The Highest of Highlines

 In the summer of 2014, I hiked the Uinta Highline Trail, an elegant line traversing the Uinta mountains from east to west. We scaled snow-covered mountainsides, enjoyed amazing vistas of alpine basins, almost got blown away by a strong thunderstorm, and created a ton of great memories.

Over time, several different route options have developed. On the western end, some people end their hikes at the official trailhead, while others end at Mirror Lake. This is a fairly insignificant difference though, as the two are separated by just a couple miles of trail. Things are a lot less clear, however, on the eastern front. Some people hike west from Chipeta Lake - a 70-mile hike. Others head west from Leidy Peak - an 85 mile walk. Others begin their hike at US 191 - just south of Flaming Gorge - a 100-mile trek.

When Corona, Sherpa, Griz, and I hiked in 2014, we hiked from the Chipeta Lake trailhead. We enjoyed it greatly - but I always wanted to check out the Leidy Peak area.

Fast-forward to 2016. My pack is packed, I've got my well-loved (read - DEET-smeared) High Uintas Wilderness map with me - but I don't know where I'm hiking this weekend. I'm sitting at work when I come to the realization - this is a perfect time to hike the easternmost section of the Highline Trail.

But I'm not really interested in the Highline Trail per se. I've found the Highline Trail to be a bit overhyped - it often stays in the trees, well below the ridges that form the highline of the Uinta Range. So I decide to do a little experiment - can I find a better line for the westernmost section?

My objective is simple - scout a line between Leidy Peak and Chipeta Dam, staying on the ridge for as long as possible. On the way back, explore some of the other ridges in the area, and hike the Highline Trail itself, just for comparison's sake.

It rains on Friday evening. I turn off the pavement, onto dirt. The trailhead is 25 miles down the dirt road - and the Subie is up for the challenge of some sloppy roads. An hour later, I arrive at the trailhead, car smeared in mud from bumper to bumper. Just what she likes! It turns out that my adventures in slop are just beginning.

I hike in perhaps half a mile through thin forest just son the edge of treeline. I set up camp under a couple pines and fall asleep. Sometime during the night a few patters of rain fall, but I'm content in my nest.

The next morning I awake, and staring me in the face is a 1200 foot climb up to the summit of Leidy Peak. Leidy, in my opinion, is the "proper" starting point for the Highline Trail - it's the easternmost 12'er in the range, and the easternmost point above treeline as well. It's a pretty gentle ascent - but I'm huffing and puffing anyway. Nothing is easy at 12,000 feet - somebody stole all the oxygen! 

From here, navigation is easy. I cruise westward, over various bumps on the ridge. The so-called "Highline Trail" is 2000 feet below me, in the trees - and I'm enjoying life up on the ridge. There's one easy scramble section - but nothing that can't be solved with an adventurous spirit and some careful foot placement. The south side of the ridge is gentle, while the north side is punctuated with a half dozen glacial cirques. It reminds me that this range could be glaciated once again - if ever the climate cooled by just a few degrees [adjusts tinfoil hat].

The clouds are starting to build. Nothing major, but I definitely want to get down off the ridge. The forecast for these few days is pretty spicy - it sounds like there will be afternoon thunderstorms each day. I descend down a talus slope to a tarn above Chipeta Lake. As I near treeline, a few sprinkles begin to patter around me. By time I reach Chipeta Lake itself, moderate rain is falling, and a little thunder growls in the distance. I timed it perfectly! 

I wait out the storm while eating my lunch in the trailhead privy. I must admit, neither the food nor the ambiance is all that great, but at least it's keeping me dry - and away from the ravenous hordes of mosquitoes waiting for me. After a few hours, it has cleared up and I'm on my way - covered head-to-toe in DEET...

...which brings us to my favorite schtick, this week's Utterly Impractical Hiking Item. Remember this bit? No? Well then, you much have better things to do with your life than devote a rank amateur's blog posts to memory. My congratulations. Anyway, this week's Utterly Impractical Hiking Item is Ben's 30% DEET bug spray. There's nothing wrong with Ben's, and there's nothing wrong with DEET (except for, you know, its toxicity), There is, however, something very wrong with bringing 30% concentration into this jungle. The 30% will not cut it, folks. Mosquitoes are biting me on areas that I DEET'ed fifteen seconds age. First hatch in the Uintas is no joke. Next time, I'll read the packaging more carefully before purchasing. 

Anyway, returning to the story at hand: I scurry down the trail, smacking myself silly in an attempt to kill the kamikaze mosquitoes that are dive-bombing me. The problem is exacerbated, of course, by the standing water and wet, nasty, spongy marshes everywhere. I'm on the official Highline Trail now, but it seems more like the Highline Lagoon. This paragraph has been brought to you by the Utah Board of Tourism.

Things do improve, though. I arrive at Whitehead Lake and find a delightful little campsite in some soft forest duff. I set up my shelter and dive inside. I only have to kill about three dozen skeeters who managed to join me inside. Insect foes vanquished, I eat some food and fall asleep. 

The next morning comes entirely too early, and I laze over breakfast for a half hour before getting going. The day starts with a climb up to a ridge, overlooking Deadman's Lake. Cheery name, right?. From there the trail dips down to the Lake, at the fringes of treeline, and then climbs right back up to Gabbro Pass, at 11,500 feet. But I'm not going to Gabbro Pass. I leave the trail and climb southeast, skirting unnamed peak 12011. I cross above a lingering snowfield and a beautiful alpine lake. There's supposedly a trail around here, but I don't see it anywhere. No matter - above treeline, it's all hikeable.

I cross a few bumps on the ridge, each one a little higher than the previous. The big obstacle is an unnamed peak at about 11,900 feet. It's steep and I find myself panting, taking frequent rests. The clouds are building a little bit, but it's nothing of concern. I'll be down below treeline long before the weather breaks. 

The grassy ridges have turned to talus. My pace slows. As much as I'd like to hurry, up here, progress is slow. Between the talus (I certainly don't want to sprain anything up here) and the the thin air, I'm not going anywhere fast. 


And then the clouds start to build. Fast. I've only seen storms pop up this suddenly once before - and it involved dodging lightning atop Mt. Adams in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. That's not a situation I want to be in. I stow my phone and put on my rain gear. There will be no summit photos today. 

Hail starts to fall. The wind begins to whip. And yes, the thunder starts to rumble. It's only 10:30AM.

I've got no good options. There are only two ways off the ridge - two miles ahead, over  Marsh Peak (12,200'), or five miles back to where I came from. The choice is obvious, but it means climbing the highest peak in the area in a thunderstorm. It's only going to become more dangerous as the day wears on. I might as well make a break for it. I grit my teeth, say a prayer, and keep trudging.

Eventually, I reach the summit right as the hail stops falling. Nonetheless, I'm not enthused about being the highest thing around. I don't even pull out the camera to take a photo. Ahead. Downward. Toward safety.

I reach treeline, and immediately it starts pouring. I set up my shelter and clamber inside. I'm content to destroy my food bag while it storms outside. Thank you Lord.

Eventually the rain stops, the sun comes out, and after waiting for an hour to make sure the weather holds, I'm on my way. But about fifteen minutes down the trail, another cloud comes out of nowhere and it rains for hours. But I almost prefer the rain - because every time the rain stops, the mosquitoes come out to play. 

It's a wet, sloppy slog through the jungles of the Lake Shore Basin. The trails are faint, poorly-maintained, swampy, and generally unpleasant. But that's ok. I've explored some interesting new terrain, I've experienced the rewards of planning my own route, and seen the Highline Trail, or at least my Highline Trail, live up to its potential, high on the ridge.

Another wave of storms rolls through. It's storming an hour before sundown. I've seen this movie before: tomorrow will likely be a washout. I power-hike the last few hours to my car and sleep in the back seat. 

Higher is better. That's why I go to the mountains. I revel in the big alpine views, the lakes, the ridges, and the lingering snowfields. Mission accomplished. 
 

Backpacks and Fanny Packs: The Rise of Backcountry Tourism

There seems to be a certain consternation these days in the hiking community. It's a fear that our favorite trails are being overcrowded.

And it's completely true. The Pacific Crest Trail kick-off event now runs two sessions to accomodate more hikers. Baxter State Park is considering implementing a quota system for thru-hikers aiming to climb Katahdin. Even the Hayduke Trail will probably see several dozen hikers this year, more than at any time in the past.

But backpacking is not increasing in popularity. The long trails are increasing in popularity, but backpacking as a whole is not. So what gives? I think it's fair to say that backpacking usage is being increasingly concentrated along a few key corridors. The Wonderland Trail. The JMT. The Triple Crown. Meanwhile, other areas of the backcountry are more deserted than ever. Many national parks actually issue fewer backcountry permits, for example, than they did several decades ago. 

These days, there's abundant information available for a litany of named routes and trails. It wasn't always like this. Before the internet, there was very little information available about many deep, remote wilderness areas. Aspiring adventurers had no choice but to take a small leap of faith when setting off on a trip. If they had topo maps, they certainly couldn't look up each pass on the internet to see whether or not it was doable.

It's not surprising that usage is becoming more concentrated on nationally-renown routes. People are fundamentally lazy, and planning a trip is a lot of work. So when someone creates a canned trip guide (print map, bake for ten minutes) and posts it on the internet, it's probably going to be popular. And for good reason - many of us have limited time, and a having a one-stop-shop allows us to spend time in the outdoors, without having to do months of detailed planning. A canned trip will hit the highlights - be it Cirque of the Towers, the Tower of London, Paintbrush Divide, The Louvre, Eagle Rock, or the Statue of Liberty. The highlights are cool, but they're only surface-level. Truly getting to know an area requires a greater investment of time and research. 

Most of us don't have time to spare. Most of us engage in backcountry tourism, racing from highlight to highlight to see as much as we can in our precious vacation time. Most of us use canned trip guides - somebody else has done the work, collected the information, drawn the maps, and assessed the water sources. Most of us end up as camera-toting tourists at the Taj Mahal.

I freely admit that I engage in backcountry tourism. Most of the hikes I do are on established routes. At the minimum, I know somebody's done a successful trip in the area before. Oftentimes there are maps available. I can find water information without too much trouble. If not for all this information, I would only have time to prepare for a handful of trips per year. I love my canned trips.

But at least once this year, I'm planning a trip off the beaten path. I'm working on putting together my own route. I'm mapping a course that I'm sure isn't easy, and might not even be passable. I won't know how stable that glacial moraine is. I won't know whether the next section is a grassy field or a boulder field. And the only way to find out is to keep hiking. But at the end of the trip, I will know the mountain range quite well. After pouring over maps for months, studying the climate and geology, and, most importantly navigating my way through the range, I will have a deep understanding of the range - far deeper than if I had just downloaded somebody else's map pack and followed their journey.

Hiking someone else's hike is fine. Visiting the Great Wall of China is fine. But many of us look for something more adventurous than the well-trod paths that other people have taken. Many of us look for more than a journey or a vacation - we look for adventure. Perhaps it's the American ethos of the mountain man. Perhaps it's the thinly-disguised hipster in all of us. Perhaps our modern lives have grown too soft and easy.

But no matter why we thirst for adventure, we find it not in replicating what someone else's journey, but in crafting our own. And as we explore the frontiers of wilderness, we simultaneously explore the frontiers of our own experience. It's a old way of doing things. It's a new way of doing things. And it's a more intense, rewarding way of doing things. 

I'm setting out on an adventure. Won't you do the same?

Beyond the Lake

I trundled up the trail, finally getting into the groove. A week's worth of rain and work had kept me mostly inside, and my legs took a few minutes to loosen up. But once I got going, I was rolling. The trail up to Lake Blanche is fairly steep, but my pack was light and my attitude was similar. I passed many groups of people coming down from the lake, headed back to their cars and beds in the valley. I was headed the other way - to spend the night at Lake Blanche, and then over the ridge into the next canyon over the next day. I was looking forward to a beautiful campsite at my favorite lake in the Wasatch.

My plans started to unravel quickly, however. I passed a group of Boy Scouts - their packs bulging with stuff. In their hands, they carried all the things that wouldn't fit in their enormous backpacks. I would have chucked at the sight of carrying fifty pounds of stuff on a six-mile round-trip hike. But their complaints and panting breaths were a sad reminder - many of these boys would grow up to hate backpacking, because carrying that much crap just plain sucks. If they had moms and dads and scout leaders who ensured that they packed light, so as to enjoy the journey... who knows how many more of them would learn to love their time spent in the outdoors?

I passed more scouts. And more. And more. At least twenty five of them, with their leaders to boot. They were yelling raucously to each other, as boys are prone to do. My serene night at the lake was going to be ruined.

I arrived at the lake just as the sun was going down. There were already several groups camped there, children's shrieks reverberating off the water. And all those groups I had passed would be arriving shortly. Somewhere a dog started barking. I felt myself getting more and more annoyed. One thing was certain - I did not want to spend the night around this circus.

I had planned to hike up into the upper drainage the next morning, and cross the ridge. But I sure wasn't camping here. I had to press on. I climbed a few hundred feet on a faint use trail above the lake, and into the upper drainage. I looked in vain for a nice sheltered campsite under a few stubby trees, but flat ground was nowhere to be found. I walked out into a nice flat bench overlooking the lake - and in the last vestiges of twilight, tossed my bivy and sleeping bag on the ground. I could have set up my tarp, but that just seemed wrong - on a beautiful evening such as this, cowboy camping was really the only option.

The stars were bright, the sky was dark - even though I could see the Salt Lake City lights five thousand feet below. And the view when I woke up the next morning was incredible - perhaps the mos picturesque campsite I've ever had. There isn't always time to embark on an extended trip. But when time is limited, it pays to get away and get some solitude - that is, to venture beyond the lake. 

Rainy Days

Inside the cloud, there are no raindrops. Tiny beads of water spontaneously form on everything, soaking me slowly but steadily. I hike fast, hoping that I'll be merely damp, rather than sodden, if I generate enough heat.

Inside the cloud, everything is slippery. It's rained more or less continuously for three days now, and the lichen-covered rocks prove deceptively slimy, ready to send the unsuspecting hiker crashing down a steep incline at any moment. I inch forward down the steep, slick granite. The trail has been worn down to the bedrock by decades of travelers making this pilgrimage.

Inside the cloud, I'm feeling clammy. Without my rain jacket, the cool, humid air will quickly chill me to the bone, fingers white and numb. But with my rain jacket, I immediately start to overheat, as the thin nylon captures saturated air like a curious yellow sauna.

My prospects for a dry camp are limited. The forecast, or at least the one I've heard through the hiker grapevine, calls for rain again tonight and tomorrow. A heavier, darker, wetter cloud blows in. Rivulets flow through the dirt and over rocks, created a thousand tiny waterfalls as they trickle downhill. My tent is still soggy from last night. I arrive at a flat spot and set up camp, ducking inside just as it starts to thunder.

Hours pass. Malaise sets in. My shelter is lightweight, but small. I duck and contort every which way to try and avoid touching the walls, which have been soaked by condensation. Sooner or later, I decide to lay down and fall asleep. It's not dark yet, although the line between daytime and nighttime is blurred inside the cloud. The pitter-patter of rain is constant, mere inches above my head, as droplets splatter on the nylon tarp. I'll wake up several times in the night to ensure that none of my things are getting soaked - not too soaked that is. Everything gets damp when the humidity's at one hundred percent.

But sometime in the night, something changes. That relentless pitter-patter becomes softer, and more sparse. Soon it becomes the occasional splat! And finally, morning dawns. The sunshine is watery, but I'm not complaining. I poke my head out of the door cautiously, hoping to avoid the splats, as water drips off the tree branches above my head. But it's a new day, and soon all this water will be converted into unbearable mugginess by the mid-morning sun - and finally dissipate. I let out a hollar of joy as I pack up my damp pack and stride down the trail. My shoes are wet, my tent is sodden and heavy, but there's a certain lightness of spirit that only appears after the rainstorm.

Why I Hike (A Reflection)

Of the many places I've been during wilderness adventures, few of them stand out like the San Juan River.

I've taken a few trips to Cedar Mesa now. The first one, in upper Grand Gulch, was a tune-up hike in a popular area over Easter weekend in the spring of 2014. It was fun. I saw some very interesting Indian ruins, visited a scenic canyon, and generally acquainted myself with the desert, an environment I've come to love. But it lacked one thing - Wilderness.

Wilderness with a capital W isn't comfortable. It's a raw land. There are no trails, no signposts, no other visitors to reassure you that you're on the right track. You get stuck in thorns and brush. You encounter impassible pour-offs and end up backtracking. You have no certainty where the water source is. Your only conversation is with your thoughts. The nearest people are seated thirty five thousand feet above your head.

Nobody's ever been here before. I mean, they certainly have (there's a couple tiny cairns in a spot or two), but for all practical purposes, you might as well be the first person to ever walk this way. An intermittent stream flows through the canyon bottom, feeding stands of dense brush and forming cold, clear, cheerful pools. Soon an arch appears, and there are a few footprints in the dry dust below the arch. Who knows how many years those footprints have endured.

Venturing further down-canyon, you encounter deeper rock layers. Purple-ish rock layers, formed by years of clay dissolving, flowing downstream, and drying in a new location. The dry clay forms smooth waves and ripples in the canyon bottom, continuing its journey of many centuries to the river, where it will eventually be deposited into the abomination that is Lake Powell. But you need not enrage yourself with the damming of the Colorado River. For now, it is enough to soak in the untouched serenity that surrounds you.

As the sun sets, you make camp under a rock overhang, taking care to stay out of the katabatic zones, where cool air will pool in the canyon bottom overnight. The night isn't cold under your natural shelter, and the next morning you awake to hear birds chirping. Spring has come to this part of the canyon. Now just 4,000 feet above sea level, you notice green grass, and a few buds on the cottonwood trees. The morning is chilly, but soon enough, the sun rises above the canyon walls, warming up everything in a sudden blast of illumination.

Onward to the San Juan! The last few miles are hard miles. The next lower layer of rock is very flaky and boulders frequently choke the canyon. You scramble over some sketchy dirt and talus piles to avoid a pair of pour-offs. Route-finding is key, but after a couple of days in the wilderness, that animal instinct has kicked in, and you're able to identify the path of least resistance. Your entire being is oriented toward a single goal - forward progress.

Several times, a twisting of the canyon walls reveals the confluence with the San Juan - or so you think. Around the bend is yet another bend. Your world is small - maybe a few hundred yards long, and even less wide. And yet your world is huge - limitless, in fact.

Finally, the San Juan comes into view. It's much bigger than you imagined - a slow, wide river, cutting a deep canyon into the sandstone of the Colorado Plateau. Most of the rivers around here would be called creeks farther east; this one's a bona fide river. The confluence is magical. Water flows out of Grand Gulch, off a 3-foot high ledge, and into the river below. The San Juan, fueled by annual spring runoff, has carved a deeper gorge. And it's quiet. Rivers in the west are either placid and serene, or surging and crashing. Right now, the San Juan is the former.

It's so quiet you can quite literally hear your own heart beat. Nothing, save the occasional rumble of jet engines overhead, disturbs the utter silence. You want to speak, yet you want to contemplate. You want to run filled with life and energy, yet you want to be still. God is in this moment.

Sometimes the only appropriate response is worship. Not of your surroundings, of course, but rather the author of your surroundings. The One who created time itself - who ordained that the Colorado Plateau rise over millions of years, and that canyons cut through it in millions more. The One who rotates Earth on its axis, the One who decreed that the progression of seasons will not end. The One who sends the first greens of spring, and makes the desert bloom while winter still grips everywhere else. The One who gives me the ability to walk, and the strength to keep going. 

That's why I hike.

An Autopsy of Decisions

You're welcome, Mom.

I bent down to test a seemingly dry spot with my hand. Nope, icy. Tried another one. Nope, that one's icy too. I turned around and scooted on my butt down the slickrock incline. Justin was at the bottom, having taken a dry route. We scrambled on all fours up another icy slope. The view at that top was disheartening. Ahead was a few hundred yards of exposure. Steep sideslope exposure, ending at a cliff with a sheer vertical drop. It was time to turn around.

 Photo - Justin Swanson

Earlier in the day, Justin and I had made the decision to take the Peekaboo Trail, which crosses overland to Salt Creek, rather than an 4x4 road. The views were jaw-dropping. The day was bright and sunny and we enjoyed views of the snow-covered La Sal mountains in the distance. But the higher we climbed and the further we trekked, the slipperier it got. It hadn't rained recently, that much was certain. But the previous night had been a dewy one, and a thick layer of frost covered north-facing and shady sections of slickrock.

The first few encounters were pretty mild. A couple of slippery steps here and there, but nothing to be concerned about. We dropped down into Squaw Canyon, and then climbed out. Dropped into Lost Canyon, and then climbed out. By this point, we had traveled more than four miles, and less than a mile separated us from Salt Creek Canyon, which we would follow upstream. That's when things started to get dicey. We had climbed considerably - we were at around 6,000 feet. And although the sun was bright and cheerful, in the dregs of January it's so far south in the sky that half the landscape lay in shadows, even during midday. There were a couple spots where we had to deviate from the trail, shimmying up a crack to get better traction the slippery rock. But there was no real danger, other than that of a bruised ego and a sore tailbone, were one of us to slip and fall.

Then we came to the ledge. Several hundred yards long with that steep exposure on the left side. But there might be a way that we could navigate in the vegitation on the uphill side of the ledge. I crept forward cautiously to investigate. We could probably swing from tree to tr...

This is crazy. There's no way we can navigate this safely. One misstep will literally lead to death. Yes, we've hiked four miles and don't want to hike four miles back to the car, and then five miles from a different trailhead, just to get to a place we're within shouting distance of. Yes, the views look great and it'd make for a great story. Yes, we've come this far and have managed to do it. But this is crazy.

Turning around is hard. It sucked to return the way we came with our tails tucked between our legs. It sucked to have to make a shorter hike in Salt Creek Canyon. It sucked to not see some of the cool Indian petroglyphs in the upper part of the canyon. But it was the right decision, and it was the wise decision.

The hike back was somber. I reflected on our decision, and how we were blessed with the wisdom and experience to know when to turn back. We also reflected on other people's decisions. Terrible or destructive choices don't come in a moment of temporary insanity. They come as a result of the escalation of bravado and the escalation of commitment. We made it through the last one, we'll make it through this one. We've made it this far, we can't turn around now. We made the right choice. But in a situation where the right choice is the hard choice, suddenly our human limitations show through.

The trip itself was terrific. The weather was beautiful, the scenery was jaw-dropping and the company was great. It's amazing to live in a place where we can backpack year-round. But what I'll take away from this trip is honesty. Honesty to admit that, despite my extensive experience, there are some things that are just going to beat me. Honesty to admit that I don't always get it right. Honesty to admit that it COULD happen to me. 

Thank you, Lord.

2014 - In Review

2014's been a good year. 

A few fun facts -

Trips -

Backpacking trips - 13
Car camping trips - 1
Nights in a sleeping bag - 46
Miles backpacked - 474
National Parks visited - 4
Solo trips - 9
Trips with friends - 4


Experiences -

Car overheating incidents - 2
Trips on which I brought a stove along - 2
Trips on which I had had the desire to actually cook - 0
Trips requiring an ice axe - 2
Glissades down snowy slopes - 3
Nighttime animal encounters - 3
Nights spent under the stars - 13
Trips requiring off-trail travel - 8
Favorite moment - sliding down Paintbrush Divide on a snowfield
Least favorite moment - 13 hour rain and windstorm above treeline in the Uintas
Highest Point - Kings Peak, UT (13,528')
Lowest Point - Escalante River, UT (4,400')

Gear -

Backpacks used - 3
Sleeping pads used - 2
Sleeping pads carved up and otherwise mutilated -1
Shelters used - 2
Max water carry - 4 liters
Heaviest pack basewieght - 15 lb (Coyote Gulch)
Lightest pack baseweight - 8 lb, 14 oz (Lower Muley Twist)
Longest resupply - 6 days (Highline Trail; Stratton-Monson ME) 
Pairs of shoes destroyed - 2

Dayhikes -

Miles hiked - unknown, probably at least 250
Snickers bars consumed - 54
Blisters developed - 1
11'ers summited - 6
Lakes visited - 7

Top five favorite photos of 2015-

#5 -  Rock Creek Basin - High Uintas Wilderness

#4 - Maybird Ridge, Lone Peak Wilderness

Photo credit -ej Horrocks

#3 - The Fairyland, Bryce Canyon National Park

#2 - Amethyst Basin, High Uintas Wilderness

#1.5 - Cascade Canyon, Grand Teton National Park

#1 - Upper Muley Twist Canyon, Capitol Reef National Park

2014 was a terrific year. Onward to 2015!