Muddy Creek Burials, Wyoming

On July 9, 1859 a company of handcarts departed for the plains from Florence, Nebraska. The group consisted primarily of converts of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints from England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Switzerland, Denmark, Norway and Sweden. Their destination, Salt Lake City, was a gathering place for the Saints, a place they would call Zion.

Handcarts provided an economical way for the church to convey thousands of new members to the West. Most of them arrived in the New World impoverished and without the means to buy a team and wagon.

Fifty-seven handcarts among them carried 250 pounds of provisions each. Four people were assigned to each cart. In addition there were eight wagons to carry extra luggage. Seven “Captains of ten” took stewardship over a group. These men were usually more seasoned on the frontier than the newly arrived immigrants.  George Rowley was assigned captain over the entire company.

Handcart memorial at This is the Place Heritage Park in Salt Lake City.

Being a God-fearing group, every day began and ended with prayer. The distance they traveled, nearly all while pulling handcarts, varied from zero to seven to twenty miles a day. As you can imagine, this led to sore feet and sick people. One of the wagons was designated as the “provisions wagon,” which carried the “invalids.”

As they wandered in a strange land they witnessed things they had never before seen. Buffalo roamed the prairies. Indians came into their camps. Wolves howled at night and at times stirred up trouble. As one lady put it after a night of lightning and rain: they had witnessed “a real American thunderstorm.”

In addition to the mind-boggling number of miles they put in, the terrain on which they walked was not easy. The wheels of their handcarts spun over sandy hills, slogged through mud and forded rivers. At times when they stopped to camp for the night there was neither water nor wood for a fire. They quickly learned to use an American novelty for fuel: the buffalo chip.

Two-rut trail at Muddy Creek.

As they traveled from east to west, they mostly followed the Oregon-California Trail until they parted ways near South Pass, Wyoming. For much of this journey they followed the Platte and Sweetwater Rivers. They watched for notable landmarks like Devil's Gate and Chimney Rock.

Along with sickness came death. There were no doctors or hospitals for the weary travelers. When the angel of death came, he often claimed more than one in the same family. Burial was a sad affair. After the grieving family was long gone, the lifeless corpse entombed in parched or frozen ground was often disinterred by wolves. Travelers along the route reported to having found skulls lying around and limbs protruding from the earth.

Martin Handcart Company---Bitter Creek, Wyoming, 1856.  (Courtesy Church Newsroom)

As the company of handcart pioneers of whom we speak traveled across what is today Nebraska and Wyoming, they became low on provisions. This was difficult for the group, and like similar stories found in scripture, they began to murmur. By August 22 when they arrived at the Green River in Wyoming, their provisions were completely exhausted. They resorted to killing one of their own oxen. —Two days later horsemen from Salt Lake arrived with provisions and the famished Saints were overcome with joy and shed many tears.

After a well deserved rest the group continued their journey in a southwesterly direction, crossing the Hams and Smiths forks. On August 28 they arrived at Fort Bridger where all the soldiers turned out “to see 250 persons pulling handcarts over a wild country of a thousand miles and all for a religion in which they have implicit faith and confidence.”⸺They ate dinner at “The Springs” and descended a very steep and rocky hill and camped at the foot of it beside the “little Muddy.”

On August 29, Thomas McIntyre recorded the following in his diary:

“At 7 a.m. we have a death in our camp. Anna Henysen [Hansen] aged 49. She had been sickly since she left home. We bury her on near to a creek near the south of the road. The Danish Saints attend to the rites of burial. We travel over hilly ground but good roads. [We] ford Bear River which is very high and camp about ¼ of a mile from the crossing. Traveled today 21 miles.”

Peaceful waters at Muddy Creek.

Fenced memorial for Catherine Bennett.

Ann came to America from Denmark with her husband, Mads Jensen, and five living children. In Denmark she would have been known as Ann Hansdatter. They arrived earlier that year on the ship “William Tapscott.” We know very little else about them.

Like many other pioneers, she died from “mountain fever,” which tends to be a catch-all phrase for any fever or disease you get in the mountains. It is the same illness that plagued Brigham Young when he arrived in Salt Lake twelve years earlier. Apparently Ann's family had it also because just five days later—just one day before arriving in the valley—her 13 year-old daughter, Maren, also died. The next day they were joined in death by, Karen, the 7 year-old daughter. Indeed, a very sad situation.

Headstone for Ann Hansdatter Jensen.

The Muddy Creek Campground was one of the most used on the Mormon and California Trails. Brigham Young's group camped here on July 9, 1847. They reported the camp had good water and plenty of grass.

It was also used as a stage stop and Pony Express station. In 1858, over 2,000 men with the U.S. Army camped here. The original Transcontinental Railroad came near here in 1869. It is estimated that 70,000 Mormon pioneers either came through or camped at the Muddy Creek Campground.

Muddy Creek, Wyoming.

Less than two weeks after the death of Ann Hansdatter Jensen, there was another death at Muddy Creek. Peter Andersen Fjeldsted, another Danish convert, passed away on September 9th. There is very little we know about him, including exactly how he died. Luckily for us, he was in the process of writing his history down in a “diary.” It was only three pages long and still not complete as he crossed the plains.

Born near Copenhagen in 1821, Peter was raised in the Lutheran faith. His family was so poor that by the age of fourteen he had to leave home and work at a factory where he “saw all the drunkenness and wild life and those who didn't believe in God.” After several years he returned home to support his mother after his father died in a drowning accident. In 1844 he married and had a child who died the same day.

Peter learned of the restored gospel in 1850 from missionary Erastus Snow. He and his brother, Christian Daniel Fjeldsted, believed the words of Elder Snow and were a strength to each other. His wife, however, did not believe and this drew a wedge between them that eventually pulled them apart. As he recorded in his diary: “My heart felt as if it were crushed between two stones.”

After his baptism he spent several years serving as a missionary for the church in Denmark. He presided over congregations as well as baptized new converts. He returned to his wife several times, but she would not budge. She stood staunchly in her Lutheran faith. He wrote in his diary: “I can see now that she won't believe in the Gospel, but she's in God's hands and I'll pray for her, that's all I can do.”

On April 1, 1859 he left Denmark for the last time aboard a ship for Liverpool. From there he would board another ship bound for America with hundreds of Saints. His diary ends while aboard this ship. We know that five months later he would die near Muddy Creek.

Peter had no living descendants. His brother, Christian, however, successfully made it to Utah and was blessed with a bountiful progeny. He was ordained as a President of the Seventy in 1884 and is buried in Logan, Utah.

Christian Daniel Fjeldsted, brother of Peter.

Almost exactly a year later would come the third and final known burial at Muddy Creek. Catherine Jones Bennett, a convert from Wales, died on September 26, 1860. What makes this interesting to me is that it was recorded in the diary of my great-great-great-great-grandfather, Joel Hills Johnson.

The Bennett family lived in a village near the border with England. Catherine's father, John Jones, had a dream where he saw two men bringing a book and preaching a new gospel. He told his dream to Catherine's husband, Benjamin Bennett, and they decided that when these men came they would follow them.

Several years later, in 1840, several members of the Quorum of Twelve Apostles traveled to England as missionaries. Two of them, Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball, made a short trip into Wales to the town of Hawarden to preach the gospel. It was here that John Jones saw and recognized them as the men in his dream.

(L-R) Catherine Bennett, Benjamin Bennett, daughter Elizabeth Bennett.

Benjamin and Catherine, along with several family members, were baptized in 1841. After several more years in Wales, they were finally given the opportunity to come to America and join the other Saints in the mountains of Utah.

They sailed from Liverpool, England aboard a ship with 730 converts of the church. After arriving in New York City they took a train eastward, likely then to take a steam boat on the Missouri River to Florence, Nebraska. This was where the real work would begin. Then they traveled in a wagon train with the William Budge Company.

Joel Hills Johnson started his journey across the plains on August 5,1860. He traveled with two wagons, one carrying belongings for himself and the other with provisions and goods from one of the handcart companies. It is unclear when he began traveling with the William Budge Company, or if he traveled with them the entire time. I believe there were multiple trains traveling within general proximity of each other.

The pioneers traveled most of the same route traveled a year earlier by Ann Jensen and Peter Fjeldsted. Johnson writes of many of the same landmarks and encounters as did Thomas McIntyre in his diary, although in less detail.

The first and only mention of Catherine Bennett comes on his September 27 entry:

“Started before breakfast. Traveled about 8 or 9 miles to the Station on the muddy near Iron Springs where we camped for the balance of the day and night. At this place we buried Sister Bennett, an aged Saint from England, who died the day before.”⸺The next day they had no choice but to move on.

There is one more connection that makes Catherine Bennett of interest to me. Her husband, Benjamin, completed the trip to Utah and eventually settled in what is now known as Holden, Utah. Catherine and Benjamin's daughter, Elizabeth, married John Kenney. John Kenney is my great-great-great-grandpa, I being related through John's second wife, Phebe Alden, these being the days of polygamy.

Memorial for Catherine Jones Bennett.

The Muddy Creek Burials are special in the sense that we know where they are. The vast majority of deaths along the Mormon Trail are lost to time. Often they were “buried on a hill.” But which hill that is, no one knows for sure.

But it should also be noted that, at least in the case of Catherine Bennett, and possibly with the other two, we only know of the general area. When Catherine's family finally learned of the general location where she was buried, they traveled there in the early 1990's and “found one grave that had been claimed last year, but not much else that looked like a grave.”

In 1862, Jens Weibye recorded in his journal “. . . there a short distance west on the north side of the road, was the grave of Peter A. Fjeldsted who died while crossing the plains in 1859.” This shows that his grave was marked at one time. Perhaps this is the grave the Bennett family found in the 1990's. There were no bodies exhumed, nor any Lidar scans. It is likely, in my opinion, that the grave marker for Peter Fjeldsted is in the correct spot, while the other two are just in the general area. All three markers are next to each other. 

Grave markers for Ann Jensen (left) and Peter Fjeldsted.

An expansive view of Muddy Creek, looking west.

The Muddy Creek Burials are half an hour drive from Evanston, Wyoming. From the exit off I-80 it is three miles on a well-maintained graveled road. Muddy Creek wasn't muddy at all when I visited the location. It's clear waters meandered lazily downstream.

The location still feels pretty isolated. I can picture snow on the ground and gusty wind with nothing to block it. I can imagine sore feet from walking hundreds of miles with no relief on the horizon.

Researching these burials has been a humbling experience. My ancestors traveled the exact same route as Catherine Bennett, Peter Fjeldsted and Ann Jensen. Although none of my ancestors died while crossing the plains, some perished at Winter Quarters while waiting to cross. These men and women sacrificed everything they had to find a place where they could worship in freedom without fear of violent mobs. They suffered far more than I will ever suffer so that I might have the liberty to worship. I will be eternally grateful for them. ♠

[Sources: Journal of Thomas McIntyre, Journal of Joel Hills Johnson, Find a Grave, numerous documents from Family Search, and historical marker at Muddy Creek.]

Morning Workouts at Keenland

We arrived at the racetrack wearied from an overnight flight. Fog shrouded the rolling green hills around the track while soft drops of rain fell like dew. Although we couldn't see it, the sun had just crested over the eastern horizon.

The grounds were a peaceful place. Not many people were out this morning, but those that were appeared in no hurry. We asked an old man who stood outside which way to go for the track. He pointed us toward the grandstand where we would walk underneath, turn right, and then to the left.

With umbrellas in hand we walked in the direction he gave us, past the gift shop which would open at 9:00. We passed the betting booths, now closed up. A row of porcelain jockeys lined the shrubbery, each holding a plaque with the winner of a local race. I read one of them: Sierra Leone, winner of the 2024 Blue Grass Stakes.

We then walked through a tunnel and came out near the track. The edge was so close we could reach out and touch the white railing and see the imprints of the horse hooves in the sandy dirt.

We weren't the only ones here. Others came to do the same as us, to watch the morning workouts. This was Keenland Race Course in Kentucky, one of the most prestigious tracks in the country.

Behind sat the empty grandstand. Ahead, beyond the track, the silhouette of a tree penetrated the fog. At the far end of the track a lone horse with rider stood as sentinel at the track's edge.

Suddenly, to our left, a black horse with jockey came thundering down the track toward us. Out of nowhere he penetrated the fog, and like the steel wheels of a locomotive he breezed past. The pounding of his hooves rumbled as he whizzed by.

It was breathtaking!

Several minutes later another horse raced past, this one coupled with a second horse to give him competition. Both riders disappeared into the fog at our right, and then after several minutes returned our way at a trot, on their way to the paddock.

I supposed this was a typical morning at Keenland. At this time of year there are no official races, but religiously there are workouts every morning. The public can watch for free.

We waited longer and there were no more riders, at least not for the moment. A heavier dose of rain began to fall and my glasses became speckled. We were tired and hungry. It was time to move on.

We walked back through the grandstand. The gift shop was still closed. The grounds were still active with small clusters of people moving hither and thither. Some had signed up for tours of the racetrack. Behind us we could hear the rumbling of another horse sprinting to the finish. They were still running in spite of the rain.

We got back in the van and drove down the road, through a corridor of stables. It took just a few minutes to arrive at our destination—the Track Kitchen.

We were told that the Track Kitchen was the place to eat breakfast. It was inexpensive, but with quality food.  You could also mingle with jockeys and trainers.

Dozens of framed pictures surrounded the dining room walls, most of them of famous horses when they raced at Keenland. A sweet lady worked up front and took our order. We sat down and waited until they called our number.

The room was mostly full, although none of them seemed short enough to be jockeys. Many, I believe, were visitors just like us. Most of them probably had connections to the horse industry.

When my food came, it hit the spot. I ordered a plate of pancakes with biscuits and gravy. The pancakes may have been the best I've ever had. They were fluffy in the middle, but lightly crispy on the outside as if they had been sauteed in butter.

Our morning at Keenland was almost over. Although brief, it will be a memory forever engrained in my mind. I hope to return someday, but for a longer spell. ♠

Mount Nebo and North Peak (#'s 17 & 18)

Driving toward Nephi on I-15—and visible from anywhere in the valley—is a monster of a mountain, crowned by Mount Nebo. For years now I have longed to hike its beautiful flanks and see for myself the view from on top.

Early Mormon pioneers named it Mount Nebo, “Sentinel of God.” In the Bible, Mount Nebo was the place where Moses ascended before his death and viewed the Promised Land (Deuteronomy 34:1-6). Perhaps this is why the pioneers gave it the name they did. Rising as a watchman on the very southern edge of the Wasatch Range, Mount Nebo, it could be said, was a gatekeeper to the Promised Land of the early Latter Day Saints.

North Peak.

I finally found my opportunity to hike this elusive peak. Dave and I drove up the night before and stayed at a motel in Nephi. When morning came, we awoke to a sky dense with smoke from wildfires in Idaho and Oregon. We worried about it affecting our lungs, as well as the view from the top.

Technically, Mount Nebo has three different peaks: North, Middle and South. For many years until the 1970's, it was believed that South Mount Nebo was the highest. That peak is usually accessed by a trail near Salt Creek and Bear Canyon Campground. But then it was discovered that North Mount Nebo was the tallest and suddenly everyone wanted to hike it instead. Luckily for us, the trail to access North Mount Nebo is located much higher in elevation, off the Nebo Loop Road at 9,254 feet.—(And to be sure, don't confuse North Mount Nebo with North Peak, which is located just north of North Mount Nebo!)

As for Dave and I, we set out to climb North Mount Nebo and then North Peak if we had any energy left. We parked at the trailhead, a quarter-mile off the Nebo Loop Road. The hike begins on a good trail along a ridge with a great view of North Peak and a looking down a very deep canyon which contains the left fork of Salt Creek. Bald Mountain is very prominent to the northwest and one can also see Dry Mountain and Loafer Mountain in the distance.

Bald Mountain.

The trail skirts around the west side of North Peak.  Mount Nebo in distance.

The first couple miles goes gradually uphill, although there are some short downhill sections. The next mile and a half is the first steep section, gaining 1,362 feet. Here the trail takes you to the main ridge that connects all the Nebo peaks, then behind and to the west of North Peak.

None of the trails were marked with signs, although they were easy to follow. The section of trail that skirted North Peak was wide (enough) and safe, but the slope off to our right was steep and precarious. From here we had views down into the valley toward Mona, but with all the smoke and haze it was nothing stellar.

Wolf Pass looking toward false summit of Mount Nebo.

After circumventing North Peak we arrived at Wolf Pass, the saddle between the two peaks. The wind really began to pick up here. We took time to rest and I put on a long-sleeved shirt to take the edge off the cold. From here there was no more easy hiking. The route to Nebo appeared straight up!

We stayed on the trail, which made a series of short zigzags along the main ridge. At times the trail was hard to follow, but there was indeed a trail all the way to the top. This final pitch was without a doubt the most grueling, climbing 1,292 feet in just under a mile. It was all steep with the exception of a small false summit which gave some respite.

I will say that Dave did much better than me. Despite the fact that this was his first major hike of the summer and that he is ten years older, he was able to keep up a pace that outdid me. I was impressed.

It was along this section that we passed our first hikers of the day. I was surprised we didn't pass more as Mount Nebo, I would think, would be a popular hike.

Dave booking it to the summit.

From the false summit, looking toward Nebo.

At last we made it to the summit of Mount Nebo, the highest peak in Utah County and the entire Wasatch Range, elevation 11,923 feet. It felt nice to finally reach a goal I had set years ago.

In spite of the haze, we had decent views all around. To the north we could see North Peak, Bald Mountain, Dry Mountain and Loafer Mountain, but the haze was too thick to distinctly see Mount Timponogos, which is further north. The landscape to our east dropped quickly and deeply—nearly 5,000 feet— into Hell Hole Basin. Beyond that were a series of rolling high hills, indistinguishable to untrained eyes such as ours. Somewhere down there would be Highway 6 running between Spanish Fork and Price. In the far distance I could barely distinguish some bald knobs, which I suspect was the very western flank of the Uintah Mountains.

From the summit looking south toward South Mount Nebo.

From the summit looking west toward Mona.

From the summit looking into Hell Hole Basin.

The broad summit of Mount Nebo.

To our south the Nebo ridgeline continued and I could see South Mount Nebo a mile away. From our vantage point on North Mount Nebo we could not see the town of Nephi, so I assume that the Mount Nebo I alluded to in my opening paragraph that one can see from I-15 is really South Mount Nebo.

As we rested at the top we were met by another group of hikers, all of them young ones. They were very pleasant to talk to and had moved here recently from Michigan and Chicago, although they already had ties to the area. One had just finished serving a church mission in the Philippines.

Our hike to the summit took us 3 hours and 40 minutes. We rested forty minutes on the peak before heading down.

The hike down wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Luckily we had a trail, which helped. We arrived back at the saddle at Wolf Pass where we now headed off-trail toward North Peak.

The slope was grassy and not as steep as I had anticipated. I only had to stop and rest my thighs a couple of times. From saddle to peak it took us 30 minutes to cover .6 miles and climb 526 feet. The detour was well worth it. North Peak had two possible summits and we chose the one we thought was highest, although both of them were pretty similar in elevation.

Descending Mount Nebo, looking toward North Peak.

Dave ascending the grassy slopes of North Peak.

From the summit of North Peak looking back toward Mount Nebo.

Descending on the Nebo Trail.  Bald Mountain in distance.

From the Summit of North Peak it didn't take much descent until we met back up with the main Nebo Trail. Dave led the way and we “booked” it all the way to the car.

Our total hike took us 7 hours 30 minutes, measuring 8.8 miles. It was a good mountain hike with very steep slopes. I was glad we did it, although I will admit that there wasn't a whole lot that stood out as particularly unique. We saw no big game animals such as deer, elk or mountain goats. There wasn't a single pond or lake. The scenery on this hike could have been that of any other steep mountain.

But it was nice to get out with Dave. It was our first outing of the year together (and it's already September). We got to drive up in my wife's Tesla and spend the night in a 1970's motel in Nephi. That alone would have made the trip memorable. But there is still a great deal of satisfaction of climbing the summit of a very tall mountain, especially when that summit is tallest for many miles. ♠


(North) Mount Nebo

Miles from car (one way): 4.4

Elevation gain: 2,669 feet

Final elevation: 11,923 feet


North Peak

Miles from Mount Nebo: 1.5

New elevation gain: 526 feet

Final elevation: 11,157 feet

From the summit of North Peak.

City Creek Peak (#16)

Hiking City Creek Peak was Plan B. Until the night before I had never heard of it. Upon realizing that the road to my scheduled hike could be closed due to recent forest fires, I thought it wise to come up with an alternate plan. I quickly consulted Google Maps and found a nearby peak that appeared doable. I checked the topography to be sure there was a route that wouldn't require any class 4 climbs, and then checked the satellite image to be sure it wasn't choked in thick forest.

My Plan A was to drive over the night before and the next morning park near the Deer Trail Mine and hike up to Mount Brigham. I arrived just before dusk, and even though the road near the mine was open, it appeared to be a work area and I just didn't feel comfortable leaving my vehicle in a work zone all day long. With very little light left in the sky, I drove fifteen miles south to my Plan B location.

I took road 153 a few miles west of Junction, Utah and parked near a creek at the City Creek Recreation Area. I was the only one there. By now it was dark and I could faintly catch the glimmer of a picnic table. The rushing water of the creek was hypnotizing.

I sat down at the table in the dark and ate the other half of my Subway sandwich. Then I spent time taking pictures of the stars before finally going to sleep in the back of my Trailblazer.

First obstacle. City Creek Peak not yet seen.

When morning came, I was excited to finally see what I was in for.

I drove a couple miles up a dirt road to a sagebrush flat that included a few roaming cattle. I was astonished by what I saw. The mountain from this angle was a series of sheer cliffs that appeared impassable. The beauty was stunning, but to climb it would be another story. Perhaps that was not the hill I was to climb. The topo map showed the incline as steep, but doable. I would soon find out.

I parked the Trailblazer on the side of the dirt road and began walking up a rougher 4x4 road. After a mile and a half I veered off the road and began hiking up the mountainside. There was no trail, but the incline wasn't a thigh-burner yet. Bushwhacking wasn't too bad either.

Looking down to where I started.

A very steep climb up.

But the further up the hill I got, the steeper it became. Before I knew it I had to rest my legs every few minutes. It so happened that my trek up the mountainside was just north of the sheer cliffs I had previously seen. At one point I came out to a viewpoint that looked out over the cliffs and across the sagebrush flat where I had earlier been. It was here I saw a lone driver in a pickup truck in the distance near where I had parked. He was the only other person I saw that day, probably a bow hunter.

Near the top of this hillside I came in contact with one of these sheer rocky outcrops. I maneuvered around it, sometimes climbing on all fours. By this time I was near 9,900 feet in elevation. I was near the ridge and hoped that once I got on the ridge the vegetation would clear out and I would have a smooth hike to the summit.

Ou contraire!

The final ascent to the ridge was even steeper than it was before, with some places being quite treacherous. At least it wasn't too rocky, but it was still difficult to move across the slope without sliding.

When I finally got to the ridge, it was even more choked with trees and bushes than anything I had yet encountered. I thought I might now be able to see the peak. That didn't happen either. A deep canyon now fell precipitously to my left. This was the gorge where I had camped the night before, with City Creek at the bottom.

View toward Circleville Mountain.

Looking back toward the ridge I had hiked up.

By this time I had been hiking four hours and had traveled a very difficult three and a half miles. I was well over the 10,000 feet mark. Trees remained thick, but now and then I caught a glimpse of the peak. I wondered how many people had traveled this route. My guess was virtually nobody unless they were either hunting or stupid. On the other side of City Creek Peak was a road and I'll bet that nearly every alpinist to ever summit this peak has come from that side.

At last the deep canyon to my left came to an end and I was able to drop a couple hundred feet and climb up the other side toward the peak. I now made my way above tree line, which was nice, but the slope became so steep that my thighs burned. For the next half mile I climbed 650 feet in elevation. I endured.

A rare glimpse of City Creek Peak.

The final pitch to City Creek Peak.

The final section was an easy class 3 rock climb. It felt much easier than everything before it because now I could pull myself up with the aid of my arms. At last I made it to the summit of City Creek Peak, elevation 11,156 feet. It took me 5 hours and 34 minutes.

The view from the peak was wonderful. It was great to finally be above treeline and to have a unique view of the Tushars. The big peaks I could see were Baldy, Little Shelly Baldy, Holly and Mount Brigham. Delano was blocked by Holly. Puffar Lake was relatively close, but mostly obscured by trees and hills. Circleville Mountain was the dominant feature in the south. Looking further down I could see portions of Piute Reservoir and the town of Circleville.

Panorama taken at the summit of City Creek Peak.

The wind blew voraciously here on top. I had to take off my ball cap and put a rock over it so it wouldn't blow away. I quickly ate a sandwich and took some pictures. Time was of the essence and I knew I was only half done. I needed to make it down before dark.

But for now I savored my final minutes on the peak. I didn't see any mountain goats, although I knew they had been here recently because I saw a patch of white fur and cloven footprints where they had bedded down. Some 3,000 feet away I saw the dirt road that someone could use to access the peak from the top. I was fortunate that there were no major fires this day and skies were clear.

View of the Tushars from the summit of City Creek Peak.

City Creek Peak

Miles from car (one way): 4.5

Elevation gain: 3,356 feet

Final elevation: 11,156 feet

On the way up I took note of an alternate route that, at least from what I could see, had fewer trees and was more direct. I decided to roll the dice and take this route down.

This view shows part of the route I took down.

As usual, I will be brief with my description of the return trip. It turned out that my “shortcut” was pure misery. Although it probably shaved off some distance, it only reduced my time by 45 minutes. The slope coming down was brutal and full of rolling rocks. I fell at least a couple dozen times. I'm surprised I didn't twist a knee or rip a hole in the seat of my pants. Part of the hike down had far thicker vegetation than anything I had encountered on the way up.

But as I neared the bottom, all that brutality disappeared. Suddenly I arrived at a spring with several old carvings on the aspens. I found a trail, then a narrow rough road. That was followed by an open meadow that looked suitable for a cattle camp. Finally I came to the sagebrush flat where I was nearly home free. By the time I returned to the vehicle it was just before dusk. I was glad to be back after nearly eleven hours of hiking. Not bad for a “Plan B.” ♠

"Guy Price - 1934"

"Irvin Allen - June 20, 1912"

Water trough at a spring.

Looking back at City Creek Peak from Circleville.