Kings Peak via Henry's Fork, High Uintas Wilderness, Utah
32 miles roundtrip
Gallery
Sometimes, I bite off more than I can chew. In the literal sense, there was one episode in Canyonlands where a cup full of dry chili got the best of me. "Can we just add a little bit of the chili to the boiling water at a time?" Melody inquired. "I think it will be enough, but we can add more if we need it."
The usual response, begrudged by my loving and very patient partner, is, "Don't worry about it, it'll be fine," in this case accompanied by an "I'll eat it" and, post argument,"Just trust me!"
"It's not about trust!"she exclaims. But as my mother and sisters can account for, the male Carolan skull is far too thick for sound speech. So in to the pot the freeze-dried chili goes, and after a half hour of adding water and continual stirring, out comes 1 1/2 liters of culinary mediocrity. A man of my word I am, so after I had lied, cheated, and bamboozled my honey-bunny into consuming as much of the southwestern porridge as possible, a profane amount of chili would go down my throat and sit in my belly in a most uncomfortable way. Too-much-to-chew.
I cannot say that I truly learned from the 'chili lesson', a story that has become emblematic of my stubbornness. From Canyonlands on, Melody and I pursued a travel itinerary that gave us lots to see, write, remember, and be joyful about, but also left us very exhausted. After this blissful summer, I would need one more trip to really learn when to not overdo it..
After moving to Utah late August, I was lucky enough to acquire a job at a sports-travel agency hybrid, and Melody spent most of her time volunteering at an organization that helped people get involved in various outdoor activities. In between work, I did as much research as I could about outdoor recreation in northern Utah. My footsteps led me to the doorstep of a place called the High Uintas Wilderness, an area of over four and a half thousand acres. Lots to explore! The Uintas are also the highest west-east running range in the lower 48 and are especially enticing due to the fact that they contain the Utah state high point, Kings Peak, at 13,528 feet. Sound like the perfect weekend trip? It did to me!
We left Logan at around 5 PM on Friday afternoon, and settled down for what would turn into about a 4 hour car ride due to some bad directions we had taken. Our destination, the Henry's Fork trailhead, was the quickest route to the summit of Kings Peak, just over 16 miles. We camped at the trailhead and hit the sack between 10 and 11 that night. We rose at 6 AM to find the ground covered in an early fall frost, which was no surprise at 9000 feet. Hot breakfast, gloved hands, and we were off- that is, until the cold caught up with me at the actual trailhead. Something hit me and my stomach turned, my extremities went numb, and it was all I could to do keep from passing out as I signed the trail register. Elevation sickness? Early, early signs of hypothermia? Not really sure, but maybe both, and I admittedly had to sit down in the car with the heater blasting for a good ten minutes before I was ready to take off. Real good way to impress the lady, right? Melody was pretty ticked at me for letting myself get too cold, and she made me promise not let it happen out on the trail.
The first leg of Henry's Fork trail is alongside Henry's Fork Creek, which, looking back, would be a nice stream to walk up with a fishing rod in hand. Call this wilderness area, but we were definitely not alone. Large group backpackers, peak baggers, dogs, and trail-runners were all seen on the stretch to the great peak. Fall aspen leaves turned yellow and dotted the ground like gold coins. Pine was everywhere and generously carpeted our path. What was a chilly morning turned into a very comfortable afternoon, and the trees would open up to reveal our destination peaking up from between two ridgelines and to the right of our entryway, Gunsight Pass. Various bodies of water, lakes and creeks, were in the valley that beheld us, and the yellow-orange grass and brush contrasted beautifully with the red rock and evergreen patches of goodness, our favorites. It was easy to keep high spirits in the company of such sights.
Many miles in, we began the ascent up Gunsight Pass. The weather had gone from patchy sun to overcast, and we had even experienced a bit of rain on the way up. At the top of the pass, we looked back and saw a storm front approaching, an angry Jack Frost whipping over the mountains, down to the valley below us, a reminder that alpine weather is ever in flux, never to be taken lightly. The gail was soon upon us as we settled on the opposite end of the pass, in Painter Basin, our stay for the night below Kings Peak. Sleet turned to rain to hail back to rain to snow, and then repeat. Tent erect and water boiled, we gobbled down some chicken soup and settled in for the night.
It's usually late in the morning when I am too cold to sleep anymore, but a benevolent sun rose to the east end of the valley we were placed in, and warmth came much sooner than it had the morning before. Clear skies meant perfect hiking conditions. Above timberline, we had hopefully stowed our food bag atop a bush several feet from the ground. It was visited overnight by rodents who chewed many tiny holes in it and seemed more interested in Melody's birth control than our edibles.
This is Sunday, the day before I head back to work, to life in Cache Valley, the price to be paid for comfort, food, 4 walls and a roof, through winter storms, summer heat, and all else in between.
We headed up Anderson Pass, the base of the northwest ridegline of Kings Peak, and then halfway up to our destination. It was at this point, just over 13,000 feet, that the little voice in the back of my mind finally got my attention. "Man, we gotta go to work tomorrow." There remained at least an hour scramble to the summit at that point, and it's always longer going downhill from there, which would put us getting out of the wilderness well past dark, 10 PM, 11 PM? Back home by 2, maybe 3 AM?
I hate turning around. It's despicable in my mind, but that's what we did, 500 feet of elevation below the summit. 500 feet too-much-to-chew. The most comfort I could give myself was the promise of a return trip. And down we hiked, all day, to car by dusk, beat tired, to sleep for a year.
-Grasshopper
32 miles roundtrip
Gallery
Sometimes, I bite off more than I can chew. In the literal sense, there was one episode in Canyonlands where a cup full of dry chili got the best of me. "Can we just add a little bit of the chili to the boiling water at a time?" Melody inquired. "I think it will be enough, but we can add more if we need it."
The usual response, begrudged by my loving and very patient partner, is, "Don't worry about it, it'll be fine," in this case accompanied by an "I'll eat it" and, post argument,"Just trust me!"
"It's not about trust!"she exclaims. But as my mother and sisters can account for, the male Carolan skull is far too thick for sound speech. So in to the pot the freeze-dried chili goes, and after a half hour of adding water and continual stirring, out comes 1 1/2 liters of culinary mediocrity. A man of my word I am, so after I had lied, cheated, and bamboozled my honey-bunny into consuming as much of the southwestern porridge as possible, a profane amount of chili would go down my throat and sit in my belly in a most uncomfortable way. Too-much-to-chew.
I cannot say that I truly learned from the 'chili lesson', a story that has become emblematic of my stubbornness. From Canyonlands on, Melody and I pursued a travel itinerary that gave us lots to see, write, remember, and be joyful about, but also left us very exhausted. After this blissful summer, I would need one more trip to really learn when to not overdo it..
After moving to Utah late August, I was lucky enough to acquire a job at a sports-travel agency hybrid, and Melody spent most of her time volunteering at an organization that helped people get involved in various outdoor activities. In between work, I did as much research as I could about outdoor recreation in northern Utah. My footsteps led me to the doorstep of a place called the High Uintas Wilderness, an area of over four and a half thousand acres. Lots to explore! The Uintas are also the highest west-east running range in the lower 48 and are especially enticing due to the fact that they contain the Utah state high point, Kings Peak, at 13,528 feet. Sound like the perfect weekend trip? It did to me!
We left Logan at around 5 PM on Friday afternoon, and settled down for what would turn into about a 4 hour car ride due to some bad directions we had taken. Our destination, the Henry's Fork trailhead, was the quickest route to the summit of Kings Peak, just over 16 miles. We camped at the trailhead and hit the sack between 10 and 11 that night. We rose at 6 AM to find the ground covered in an early fall frost, which was no surprise at 9000 feet. Hot breakfast, gloved hands, and we were off- that is, until the cold caught up with me at the actual trailhead. Something hit me and my stomach turned, my extremities went numb, and it was all I could to do keep from passing out as I signed the trail register. Elevation sickness? Early, early signs of hypothermia? Not really sure, but maybe both, and I admittedly had to sit down in the car with the heater blasting for a good ten minutes before I was ready to take off. Real good way to impress the lady, right? Melody was pretty ticked at me for letting myself get too cold, and she made me promise not let it happen out on the trail.
The first leg of Henry's Fork trail is alongside Henry's Fork Creek, which, looking back, would be a nice stream to walk up with a fishing rod in hand. Call this wilderness area, but we were definitely not alone. Large group backpackers, peak baggers, dogs, and trail-runners were all seen on the stretch to the great peak. Fall aspen leaves turned yellow and dotted the ground like gold coins. Pine was everywhere and generously carpeted our path. What was a chilly morning turned into a very comfortable afternoon, and the trees would open up to reveal our destination peaking up from between two ridgelines and to the right of our entryway, Gunsight Pass. Various bodies of water, lakes and creeks, were in the valley that beheld us, and the yellow-orange grass and brush contrasted beautifully with the red rock and evergreen patches of goodness, our favorites. It was easy to keep high spirits in the company of such sights.
Many miles in, we began the ascent up Gunsight Pass. The weather had gone from patchy sun to overcast, and we had even experienced a bit of rain on the way up. At the top of the pass, we looked back and saw a storm front approaching, an angry Jack Frost whipping over the mountains, down to the valley below us, a reminder that alpine weather is ever in flux, never to be taken lightly. The gail was soon upon us as we settled on the opposite end of the pass, in Painter Basin, our stay for the night below Kings Peak. Sleet turned to rain to hail back to rain to snow, and then repeat. Tent erect and water boiled, we gobbled down some chicken soup and settled in for the night.
It's usually late in the morning when I am too cold to sleep anymore, but a benevolent sun rose to the east end of the valley we were placed in, and warmth came much sooner than it had the morning before. Clear skies meant perfect hiking conditions. Above timberline, we had hopefully stowed our food bag atop a bush several feet from the ground. It was visited overnight by rodents who chewed many tiny holes in it and seemed more interested in Melody's birth control than our edibles.
This is Sunday, the day before I head back to work, to life in Cache Valley, the price to be paid for comfort, food, 4 walls and a roof, through winter storms, summer heat, and all else in between.
We headed up Anderson Pass, the base of the northwest ridegline of Kings Peak, and then halfway up to our destination. It was at this point, just over 13,000 feet, that the little voice in the back of my mind finally got my attention. "Man, we gotta go to work tomorrow." There remained at least an hour scramble to the summit at that point, and it's always longer going downhill from there, which would put us getting out of the wilderness well past dark, 10 PM, 11 PM? Back home by 2, maybe 3 AM?
I hate turning around. It's despicable in my mind, but that's what we did, 500 feet of elevation below the summit. 500 feet too-much-to-chew. The most comfort I could give myself was the promise of a return trip. And down we hiked, all day, to car by dusk, beat tired, to sleep for a year.
-Grasshopper
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