgrass and lava rock-infested sagebrush steppe with no water, no service, severely dehydrated, and possible heat exhaustion.
Fun times.
I found a flat rock and shed my pack to take a seat. I scanned the horizon in false hope, looking for a glimpse of my forest green-and-black ATV nestled among the sagebrush, debating my options.
Option #1: I could hunker down somewhere and wait until night so that it’d be a cooler hike back. While I might conserve some energy by waiting, there wasn’t a tree or rock large enough to offer any shade. I didn’t feel like sitting out in the open, baking in the sun until dark.
Option #2: I could hit the “HELP” button on my Garmin and alert my team that I needed assistance. Our safety protocols are pretty reliable, so I knew that if I were to hit that button, someone would come find me eventually. But I would also be waiting several hours out in the rocks and sage, much like the first option. And on top of that, I refused to be “that person” on the crew and call for rescue over just a little dehydration. At this point, I was lying to myself by saying this was just a “little dehydration,” but due to pride, stubbornness, or just plain stupidity, I would not let myself touch my Garmin. So this option was also vetoed.
Option #3: I could keep going. I was probably just about two more miles from my ATV. I knew my ATV ride back would be long, but not too hard. Most of the two-tracks and roads I would be on were in somewhat good condition, and nothing would be too dicey. I figured even in the half-comatose state I was currently in, I would be able to ride back to the truck. So it was just the question if I could hike those last two miles.
So, once again either due to pride, stubbornness, or plain stupidity, I put my head down, and chose to keep going.
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I call myself a desert rat a lot. Rather than listing all the deserts I've called home, it's easier to count the years that I haven't lived in a desert. In my 20-something years of existence, I've probably lived about 9 or 10 months (yes, months) not in a desert.
When I was little, I hated living in the Mojave. I thought it was dusty, dry, and boring.
I still think the desert is dusty and dry, but just maybe less boring.
Desert ecosystems are harsh, extreme, and almost seem to be on a mission to kill you and every other living thing around. That probably seems like a weird reason to love a place, but it means that if something does thrive in the desert, it’s because it’s hardy and has successfully adapted to survive in suboptimal conditions. Over millions of years, the slow process of positive genetic mutations have just so happened to occur in the correct order to produce an organism that is so perfectly suited to its environment that it can flourish in a place where many other organisms would very quickly die.
My friends and I talk a lot about how in terms of adaptations, humans seem to have gotten the short end of the stick.
We don’t have a good system for water retention when it’s hot, or heat retention when it’s cold. Our vision, smell, and hearing are mediocre at best, when compared to other animals. Our bodies are pretty terrible at conserving energy in general. The list goes on. The main thing we have going for us is our brains. But even now, as more neuroscience research is done within the animal kingdom, we’re finding that a lot of animals have much higher cognitive capabilities than we initially thought. And simply based on the history of humanity and even the track record of our own lives, humans don’t always make the smartest decisions.
When it comes down to it, humans are just lacking in the cool adaptations department. Whenever I spend time outdoors (which I do a lot), I’m constantly reminded of this. As I hiked back to my ATV that afternoon, severely dehydrated and questioning all my life’s decisions that had led me to that point, I was very acutely aware of my physiological shortcomings.
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I eventually made it back to my ATV and started riding back to my truck. Along the way, I crossed paths with a coworker who had already started looking for me, since he knew I was out of service and it was getting late. As he helped me load the ATV into the back of the truck, us both covered in dust and sweat, we began to share our accounts of the day. He, after also running out of water, had gone through the same options I had also considered, and came to the same conclusion I had: to keep going.
I hopped up into the passenger seat, chugged some water, and relaxed back into the seat. My coworker reached into a little cooler and pulled out a spoon and a little pint of caramel swirl ice cream that he had picked up at a gas station on his way to look for me. I couldn’t help but laugh. Just hours earlier, I had been trudging through the sage, half delirious and concerned for my well-being.
Now here I was, bouncing along in an old Dakota, eating half-melted ice cream with my fellow dehydrated coworker. After finishing the ice cream and chugging more water, I rested my head against the passenger window.
What a day.
When you spend so much time outdoors without any major setbacks or problems, it’s easy to become complacent and forget the true power and wildness of nature, until one moment snaps you back to the severe reality of it. In the span of just a few hours in Susanhell, nature had humbled me. I looked out across the open desert underneath the twinkling stars and sent a silent thank you out into the dry night. I was glad for an experience that knocked me out of my complacency and made me more aware of my humanity. This certainly wouldn’t be the last time my human shortcomings would be put on display by Mother Nature.
Humanity has made massive strides in technological and societal progress. Modern human history is riddled with achievement after achievement. But despite these things, when it comes down to a human alone in nature, we are so, so small.
Now, a couple of years later, I tell this story to new technicians and coworkers, partly as a fun, exciting field story, but also in the hope that it will inspire at least one other person to stay aware of their own human shortcomings. Because we’re all just tiny visitors on this earth. When given the opportunity, Mother Nature won’t hesitate to show her true wildness.
Cammi Norville is a wildlife biologist based around the Eastern Sierras and Nevada. She enjoys hiking, camping, backpacking, and most other outdoor activities. In addition to writing & editing for our website, she runs our social media channels. Follow her on Instagram @_nomadic_cam.
