Ogden to Mantua via Ben Lomand and Willard Peaks (#'s 13 & 14)

Several months ago I conjured up the idea of hiking from Ogden to Mantua, up and over the mountain while bagging two peaks. But now, as the time drew closer, I became a little nervous. I knew it would be a long hike, but how long? Was I giving myself enough time, or would I be finishing in the dark? And to add to all that, temperatures in the valley would reach between 100 – 105° F that day. 

To clarify, I didn't start in Ogden, but a few miles up North Ogden Canyon at the Ben Lomand Trailhead. Jenelle was kind enough to drop me off at 7:00 in the morning. 

The hike began well. It was a cool 71°, and although the sun was barely over the horizon, the mountain still kept me in the shade. During my first minute on the trail I spotted three does hiding behind the scrub oak. 

Doe hiding behind the scrub oak.

In this first section I gained a lot of elevation, although it wasn't too noticeable because the trail was gradual, zigzagging in a giant corkscrew. In the first hour I hiked 2.4 miles and gained 1,200 feet. 

I wasn't sure how much water to bring. Would there be streams to refill my water bottles? Would the heat cause me to drink more than normal? I brought four liters of water, plus twenty ounces of Gatorade. 

Looking back at the North Ogden Canyon Road.

It was a beautiful hike up. Being mid-July, there were wildflowers everywhere, including fleabane and flax flowers. 

As I got higher I caught glimpses of communities and landmarks on the east side of the mountain such as Eden, Huntsville and Pineview Reservoir. I had never seen that corner of the state before. 

Looking southeast toward Eden, Huntsville and Pineview Reservoir.

Trail on eastern slope of the mountain.

Wild blue flax.

At roughly the 5-mile mark the trail shifted to the west side. Now there were views of Ogden, the Great Salt Lake and most of Davis County. Here I could hear commuter jets overhead approaching the Salt Lake Airport, as well as out-of-sight military jets flying from Hill Air Force Base. 

At this point I caught my first glimpse of Ben Lomand Peak. It was impressive from this angle. It was named by Scottish pioneers due to the resemblance to Ben Lomand Mountain in their native Scotland.—As an interesting side note, in 1914 William Wadsworth Hodkinson sketched a picture a Ben Lomand Peak onto a napkin and later this doodle would become the basis for the Paramount Pictures logo. 

Even though it would be over 100° down in the valley, up here on the mountain there were still patches of snow. As I approached these higher elevations, the trail became more braided, with forks splitting off into unknown places. A couple of times I strayed off the main trail, but always found my way back. 

First glimpse of Ben Lomand Peak.

Looking back at other mountains east of Ogden.

Reading the reviews for this trail, the one negative thing that many reported were the abundance of motorbikes. I was surprised because, up to this point, I hadn't seen or heard a single rider. I only passed a handful of people and most of them were trail runners. 

The hike so far wasn't too hard. But as I approached the final pitch to the summit the slope became much steeper and my thighs began to burn. Melting water drizzled downhill. Once again the trail became a series of zigzags. 

Approaching Ben Lomand Peak.

Ben Lomand on left and Willard Peak on right.

The top of Ben Lomand Peak created quite a sight. At 9,686 feet, all of the aforementioned sites I could still see, but from a better vantage point. To the northwest I could see most of Willard Bay, a freshwater arm of the Great Salt Lake. To the north I could see my next destination, the beige granite rock of Willard Peak. 

Ironically, after not seeing a rider all day, a motorcyclist clad in all his protective gear came chugging along a trail from the north and parked his bike just below the peak and walked up. He had come from the Mantua side and drove up a trail in Perry Canyon. We talked for a bit and I learned why I hadn't seen any bikes coming up: because they weren't allowed on that side for another week (July 16). 

View from summit of Ben Lomand looking southeast.  Pineview Reservoir in background.

Willard Bay as seen from the summit of Ben Lomand.

Willard Peak seen from Ben Lomand.

Not having much time to waste I now descended the north side of the peak and walked the two-mile saddle toward Willard Peak. There was some elevation loss here, about 448 feet. Once again the trail was dotted with wildflowers, as well as wind-swept pine trees. 

Willard Peak, named after Mormon Apostle Willard Richards, is much rockier than Ben Lomand. If someone were to climb its iconic southeast side, they would find both class 3 and class 4 sections. The trail circumvents the peak and takes you to the west side. I didn't see any trail going to the top, so I created my own. This was another grueling stress on my thighs. On a couple sections I had to climb the rocks to get myself up. I even saw a fat marmot waddling inside a cave. 

Although Willard Peak (elevation 9,751 feet) is higher than Ben Lomand (and the highest in Weber County), the view, in my opinion, is not as good. The first reason is because the peak is broad and there is no one place where you can see well both the north and south sides. Second, there is a bulk of mountain that blocks the north side of the valley, including Perry and Brigham City. For the best views one has to go to Inspiration Point. 

But there is a good view into Willard Basin and the mountains on the east side. One mountain, James Peak, is somewhat prominent. I could also see a pond below me. 

There was no one else up here. I hadn't seen a soul since the motorcyclist on Ben Lomand. Willard Basin, which I thought would be buzzing with adventurists, was silent. 

From the summit of Willard Peak looking back at Ben Lomand.

Looking east from Willard Peak.

Survey marker on Willard Peak.

Willard Bay.  Promontory Mountains in distance.

Willard Basin as seen from Willard Peak.

I picked my way down the peak and back onto the path. Here the trail system was even more confusing, many of them crisscrossing the basin. I just had to pick one and go for it. 

Willard Basin was beautiful and I had it all to myself. A lake sat at the bottom of a slope. Melted snow created rivulets of water. I hoped to see a moose or mountain goats, but saw neither. 

Further down in the basin I met a rocky dirt road. This would be the road I would follow to Mantua. Considering the fallen trees on the road and the fact that the entire basin was dead to human existence, I assumed that further up the road was closed off. 

The road in the basin gained elevation until it climbed to a pass between the basin and everything else on the east side. There my notions were confirmed—a large metal gate blocked the road with a sign stating it was closed and would reopen on July 16. 

Descending into Willard Basin.

Unnamed (as far as I know) Lake in Willard Basin.

Dirt road heading out of Willard Basin.

This is why I had the basin all to myself!

From here it was just a long and tedious 10-mile walk into Mantua. I still had to descend 3,586 feet, but it would be on a twisty mountain road. Although it wasn't burning hot yet, I tried to walk on the shaded side of the road (if there was one) to keep from heating up. 

The road was still pretty rocky and high-clearance with a four-wheel drive would be necessary to drive on it in some parts. I passed two vehicles who were out on scenic drives. They both stopped and offered a ride, but I declined. 

The last four miles were probably the worst of all. The temperature was going up and the walk became even more tedious. But at last I made it to my in-law's house, which is just a half mile from the reservoir. I was very happy to be done with this hike! ♠

Black Mountain.

Perry Reservoir. Full of gnats and no moose.

The long walk home.

Ben Lomand Peak  

Miles from car (one way): 7.5  

Elevation gain: 4,020 feet  

Final elevation: 9,686 feet
 

Willard Peak  

Miles from car (one way): 9.5  

Miles from Ben Lomand: 2  

New elevation gained (after dropping some): 513 feet  

Final elevation: 9,751 feet
 

Total hike  

Miles: 22.1  

Aggregate elevation gain: 4,747 feet  

Time: 11 hours 49 minutes

 

Finally in Mantua!

Thistle Landslide of 1983

I was ten years old in 1983. Two events that spring still stand out. First, I recall seeing video on the news of the “State Street River” in Salt Lake. This was an artificial river created by sand bags and other barricades that diverted overflowing snow melt coming from the Wasatch Mountains. Fall of 1982 brought heavy rains that saturated the ground, then winter saw a record amount of snow. When it warmed up in April and May, all that melting snow wreaked havoc and needed a place to go. 

The other event was related to the record precipitation. It was the Thistle landslide. I also remember watching that on the news, but I also had a more personal connection. My father, who at the time worked for the Utah Highway Patrol, was assigned to block traffic. 

All the Highway Patrol from that side of the state took turns as security guards at Sheep Creek, about eight miles east of Thistle. They worked 10-hour shifts for five straight days and spent nights at a hotel in Helper. Their purpose was to let nobody through. When it was slow Dad spent his time reading books and reloading bullets. He never did see the landslide. 

My father in his younger days.

At the time the Thistle disaster was the most costly landslide the nation had ever seen, costing over 200 million dollars. It marked the first ever Presidential disaster declaration in Utah. 

Thistle was a small town located 67 miles south of Salt Lake City. The first white settlers were Mormons, who arrived in 1848.  Later, when a railroad line came through connecting Salt Lake with Denver, more people moved in. 

At one time Thistle boasted a population of 300 people. During the era of steam locomotives, the servicing of trains was the town's primary industry. But with the invention of the diesel locomotive, railroads became more efficient and could travel greater distances between stops. As a result, work in the town of Thistle dwindled and all that remained were about a dozen families. 

Looking toward Soldier Creek and Thistle from the east.   Soldier Creek and Thistle Creek combine in Thistle to create the Spanish Fork River.

All was peaceful and quiet in Thistle until fifty years later when one event would change the place forever. 

During April of 1983, the land north of town began to noticeably move. Train tracks became disfigured and the highway started to buckle. Soon they had to close the highway and divert the railroad through Wyoming. 

The slide then buried the Spanish Fork River, which ran through the center of Thistle. Workers labored desperately to dig out the river so water could continue to flow, but soon it became a losing cause. Suddenly the water of the river began to dam up and create a reservoir atop the town of Thistle. The town was evacuated, and as you can imagine, a lot of homes and livelihoods became buried beneath the new lake. 

Finally, almost exactly forty years after the landslide, I made it to Thistle myself. Although I had passed by a few times on the highway in years past, this was my first time stopping and examining things for myself. Before going there, the details were nothing but a blur in my mind. 

I felt this spring was a fitting time to visit. Not only was it the forty-year anniversary of the landslide, but during the previous winter we had near record snowfall that resembled that of 1983 (although 1983 still outdid us!). 

It was strange to drive through “town” because it was as if some of the debris from the landslide had never been cleaned up. A berm of dried mud remained on the other side of the guardrail. Debris from dead trees littered the riverside. Pools of muddy water still gathered at the roadside. I had no idea why these pools still collected water. They were not near the river. One pool still had a wooden house three-quarters submerged. 

I saw two other ruined buildings. Both had graffiti, but neither had any apparent effort to clean them up. One of these ruins, I believe, were the remnants of the old schoolhouse, of which I had seen pictures. Fields were still used by ranchers as I witnessed loose horses roaming nearby. 

Remnants of the old schoolhouse.

Unknown building in ruins in Thistle, Utah.

Pool of water near the highway.

I drove back up to Highway 6 and north through a big cut in the hill. From what I understand, before the flood the highway was located at the bottom of the canyon near the river. After the flood they rebuilt it higher and made a big cut in the hill to facilitate it. 

I continued further and flipped around to a stop on the west side of the highway. From here I could look down into the canyon. There was still a definite demarcation of the slide. The shape and color of the slide area was different than the rest of the mountain. With imagination I could see it slowly oozing down the hill. Nowadays grass and a few trees grow atop the slide area. The surface of it was indeed massive and I could understand how nothing in its way could survive. 

View of Thistle Landslide from Highway 6 in 2023.

But I did have one nagging question: How is it that the river is still flowing? I saw the Spanish Fork River flowing freely on both the north and south sides of the slide, but the bulk of the landslide still completely blocked the canyon. 

My investigation brought me back to the main part of Thistle and onto a road near the shooting range, which at the time was being used by the local Sheriff's Office. I drove to the end of the road and parked on a section of dirt near the river. 

I followed the edge of the river and saw that it entered a tunnel, right into the rock face of the mountain. It appeared that they blasted a new diversion tunnel through the mountain that completely bypassed the landslide. Very interesting. It made sense if one considers the fact that most landslides continue to move, and if they were to drill a hole through the landslide part, any new movement would destroy their tunnel and once again the river would be damned. 

Spanish Fork River is diverted through a tunnel in the mountain.

I snapped a few pictures, but when I turned around a deputy sheriff had come to chat with me. Not surprisingly, I wasn't supposed to be there. He was nice and answered a few of my questions. 

I later studied the rise and fall of Thistle Lake, as it was called. Within fifty days of the blockage from the landslide, the level of the lake rose to 180 feet. The Spanish Fork River swelled with heavy spring runoff and it didn't take long before the small town became submerged. Residents had only a short time to grab whatever belongings they had and flee. Their homes would be destroyed. 

At some point during this time workers did what they could to drain the lake. Long pipes connected to a barge used centrifugal pumps that pushed 22,500 gallons a minute over the dam and into the river, but this was no match for the amount of water still coming in. 

During the first of June the level of the lake began to go down due to water now flowing out a high-level emergency spillway tunnel. Over the next 120 days the lake level dropped a mere twenty feet, but at least it wasn't rising anymore. Beginning October 1, the water began to drain through a low-level outlet tunnel. From that point the lake level dropped dramatically and in just 130 days the entire lake was drained. I assume this “low-level outlet tunnel” is the same one still used today. 

View from the north.  You can see part of the landslide, train tunnels, Spanish Fork River and high-level emergency spillway tunnel.

It must have been a terrifying time for many in the area. Imagine having your home and all your belongings suddenly buried and ruined beneath a lake. Imagine if you lived downstream and had to worry for an entire year about the possibility of the dam bursting, and in a moment having your home swept away. Imagine if you lived upstream in Carbon County and now your main route to the Wasatch Front was blocked. 

I spent more time driving around the former town of Thistle. It didn't take long. After all, it is a ghost town. Here and there I saw debris and an occasional pile of rubble. Most of the debris from the flood had been cleaned up years ago. 

Abandoned rubble.

The railroad had also been rerouted. The new design included a tunnel through Billie Mountain near the same location where the highway was rerouted. The railroad was vital as it was a major means of shipping coal from the mines in nearby Carbon County. 

The railroad tracks were my last stop. I walked along them for a moment, then got in my car and waited for a train to come. I didn't have to wait long. A diesel locomotive carrying a bevy of cars whizzed past like a fleet of racehorses. I watched and marveled, but took note that Thistle was no longer a stop on the railroad. But, of course, that ended many years before the flood. ♠ 

Railroad track east of Thistle. In the background you can see the cut in the mountain for the highway.

A diesel locomotive whizzes past carrying a bevy of cars.