Editor's Note: "The Walkout" originally ran in Four Wheeler in February, 1987. Granville had been a Four Wheeler regular since our January, 1984 issue. Before coming to Four Wheeler he'd been part of the family at a magazine called Pickup, Van & 4WD, which is where I met him. I last saw Gran in Georgetown, California, at the Jeeper's Jamboree in 1982-he was indeed talking to common folk, dispensing wisdom, and enjoying himself greatly. When the magazine we both worked for died, I lost track of Gran. Unfortunately, "The Walkout" didn't make him immortal. He was killed in a road accident, not far from his home near San Felipe, Baja California, Mexico, in 1989. In response to news of his death, John Stewart, then-editor of Four Wheeler and now its Vice President and Group Publisher, wrote this: "To us at Four Wheeler he was an anchor, a keystone in a heavy rock bridge. We will miss him forever." True then, true now.
Jon Thompson
Come with Superdawg and Friend for a near-fatal walkout from far back in the mountains. This was our first walkout in all these years, and it was a humdinger. We learned some things, and those things could save your life.
We were just 14 miles into the mountains when the four-wheel-drive pickup went kaput. I fussed with it for a couple hours, but no way to fix it without parts that, unfortunately, were back at the trailer. This leaves a man a neat choice: Stay with the rig per certain "survival" instructions and die (never have we seen another vehicle in this canyon), or pit an ancient bod with an injured leg against 14 miles of ankle-deep sand. And probably die doing that, too. But it's a helluva lot more sporty.
What is the first thing to do? One might panic and start down the trail right then. But it's near dark, there's no moon, and it's doubly exhausting trying to walk by starshine where you stumble all over. So, flake out, sleep the night away, and hit 'er in the chops at false dawn. In this particular case you have no bedding, save for a hunk of carpet, no food, and no fire. It is the longest night you have ever spent not under enemy fire. 'Dawg, however, just curls up against bod and thinks it's great. Dumbdawg
I poured the freezer melt into my canteen-tasted yucky because of a wienie still floating in there-so Dawg got the Farmer John for breakfast and we set out. The old bones take about a mile to loosen, while Dumbdawg runs about five miles, for reasons unknown. The next important thing, next to water, is a staff. Without a walking staff, forget the walkout; you'll never make it.
The next important thing: Keep the pace down, no faster than 2 mph. You must walk well within yourself or you go face-down in about two hours from accelerated dehydration. It kills even young desert bikers who're in fantastic shape. You slow it even more because you're sweating too much after the first couple of miles.
Weeeell, progress is not too shabby! You've come around four miles already -more than a quarter of the way-and you've settled into a low-level fatigue that's tolerable. On you go, careful to rest every hour or half hour for a few minutes while you get some new pep in the legs. And now you're at seven miles, and you've got this one knocked. Been at it for about four hours. However you've just had the last of your water (proper for this kind of walk is one quart per hour), and a sudden realization hits. Where's that strange chimney you should have passed at the 10-mile mark? You know it sits at 10.2 miles from the main track. Why haven't you seen it?
Frantically you go over your math: 14 miles out, walked seven, so had to pass Chimney Rock-had to! Have you got into a wrong canyon somehow, an offshoot? Or-double horror-could you actually have broken down much further in, like maybe 30 miles or so? After all, the canyon runs 50 miles back in there....
You heave the deepest sigh; whatta terrible added burden to carry, to know that you aren't even to the 10-mile point where you'll probably pay hell walking out anyhow. Decision: Those are your very own tracks there in the sand. East is the way the sun came up and that's the direction you're going. A short added rest and into it again
Your rest stops are starting to be like collapses and they happen oftener, as your legs tighten and threaten to cramp. It's hell getting back onto your feet each time, and something has to be done. So, as you stumble along, you come up with a fantastic solution to the getting-up bit. Only sit on rocks hereafter, or slanty banks. Wondrous decision! Manly attitude about the whole thing. Yet-and yet-that 10-mile mark hasn't shown yet. Face it, ol' bud, you are at this point a prime example of the Walking Dead.
You suck it all up, slow a tad more, and perambulate your way around a sharp bend that somehow seems familiar. You trip in barbwire, you fall down in the barbwire, you cut your leg, which bleeds as you look stupidly around. The wire goes clear across the canyon-this entire canyon, where bobwiah exists and that's at the five-mile mark; you've odometered it several times. Despite great manliness and all that kind of thing, you burst into tears, which Superdawg licks from your cruddy face. Yeah, there's even the downed gate where you put the yellow rope to help the rancher. Wow! The same as home! You could fall five miles!
Even as you disentangle from 'Dawg and barbwire, you see, way out past the canyon opening, a great dust trail tearing along. It's a Mexican rancher taking a cow into town, or a turista returning from his Baja vacation. In minutes you're gonna be out among 'em swigging down that hot water from the plastic jug and getting a ride home! And even as you amble along you see another dust trail out there from the road and you think how silly it was to have walked smack past Chimney Rock without seeing it. But then, things look a lot different when you walk. Still, there must have been a tad of senility going around out here. Another dust trail and, without knowing it, you've accelerated again and you're going sweaty and you've done nearly a mile and suddenly the ground hits you smack in the face.
You bust one lens of your glasses and you tear up your forehead, which bleeds some as you sit there wondering what happened to all the blessings you had just a second ago. Then you grasp the matter; this is a warning, one that leaves you shaking as you drag bod into shade to reconsider your tactical position: very poor, you danged fool! You went with the pressure and you damned near did yourself in. Try to avoid natural idiocy for a moment and think, think.
What does one do when things're really terrible? Geeze, all us good Mex folks know that one. You simply flake out. Stretch your legs, put the canteen under your head, and lie out flat. Superdawg snuggles up, and you think it's at least 6-to-5 that you'll wake up from this one, and so you sleep...
A different world when you awaken! You've been out a half hour and you're hot to trot. But getting to the feet is a little time-consuming, and the legs still feel like half-cooked spaghetti; the accumulated fatigue isn't going away. But, as you get your legs up to 0.5 mph speed, you've learned about another powerful walkout ally-sleep. It fires you up for another mile almost, along with five intermediate rests. But although the dust trails are right out front less'n two miles away, you hit a new level of fatigue. The legs aren't there anymore. You need more'n an interminable series of sleeps now. You have to hit on a new way to travel or you won't get there. This isn't horseshoes-close doesn't count, except that they find the body so pathetically close to safety that folks cluck sympathetically. What's the answer? You desperately dredge mind. And up pops a memory.
While climbing a mini-mountain with Wyoming Charlie one time, my legs all gave out and I said, "Forget it," even though we were within 100 feet of the top. Ol' Charlie said, "Hey, no problem. Sit on that rock there. Now pick out one just a tad higher. Rest and go to it. Keep on up the grade. Who cares how long it takes?"
Well, it took maybe a half hour, but we did that 100-foot grade and I been kinda proud ever since. We called our technique "Phase V." You scootch to one shady rock and let agony drain down a little, and then go on to another nice shady rock. It takes a very long time for that last mile, and it's nearly dark when you finally stumble out onto the Main Track. You made it. Made it!
In 15 minutes, along comes a truck that sizes up your torn face, dirt-covered bod, and tear streaks on cheeks to instantly apply the plastic jug and put a dish down for Superdogger. Your whole mouth, throat, and whatever else breathes, has been pure leather for so long you can only croak. They understand. An hour they've got you home and you thank 'em in a little clearer voice now that the water's taken effect.
Etched in granite, we learn a few things. Without our usual kidding about, let's lay 'em out to be inscribed permanently.
Whosoever walks takes the water, even if it means leaving the family with none. He must make it out, or no one does. That's why I didn't water Superdawg
Walking staff: Immediately cut one. You increase your mileage by a significant percentage.
Rest: Do it all the time! On the hour at first, and then on the half-hour, and then whatever it takes. Resting puts gas in your tank.
Hallucinations? Yeah, you'll maybe have 'em. Means nothing, unless you let 'em take you off the right track. Just keep right on as though you weren't crazy.
Longer walkouts? No problem if you go smart, and if you break a really long one (more than 14 miles) in two. Find a place and sleep a night although you'll be cold, uncomfortable, and hungry. Two days often is better.
The Drop Dead situation? Remember Phase V? By its use you can get out of anywhere-with the speed of a turtle
Immortality: Once you've walked out, you become immortal. Nothing will ever bother you again. You may develop the thousand-yard stare, but you won't have to talk with common folk anymore.