THERE ISN'T A TRAILHEAD, a parking lot, or any comforting mileage marker near Corkscrew Peak—there is only a brown Park Service sign, an arrow pointing to the sky, and an unmaintained route that culminates at a barren, treeless, blackened crest. It looks like a spinning volcano.

I've hiked it many times: once with an old boyfriend, once with a former Phish follower who made it to the top with a cigarette ready for his pierced lips, and once with a lawyer who called me a misanthrope about halfway to the top. "There is no sign of civilization here," she said, her arms crossed. "And you seem to like it."

Which is true. I never grow tired of this climb.

"Not to have known — as most men have not — either the mountain or the desert is not to have known oneself." — Joseph Wood Krutch

Today, I walk the three and a half miles alone, following grapevine pathways of gravel around desert holly, beavertail cactus, and silver cholla until I reach a small canyon at the mountain's base. A faint indent runs up a naked ridge, marked with the occasional, unnecessary cairn. The destination is always in sight, and the direction is always the same: up.

With each new plateau, the canvas under my boots changes color—from silver to pearl to bronze to olive to ruby to emerald, a muted rainbow laid on its side. Near the top, black rocks jut from the slope like thrones, and I crawl on all fours, searching for solid handholds. The last scramble makes me nervous. Loose talus encircles the mountain, where small rocks spill out in mini-avalanches around my boots. I dig my feet in, keep my head down, and strain to ascend.

My reward is a small stone arch stretching out across the sky, framing the white salinity of Death Valley on one side and Nevada's stark response on the other.