BLACK ROCK DESERT, Nev. -- Plodding in the footsteps of the forty-niners across the sun-baked Nevada desert, I feel the ghost of Israel Lord tap me on the shoulder.
There, standing above me in High Rock Canyon, is a large, volcanic rock that looks like the profile of a prospector's face -- just as Lord described it during the Gold Rush of 1849."Above is a very exact caricature of a Californian done in red basalt," Lord wrote in his diary. "(He has) a pretty large nose, and a decently long chin, but neither are unnatural."
The rock was one of countless connections to Lord I made on my September hike of the infamous Applegate-Lassen Trail across the barren high deserts of northwest Nevada and northeast California.
With the help of Lord's detailed diary and a decade of research, Jeff Stewart of San Diego and I walked the same dusty stretches of trail and slept under the stars at the same camps exactly 150 years after Lord did.
The 18-day, 175-mile trek over the wildest remaining section of trail traversed by the pioneers gave us a taste of the hardship they endured while chasing dreams of instant wealth in California.
The wagon ruts etch the struggles of the largest, most famous gold rush ever, an event that led to California's statehood in 1850 and forever linked the West with the United States.
We took our first steps near Imlay, where up to a third of all 30,000 argonauts rolled the dice and left the main California Trail for the untested Applegate-Lassen Trail.
The trail took us north through one of the most remote, unspoiled regions in the lower 48. We tramped up the Black Rock Desert and High Rock Canyon before crossing the Warner Mountains near Cedarville, Calif., and descending to Goose Lake near Lakeview, Ore.
The cutoff was supposed to be easier for the gold-seekers, but it turned out to be a nightmare because of its waterless stretches and longer-than-expected route to the Chico, Calif., area.
Fortunately, we had a lot better luck than they did. Even though the journey tested us every day, it wasn't the hell it was for them since we didn't have to start at the Missouri River.
Our hike began with a splendid 50-mile stretch of trail to the heart of the Black Rock Desert, one of the greatest scenes of suffering on the entire overland route because of its intense heat and lack of water.
After climbing the same volcanic hill in the Kamma Range where Lord gained his first view of the shimmering expanse, we could imagine the dread he felt.
"Ascending this I have a view so entirely abandoned, so utterly desolate that the rugged barren deserts we have passed, rise up in the mind like the green memories of departed joys," wrote the then 45-year-old homeopathic physician.
It was on the Black Rock Desert's whitish alkali flats -- one of the biggest flat areas on earth -- that countless pioneers had to abandon their covered wagons and prized possessions when their oxen broke down.
We found only an occasional square nail, wagon part or barrel hoop. But dead oxen lined the trail when Lord passed through, and small bone fragments, ribs and leg joints still litter the flats in places.
"The teamsters' hoarse voices as they urged their fainting teams to renewed exertion; the wail of women and children who had left all but what they were carrying on their backs," wrote forty-niner Joseph Stuart.
"One never can realize the horrors of such a situation till called upon to pass through it himself."
The scattered animal bones and temperatures in the low 90s helped us visualize the suffering that took place on the starkly beautiful desert.
The unlucky emigrants had it as bad as it gets. They had only two pitiful water sources over the first 50 miles of the cutoff and temperatures up to 15 degrees higher.
The trail next led across expanses of sage to High Rock Canyon, which remains a welcome oasis because of its more plentiful water, peaceful meadows and sheer, red-hued walls.
Hundreds of emigrants etched their names in the lower canyon -- near an Indian cave that almost every pioneer visited -- and some are still legible.
One of our favorite camps was on a meadow below a gushing spring in the upper canyon. As coyotes serenaded us on a near-full-moon night, we felt closer to Lord's time than our own.
It was hard to believe how busy the place was 150 years ago. We could imagine the weary Lord sitting around a flickering campfire and wondering if the journey would ever end.
It then took several days to reach California's Surprise Valley, where we encountered the first "civilization" of the hike: scattered ranch houses and a paved road.
After a couple of weeks in the desert, we could understand how the valley's name originated. The abundant water and grass along the base of the Warner Mountains were a pleasant surprise.
We saved one of the most dramatic stretches of trail for last: the 21/2-mile, 1,500-foot climb to Fandango Pass, Lord's toughest ascent of the journey.
The deep wagon ruts still lead "almost perpendicular" to the pass, just as Lord described. The climb left us out of breath and wondering how Lord ever got his wagons up.
"They must have really wanted to get to California badly," said Sheryl Phillips of Surprise Valley, who joined us on the climb.
"It was just another bump on the road for them," Jeff added.
A little before the pass, we reached the point where Lord saw a comrade drop dead on the trail. Death was a constant companion of the pioneers, and Lord took it in stride.
"We laid him, like a dog, in a hole, without a coffin, a board or even a blanket," he wrote.
A day later, we bade farewell to Lord after taking our final steps at Goose Lake on the California-Oregon border.
We couldn't help but grow close to him and admire his guts. No matter what obstacles came his way, he seemed to overcome them.
But he still had a long way to go. He didn't reach trail's end until Oct. 31, a month later, and more than six months after leaving home.
"Who says 'hurrah for California?' Not many here, for most are heartily tired of the journey," Lord wrote.