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

Valentine Peak, Sweet #1

I recently turned 50 years old and decided to make a goal: In the next five years I am going to hike at least 35 peaks. I've kept a tally, and over my lifetime I have climbed 45 peaks, but considering that we live only once, I need to hasten the work. 

The most challenging aspect, however, is not necessarily the grit or drive. It's my health. 

Over the past three years I've had consistent abdominal pain. Sometimes it's mild, sometimes it's maddening. I've been to every specialist imaginable and no one can figure it out. In the mild form it's always present, but unpredictable flareups can send it into the more maddening form. Hence it is difficult to plan any excruciating event. And, yes, hiking a steep hill is considered excruciating. 

I had scans done on my abdomen and it was discovered I had an enlarged spleen and splenic varices (enlarged blood vessels between the spleen and liver). They ran blood tests which found that I have a Jak-2 mutation, which means my body makes too many red blood cells. The diagnosis: polycythemia vera. 

P.V. is a very rare blood cancer. It is progressive and there's no cure. For sure, I thought, this was the reason for my abdominal pain. Not so fast! The doctors concluded that it wasn't. They still have no answer. 

Fast-forward to right now and my P.V. is under control thanks to a very expensive injection I get twice a month. And my stomach still hurts. That's my life. 

So making a goal to climb 35 peaks in five years is daunting. Some days I feel confident, but others I feel so crummy that I wouldn't be able to climb any hill. 

That's why I need a goal. I need something to push me. I need to get all that negativity out of my head. I don't know that life is going to get any easier, so I need to live it NOW! 

For my first challenge I chose Valentine Peak, a not-so-famous summit near my home, but none-the-less, a good hike. 

One aspect that I like is that it begins at a cemetery. 

Parowan cemetery as seen from the trailhead.

As the story goes, Hiram Ackley Hendrickson (an early pioneer who is now buried in the cemetery) observed that if you stand on the corner of 500 West and Center Street in Parowan on February 14th, the sun will rise directly over a rocky crest east of town. Thus, he gave it the name Valentine Peak and it eventually stuck. 

The hike begins at 6,100 feet and climbs a well maintained trail through the juniper trees and a hill of red clay. I was surprised to see so many wildflowers of many colors, especially cushion phlox, a low-growing white flower with a hint of pink that almost looks like snow on the ground. 

Fancy decorations along the trail.

View of Tushar Mountains.

Trail as it ascends toward Valentine Peak, looking back.

Looking back down on the cemetery.

Whoever takes care of the trail has put a lot of care into it. There are multiple rest-stops with a bench or chair, as well as dog bowls accompanied with a bottle of water. There are also decorations scattered here and there, I suppose to help make the hiker happy. 

Valentine Peak looms in the distance. When I first caught sight of it, it was much further than I anticipated. The trail begins at a challenging slope, then mellows out for a while and even briefly travels downhill. But then it picks up in steepness again, and toward the end the final pitch to the summit is very steep. 

Indian paintbrush.

Cushion phlox.

Valentine Peak as seen from near the top.

View of Brian Head and ridge to Horse Valley Peak as seen from Valentine Peak.

The summit supplies a grand view. Most prominently to the south and east are the snow-capped summits of Brian Head, Horse Valley Peak, and the ridges that lie between the two. To the south is the road that runs up Parowan Canyon. To the north, even further in the distance, are the Tushar Mountains which rise above 12,000 feet. And of course you can see most of the city of Parowan, but the cemetery is covered by foothills. Beyond this you can see Little Salt Lake, which is normally dry, but this year is filling with water from the high runoff. 

So, for me, this is Peak #1. I have at least 34 more to go. I felt quite fatigued as I first began my ascent, but as my body warmed up it became easier. My worry, however, is how I will feel tomorrow, or the day after that. That's usually when the bad pain kicks in. 

 

 

Valentine Peak 

 

Miles from car (one way): 3.5 

Elevation gain: 1,950 feet 

Final elevation: 8,050 feet 

Valentine Peak.

Side story: 

There is a fascinating pioneer story that most likely occurred on Valentine Peak. In 1851, a 23-year-old man by the name of James Martineau arrived in Parowan and one day decided to ascend a mountain peak southeast of town to view the valley. 

After a five mile climb along a mountain ridge, scrambling over jagged rocks and ascending rugged cliffs, he finally arrived at the summit where he briefly enjoyed the fruits of his labor. Knowing that he didn't have much sunlight left, he decided to take a shortcut back to town. Instead of taking the circuitous route upon which he traveled, he would return on a more direct path. 

 

James Henry Martineau.

Although this path was more direct, it was also much steeper and he found himself sliding down ravines and jumping down small ledges. His downward leaps became more frequent and of greater depth. Things seemed to be going well until one leap took him down a tall ledge of which he couldn't retreat, and left him on a small shelf overlooking a 150 foot sheer drop off! 

Boy, was he in a predicament! There was no way up and no way to safely go down. He had no water, and had told no one where he would be. 

After a quick survey of the area, he decided his only chance of escape was to jump and hopefully land on a tall pine tree which stood below and some little distance from the base of the cliff.  The prospect terrified him. Unless the jump was executed perfectly, his life would come to a definitive end, either by being impaled by a large branch, or dashing his body against the hard ground. 

James Martineau may have descended the peak from this area.

Seeing no other way out, James decided to give it a try. He only had a few feet to gain a running start. As he made the attempt, his knees buckled and he nearly collapsed at the edge. 

He tottered back to safety and panted until he regained his composure.  He attempted the leap two more times, but with the same result.  Martineau described in his journal what happened next: 

"I reflected on the promises made by Patriarch John Smith (uncle to the Prophet, Joseph) in his blessing upon my head. I could not see that I had done anything bad enough to forfeit them, consequently I must live to fulfill them.  And so I gained faith enough to pray for strength and for safety in the leap I must now make. I arose, determined to do, or die and end it all. I rushed at the brink. And now, instead of weakness my sinews and limbs were as steel; I shot far out into the air, and in a moment found myself clinging to two limbs—one in each hand—with a grip like that of death, but safe and unharmed; not a shed of my clothing torn or disarranged, not a scratch or mark upon me. How this came about I had no knowledge, for I knew nothing as I fell swiftly through the air, and had no knowledge of grasping at or clutching a branch of the tree. But there I was, safe and unharmed. I now know I was saved by the power of God. He it was who guided my hands to the limbs by which I hung and enabled me to retain my hold when falling with so great speed, and that, too, without tearing my hands as such a strain would naturally do; it was He who gave me strength to leap out so far;—who steeled my muscles and strengthened my limbs, for no other power could have preserved me. I climbed down from one limb to another until the last one, and then hung and dropped from that about 20 feet to the ground—safe and unharmed!" ♠ 

 

 

(Source: Godfrey, Donald & Martineau-McCarty, Rebecca. (2008). An uncommon common pioneer: The journals of James Henry Martineau, 1828-1918. Religious Studies Center, Brigham Young University, p. 444)

 

Snake Range (day 2)

Last night was much colder than I thought it would be. I didn't shiver, but the constant chill brought on a consistent restlessness. Of course, the crisp mountain air contributed to this, as well as damp clothing from the rain. I slept in a zero-temp bag with socks, pants, long-sleeve shirt, beenie, gloves and a good coat. None of it sufficed. 

As I crawled out of my tent and walked toward the lake I realized that my feet were sore and knees ached. My eyes struggled to focus. My body felt groggy and heavy. 

Johnson Lake.

The sun crept above the eastern horizon and no one else stirred. I decided to return to my tent and rest a bit longer. 

When I withdrew to the outdoors again (just ten minutes later), I made my way to the lake with an empty water bottle where I stooped down to fill it up, trying not to capture any small bugs from the water. There was no running water here, just the stagnant lake. I would use some iodine tablets to purify. 

Suddenly, a massive shroud of fog swooped down from the cliffs and enveloped the small basin where we camped. The vaporous cloud felt palpable, moist and misty. The fog shrouded the sun and the tall coniferous trees stood as silhouettes in varying shades from dark green to black.—Then, in a moment, the fog lifted and sun returned. 

Fog moving in.

Pine trees standing as silhouettes in the fog.

I felt a little better now. My feet and knees no longer hurt, but my stomach was slightly tender. As I stated earlier, this backpacking trip was a test for me, an examine to see how my body would react after acquiring my new disease.

Slowly, Dave and Devin rolled out of their tents and we ate breakfast and packed our bags. A distant thunder rolled through the valley. Wet, puffy clouds slowly passed over the saddle above us. We would have to cross that saddle to enter another basin. It was now time to get moving. 

With heavy packs now encumbering our shoulders, we ascended the switchbacks toward the saddle. I felt weaker than I had yet, focusing on my breathing and moving forward one step at a time. For me this was the most difficult part of the hike. We climbed nearly 500 feet in just a third of a mile, maxing out at a 38% grade. It doesn't sound too bad, but for a sick old fogey like myself, it about put me under. By the time we reached the saddle I was ready to lie down and take a nap. 

Up to the saddle.

From this point we wandered off-trail for about 45 minutes in search of an adit and old structure belonging to the mine. We had no luck. Perhaps the adit had been reclaimed and the structure swept away with snow. Who knows? 

We continued down the other side of the saddle toward Baker Lake. Did I mention that this whole area is a rock-hounder's paradise? Although I can't identify all the types, one of them is a quartz monzonite, a dalmation-colored stone. The only issue is that you'd have to haul it out . . . and it's a long haul! I picked up a couple smaller specimens and put them in my pack. 

The three amigos at Baker Lake.

Baker Lake was lower than normal, and less impressive—in my opinion—than Johnson Lake. But the rugged cliffs above were impressive. Nearby is Baker Peak, one of the highest peaks in the range. 

The trail switchbacks to lower ground below the lake. It is here we took a little break off the side of the trail. I just happened to look across a boulder field onto the hillside about two hundred yards away and saw something move. Lounging on the slope were nearly a dozen bighorn sheep. They blended in well with their surroundings and I'm willing to bet that most hikers passing by that day would never notice them. Although I forgot to bring binoculars, I could tell that the largest rams had fine horns that nearly made a full curl. Seeing these sheep was definitely a pleasant surprise! 

Bighorn sheep.

We continued down the trail. 

Water below the surface of the ground magically bubbled to the surface and suddenly we noticed a healthy mountain stream below us. Grass grew all around it with occasional flowers. It tumbled down the mountain in elegant fashion. 

Occasionally we were treated to a cluster of bright fall colors. I'm sure this place would be a festival of colors at the right time, but we were still a little early. 

As we made our way down the canyon, the vegetation changed and pine trees gave way to oaks and other small trees. I would say that our hike down was a combination of the ordinary and the impressive. 

A few fall colors were beginning to develop.

This stream appeared suddenly out of nowhere.

For one final treat we spotted four nice bucks in the vicinity of the trailhead. They nibbled at the leaves and bushes without giving us much thought. 

The largest was a massive four-point, with at least a 28-inch spread. His antlers were darker than the others, but what caught my attention was that they were smeared with blood. And upon closer examination, he still had a piece of flesh dangling from his right antler! This guy must have been in a serious fight. 

Nice buck with blood-stained antlers. Notice the piece of flesh hanging from his right side.

We finally arrived back at the vehicle where we fished the Mountain Dew out of the stream and I quickly cooked a jalapeño cheddar hot dog on the grill (because I was craving it). The wind picked up and the sky teased with rain. 

As you may recall, this backpacking trip was a test. It was my first such trip since my health issues arose fifteen months ago. We hiked 13 miles and climbed 4,000 feet in elevation. The part I struggled with the most was fatigue, especially during the grueling uphill portions. I had no major stomach pains. I think we chose the right size. Any more, I think, would have been too much. 

—I would say I passed. 

[After having returned home, this hike really wiped me out, and it took several days to recover.] 

Now, I know what I can do. Next time I will push myself a little further, until, little by little, I am doing beyond what I did before. This is my goal. ♠

 

The best way to end a hike!

 

Test of the Snake Range (day 1)

It was one year ago this month that we had an awesome backpacking trip planned to the Snake Range. I wanted to do it so badly, but I hadn't felt well for several months. My stomach was tender and I worried that the pressure and strain from backpacking would only make it worse. Mentally I was back and forth whether I should do it. Then, my decision was made for me. 

In the weeks leading to the hike, there emerged small clues from tests and symptoms that suggested I might have a rare blood cancer called polycythemia vera. Doctors felt they had enough evidence to give me the diagnosis, but as part of the process, they needed a bone-marrow biopsy to be sure it hadn't progressed to an advanced staged called myleofibrosis. The first phone call I received was from the oncology center discussing the diagnosis. The second call was to schedule the biopsy. It would be the same day as the hike. 

That settled that. Deep down I was relieved because I knew I shouldn't be doing a backpacking trip like that anyway. 

One year has passed and I have been in and out of doctor's offices like most devotees are in and out of church. I am officially diagnosed with polycythemia vera, but my stomach pains persist. The pain has subtly improved. I still get fatigued, but not as much as last year. Doctors can't necessarily connect my pains with the cancer. We have tried so many things, but nothing seems to work. 

A nice buck under the flashlight.

So here I am, a year later, and I am anxious to get out and do anything outdoors. Up to this point I have pushed myself on some hikes, but never a backpacking trip. Yet I needed to do one to test my limits. I had to push myself. 

With this in mind, my friend Dave and I planned a backpacking trip to Colorado. It would be a perfect challenge for my body—not too far and not too short. We were all ready to go, when just a week before departure, everything started falling apart. With just one day before leaving, we made the difficult decision to change plans and try something similar, but closer to home. We chose to replicate last years plans and backpack a 12-mile loop in the Snake Range of Nevada. 

I can't say I was completely confident. My stomach was still tender from time to time. Sometimes I had issues breathing. My white blood cell count was lower than normal. Fatigue was always an issue, especially with exertion. (And this hike would have no lack of exertion, climbing almost 4,000 feet in elevation!) 

With that as the background, we hit the road. 

The trail to Johnson Lake. Pyramid Peak is in the background.

The forecast for Garrison called for a 0% chance of rain. We knew that wasn't true as we witnessed lightning, dust storms and torrential downpours as we approached the border town. 

We tried finding a campground, but it was getting dark and everything was filled. We decided to take our packs and find a flat plot of ground to pitch our tents. We did our best to sleep in spite of howling winds ripping at the flaps of our tents. 

None of us slept well, but morning brought a new day. Perhaps the anticipation of a new adventure eclipsed our poor night's rest. 

We ate breakfast, then strapped on our packs. I had worked hard during the last year to make my pack lighter, and I certainly felt a difference. 

But as we headed up the mountain trail, I could feel my usual fatigue set in. My stomach was tender as well, but tolerable. I focused on breathing and continued forward, albeit at a slower pace than normal.

The mountains of the Snake Range are beautiful. It was now mid-September and the higher in elevation we climbed, a sprinkling of aspens began to change colors to yellow and bright orange. 

Final ascent near the Johnson Mining District.

We had the trail to ourselves. In spite of the masses in the campgrounds below, no one dared tackle the steeper mountain slopes. 

We came to a series of switchbacks which tested my energy levels and muscle strength. But I passed. At the top we entered a large meadow. Pyramid Peak loomed to our west. We were hiking a loop trail, but it was our goal to summit at least one, if not two peaks during our trek. 

After the meadow we climbed a small ridge, then beyond the crest we entered another basin. This was the Snake Creek Basin. Our legs enjoyed a brief downhill section. It was near here we spotted a four-point buck walking through the timber. 

Four-point buck walking through the timber.

Beyond this point, the trail was merciless. The steady uphill slope was full of rocks. I think fatigue began to hit Dave as he trailed further behind. 

As we made our steady climb, we came to the first remnants of the Johnson Lake Mining District, an operation that extracted tungsten in the early 1900's. The mine has long been abandoned, but artifacts from its existence are strewn across the mountainside. 

We first came across the mill, then a half-mile further, the cabins used for lodging. We removed our packs and spent ample time exploring the relics. I will go into detail about the mine in a later post. 

Cabin at Johnson Lake Mining District.

At last we arrived at Johnson Lake. This was our destination for the night (although it was only 1:30 in the afternoon). We had time to relax, pitch our tents, and perhaps hike a peak. 

Mother Nature would prod us along. The wind picked up and a light rain fell from the sky. We scrambled to set up our tents. The urgency proved to be a benefit and in record time we were good to go! 

Johnson Lake is a wonderful setting. At 10,732 feet in elevation it is higher and much colder than anywhere else in the area. The lake is surrounded on three sides by steep mountain slopes strewn with white boulders. High to the north is Pyramid Peak. A tramway cable for the mine is still strung on the hillside. 

The meadow around the lake is an ideal setting for a camp. Alpine tundra, including dwarf flowers, low-growing perennial herbs and grasses grow where soil will allow. The wooded area around the lake abounds with pine, fir and aspen. Although most of the moraine is strewn with rocks, there are still several places flat and smooth enough to pitch a tent. 

Johnson Lake.

I will mention only one other adventure from this day. As I have stated, we wanted to climb a peak. Pyramid Peak was our most eligible candidate, but the weather at the peak was sketchy at best. Storm clouds blew in and blew out, changing every ten minutes. Occasional booms of thunder rang in the distance and we knew from personal experience that a high mountain peak was the last place we wanted to be during a lightning storm. 

So we waited and took a nap. 

When I woke, to my pleasant surprise, I found the skies to be mostly clear. I woke up Devin and Dave and we decided to make a run for the peak. 

As a general rule of peak climbing, it is best to be off the summit before 11 am to avoid a higher probability of electrocution. It was now 5 pm, so we were obviously ignoring that rule. 

The ascent to Pyramid Peak.

The climb to the peak would be at least another 1,200 feet. But without heavy packs burdening our shoulders, the task seemed easy. We followed the trail above the lake and onto the saddle below Pyramid Peak. It was here that the weather began to turn. 

Both Dave and Devin wore shorts. Devin forgot his jacket, but brought a red poncho that flapped sideways in the wind. The gusts now came at near hurricane speeds. All we could do was put our heads down and focus on walking up the steep slope, over talus and tundra. 

As we got higher up the slope, we could see that it was storming on all sides. Below us to the southwest a bolt of lightning lit the clouds. Our speed to the top now became urgent. We had traveled this far and didn't want to turn back. I prayed that no lightning would hit the peak before we got there. I knew that if just one bolt hit, we would be turning around . . . running! 

Devin, about to be blown away.

The gales of frigid air nearly blew us over. We held on to our coats and hats with clinched fists. If the wind were to take anything, it would be long gone! 

At last we reached the summit, but here our misery doubled. Hard pellets of hail shot from the sky and stung our face and any other bare skin that we foolishly left uncovered. Dave sat down, nearly crouching in a fetal position to block the raging pellets. I was grateful I wore long pants, a long-sleeved shirt and beenie. 

The storm started and stopped in uneven intervals. When the hail stopped, the calm came. After the calm came, the rain started. When the rain started, the wind picked back up. In short, it was a fine and pleasant misery! 

Dave, huddled on the ground.

From the summit we could see all the major peaks, including Wheeler and Baker. On a shouldering slope we could see it was now white, covered in hail. 

We took as many pictures as we could, then began working our way down. Even when off the peak, we weren't out of the woods yet. If a lightning storm decided to move through, we would be exposed and vulnerable. 

But, we made it! 

Moi.

As we returned to the trail above the lake, we marveled at our new adventure and drew similarities to another adventure two years earlier in the High Uintas. We also marveled at God's creations and discussed how “hard things” help you through life. 

We made it back to our tents just as it was getting dark. We still had to make supper. It would be much colder tonight, especially wearing damp clothing. 

The sunset glow on Johnson Lake was replaced with darkness and above the steep slope beyond the lake the stars came out in all their glory.

 

(to be continued . . .)

 

View of Johnson Lake from Pyramid Peak.