Wheeler Peak

Most people are surprised to learn there is a summit that rises above the Great Basin to over 13,000 feet—complete with a glacier and 2,000 year old pine trees. But then again, most people have never heard of Wheeler Peak.
 
We begin our journey just above the 10k line. The trail slants upward through a grove of aspen. There are three of us and we enjoy conversation as we walk. Occasionally a trickle of water will cut across the the path, but other than that it is dry. We've had an extremely heavy snow year, so at some point we expect to find snow, even though it's mid-July.
 

Wheeler Peak on right; Jeff Davis peak, left.

The first couple miles are beautiful, but nothing out of the ordinary for a mountain setting. The trail cuts back and works its way up into an expansive meadow. From here Wheeler Peak comes into full view, along with its companion, Jeff Davis Peak. (Personally, I feel that in our P.C. sensitive world we need to work on getting that peak renamed!)
 
The trail then climbs onto a ridge where we get our first views of Stella Lake, one of a few alpine lakes in this area. It is here that we cross our first patch of snow and also where we begin to encounter other hikers.
 

Stella Lake, with Jeff Davis Peak in background.

I was curious before this hike as to how many people we would encounter. Great Basin National Park is relatively remote and one of the least visited national parks in the country. The first man we pass is resting next to a tree and admittedly out of breath. He is a bit overweight and after we pass him we quietly agree with each other that there is no way he'll make it to the top.
 
The second man we pass appears to be more ambitious, but is insistent that he doesn't want to stop for long, or his legs will shut down. He is from Florida. For us, that's all we need to know. We bet against him, too. The air is too thin and cold for a flat-lander Florida man to make it to the top.
 

Deep patches of snow on higher slopes.

Next we pass two older intellectual types who are on their way down. They look miserable. Jackets are zipped to their chin and their cheeks and ears are red. “Did you make it to the top?” we ask. Their answer is an emphatic, “No!” They say that once they began climbing the ridge that the wind blew gusts around forty to sixty miles per hour. They don't seem to anxious to talk, but continue on down.
 
From this point the hike begins to change. We gradually leave the sheltering comfort of pine trees and enter a steeper climb of shale rock. The bare nature of the mountain leaves us exposed to the brute force of the wind. I add another layer of clothing, including a beanie to cover my ears.
 
Large swaths of snow cover portions of the trail. We can either walk over the top, or choose to walk around. Some of the drifts are over three feet deep. 

By now we are well above the tree line and can see for miles in every direction, except south. On the west a wind farm spreads across the valley like rows of white toothpicks. North of us rises another massive mountain range, with a bald hill crowning the summit. This is Mount Moriah. Far to the east I can see Notch Peak, a massive fissure in the skyline. That is our destination tomorrow.
 

Wheeler Peak getting closer.

About half way up someone has built several wind-breaks using shale rock. They are in U-shapes and could prove beneficial on such an exposed ridge. This is certainly not the place to wear a ball cap. It's kind of funny how the wind will blow at near hurricane speeds, then stop on a dime.
 
We pass more people coming down. These are in a group from Vanderbilt University in Tennessee. They have come for a one-week field trip to visit the national park and nothing else. They flew into Vegas and are flying out tomorrow. There's about a dozen all together. We give cordial gestures as we pass each of them. We talk to the lady who organized the trip. Apparently they are part of an outdoor rec class. They seem nice enough, but I just can't imagine why you would need outdoor rec classes in a university! And yes, they all made it to the top.
 
The last person we pass on our way to the peak is a solo hiker. He appears to be limping, but only slightly. Each step is placed carefully. We greet each other in passing. It is then that I notice his footwear. He is only wearing open-toed sandals! This guy is crazy! No wonder he is limping. His right big toe is swollen and white as a ghost. This is certainly no environment to be wearing footwear like that. This whole mountain is nothing but rocks. He is going to have a long, miserable hike down.
 

The final ascent.

The final portion of our ascent leads us over large boulders, sometimes having to use all-fours to complete the task. At last we reach the top. I would like to say that we have a grand 360 degree view, but that's not the case. Yes, we can now see the rugged mountain valley to our south, but there is an east-west running ridge on which we stand that blocks part of our view. And our view to the east is now blocked by the aforementioned Confederate peak.
 

Panorama view from the top.

But what a beauty it is to be 13,065 feet high, having the entire peak to ourselves. There is a very deep ridge of snow along the summit, and I find how truly deep it is as I try to walk on top and fall through, my right leg being completely submerged in the snow.
 
On the east side of the peak is the most precipitous side of the summit. To get to this ledge I have to jump over a steep chute that likely would kill me if slip. There is a chasm between here and Jeff Davis Peak, with the glacier being out of sight and directly below us. We humbly spend time admiring the ruggedness of this location. Here footsteps are placed carefully and we are mindful of ourselves at all times. I am a bit nervous about recrossing the chute, but luckily Devon finds a safer crossing over the ridge across a snow bank. It is a majestic location, but I am relieved to leave.
 

Relaxing at summit with Jeff Davis peak in background.

Debris at the summit.

Surprisingly the wind is not too strong here at the top. A couple of wind shelters have been built and we use one to sit down and eat our lunch. After eating half an avocado, I toss my peel over the edge, only to watch it rise up like a helicopter and and then boomerang back in the opposite direction! Obviously there are still pockets of strong wind.
 

Now it is time to work our way down the mountain. Of course, the descent is much easier. The only eventful moment comes when we decide to take a shortcut by sledding down a snow field. I am skeptical at first, fearing that it only takes one sharp rock poking through the melting snow to do some serious hind-end damage. But Dave goes first down the slope, probably a sixty-yard run, and safely reaches the bottom. When it's my turn I sit down on the one-rut track and begin to slide down. The ride is a bit bumpy, but by the time I come to the bottom there is a big smile on my face.  The back of my pants are sopping wet!
 

Sledding down the mountain!

Instead of returning the exact way we came, we opt to take the Alpine Lakes Loop Trail, which passes by the two major lakes we could see from the peak. At the junction to the loop I find my biggest surprise of the hike. A huge four-point buck is loitering about the meadow with a doe. They take their time cropping the green grass. The doe seems more concerned than the buck about our presence. He is still in the velvet and his antlers are thick. I'm guessing he's about thirty inches wide.
 

Nice four-point buck still in the velvet.

Stella Lake is our first stop on the loop, and then about a mile later, Teresa Lake. Both are beautiful and maintain a reflection of pine trees when the wind isn't blowing. We even spot another smaller lake that is hidden beneath a copse of forest.
 

Stella Lake.

The other pleasant surprise comes when icy-cold streams begin to crop up everywhere—and I mean everywhere! At one point it seems like they are all around us. Some from melting snow and others shoot forth from underground fountains. They crisscross the trail, creating a mud-mess. And they are bitter cold. I stoop down and fill my water bottle, submerging the neck into the rushing water. By the time it is full, my hand and fingers are numb.
 
There are more hikers here, which is an indication that we are getting closer to the main road. It is still a far cry, however, from the busy national parks. At last we cross the bridge at Lehman Creek and walk upon the pavement. It is just another half mile to our vehicle. We hope a nice person will drive by and we can hitch a ride, but that doesn't happen. ♠ 

A slew of running water coming down the mountain.

Wheeler Peak in black and white.