Squaw Peak (#30)

Yes, I know that a few years ago the name was changed to Kyhv Peak, but I tend to be stubborn and don't like it when names are changed on account of political correctness. And there's a story behind this name. But I digress . . .

Rock Canyon is a sight to behold! Rugged cliffs that thrust upward and sidewards provide a playground for rock climbers and a home to bighorn sheep. I was here in October when Mother Nature couldn't decide whether it was winter or fall. Autumn leaves were just past their prime, but still vibrant enough to add another dimension of the beauty to the canyon.

Interesting rock formations in Rock Canyon.

The trail is wide in Rock Canyon.

For the first hour I just took in the experience. I was happy to be here and happy there was no rain. A handful of walkers were on the trail, which is what I would expect on a Tuesday afternoon.

The path was wide enough for a narrow vehicle. I read that William M. Wall received a grant in 1855 to build a road up the canyon. I have no idea how far it went. Once completed he charged a toll of 50 cents for every load of wood that was hauled on the road.

I don't know how long the road was used for motorized traffic, but I did see many signs of human interaction. A pipeline had been placed underground to capture water from the creek. (The creek bed was dry. In some places I could press my ear and hear the water rushing through the pipes.) I also saw remnants of a system that must have predated the pipeline. It was a water channel made of concrete, but now sat dilapidated. I even saw a stone drinking fountain that was still in use.

Dilapidated channel. 

More interesting geology.

One of the earliest historical references to Rock Canyon comes in relation to the Battle at Fort Utah in 1850. To sum up the contention in the most simple of terms, a conflict between the Mormons and Utes was coming to a head. The Mormons were encroaching upon land used by the Utes and they, in turn, were stealing cattle from the Mormons. The previous year there had already been a conflict between the two, a clash that became known as the Battle Creek Massacre.

Fort Utah was built near the Provo River and near a Timpanogos (Ute) village. The settlers used nets to catch fish out of Utah Lake and their cattle used pastures that were once used by wild game, thus diminishing the Ute's ability to procure food. Also, measles broke out among both the natives and Mormons, but the natives, who did not have immunity, were affected much more. When winter came they were in desperate need of food and consequently stole 50 to 60 head of cattle from the Mormons.

In February of 1850 a group of militiamen were dispatched from Salt Lake to confront the Indians. A conflict ensued and ten Utes were killed along with one Mormon. The Utes split into two groups, one fleeing toward Spanish Fork and the other into Rock Canyon.

The Utes that fled into Rock Canyon were led by Big Elk, who was already suffering from the measles. The army split into two groups, one of them following the Timpanogos into Rock Canyon. There they found more bodies, including that of Big Elk, who had died of his wounds. With the help of Black Hawk, they tracked the Timpanogos and eventually killed more and took many as prisoners.

One of the bodies they found was that of Big Elk's wife. Trying to escape, she climbed up a cliff, then slipped and fell to her death. In honor of her, the summit above Rock Canyon was given the name “Squaw Peak.”

Looking at Provo Peak from Buffalo Meadow.

Back to my hike, the trail ascended steadily, climbing over 1,000 feet in 1.7 miles. From here the trail continued, but I diverted onto another trail in the First Left Fork of Rock Canyon. This is where the path really started to climb, needing only a mile to gain 1,000 feet.

This trail, instead of being gravelly and wide, now turned into a foot-wide path of dirt. As I walked through more scrub oak and aspen, the fall colors really presented themselves. Being past their prime, they were now not as vibrant, but still very pretty. Most had fallen from their limbs and sat on the ground or atop pine tree needles. In the distance, through the trees, I could see the snow-capped slopes of Provo Peak.

Although beautiful, I couldn't see much past the trees during this section. It wasn't until I arrived at the first meadow that some of the more majestic scenery began to unfold. Without the hindrance of trees I could now see Buffalo Peak, Cascade Mountain and Mount Timpanogos. Three times within a minute I heard the blast of a hunting rifle, probably shooting at an elk.

I hoped to see more wildlife than I did, which was none. In this backcountry there are deer, elk and bighorn sheep.

Cascade Mountain (in back) and Buffalo Peak (at left). 

Mount Timponogos in distance. 

I arrived at Squaw Peak in 2 hours 9 minutes. The view from the top was incredible. Not only could I see all the aforementioned places, but also Utah Lake and all of Utah Valley, with Provo being the closest city. The Provo Temple construction site, Lavell Edwards Stadium and the Mission Training Center were all relatively within close view.

On the south side, however, sat a precipice of dizzying heights. The calculated elevation drop from Squaw Peak to the point on the trail directly below was 2,188 feet!

I would have loved to dilly-dally all day long, but the reality was that storm clouds would be moving in and I wanted to be down by dark.

From Squaw Peak, looking over Provo and Utah Lake. 

Looking across Rock Canyon toward Y Mountain and Provo Peak.

Looking toward south end of Utah Valley. Mount Nebo and Loafer Mountain in distance. 

The way down was equally beautiful, but went much quicker. I took a couple detours that added to my mileage. By the time I got down to the main part of Rock Canyon the foot traffic had increased. I passed several trail runners, evening walkers, and rock climbers.

I talked to one man who was walking his dog. He had lived here for 26 years and came walking on the trail nearly every day. He told me that there are several caves in the area, although some of them have been blocked off because people have died inside. He also assured me that no one except the young people call it Kyhv Peak. To everyone else it still is, and will forever be, Squaw Peak. ♠

Rock climbing in Rock Canyon.

Squaw Peak

Distance from car: 3.8 miles

Elevation gain to peak: 2,721 feet

Final Elevation: 7,838 feet

Total round-trip distance (including detours): 8.1 miles

Total elevation gain: 3,827 feet

Squaw Peak, aka Kyhv Peak.

A perfect way to end the hike. . .  at the BYU Creamery! 

Beautiful Mount Olympus (Peak #19)

Maybe it's because Mount Olympus is home of the gods and is intertwined with Greek Mythology. Or maybe it's because I remember all those commercials from when I was a kid for Mount Olympus Water (a bottled water company in Salt Lake). Or maybe it's because Mount Olympus and it's regal rocky peaks catch the eye from anywhere in the valley.

Whatever the reason, hiking to the top of Mount Olympus has been on my radar for some time. It is not the tallest summit in the Salt Lake portion of the Wasatch Range, but it is certainly one of the most prominent. It is also one of the most sought after.

I had a morning appointment in Salt Lake so I didn't get to the trailhead until just before noon. My timing was perfect because a mid-October snowstorm was set to hit the mountains the following day. One last day of autumn.

Near the trailhead looking back toward the valley.

Beautiful fall colors. 

View of Bonneville Shoreline Trail and Old Mill Golf Course.

Interesting rock layers visible on the trail to Mount Olympus.

Beautiful vistas began immediately into my hike. A slightly elevated location put me high enough to see extensively across the valley. The skyline of downtown Salt Lake protruded above the treetops.

The trail to Mount Olympus continually moved up and up and up. No rest for the weary. Occasionally I passed a hardy trail runner. This path provides excellent exercise and has been dubbed “the eternal Stair Master.”

As I increased in elevation, the color of the scrub oak changed from green to shades of red to bright red to fallen on the ground. The fall colors juxtaposed with the ridges of limestone on the steep mountain slopes created a breathtaking scene.

Trail to Mount Olympus.

Fall foliage juxtaposed with rock. 

I am by no means a geologist, nor do I understand a scintilla of what a geologist understands. Having said that, observation has made me curious about the geologic past of Mount Olympus. There are several strata of rock that run the entire slope of the mountain, protruding at a diagonal angle. The most notable of these are the two peaks of Mount Olympus. Together they create two summits and what one could describe as a giant slide between the two. The southern summit is the one led to by the trail.

The nature of the trail is such that it climbs on the edge of a steep slope or within a ravine in a manner that the summit of Olympus is never clearly visible until one is nearly at the top. Although this fact is very unfortunate, on the other hand, the hiker is very lucky to have splendid views of the valley and adjacent mountain slopes for much of his journey. If he has studied his map the hiker will recognize Twin Peaks and Lone Peak in the distance.

As I have noted, the entire hike is steep. It starts as an average uphill slope, but as distance moves forward, the pitch becomes even more challenging. Especially as I got to the two and a half mile mark, I stopped about every other minute to catch a breather and rest my thighs.

First view of Mount Olympus.

Rugged terrain south and east of the trail.

At the three-mile mark the long, tedious uphill trail levels out. Here the viewpoint opens up and the south summit of Mount Olympus is clearly in sight. The trail comes to a ridge where on the right side is a very deep mountain canyon, and beyond that are layers of mountain, each ridge behind the next one.

It was here that I sized up the next stage of my hike. This would be a stage-3 climb to the summit. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I hoped that it wasn't too difficult or dangerous (since I'm scared of heights). I was told that there was no one “true” way to the top and that each hiker would likely find a slightly different route.

Class 3 climb to the summit.

I also hoped that by this point there would be several other hikers up here that I could follow. That was very far from reality. There was no one else up here. I passed someone coming down, but other than that, I was up here by myself.

Although there was no distinct trail beyond this point, there were places on the rock where obviously more people had traveled. It wasn't too hard to look ahead and guess where to go. Much of it I simply walked, but there were also parts where I used my hands, feet and knees to ascend a sloping rock face. I picked my way to the top using educated guesses.

From summit looking south towards Broads Fork Twin Peaks and Lone Peak.

From summit looking east.

From summit looking north toward North Peak of Mount Olympus and SLC in distance.

From summit looking west into Salt Lake Valley.

The views on top were outstanding! Not only did I have a grand view of the valley and the aforementioned peaks, but also of the north and northeast sides of the peak, both of which dropped precipitously. The north side particularly caught my attention as it was the “slide” I mentioned earlier. The north summit sat within view, its south face very sheer, with a chasm between the two.

The summit consisted of large boulders and no one place that was particularly smooth. The way the boulders were stacked I was extra careful not to drop anything small because it could have easily slipped inside a crack and be lost forever.

Summit of Mount Olympus.

Close up of North Mount Olympus and downtown Salt Lake and Utah Capitol Building.

The climb to the top (3.3 miles) took me 3 hours and 12 minutes. Although it was steep and grueling, there was no bushwhacking to contend with. For the 20 minutes I spent on the summit, I didn't see another soul.

The hike down took on a slightly different, but enjoyable nature of its own. The light now inched toward the western horizon, which cast a varied look of the mountain. Some of the leaves near the trail lost their luster, while those on the distant slopes seemed to deepen in vibrancy. Thunder clouds now hovered over the valley and beams of light in some places crept out of the clouds and glistened.

Lone Peak, Bighorn Peak and maybe Pheifferhorn (to my inexperienced eye).

I passed a weary lady on her way up with her two hunting dogs, one of which wore a Garmin tracker. I talked to another lady, this one with a British accent, who was also on her way up, but worried of the increasingly ominous storm clouds. Although I didn't say anything, my biggest worry for her was darkness that would surely come before she reached the summit.

A younger man, probably in college, passed me coming down the trail. I noticed the backpack full of rope and a climber's helmet. I asked him where he'd been and he told me of the “West Slab,” which I believe is the far side of Olympus where the more adventurous climbers ascend the steep rock to the top.

Downtown Salt Lake City.

By the time I returned to my car I had been away six and a half hours. It was a very satisfying hike. Views along the trail and at the summit were excellent. All in all, I would say it was one of the better hikes I've done this summer. ♠

Mount Olympus

Distance from car (one way): 3.3 miles

Elevation gain: 4,202 feet

Final elevation: 9,018 feet

First Solo Deer

I put a primer on the nipple of the breech plug, strapped on my camouflaged backpack and shouldered my muzzleloader. About five minutes into the trees I remembered I had forgotten a headlamp. I hesitated and almost turned back toward the truck, but thought, “Naa, I doubt I'll need it.” And with that, I continued into the forest. 

It was a beautiful fall day. Aspen leaves blazed in hues of orange, red and yellow, some of them breaking from the tree and wistfully dropping to the ground. There was not a cloud in the sky, nor a breeze to be felt. I had traveled here several miles on a bumpy dirt road and hadn't seen another soul. I felt as if I had the whole valley to myself. 

I parked off the road beneath a canopy of trees. Then I walked due east toward a gently rising hill. The terrain was a mixture of aspen and pine, with a sprinkling of small meadows and fallen trees. I walked slowly, every step with intent and always scanning for deer or elk. I only had a license to hunt the former, but I never complain to see the latter. 

To my disappointment I spotted a loose band of cattle feeding in one of the meadows. They saw me right away and immediately began to stampede to the north side. “Wonderful,” I thought sarcastically, “that's all I need are a bunch of cows to scare all the deer.” Here in the West, stray livestock is always an issue and it is possible to find sheep or cows grazing on public land. 

On a whim I changed my trajectory to the northeast. The cattle froze and went the other way. Soon I found myself again away from the livestock and in my own solitude. 

I came to the edge of rocky hill, at the bottom of which was a wallow. I sat down, slipped a camouflaged mask over my head, propped my gun on a shooting stick and waited. I will admit that this was more likely to be a place for elk than deer, but I didn't mind that. I also had a camera and would love to watch close-up a giant bull elk rolling around in the wallow. 

As I waited I noticed carvings on the aspen, one from 1930 and the other 1918. The names associated with those dates had now deteriorated with time and appeared illegible, their once fine cursive now a swollen black mark against the white trunk of the aspen. Apparently this little spring had been visited by humans for over a century, and most likely longer. 

After twenty or so minutes I became inpatient and decided to move on. After all, I was hunting deer, not elk. I found a nice game trail and followed it into a grove of aspen. I couldn't believe the beauty of the season. All around me the trees glittered in fall colors. The sun neared the horizon causing occasional rays of sunlight to pierce the forest floor. I stopped to take a few pictures. This is an issue that often makes me a poor hunter. I tend to look for landscape rather than game, searching for deer in the most picturesque place rather than where they might practically live. 

I walked through another grove of aspen and in the distance I could see the open space of a meadow. There I saw a half dozen of the black cows I had seen earlier. My first instinct was to once again switch course, but then a white object caught my attention. 

It was difficult to discern the object at first sight because between me and the meadow stood and long stand of tree trunks. I observed from a distance through the slits of open space. I pulled out my binoculars and honed in on two white objects. As I anticipated, they were the snow-white rumps of two deer, both of them at first glance appearing to be does. They fed on the grass in the meadow along with the cattle.

Although I was not in the market to shoot a mother doe, I decided it best to stealthily move forward to gain a closer vantage. Still some distance away, I softly stepped toward the animals, always moving when their heads were down and concealing my movements as best I could behind the cover of trees. I would then find a larger aspen, stop my motion and peer from behind the trunk through my binoculars to assess the situation. Then I would repeat the process. 

At last I came to a location I deemed good enough for the time being. I knelt down behind a tree and glassed toward the meadow. Although I was still about 175 yards away, I could observe the situation much better. I now saw three deer, one of them a spike and another a small two-point. 

In my mind I debated whether I wanted to shoot. The hunt was still early, but I had a lot of things going on and it would be nice to get the hunt out of the way. It would also be nice to get “something” since the last few years I got nothing. But on the other hand, I had a few days off work and if I were seeing bucks now, the odds were I would see more as time went on. 

As I debated in my mind I had my gun propped up on the shooting stick and also leaned against the aspen. I followed the deer in my scope, keeping a close eye on the two-point. There was a stand of trees between me and the meadow, which often blocked my view of the grazing deer. I was also keenly aware of the half-dozen cattle mingling among them. I did not want to shoot someones cow. 

The two-point stood in the cross-hairs with ample time to take a shot. I decided I was going to do it. With my thumb I cocked the hammer and waited for the right moment. I exhaled, then squeezed the trigger.⸺Then a whimpering pop. 

What the heck!!!???

Only the primer had fired. The startled deer heard the tiny blast and scattered to the edge of the meadow. “Well, that's that,” I thought as I figured all the animals would now scatter. But to my surprise, after looking my way, they all resumed their evening meal. 

At first I was baffled as to why only the cap had went off. But then it dawned on me⸺I had forgot to load my gun! I felt so silly, but at least no one else was here in the forest to witness my folly. 

I pulled a speed reloader from my possible bag and emptied two 50-grain pellets of black powder into the barrel of my inline muzzleloader. Then I flipped the reloader over and nuzzled a .50 caliber bullet inside the barrel. With the ramrod I pushed it down until it was snug with the pellets. Then I replaced the cap. 

Now I resumed my watch of the meadow. The three deer resumed eating as if I wasn't there. But from the edge of the clearing I noticed new movement. Two new deer arrived on the scene. And they were bucks! The first was a taller two-point and the second a three-point, with a possible small fourth branch. 

I was determined I would shoot one of the two, I just had to decide which one. Neither was a trophy, but they were big enough for me. The two-point appeared as if he were a bit taller and thicker than the other, but the other wasn't too shabby himself and had a third point. After brief contemplation, I chose the three-point. 

I followed him in my scope as he too grazed on the grass. My biggest obstacle was the black cow that stood directly behind him. By now the sun had set and we were entering the hour of twilight. Whatever I did, I needed to do it soon. 

When I felt the cow was removed at a safe distance, I put the cross-hairs right on the deer's vitals. This would be roughly a 175-yard shot. Once again I cocked the hammer and when the moment was right, I pulled the trigger. 

Boooom!!! 

There was no doubt this time that the gun fired correctly. From the plume of smoke I saw what may have been the three-point take off to the right while the others scattered to the left. The cows backed off also. I assessed the situation, not sure whether I had hit him or not, then reloaded my gun.
 

I stood up and slowly walked toward the scene. The closer I got the deer took off, but the cows stayed to watch. I scanned the ground for any downed animal, but saw none. Then as I approached closer, I peered to my right and saw the three-point floundering beneath the trees. He was hit hard, but appeared unable to move anything besides his head. I waited five minutes, not wanting to spook him enough to get up and run. When it appeared that he was losing the fight, I approached him closer and put a final shot through the back of his head. He was dead. 

I have shot many deer in my life, but they have always been with family or another person. I am now fifty-years old and this would be the first deer I shot and took care of completely on my own. I was all by myself. The time was now 7:30 and I knew the sun had set ten minutes ago. I knew I had a long night ahead. 

I cut the jugular and kneeled at the foot of the deer to begin the process of gutting him out. The first thought that crossed my mind was that I should have brought the headlamp. Darkness was now setting in and I attempted to set my flashlight down in a way that it would cast light onto my area of work. 

The knife slit into the deer's underbelly and I was careful to stay away from the gut sack. My left fingers stayed beneath the skin and held the innards down as my right hand sliced the skin upwards. At this moment I really wished I had another person to hold the legs open to ease the work. Instead, I had to use my left knee to spread his legs, and even that kept slipping. The flashlight kept falling out of place also, which was very frustrating. And I never could place it in such a manner that it illuminated my work in an appropriate manner. 

In the end, I had performed one of the worst gutting jobs of my life. Blood ran up to my elbows and all over my pants. I'm sure there was an organ or two that remained inside the cavity. And as for the bladder and intestines, I'm pretty sure I somehow nicked them and there's no doubt that some fecal matter ended up on the meat. But the job was done and now it was time to move to the next step. 

Using a water bottle from my pack I washed the majority of the blood from my hands and arms. Now I had to drag the deer back to the dirt road. As I figured, I was about 1,300 feet away as the crow flies. The problem was that in that distance I would have to walk through a myriad of trees and fallen logs, all in the dark while carrying a flashlight and gun. 

I devised a plan that I would set my gun and flashlight down the way about fifty yards. Then I would go back, find the deer and drag him to the light. Then I would repeat the process. This worked well the first several times and I became overly confident of my dragging-in-the-dark skills. 

On the next one, not only did I grab the deer by the antlers and drag him to the flashlight and gun, but I dragged him past that point by a couple dozen yards. 

But the problem began when I decided to carry the flashlight in my hand as I dragged the deer. This worked once, but the second time I did it, when I returned to get my gun, I couldn't find it! I searched all over the place, shining the beam into the wooded landscape, but finding nothing. So I decided to return to the deer to reorient myself. To my complete consternation, I couldn't find that either! What a mess. I couldn't find my gun or the deer and I was probably walking around in circles, getting further away from where I should have been. 

The truth is, I didn't know where I was. At this point, everything looked the same. Some patches had aspen, others had pine, and some had more fallen logs than usual. I searched the ground for any footprints or drops of blood, but could detect nothing. I did this for twenty minutes to no avail. At one time I knelt and gave an earnest prayer. The woods were a spooky place at night and the beam from the flashlight cast all sort of shadows. I also worried about mountain lions. I had never seen one, but knew they came out at night. No doubt they would be looking for an easy meal. 

Then I spotted the gun. Hallelujah! From there I reoriented myself and within a few minutes I found the deer. I gave an audible thanks to God and continued my chore of dragging the deer. 

I have to inject that this was no easy task. The body of the deer was of no small size. Happily for me the course was slightly downhill. The longer I dragged, the more the muscles in my arms, hands and back began to ache. I often had to stop, just to give them a breather. But adrenaline was a mighty factor and little did I ponder on the stressful state of my muscles. 

As I pulled the animal over logs and around bushes and trees, I knew that I was getting near my destination. I came to a point where I could make out a faint alley-way through the trees, and in my humble judgment, I sensed that the road sat at the end of the corridor. 

Anxious to rid myself of the gun, I dropped the deer and walked to the end of this corridor, feeling that the deer would be simple enough to find when I returned. To my pleasure, after a hundred or more yards of walking, I arrived at the dirt road where I sat the muzzleloader down against a log. Then I returned for the deer. 

I thought I returned exactly as I came, but when I arrived there was no deer in sight. Here we go again, I thought. Again I walked all around, shining the beam on every tree and bush. Twice I even returned to the gun and retraced my steps. Still nothing. I arrived at a point where I was confident it had to be. There I set up two logs against a tree so I couldn't lose the spot. Then I went out searching. 

I found a splotch of blood and attempted to gauge how close I was to the two logs leaned against the trees. Of course, I couldn't find them either. I couldn't believe how disoriented everything came after dark. The deer had to be somewhere close to here, but where?

After another fifteen minutes of maddening search, I spotted the dead animal next to some bushes. And to make matters more bizarre, it was only ten yards away from where I had leaned the two logs against the tree! How did I miss that??!! 

At last I finally arrived at the road with the deer. The truck was close by and I drove it to the deer, shining the headlights onto the bedraggled three-point. With all the remaining energy I had, I hefted the weighty animal into the bed of the truck and there I cut out the tag from my license and tied it to the antlers. 

It was now ten o'clock. I had expended two and a half hours since I had shot the deer. I now had a drive home and more work to do after that. The family would be sleeping and I didn't want to wake them. I arrived home, hung it in my garage and proceeded to skin the hide. 

By the time I showered and wound down, ready to crawl into bed, it was three in the morning. You would think I would be sleepy and I definitely was. But sleep didn't come quickly. As I lied in bed, my mind kept returning to the blackened forest, either dragging or searching for that damned elusive deer! ♠ 

 

The ubiquitous Paul Hunter aspen.

Into the Canyons

I've been fortunate this past year to travel more than I ever have in my life. I have visited four different countries and have witnessed some of the most breathtaking landscapes on the planet. In spite of that, the one place in the entire world that I love most is in my own backyard. I have had a longing to return home and hike into the canyons. 

This was an adventure for Dave and I. We drove thirty miles on a rough dirt road to get to the trailhead. From there we could see snow-capped mountains in the distance beyond a daunting maze of canyons. 

We heaved our packs over our shoulders and meandered down Navajo slickrock and over sand and sagebrush. Our shadows became longer with each step and the glow off the canyon rim radiated a golden hue. 

After an hour and a half we made it to the willow and tamarisk-choked bottom. It was difficult to find a good place to cross the river where the bank wasn't a sudden drop-off. We found a cattle trail that sloped toward the water. We removed our boots and replaced them with water shoes. We rolled our pant legs up to our thighs, then with steady caution and using a walking sticks as a brace, we walked into the flow. 

The river was ice-cold this time of year. It was indeed November. The brown silty water rose to our knee caps as we hurriedly aimed for the other side. By now the sun had disappeared behind the cold Wingate cliffs that towered over the river. 

We found a good spot to camp next to a cliff with Indian petroglyphs and cowboy writings. The petroglyphs seemed to be a slightly different style than what I usually see in this area. 

We built a fire, which gave us not only warmth, but company. It was lonely down here, and that's how we preferred it. We spent three or four hours next to the fire. 

If we listened beyond the flames we could hear the rushing of the river and the occasional croak of a frog. At one time I fancied I could hear a distant sound of someone humming a song. Was it the sound of nature disguised as a human voice, or was it the call of a phantom? The slightly spooky atmosphere made it an ideal evening for stories of skinwalkers, water babies and Bigfoot. 

Using the beam of my flashlight I walked to the river to rinse off my water shoes. The hoarfrost on the leaves sparkled from the newly freezing temperatures. As I swished my shoes in the current, my fingers touched the water. By the time I returned to the fire, the tips of my fingers from the knuckle forward were completely numb. 

Noises of the night made it a little eerie. People had camped in this very spot for at least a thousand years, so who knew if ghosts were lingering. We knew we were alone. Probably no one else within twenty miles. 

A near full moon rose an hour after dusk. The fire was welcoming, but beyond that the chill was piercing. I could hear the music again. It sounded muffled. Dave heard it also. It seemed to come from around the bend. The sound was so faint that I couldn't tell if it was real or imagined. 

The night was long, but at last morning came. I stirred the ashes of the fire and found warm coals beneath. I added a pile of broken twigs and larger cottonwood branches. Within minutes it resurrected and once again flames were fluttering like ribbons. I stretched out my hands and warmed them over the heat. 

We ate breakfast and packed up camp. The sun was out now, but temperatures were still well below freezing. 

Here there were no easy trails. Only cattle trails occasionally used by humans. Willows and tamarisk grew thickly along the banks. At one point we had to remove our packs and hold them before us as we crawled on hands and knees over the meager trail, pushing through the sapling branches like running the gauntlet. 

Then we came to the river. There was no way around. The current came directly against the red cliff. Once again we donned our water shoes. 

We waded into frigid waters, not just crossing the width, but walking down-stream for fifty yards. The current tugged at our legs and we concentrated to stay standing. Now and again we stepped into a patch of soft mud below the surface and I always worried it was quicksand. By the time we emerged from the river our feet were nearly numb except for the painful sting in our toes. 

We then entered a narrow canyon that was a tributary to the river. Here there was no running water, but occasional mud and pools from recent rain. 

Here the fall colors flourished and vibrant yellow leaves ruffled in the breeze. Canyon walls led straight up and there was a dankness in the air. 

Nearly a mile up the canyon we came to a pool of water at the bottom of a drop-off. Above were two circular arches that led to the next level of the canyon. No doubt that during a rainstorm water would pour from one of these arches as if coming from a spout. 

We admired the beauty of the location. Secluded. Quiet. Our voices echoed off the cliffs. Trees with bright yellow leaves reflected in the pool of water. 

We returned to the river and continued around the bend. Here we found another wall with Indian petroglyphs mixed with a sprinkle of cowboy writings. The writings had been here a long time and a closer look revealed a layered canvas. 

The oldest layer was mostly faded, with etchings in the rock reaching much higher than a man can reach. These included the typical bighorn sheep, elk and other indistinguishable squiggly lines that are commonly found in Native American rock art. It's difficult to know whether these were made by the Fremont or Anasazi or some other unknown group. And as far as the date, that was pure speculation. 

Pecked over this older group of writing was a new, more distinguishable set of marks. Much of it was indigenous, which included a two-headed bighorn sheep and trapezoidal men with bug heads. Mixed with these were the cowboy drawings of horses, men, names and dates. The oldest was 1881, which was only two years after the Hole-in-the-Rock party traveled this way on their epic journey. 

In an ideal world we would have traveled another mile upriver to visit one of the main slot canyons. On a short November afternoon such as today, however, this wasn't feasible. The tamarisk was thick and we had to cross the river seven times just to exit the main canyon. 

We crossed the river for the final time and set our packs down near the cement foundation of an old building that was destroyed by arson over thirty years ago. Nearby stood wooden posts of what I assume was a corral. Once again there were a few etchings in the rock, one from 1932 and another of a cowboy brand. Around the corner we found more petroglyphs, these of bighorn sheep with either a line or trapezoid for bodies. I don't recall having seen that before. 

We removed our water shoes and rinsed out the mud while we let our feet dry. It felt good to put on dry socks. We hefted our packs and followed a side-canyon with a small stream of running water. The trail climbed the canyon wall and soon we stood above the rim where we followed the cairns back to the trailhead. Our shadows grew longer as we walked over the sand and past sagebrush. What a delight this world can be! ♠