It is not very often that I make a solo backpacking trip. In fact, I can only think of two occasions in which I have, both while traveling alone in Costa Rica a number of years ago. So solo backpacking trips in the U.S. = zero. Weekend plans to spend camping at High Creek Lake for Melody and I were dashed when she was diagnosed with a bout of pleurisy. Being a partner of the highest caliber, she insisted I still make the trip. My only hesitation was to leave her in town, swaddled in jealousy, but she insisted I go. Given this opportunity to trek alone, my mind wandered at the possibilities, an open door to make the trip a bit more challenging. It is not that Melody cannot handle a great deal of physical stress- indeed, she is much more hardy than I- but that she would prefer not to, if not perfectly necessary. Upon consultation of my topographical map of the area, I made the plan to summit 5 peaks.
I arrived at the trailhead of Tony Grove Lake, 8048', and set out about 3 PM on a Friday. The wildflowers were at their summer climax. I had hiked in the area many times, but had missed out on this colorful apogee, mostly visiting in late summer and fall, and I must say, the wildflower hype is well-deserved. I took the usual route up the Naomi Peak trail which I had enjoyed many times. Halfway to Naomi Peak, I promptly left the trail and headed due north, traversing a slope toward the base of Mt. Magog, 9750'. No more than 2 minutes off-trail, and I had already crossed paths with 2 does who pondered at me for a moment before hastily moving on. There is an east-west running ridge between Magog and Naomi Peak and I made my way to a saddle lying just west of Magog. In what would be routine on this hike, I emptied my backpack of tent, sleeping bag, clothes, stove, and anything else lined by the trash compacter bag in the body of my pack, and started up the steep ridgeline. My route-finding skills are getting better the more I hike off-trail, but I still managed to climb up a few sketchy parts of the mountain, overhanging cliffs and steep rock, just asking for a broken leg. Class 3 scramble at best and it would have been class 2 had I stayed to the southwest slope of the mountain. No bother, and my descent would be simple. I enjoyed views of White Pine and Tony Grove Lakes while staring out at Naomi and Cherry peaks, the next 2 mountains on my list for this evening.
I had originally planned to stick to the ridge between Mt. Magog and Naomi Peak, but figured it may be easier to head west below the ridge and meet up with the trail again. On my way down, I saw 2 good-sized bucks making their way effortlessly up a steep hillside, putting my own mountain climbing to shame. I rejoined the trail and, by the time I began up the switchbacks, had nearly drank through 2 liters of water. I had only been up this trail later in the season, so I was surprised to see backpackers camped in the basin before the summit. "Is there water?!" I yelled across the meadow. "Just keep going and you'll cross a stream!" was the response. The seasonal creek was small but I filled my bottle and gorged myself on it. Nothing better than a mountain spring to wake the senses. I hit the ridgeline separating the wilderness and the general recreation areas, and was on top of Naomi Peak in the next few minutes, 9979'. From its summit, I looked across to Cherry Peak and wondered how the hell I was going to make it up there before nightfall. It was 7 PM. It seemed a longshot to me, but I figured if I could summit by 8:30, I would still be in okay shape.
The north fork of Smithfield Canyon is what lies between the 2 peaks. I hiked to the saddle which separates High Creek and Smithfield Canyons, and dropped most of my pack weight there. 7:45. And then I did it, beating my goal and summiting in 1/2 hour. The hillsides of Cherry Peak were blanketed in wildflowers. This is the most beautiful peak in our mountains, both up close and from a distance, a view which would be reinforced the next day. A grey haze that hung in the air did not take away from its beauty, smoke from fires in Idaho, highlighted by the settling sun. I called Melody from the summit, 9765', victorious, and now confident I could meet my goals the following day.
The last time I had camped at High Creek Lake, we had the lake to ourselves. Now I camped alone and with many others. Horses were tied across the lake and I settled for a dirt patch hardly large to enough to fit the rain fly. I went 'fast-fly' for this trip, only bringing the fly, groundsheet, and poles, leaving the body of the tent to save weight. I appreciated the more open feel of camping like this. I had a mosquito headnet but opted not to use it. I discovered mountain lion scat below where I hung my food bag and thought of the cat passing through in the night. I slept restlessly, though not for that. Maybe it was the bugs, though it felt like there were so few. Maybe it was me trying to get used to my new sleeping pad. Maybe I was hearing the horses with their periodic and horrific whinnying sounds.
My bag was still hanging on the same tree branch when I woke up. I had a few bug bites. The few bugs I had acknowledged had bitten me in the face. I set out at first light after enjoying a homemade rehydrated meal of eggs, cheddar, and sausage. The meal had a good flavor but lacked in the mouthfeel department. Hiking back to the saddle between the 2 canyons, I promptly left the trail and headed straight up to the main crest of the Bear River Range. I looked down several times and felt a bit queasy. Reaching the crest, I was met with another obstacle. I needed to head north, and the ridge was impassable and sheer in some places. Picking my way down the eastside of the ridge, I found it necessary to slide on my butt down a dirt-scree filled slope. I created a few minor rockslides on my slow way down. What may have been a more simple descent with a day pack had turned into something a bit more harrowing with my full backpacking gear in tow. Eventually, I made it to the bottom of that slope, and looking back at where I came from, vowed to not repeat that journey. The next part of my route was an easier walk below the ridgeline and eventual ascent of Bullen Hole Peak, 9828'. The peak is gently graded. It is unofficially named, but the 3rd tallest summit in the Bear River Range behind Naomi Peak and Doubletop Mountain.
A small saddle lies between Bullen Hole and Mt. Gog, my final ascent of the trip. Gog and Magog are biblically derived names, referred to as enemies of God in the book of Revelation. More about that here. I dropped my pack weight and made my way up the west ridge toward the top of Gog. The ridge is mostly wooded. At a certain point, I made the decision to bear to the south of the ridge and found myself scrambling over large boulders. I wondered how I would make it back down following this route. Luckily, on my descent, I discovered an easier route on the north side of ridge and was able to walk down with little difficulty.
I felt triumphant on the summit. I felt accomplishment, and I still do. It is a striking contrast, I know even now, the difference between achieving a goal in the mountains and achieving one at the office, a place where I spend over 40 hours of my week. I feel good meeting a sales goal or creating a new employee training handbook. I feel good connecting over the phone with a client or complimenting a worker on a job well done. But, by leaps and bounds does my very soul sing when I reach a summit. I begin at its bottom, spend time on its slopes, wrestle over the crags and rockfall, take shelter under its trees, and peer over countless false summits. And just when I think I'm to my limit do my feet crest those few steps onto that one rock that stands above all the others, the top, the mountain. When I had originally pitched my trip plans to Melody, I qualified every summit as "if" I were able to complete it. My mini marathon was a success, and I had finished before noon. I would later calculate my gain at over 6000 feet.
I had plenty of time to muck about in the forest. I took a side trail and wandered around above the steep shelf overlooking White Pine Lake, seeing 4 more deer. I walked back south, the opposite way I needed to go, and observed some very strange rock formations. In places, it looked as if someone had welded stones to larger boulders. Depressions in the hills held shelves of limestone and dolomite whose histories were rooted in a volcanism. I made my way back over the saddle and continued northward, down into an unnamed canyon. Sometimes I would find a trail, and often it would disappear as quickly as I had come upon it. I crossed seasonal streams in multiple areas and found a waterfall, but I won't say where. I came across an old fire hose, abandoned and rotting. Throughout the entirety of this trip, I encountered such a volume and variety of wildflowers that has only been rivaled by that of the Cascade volcanoes and Teton Range.
I circled my way around Mt. Gog, and after a couple of hours of hiking through meadows, found myself at White Pine Lake. I got down to my underwear and jumped in, treading water for 5 minutes, all the cold and refreshment I could bear, before getting out to eat my lunch on a log. I encountered many hikers on my way from White Pine Lake back to Tony Grove. The flowers continued in their abundance and I made sure to snap plenty of photos of paintbrush for Melody.
-Grasshopper
It is not very often that I make a solo backpacking trip. In fact, I can only think of two occasions in which I have, both while traveling alone in Costa Rica a number of years ago. So solo backpacking trips in the U.S. = zero. Weekend plans to spend camping at High Creek Lake for Melody and I were dashed when she was diagnosed with a bout of pleurisy. Being a partner of the highest caliber, she insisted I still make the trip. My only hesitation was to leave her in town, swaddled in jealousy, but she insisted I go. Given this opportunity to trek alone, my mind wandered at the possibilities, an open door to make the trip a bit more challenging. It is not that Melody cannot handle a great deal of physical stress- indeed, she is much more hardy than I- but that she would prefer not to, if not perfectly necessary. Upon consultation of my topographical map of the area, I made the plan to summit 5 peaks.
I had originally planned to stick to the ridge between Mt. Magog and Naomi Peak, but figured it may be easier to head west below the ridge and meet up with the trail again. On my way down, I saw 2 good-sized bucks making their way effortlessly up a steep hillside, putting my own mountain climbing to shame. I rejoined the trail and, by the time I began up the switchbacks, had nearly drank through 2 liters of water. I had only been up this trail later in the season, so I was surprised to see backpackers camped in the basin before the summit. "Is there water?!" I yelled across the meadow. "Just keep going and you'll cross a stream!" was the response. The seasonal creek was small but I filled my bottle and gorged myself on it. Nothing better than a mountain spring to wake the senses. I hit the ridgeline separating the wilderness and the general recreation areas, and was on top of Naomi Peak in the next few minutes, 9979'. From its summit, I looked across to Cherry Peak and wondered how the hell I was going to make it up there before nightfall. It was 7 PM. It seemed a longshot to me, but I figured if I could summit by 8:30, I would still be in okay shape.
The north fork of Smithfield Canyon is what lies between the 2 peaks. I hiked to the saddle which separates High Creek and Smithfield Canyons, and dropped most of my pack weight there. 7:45. And then I did it, beating my goal and summiting in 1/2 hour. The hillsides of Cherry Peak were blanketed in wildflowers. This is the most beautiful peak in our mountains, both up close and from a distance, a view which would be reinforced the next day. A grey haze that hung in the air did not take away from its beauty, smoke from fires in Idaho, highlighted by the settling sun. I called Melody from the summit, 9765', victorious, and now confident I could meet my goals the following day.
The last time I had camped at High Creek Lake, we had the lake to ourselves. Now I camped alone and with many others. Horses were tied across the lake and I settled for a dirt patch hardly large to enough to fit the rain fly. I went 'fast-fly' for this trip, only bringing the fly, groundsheet, and poles, leaving the body of the tent to save weight. I appreciated the more open feel of camping like this. I had a mosquito headnet but opted not to use it. I discovered mountain lion scat below where I hung my food bag and thought of the cat passing through in the night. I slept restlessly, though not for that. Maybe it was the bugs, though it felt like there were so few. Maybe it was me trying to get used to my new sleeping pad. Maybe I was hearing the horses with their periodic and horrific whinnying sounds.
My bag was still hanging on the same tree branch when I woke up. I had a few bug bites. The few bugs I had acknowledged had bitten me in the face. I set out at first light after enjoying a homemade rehydrated meal of eggs, cheddar, and sausage. The meal had a good flavor but lacked in the mouthfeel department. Hiking back to the saddle between the 2 canyons, I promptly left the trail and headed straight up to the main crest of the Bear River Range. I looked down several times and felt a bit queasy. Reaching the crest, I was met with another obstacle. I needed to head north, and the ridge was impassable and sheer in some places. Picking my way down the eastside of the ridge, I found it necessary to slide on my butt down a dirt-scree filled slope. I created a few minor rockslides on my slow way down. What may have been a more simple descent with a day pack had turned into something a bit more harrowing with my full backpacking gear in tow. Eventually, I made it to the bottom of that slope, and looking back at where I came from, vowed to not repeat that journey. The next part of my route was an easier walk below the ridgeline and eventual ascent of Bullen Hole Peak, 9828'. The peak is gently graded. It is unofficially named, but the 3rd tallest summit in the Bear River Range behind Naomi Peak and Doubletop Mountain.
A small saddle lies between Bullen Hole and Mt. Gog, my final ascent of the trip. Gog and Magog are biblically derived names, referred to as enemies of God in the book of Revelation. More about that here. I dropped my pack weight and made my way up the west ridge toward the top of Gog. The ridge is mostly wooded. At a certain point, I made the decision to bear to the south of the ridge and found myself scrambling over large boulders. I wondered how I would make it back down following this route. Luckily, on my descent, I discovered an easier route on the north side of ridge and was able to walk down with little difficulty.
I felt triumphant on the summit. I felt accomplishment, and I still do. It is a striking contrast, I know even now, the difference between achieving a goal in the mountains and achieving one at the office, a place where I spend over 40 hours of my week. I feel good meeting a sales goal or creating a new employee training handbook. I feel good connecting over the phone with a client or complimenting a worker on a job well done. But, by leaps and bounds does my very soul sing when I reach a summit. I begin at its bottom, spend time on its slopes, wrestle over the crags and rockfall, take shelter under its trees, and peer over countless false summits. And just when I think I'm to my limit do my feet crest those few steps onto that one rock that stands above all the others, the top, the mountain. When I had originally pitched my trip plans to Melody, I qualified every summit as "if" I were able to complete it. My mini marathon was a success, and I had finished before noon. I would later calculate my gain at over 6000 feet.
I had plenty of time to muck about in the forest. I took a side trail and wandered around above the steep shelf overlooking White Pine Lake, seeing 4 more deer. I walked back south, the opposite way I needed to go, and observed some very strange rock formations. In places, it looked as if someone had welded stones to larger boulders. Depressions in the hills held shelves of limestone and dolomite whose histories were rooted in a volcanism. I made my way back over the saddle and continued northward, down into an unnamed canyon. Sometimes I would find a trail, and often it would disappear as quickly as I had come upon it. I crossed seasonal streams in multiple areas and found a waterfall, but I won't say where. I came across an old fire hose, abandoned and rotting. Throughout the entirety of this trip, I encountered such a volume and variety of wildflowers that has only been rivaled by that of the Cascade volcanoes and Teton Range.
I circled my way around Mt. Gog, and after a couple of hours of hiking through meadows, found myself at White Pine Lake. I got down to my underwear and jumped in, treading water for 5 minutes, all the cold and refreshment I could bear, before getting out to eat my lunch on a log. I encountered many hikers on my way from White Pine Lake back to Tony Grove. The flowers continued in their abundance and I made sure to snap plenty of photos of paintbrush for Melody.
No comments:
Post a Comment