Over Scorched Earth to Copper Belt Peak (#28)

Copper Belt Peak.

For fifteen minutes I just stood and listened. Somewhere in the distance, tucked away in a hidden mountain glen, a symphony of bugles and grunts and whistles echoed through the fall air. This was the rut and bull elk were out gathering their harems.

I hadn't seen any yet, but I could hear their majestic roars coming from my right and also from my left. It wasn't just two bulls, but several. The majority of the bugles came from a timbered ravine, but the solitary call on my left aroused even more excitement. The bellowing roar and deep grunts seemed to be getting louder and perhaps coming closer. I waited with anticipation for the shiny glint of antlers to peek above the horizon. It didn't come.

I knew I couldn't wait all day. I was just beginning a long hike and too much time spent chasing elk could jeopardize my safety in getting done before dark. I chose to pursue the solitary bull since he was in the direction I needed to go.

Part of the long climb up the mountain. 

One of the few sections of fall colors in a charred forest. 

With a DSLR and monopod in-hand, I carefully stepped forward along the ridge, attempting to avoid crushing noisy twigs. As I came to a patch of blackened pine trees, I heard the bellowing roar again. It couldn't be too far away, I thought. My eyes scanned the distance from where I heard the sound and I could see nothing. Elk are masters of camouflage.

Slowly I crept along, pausing occasionally to look around. Then it happened. The bull, with a heavy set of antlers hanging across the length of his body, turned and bolted away from me up and over the hill. Before I knew it, he was out of sight.

I didn't give up. I continued my stealthy march forward, up a steep hill, across an open meadow and into another stand of charred pines. Suddenly from behind came another bellowing cry. I froze in my tracks and slowly turned around.

I was in the stand of trees, about thirty yards from the meadow, and through the branches I could make out the body of a bull coming into view. He didn't know I was there. He bugled again, tipping his head up into the air. His focus was the other bulls hidden in the timber. He moved across the meadow, his muscular tawny body walking through a narrow opening where I was able to capture a photo. Then, he was gone and I was satisfied.

This bull finally came into view. 

By this time I was about two miles into my journey and had climbed nearly 2,000 feet in elevation. I was on my way to Copper Belt Peak on a route that I invented myself. The standard route begins much closer, whereas this one pretty much starts at the bottom. There is no trail and normally I would have never considered this route, but last summer a huge fire moved through the area, incinerating the dense vegetation that once grew here. Now the route was passable, although it still required at least a 4,000 foot ascent. I still wasn't sure it was possible.

In the area around where I saw the elk I also noticed a metal bucket, some old tin cans and other charred items. It looked as if this place was used for something at some time. Perhaps there was an old mining cabin somewhere nearby, but I knew of no roads that came anywhere near here.

Charred bucket on the ground. 

Although the majority of the forest had been burned, there were patches that survived and others that had only been partially singed. Of course, there were also many meadows that weren't affected at all. I was pleasantly surprised to see some oak brush that was untouched and now in the full color of autumn.

Walking through one of these scorched stands of trees was a surreal experience. The bark, the ground, and anything else was blackened. Trees were nothing but skeletons, although sometimes the pine cones stayed attached to the branches, but even they were charred. Many of the trees had nothing remaining except hollow stumps. The ground was mostly barren with the exception of scattered sapling scrub oak and an interesting weed that looked like it could have come from my garden.

An eerie scorched landscape. 

Near full moon above blackened treetops. 

The first four miles of this march was a steady uphill climb. At last I arrived at my first destination, an unnamed bald peak that offered splendid views. By this time I had ascended 4,481 feet.

The wind had picked up considerably. I removed my pack and placed a rock over my ball cap. To the west were unobstructed views of Signal Peak and Gold Mountain. Mount Baldy halfway hid behind Mount Belknap. To the south reigned my goal, Copper Belt Peak. It looked a lot taller than I thought it would be. I hoped I had time to do it.

Panorama view from the first peak, looking west.

View of the ridge I would have to walk and Copper Belt Peak at the end.

For the next mile I walked along a ridge between the two peaks, the terrain being relatively flat and averaging about 10,800 feet. I walked on gold-colored shale rock and through more charred forest.

Once I saw two metal plates and several metal poles lying next to a blackened tree. I figured it was probably someone's tree stand that was now collapsed on the ground.

I now arrived at the base of Copper Belt Peak and was pleasantly surprised to find a trail that at least led partially around it. The tall mass that stood before me appeared daunting, but I knew I had to do it.

At the base of Copper Belt Peak.

I followed the trail, which wrapped around the left flank, gradually climbing. I didn't know if it climbed all the way to the top, or just circumvented the peak.

As I followed it around, I quickly learned that it would not lead to the top, and that I would have to forge my own way. At that same time I heard the timbre of a notification on my phone. It was my first text I received that day. It was probably my wife checking up on me. I decided to remove my pack, get a drink, and read the text.

It was from my daughter: “Did you see that Charlie Kirk got shot in the neck at UVU?”

What??!! That was not good news. If you get shot in the neck, you're probably not going to survive. And to have it happen in my home state. This was awful!

Suddenly, the mood of my mind changed. A dark pale came over me. I responded to her that I hadn't, then put the phone back in my pack and proceeded up the hill.

The very steep hike up wasn't as hard as I thought it would be, probably because my adrenalin was now running. When I reached the top the winds were ferociously strong and I struggled for balance. Of course, the view from the peak was beautiful and virtually all the peaks in the Tushars were visible.

From Copper Belt Peak, looking north toward the first summit I climbed. 

Looking south toward Edna Peak, Mt. Brigham, and Delano Peak.

Zoomed-in look at Wedge Road and others that wind up the steep hillside.

I settled down against a rock where the winds weren't quite as strong and opened my phone. Kaitlyn had messaged back. She said her roommates' friend was filming when it happened and it was quite a scary experience. She said there was so much blood spewing out that he would most likely die. It sounded like it just barely happened.

The imagery of how I imagined that awful event turned in my mind. Between that and the miserable wind, I just wanted to get back down to my family. I took a few obligatory pictures, then made my way off the peak. I would have eaten my sandwich, but I preferred to wait for a better location.

Looking west at Mt. Baldy, Mt. Belknap, Gold Mountain, and Signal Peak.

Descending the peak happened pretty quickly. Perhaps it was because I was preoccupied. For much of it I had to hold on to my glasses in fear they would blow off my face.

I made it off the peak and next to a grove of trees. Here the wind was blocked. I took off my pack, drank some Gatorade, ate my sandwich, and responded to more texts that were coming. I knew with the first text from Kaitlyn that this was a very, very big deal and would be of historical significance.

Eventually I made it to the shoulder ridge where the route began to descend. The wind had stayed strong, although not as fierce as on the peak. I kept hearing ghost whistles in the distance, not knowing for sure whether they were bugling elk or just my imagination.

More charred trees with pinecones still attached. 

As I approached the area where I saw the elk that morning I started to hear true bugles. The elk were still here and hidden all around in the timber.

As I walked through a stand of trees, I suddenly froze and looked ahead. Through the jumble of branches I saw what I knew were the antlers of a bull elk. I couldn't see much more of him other than what protruded from either side of the tree that blocked his face. To my right, and about as far away as the bull, stood a cow elk. I was pretty sure she had seen me.

After watching them for five minutes, they took off toward the right on a trot. Not too long later, another bull followed the couple, then he disappeared also.

Bull elk through the trees.

This is a different bull. 

I slowly moved down the hill when I heard another bugling yell at my left. Once again, I saw a bull in the distance, camouflaged amidst the branches and tree trunks. He saw me and took off another direction.

All these elk made the hike back very pleasant. Clouds in the sky began to gather and occasionally block the sun. I hoped it wouldn't rain.

About half an hour later I spooked another bull that took off on a dead sprint.

At last I came to the top of the final descent. This was probably the steepest part of the whole hike, dropping over 1,600 feet in 1.2 miles. But before my descent, I caught a glimpse of something moving on the very far ridgeline. With the aid of optical gear I learned this was a cow elk. Her body made a perfect sillouette, along with the trees. I wished it had been a bull, but I couldn't complain. There were also four other cows just below her. That made the daily total of six bulls and six cows.

5 cows, 0 bulls.

After twelve hours of hiking, I was very glad to arrive at my vehicle and even happier to find all my family safe at home. Today had definitely been an exhilarating, exhausting, and somber day, all rolled into one.

Rest in peace, Charlie. ♠

Copper Belt Peak

Distance from car: 5.5 miles

Net elevation gain to peak: 4,877 feet

Final elevation:11,385 feet

Total elevation gain: 5,354 feet

Total distance: 10.9 miles

Nice silhouette of the skyline on my way down. 

Delano Peak on Snowshoes (#21)

This would be my fifteenth time to summit Delano Peak, which I've done from almost every possible direction. I've been to the top in early summer, late fall, in the midst of dangerous lightning storms and on the most beautiful blue-sky days when the grassy slopes were full of colorful wildflowers. But never have I been there during the dead of winter.

To be sure, this was one of the driest winters in several years, so we were fortunate not to have six feet of snow on the mountain. But it wasn't bone-dry either. At these upper elevations there was at least 10 inches of snow and in some spots on the northern slopes over two feet.

As we arrived at the ski lodge above 10,000 feet, the temperature registered at 32ºF. That was thirteen degrees higher than last month when we pulled into this same spot to hike Mount Holly. Joining me on this soon-to-be miserable hike was Ricardo and Trevor.

The journey begins!

We strapped on snowshoes, avalanche beacons and backpacks. With no fanfare we began our ascent through the ski resort and into the backcountry. I could tell from the start that my body wasn't feeling well.

The pain was slight, a small ache in my upper abdomen that came from lap swimming the day before. The small ache had been off and on for the last five years, sometimes being almost non-existent and at other times transforming into a debilitating gnawing. No doctor has ever been able to absolutely diagnose the cause of this pain, but it has correlated perfectly with my polycythemia vera (which brought about an enlarged spleen and splenic varices).

Our plan was to snowshoe around Mount Holly to the base of Delano, and then up to the peak. Our line of travel would either be atop the hiking trail (which was covered in a foot of snow and completely imperceptible) or in whichever direction appeared to be the easiest.

About an hour into our hike we came to our first little challenge. It was a gulley with tall pine trees that dropped 150 feet on the north-facing slope. By this time we had lost the trail and we knew it. As we worked our way down the north face through the trees we quickly learned that the snow here was soft and about two feet deep. With each step my foot sank, the white fluffy powder coming above my knees. Inevitably, it didn't take long before I got tripped up, and suddenly I wallowed in the snow like a melting witch, grasping at branches or anything to hold myself up. Somehow Trevor had made it to the other side of the gulley unscathed, but Ricardo and I struggled. The big awkward snowshoes on our feet didn't help. For a while it felt as if I were trapped in quicksand, unable to move.

Floundering in the snow.

Once on the other side of the gulley, we were faced with a decision: Do we move downhill and try to reconnect with the trail, or do we work our way uphill and onto a ridge that could possibly lead to a shortcut? The ridge I refer to is a large bulk of mountain that lies in between Holly and Delano. I knew that if we followed it up that it would connect with another ridge that led to Delano. Another bonus was that it would keep us above the tree line. We chose to go up.

Going up was no easy task. We had to walk diagonally and use side-steps. This uphill movement was hell on me. I had to stop about every minute to rest my legs and catch my breath. It felt as if the blood inside my veins was gushing like a hose turned on full-blast. Ten years ago I was like a mountain goat. Now I felt like the fat kid that was slowing down the group.

The ridge continued to rise in elevation and we reached the crest where we could see the other side. From this viewpoint we could see another bulky ridge, this one leading to Delano Peak. But between us and it a formidable ravine blocked our direct passage. It probably wasn't impossible to pass through, but it was steep enough we didn't want to mess with it.

First close-up view of Delano.

With our eyes we followed the ridge up to the point where it made the final pitch to Delano and noted that it looked very steep, and possibly dangerous. Having been the one who had climbed there several times before, I gave no promises, but attested that up close it wasn't as bad as it looked. But, of course, that was in the summer. Now in the dead of winter, it could've been another story. We took our chances.

So up the ridge we hiked. It was a beautiful day. The sky was mostly clear, but patches of clouds eerily hovered to add some character. It is interesting to note that on many of these upper slopes, the ground was barren of snow. Wind in these parts was so strong and so consistent that any white flake that managed to touch the ground was eventually whisked away.

Silhouetted on the ridge.

On these large barren patches we removed our snowshoes and continued our hike unencumbered by the awkward footwear. As we climbed higher in elevation, the wind picked up speed. I pulled my balaclava up around my mouth. As each new ravine or cliff or rolling hill would come into view, I would scan for mountain goats. Nothing yet. I always wondered where they went during winter.

As we approached the crux I began to doubt whether we could reach Delano from this angle. We could see a small section of trail that was half covered in snow. At this point just under 11,900 feet, the trail came painfully close to the summit. A jaggedly steep defile covered in snow and loose rock blocked our passage.

We climbed to the faint trail and weighed our options. There weren't many. Perhaps if we had crampons and an ice pick we could go up, but I think the snow was too soft for that. Every option appeared too sketchy. We made the decision to backtrack.

We retreated the way we came, then dropped into a westward-facing gulley, losing 400 feet. Again we strapped the snowshoes over our boots and then negotiated a slope on the same mass as Delano. We still had to be careful doing this as the snow was deep and the slope was steep. Each of us took a slightly different route, but finally made it to a point where the slope wasn't so sketchy.

Having to go back down and lose 400 feet. 

Again, these south-facing slopes had been swept of snow, so we unstrapped our shoes and tied them to our packs. As we climbed I noticed goat poop on the tundra, indicating that they were here recently.

Without the shoes I was unburdened and my gait felt lighter. But I still moved at a snail's pace, having to stop frequently. I picked objects such as rocks and made it my goal to walk there without stopping. And when I made it, I rested, then chose another goal. Every inch of my body ached.

The final climb to the summit on a wind-swept slope.

At last we made it to the top! Delano Peak is 12,182 feet according to my GPS. It is the highest peak in Beaver and Piute counties, lying on the boundary. It took us 5 hours 20 minutes, covering 4.3 miles.

Delano always has a splendid view. There are peaks everywhere, most of them easily confused in the jumble of mountains. The two most prominent are Baldy and Belnap.

Delano Peak.

Panoramic view from the summit, looking northward.

Twenty minutes later it was time to work our way down. We weren't out of the woods yet. We still needed to reach the truck before dusk.

I usually only skim over the return trip, unless there is anything of note. The first hour and twenty minutes was a piece of cake compared to anything on the way up. We traveled a little over a mile and dropped 1,588 feet in elevation. The most dramatic event for me came when I slipped on ice and landed on my forehead, bending my glasses.

Once at the bottom, we strove to stay near the trail, but even with GPS on our phones, we found ourselves deviating several times. It was still no walk in the park. Several times we had small stretches of uphill while fighting deep soft snow.

At last on the way down!

I was ready for this hike to be over with. My whole body hurt. And now, with all the heavy inhaling of cold air, I worried about my lungs. I think we were all ready for this day to be done.

At last we came to the final crest, beyond which we could see the ski resort and knew that it was literally all downhill from here. In half an hour we dropped over 500 feet, and at last we were in the parking lot! It took 3 hours 51 minutes to come back, meaning we shaved off about an hour and a half.

As we packed up and were once again on the road, there were two salient points on my mind: 1.⸺I am so grateful this was a dry year. I can't imagine how hard this hike would have been with normal or heavy snowpack. And 2.⸺I will never again hike Delano from the lodge during winter! ♠

Delano Peak

Distance from car (one way): 4.3 miles

Net elevation gain to peak: 1,844 feet

Total elevation gain to peak: 2,520 feet

Final elevation: 12,182 feet

Total round-trip distance: 7.7 miles

Total round-trip elevation gain: 2,903 feet

Total round-trip time: 9 hours 36 minutes

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.