Logan Dry Canyon trailhead to Logan Peak, Utah
8 miles roundtrip
Gallery : Video
8 miles roundtrip
Gallery : Video
Logan City and Logan Peak are named for a trapper who worked the area in its settling days. He shared the land with grizzlies and native tribes with no modern trail system. I feel lucky to gaze upon many of the same trees and mountains as he must have. My experiences here are much more tame, yet likely as scenic.
Autumn days are fractured by the occasional fall of snow. Last year, at the time of this hike, we had accumulated over 4 inches of total precipitation at the higher elevations, and would eventually finish the water year with more than 36 inches. It is pretty dry from what I have previously been accustomed to. I find myself hoping for more and more, finding solace in the occasional rainy day and exuberance in a snow storm. Though Utah's extreme variety of landscape, four seasons, and postcard beauty leaves no apparent lack of outdoor fixation, for nostalgia's sake, preference, for love of water, Melody and I will need to venture, on occasion or to root, back to the Pacific Northwest to quench our particular thirst for the elements.
In the meantime, I am enjoying learning more of this wilderness through studying topographical maps. Larger indentures in the mountains tend to be called canyons while their smaller counterparts, hollows, usually run from their bases much steeper and shallower up the middle of a mountain. Relative to the hollow, a canyon is more likely to contain a river or creek (though many do not) and a canyon running into a canyon is often a fork. There are few exceptions where named canyons might more accurately be labeled hollows, and usually not vice-verse from what I assess. Canyons and hollows, much like mountains and many other points of geography, are also repetitiously named, such as the use of the word 'bear', Bear River, Bear River Range, Bear Mountain, Bear Canyon, and so on. But given the sheer number of features worth labeling, the names are reused in different regions as well, just like street names from city to city. Cottonwood Canyon and Little Cottonwood Canyon exist in the mountains outside Logan, and completely unrelated canyons of the same name run out into the Wasatch Front.
There are at least two other Dry Canyons connected to Cache Valley, and likely elsewhere. This one happens to be the simplest route up Logan Peak. As I would suppose with other Dry Canyons, there is no stream present. In memory of water, a parched creek bed follows Logan Dry Canyon's length, as evidenced by the line of river rock which follows my ascent. I wonder if it sees more attention on graciously precipitous years.
The wind blown maples and aspens are starting to reach skeleton fingertips toward the sky in admission of their winter fate. For now, instead of feet of snow slowly crawling and up and down their bases, they rest upon carpets of bright reds and golds whose colors will decay and be masked in white.
Thick forest gives way to sparse groves until I am meandering up brown, grassy hillsides. The sage dotted south and southwestern face on which I walk occupies my vision. I enjoy being out in the open, and growing up in California, I tend to associate this terrain with cougars. Not quite as thoroughly populated as my native Santa Cruz Mountains or Big Sur, these hillsides seldom give me much sign of cats. I would much rather glimpse a bear, anyhow, and I scour the slopes and ridge-lines for an unlikely daytime view of wildlife. My trekking poles clacking on the ground are announcements of a visitor. I am no sneak, and my approach is rewarded with sights of birds and insects.
I cross a young couple's path on their way down. They are northwestern trail types, or at least my snap interpretation of that archetype. Beard, earth tones, unkempt to a limit. Running into these folks makes me reflect on my own lack of friendships in Utah, though I have not felt alone (I owe that lack of lonesomeness to my partner and her parents). We make small talk about the day. They have not summited and I quietly relish the idea of being the only one on top today. They'll probably go for a beer afterward. Maybe we would be friends under a different introduction. Maybe more-so if I put forth the effort.
The intermittent bouts of cold weather leave the upper elevations with permanent winter caps, and last year was no exception. Logan Peak had a good 4-5 inches of powder in the last half mile up its western slope. There is no point in trying to follow a trail one cannot see, so I slowly kicked in my steps and hiked straight up to the summit.
I believe the tower atop the mountain is for weather readings, but I could be wrong. I don't really know what a radio tower looks like up close, but this one can be used to spot the mountain from many vantage points in Cache Valley, as well as areas east of Logan Canyon. The views from my perch are striking. Wellsvilles to the west, Willard Peak and Ben Lomond southwest, the interior of the Wasatch Range directly south, the Uinta Mountains southeast, the Bear River Range east, the range's highest peaks to the northeast, Logan and Green Canyons north, and the Clarkston Mountains and Bannock Range northwest-- not to forget the valley below where it is often my pleasure to look up. I feel accomplishment and gratitude.
I stayed up top for little under a half an hour to finish my yogurt and almonds, to soak in the wind and the wild. I am alone on the mountain. I think about my family and make a video of my surroundings to send them. The weather is not extreme and a couple layers of wool and down keep me cozy, delaying the slight shiver which inevitably creeps in.
The hardest part is leaving, but the motion is not drawn out. I make my way westward, following my ascending prints in the snow. The gradient makes for a fun bit of glissading and I can picture how silly I must look sliding, flailing, falling on my butt with big grin intact. The snow gives way to mud and then trail again. Down, down, below steeper slopes, past changing vegetation and into thick forest, I take a customary, slow jog home.
-Grasshopper
Autumn days are fractured by the occasional fall of snow. Last year, at the time of this hike, we had accumulated over 4 inches of total precipitation at the higher elevations, and would eventually finish the water year with more than 36 inches. It is pretty dry from what I have previously been accustomed to. I find myself hoping for more and more, finding solace in the occasional rainy day and exuberance in a snow storm. Though Utah's extreme variety of landscape, four seasons, and postcard beauty leaves no apparent lack of outdoor fixation, for nostalgia's sake, preference, for love of water, Melody and I will need to venture, on occasion or to root, back to the Pacific Northwest to quench our particular thirst for the elements.
In the meantime, I am enjoying learning more of this wilderness through studying topographical maps. Larger indentures in the mountains tend to be called canyons while their smaller counterparts, hollows, usually run from their bases much steeper and shallower up the middle of a mountain. Relative to the hollow, a canyon is more likely to contain a river or creek (though many do not) and a canyon running into a canyon is often a fork. There are few exceptions where named canyons might more accurately be labeled hollows, and usually not vice-verse from what I assess. Canyons and hollows, much like mountains and many other points of geography, are also repetitiously named, such as the use of the word 'bear', Bear River, Bear River Range, Bear Mountain, Bear Canyon, and so on. But given the sheer number of features worth labeling, the names are reused in different regions as well, just like street names from city to city. Cottonwood Canyon and Little Cottonwood Canyon exist in the mountains outside Logan, and completely unrelated canyons of the same name run out into the Wasatch Front.
There are at least two other Dry Canyons connected to Cache Valley, and likely elsewhere. This one happens to be the simplest route up Logan Peak. As I would suppose with other Dry Canyons, there is no stream present. In memory of water, a parched creek bed follows Logan Dry Canyon's length, as evidenced by the line of river rock which follows my ascent. I wonder if it sees more attention on graciously precipitous years.
The wind blown maples and aspens are starting to reach skeleton fingertips toward the sky in admission of their winter fate. For now, instead of feet of snow slowly crawling and up and down their bases, they rest upon carpets of bright reds and golds whose colors will decay and be masked in white.
Thick forest gives way to sparse groves until I am meandering up brown, grassy hillsides. The sage dotted south and southwestern face on which I walk occupies my vision. I enjoy being out in the open, and growing up in California, I tend to associate this terrain with cougars. Not quite as thoroughly populated as my native Santa Cruz Mountains or Big Sur, these hillsides seldom give me much sign of cats. I would much rather glimpse a bear, anyhow, and I scour the slopes and ridge-lines for an unlikely daytime view of wildlife. My trekking poles clacking on the ground are announcements of a visitor. I am no sneak, and my approach is rewarded with sights of birds and insects.
The rhythm of my sole steps is subtly comforting. In meditative intervals, I peek to the northern slopes where the snow hugs limestone cliffs and evergreens marvelously sprout from abruptly angled terrain. And they do not just hang on-- they thrive. In these thick stands to my right, I may as well be looking into the Cascades. When passing through pines on walks, I like to pretend I am back in Oregon. In the canyon bottoms, where north face approaches south, it is as if Oregon and Wyoming have leapfrogged Idaho and converged on one another. Though it is just as shortsighted to define Oregon by its evergreens as it is to define Wyoming by its southern grasslands (think Beaver State desert gems Smith Rock and Owyhee Canyons to cowboy epics Yellowstone and the Wind River Range), I feel comparatively less sentimental when making my way through the fading grass on the dry sides of these mountains. Even so, I am nurturing an appreciation for beige hillsides broken up by pinyon and juniper.
I cross a young couple's path on their way down. They are northwestern trail types, or at least my snap interpretation of that archetype. Beard, earth tones, unkempt to a limit. Running into these folks makes me reflect on my own lack of friendships in Utah, though I have not felt alone (I owe that lack of lonesomeness to my partner and her parents). We make small talk about the day. They have not summited and I quietly relish the idea of being the only one on top today. They'll probably go for a beer afterward. Maybe we would be friends under a different introduction. Maybe more-so if I put forth the effort.
The intermittent bouts of cold weather leave the upper elevations with permanent winter caps, and last year was no exception. Logan Peak had a good 4-5 inches of powder in the last half mile up its western slope. There is no point in trying to follow a trail one cannot see, so I slowly kicked in my steps and hiked straight up to the summit.
I believe the tower atop the mountain is for weather readings, but I could be wrong. I don't really know what a radio tower looks like up close, but this one can be used to spot the mountain from many vantage points in Cache Valley, as well as areas east of Logan Canyon. The views from my perch are striking. Wellsvilles to the west, Willard Peak and Ben Lomond southwest, the interior of the Wasatch Range directly south, the Uinta Mountains southeast, the Bear River Range east, the range's highest peaks to the northeast, Logan and Green Canyons north, and the Clarkston Mountains and Bannock Range northwest-- not to forget the valley below where it is often my pleasure to look up. I feel accomplishment and gratitude.
I stayed up top for little under a half an hour to finish my yogurt and almonds, to soak in the wind and the wild. I am alone on the mountain. I think about my family and make a video of my surroundings to send them. The weather is not extreme and a couple layers of wool and down keep me cozy, delaying the slight shiver which inevitably creeps in.
The hardest part is leaving, but the motion is not drawn out. I make my way westward, following my ascending prints in the snow. The gradient makes for a fun bit of glissading and I can picture how silly I must look sliding, flailing, falling on my butt with big grin intact. The snow gives way to mud and then trail again. Down, down, below steeper slopes, past changing vegetation and into thick forest, I take a customary, slow jog home.
-Grasshopper
No comments:
Post a Comment