They thought briefly about the Cirque of the Unclimbables, but realized that it was in another county, and would require far more than their limited funds would allow. A quick review of their resources, and a dim memory of a nearly forgotten axiom provided the answer. "If you have never climbed the Boar's Tusk, you have never climbed in Wyoming" went the saying.
Hour after hour the aging van crept along and finally the landscape began to change. The change was subtle, but the endless rolling hills gave way to a harsher landscape of badlands with forested peaks in the distance. Lonely roads veered off from time to time, leading to unknown places. Glowing lights in the distance marked the last town. The van sputtered into the gas station where they counted up the last of their money. $36 would buy enough gas to get them to the Red Desert, and hopefully part way back to the highway, so it was settled. They stuffed their battered packs back into Mickey's broken down van and set off down the road, black smoke billowing from the exhaust from the burned rings. The busted shocks rattled with every bump on the highway.
After an hour of pushing the van at its top speed of 43 mph, a poorly marked turn lead West into the heart of the Red Desert. Mickey turned left onto the washboard road and the van crept along rattling and squeaking with every minute ripple. Gill, sick of the noise, plucked a single cassette from his pack and stuck it into the ancient cassette player. The gentle refrains of the Dead Kennedys neutralized the sounds from the battered van, just as effective, and much cheaper than a white noise generator, and the rolled deeper and deeper into the Desert.
There were no signs, just a battered copy of the Gazetteer, and dozens of spur roads, but the general trend led deeper into the desert, so they continued on. After cresting a small rise Mickey stopped the van and they stepped out for a look. Off in the distance, barely visible in the haze, a dark thumb of rock thrust itself skyward.
With the objective in sight all question of its existence disappeared and they renewed their approach with Gill at the wheel. The tape played through, but no one moved to stop it. The tower grew larger as they grew closer, and finally they reached a final intersection, and a decision. Should they take the direct looking route, or would the longer, more circuitous one be better. Dropping the shift lever into 2nd Gill punched it, throwing a roostertail of dust that could be seen in Kemmerer, on the straight track. Not so far, but not so close either, a patch of soft sand barred the way. Gill floored it and the van floated over the soft sand, and then settled axle deep 50' from the edge.
"Were kind of fucked now: Gill said. The only thing to be seen was sagebrush and the lone tower a short distance away. The other road could clearly be seen approaching on firmer ground, perhaps, in retrospect, it would have been a better choice. "Not the first time I've been stuck" said Mickey, as he opened the back and pulled out a shovel, some empty bags and an old climbing rope. .
