King Peak

September 15, 2023

I think the word "epic" has been so oft overused and bastardized in today's vernacular that the true scope of it's sentiment has been washed away over the past ten years, now meaning something more ironic and detrimental, a mockery of it's former grandeur.

But my hike up to King's Peak truly was epic in the antiquated sense, an adventure whose proportion and beauty I will never be able to capture in words, photos or video. I believe a long hike into the Uinta highlands, far above the treeline, is something that most people should try out before disparaging the state for its empty worthlessness.

The journey to King's has been one that I've been wanting to do for several years now, and I certainly underestimated the difficulty of the hike itself. With that said, I would and plan to do it again, hopefully with friends at my side, because the utter majesty of the entire trip is simply unimaginable until you're really there, just the same as seeing the Milky Way or a solar eclipse for your first time.

Frary Peak

May 10, 2023

The sun was peaking through the white blinds, casting white light on the white sheets I found myself wrapped in when the subtle plucking twangs of Harry Nilsson telling me Everybody’s Talkin’ faded into consciousness as I drew myself up from the bed. 730am. “I should get started then”, I blurt out, half in my mind and half aloud like a lich casting it’s first spell after resurrection. Despite the “early” rise this Saturday morning, it’d be another hour before I left the house bound up in socks I wasn’t happy to wear in boots that I’ve worn too much. The Salomons are peeling at the seam, exposing the gortex and cotton interior, clearly no longer waterproof but they’ve got at least 20 more miles in them I think.

Hunger pangs hit on the way out Antelope Drive, a long road carved through suburban Syracuse, and I stop in the closest ‘erto’s restaurant for a compulsory breakfast burrito. It’s one of the good ones that hits just right—mixed, no potatoes per usual order—with cheese melted to the bottom and that overwhelmingly decadent sauce ladle that forms on the tail end of a well folded tortilla. It’s just after finishing the eight pound behemoth whose volume alone is testament to the human ability to adapt, in this case through stomach expansion, has me realizing I probably aught to take a break at the local gas station before I start hiking a peak with no bathrooms, likely high traffic, on an island covered in bugs. “To hell with it” I think, “I’ll hold it. This really won’t take too long lad. Just get up and come down, easy peasy”, and I roll on out to the toll station before I start the ride down the causeway I haven’t been on since I was 7 years old.

This is my first time out on Antelope Island since I was just a young boy, and the only thing I remember from that is learning about Brine Shrimp and their winged evolution. It seems justified that the first wildlife to greet me along the stark road are flies in greater numbers than I could have imagined. The Brine flies are so thick I had at first thought a diesel engine had blown past the road, and left a cloud of smoke. After travelling some while after I realized that the plumes of somewhat ethereal black was in fact columns of brine flies starting from the shoreside bushes and spiraling up some twenty feet in cyclones of buzzing insects hungry for reproduction in the spring spawning frenzy. At last I hit the island proper, and am greeted with several tourist buildings, lines of cars not quite sure where they’re headed, and of course, the innumerable lines of Bison drifting along the prairie-like hillsides and salty shorelines.

I start the hike around 11, and the first thing I notice is the winding trail of friendly hikers working their way along the well travelled dirt, rising right from the parking lot some hundred or more feet before disappearing over the first of many hilltops. It’s a surprisingly tough start to my first real hike of the season, and even though I’m able to pass a few on the trail I find myself dissapointed in what feels like should be an easier ascension given my abilities in the past. I catch my breath a moment and remind myself I’ve been eating like shit and ignoring cardio workouts (and still recovering from a 2 week battle with my first covid infection ever) for the past 3 months, and this is just the way it’ll be for a while. After the reality check, I’m able to get a solid pace and continue along the trail, running in some sections of flat ground to cover distance and stopping to snag a few shots here and there.

Just as I crest what seemed to be one of the larger hills on the trail, the cool afternoon breeze is swallowed up whole by the cover of the mountain as the trail moves onto the Western side of the island, and within seconds I am a walking swarm of mosquitos, with so many bugs landing on me you’d not be wrong to mistake me for the Antelope Island Sasquatch. There was a time that I felt I’d be able to force through the onslaught and get up to another cool breeze to which I’d lose the bugs, but after about 15 minutes at 15 bites per minute or so it seemed, I opted to throw on the light jacket I had brought with, both as protection from the bugs and the sun. I didn’t anticipate the toll the jacket would take on me though and by the time I’d made it up to a beautiful overlook of the Eastern shore and the Wasatch Range, my progress in passing people and leaving them fairly far behind would be entirely undone; Everyone I had ran past on my way up were now passing by me as I gasped for air and water, drenched in sweat from the windless, cloudless ascension. I was close now, really close, and there were only about 45 minutes left of the climb until I’d reach the peak.

The last segment of the trail dips down into a seemingly precarious dip along the steep face of the peak on the westernmost side, with a nice little dip of elevation to leave you assured of the journey being uphill both ways. It was sketchy at first but with a little guile and care, you can pass over lost of it relatively easily, then it’s a quick jaunt up to the peak to join all the other people taking in the views. It was, frankly, far too crowded for me at the top and I opted to head out after finishing what was left in my first water bottle, then plugging in the headphones and rampaging down the hills running all the segments I could muster. It only took me about 20 minutes before I realized how poorly my choice of sock was for the day, couple with the old wornout boots that I was breaking down as impromptu trail runners. I was able to get back to the first hill and walked the rest of the way, the total journey down taking only 45 minutes, in bold contrast to the 2 hours and 15 it took me to get all the way up!

For me, Frary was a nice little way to kick off some peak bagging again and get out in the woods and back in time for games. I wish I could have done it with somebody, and in fact all my climbs seem to be lonely grueling jaunts to the top of mountains that I do for some vague notion of self gratification. It feels good to do it all, but I often end up thinking I might have cheated myself and in fact the whole experience by running to fast or not stopping enough to take everything in. But the ride back I had a view of a cool buggy stocked with eyepro wearing dogbros, so that’s a plus in my book.

Cheers.

Last Chance at Beth Lake

September 19, 2022

I’ve had the chance to make some of the best friends a person could ever ask for in life. I’ve had the chance to keep some of them close over the years, and the misfortune of losing too many good ones. I’ve had the chance to share my passion of the outdoors with many of those friends, and I’ve had the chance to teach them all a thing or two about making life in the wild a little bit more enjoyable, or at the very least, survivable. But of all those friends, one of the dearest and longest I’ve had is my friend Chance, and this trip was a farewell to him and our very close buddy Matt, as they both prepare to make a move from Utah out to Colorado.

The trip was a last minute scramble of sorts, Matt having texted me the weekend prior but my committing only three days beforehand. We made our way up around Noon on Saturday, the short excursion would only be a stay of 24 hours, but in that days worth of outdoors I think we had a wonderful time. We were talking about meeting up at the lake, but ran into each other at the fee station while I was filling out paperwork. Heading up along the dusty trail, I lost the lads in their Subaru as I rocketed down the trail in my new and dear Tacoma—Diana—rolling out about 40mph on the long and open stretch. Once I got the the lake, I began setting up my tarp immediately, foreboding clouds on the horizon were whispering about a storm to come and I wouldn’t be caught having my camp unprepared. It’s a quick process for me now, but not quick enough to make up for the fact the they still hadn’t found their way to camp yet. I wasn’t too concerned that they’d get too lost to find the place, but I did have some doubt that they’d have a comfortable camp setup before the rain came in. Just as I finished up my end of the trees, I heard their car doors swing shut a few hundred yards away and knew they’d made it.

After a few greetings Chance gets to work right away at setting up his sleep system for the night, and Matt asks if I’m able to give him a hand on his, which I’m more than happy to pitch at. I was surprised to see he’d be attempting to sleep in an 8ft eno-style hammock, even moreso when I folded out a tent tarp and said it’d be his rain cover for the night. I was pretty skeptical of it’s efficacy, but rigged it up as best I could figure for the odd pattern to hang between trees. Once the rain started coming down though, it was clear that Matt wouldn’t be sleeping in an elevated position, as the hammock beneath the tarp began to pool with water and eventually hail. We hadn’t tossed his sleeping bag or pad in there yet, and I’m damn glad we didn’t otherwise he may have just froze in the dark.

The rain coming down was mesmerizing and cozy, bringing with it rapidly cooling temps that would climb back up with the intermittent sunrays. Eventually once the aforementioned hailstorm broke, we had to throw on the heaviey jackets and hunker down for a bit under the cover of trees or tarps, brilliant flashes of lightning striking no more than a mile away, snapping the air around us into a cacaophony of CRRRRRAAAAAACCCCKKs and thunderous roars. We waited about two hours before the storms let up, and once the weather was done, Chance and I hit the lake to cast out lines one last time. I was throwing flies and Chance had worms on tackle, myself wading in about 5 yards and chance casting from shore 20m on my three. Beth Lake had just recently been stoked with Brookies about 3 months ago, but they were just young guns and nothing larger than 4 inches would be in the lake. We were out there probably another two hours until, after 4 strikes, I was finally able to land a small, 3.75” Brook. It’s not much, but it is a fish, and those little guys always seem to have the most vibrant colors when they come out of the cool water. Looking over the lake during the sunset, the sweeping post-storm clouds tall and fresh ran across the horizon, the rays of light weaving between to gradient cobalt nimbus like scenes of biblical rapture.

Once the night had fallen and the stars burst out from the dark, we shared a few drinks and put log after log into the ember pit. One by one we’d put our words into the fire, sharing stories of the times we’d come out before, reminiscing our lives up to the point, and thinking of plans for the future. The stories would revolve as they often do in the cold black pines; Jokes and songs and singalongs, sob stories from best friends past, growth and moving on from things that can’t be saved, and concluding with the desperate desire for just 5 more minutes of warmth around the dying coals. We extinguished the fire, Chance set back to his hammock while Matt made his way back to the car for the night as I snapped a few more shots, not putting too much effort into it all now that I was tired and exhausted from the day, then finally falling into sleep in my cozy cocoon.

The next morning I awoke first at just past 7am, having to jump out for a bathroom break. Seeing the fog on the lake and the morning sun showering Haystack Mountain in amber and gold, I grabbed my camera and starting taking a few snapshots. Once I saw a fish rise, I half-reluctantly agreed to the morning fishing in the frost-covered dew, and tied on a few flies. I tried the creek for a while with a dry, then back to the lake with a dry dropper—four different sets—but the trout seemed more interested in territorial battles rather than food, and after an hour and a half not finding any luck, I tucked myself back into the hammock. As soon as I was settled, I heard Chance from his, “Damn, I did not get any sleep man.”
”Really? I heard you snoring a good bit.”
”Oh wow, what time? It didn’t feel like I slept at all man, I was cold as hell all night. I need to get me one of those underquilts.”
I was fighting my eyelids and the soft call of a quick morning nap by this time. “Oh yeah man, they’re awesome. Out in Colorado though, you’ll be pretty close to Warbonnet, they made all my gear and are one of my favorites now. You can’t go wrong with ‘em, all their stuff is just ready to go.”
That was the last thing I remember saying before I drifted off.

What felt like a few moments later, I heard Matt ask where I was, then I glanced out beyond the mosquito mesh and hollered to let him know I was, in fact, awake and very very cozy. His report of the night’s sleep was akin to Chance’s; cold and uncomfortable. I felt bad for both of them, I’ve certainly been in those situations before, where you never find an ounce of sleep, either due to cold or terror. Both seem to subside as the sun rises and warms the soul.

We got to packing up, the lad’s having things yet to do with their weekend time, and we set off just around 11:30. We fired off a few rounds from my recently acquired 1859 New Army .44 black powder pistol, and hugged each other in the way that brothers often do, knowing it might be a long time, if ever, that we share this adventure together. It’s not something you can dwell too deeply on or you’ll lose yourself in the sorrow, so you have to keep a stiff upper lip, shine a smile, and rip past the Subaru that’s got your friends in front of you as they avoid a puddled pothole, splashing the side of the hatchback as you whip your hat out and let loose a "YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHAWWWWW!!!” that could be heard all down the valley.

Just a little bit of fishin

August 24, 2022

A Long Walk in Butterfield for Spring 22

March 20, 2022

Holy SHIT this took me way too long to get updated. Sorry fam, this little hike I am about to describe took place on the very first day of Spring 2022. It wasn’t anything stunning, but it was something fun to experience.

I started the day by packing the wrong pack. I wanted to go on a hike and carry heavy things, but I always default to my ULA Circuit as “the backpack” to put shit in. The only problem with defaulting to that good ol bag is that it’s purpose built to be as light as possible, and it can’t handle loads over 50ish lbs… So going heavy is out of the options. I get to packing in stuff: A hammock, a tarp, tieouts and suspensions, underquilt, top quilt, cook kit, some tea, a meal, a book, and an 18lbs kettlebell. It’s not much, but it’ll do. And then, I start driving.

It’s gloomy and raining as I get out in the Murano. She starts up, and I start my journey from my dungeon apartment in Midvale all the way out to Butterfield Canyon. I didn’t have big plans; Just go out, walk for a bit, get a hang in, and make some tea.

As soon as I hit the trail, any indecisions I had about “Ah, do I really want to do this? I have so much to do…” immediately dissipated, and I knew I was exactly where I needed to be. A grin the size of the grand canyon took over my face and I couldn’t help but soak in every moment of snow blowing in my face, freezing to my little mustache, and clouding my vision to a thin squint to see about 30 yards out.

The road tangles on for a good little bit and the usual thoughts pass any time I hike this canyon… “Am I there yet? Wait, OH yeah that’s where I am. Oh hey, there’s that Peak we like to climb”. It all starts coming together. And then I start debating if I want to climb that little peak, or if I should set up my camp, or if I should do anything else in particular. The snow is starting to die down and the sprinkling is intermittent. With the weather calming and the sun peeking through the clouds every 15 minutes or so, I decide to continue along the road and see how high I can get.

The initial thought it to walk until I hit the snow, but just as I am debating in my mind how far up that might be, it’s there: The snow line. “Alright, let’s go further than before then” I think to myself. Mind you, last time I did that I had snow shoes and a much lighter pack, but I am now much more fit and much more willing to throw myself into discomfort. So I continue onward, post holling as I walk, through the gulches of the prettier parts of Butterfield Canyon and up into it’s cliffside retreats.

A small pine tree decorated with ornaments and a page of confession to a missing elder is a somber reminder that there is indeed still suffering and pain in the world beneath.

I crest the steepest part of the ascent on the road and hit more pavement where the sun is able to pierce through the trees. The absence of posthole snow is great, but just as I wrap around the rocky corner outcropping I am hit by a whipping wind that almost seems like it’s screaming at me and my audacity to be forging new footprints in the patches of white ice along the road.

I continue on the path for a bit before stopping to take a few selfies; This is, after all, my first time this high up walking along the road. I am almost determined to get the rest of the way up the road to the saddle between Butterfield and Middle Canyons, but before long the wind gets the better of me and I opt to take my tea break on the side of the road in the best cover I could find.

The warm liquid and cooling mint are a refreshing and invigorating experience up in the pines, where I can see the wind twirl through the pale snow storm and fumble with the flakes as they tumble into oblivion below.

After cleaning up and getting everything put away, I begin my decent down the mountain. Not wanting to deal with the long walk back (now 6 miles to go) and wanting to encourage a workout along the way, I start jogging with my pack back down the mountain. The tempo is simple and easy, run for 1 minute, walk for 45 seconds, repeat. I pass a few other running on their way up and one more hiker on my way back down before I’m back at my car, sweaty, cold, and feeling alive.

This was the best way to welcome Spring to the Western slopes.