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. 

Little Shelly Peak (#25)

Little Shelly Peak as seen from Mount Baldy (in 2023).

Jenna and I pushed through a sea of sapling aspen, using the supple branches to pull our way up the steep mountainside. We had already passed groves of manzanita and mountain mahogany. We found the wide shade of a tall ponderosa pine and rested beneath its limbs.

Although agonizingly tedious, the fruits of our bushwhacking were now beginning to ripen. Mount Baldy reigned supreme over the rest of the mountainside, its shale-filled slopes appearing striking on the skyline. Below it the greenish-blue waters of Indian Creek Reservoir gave the portrait a perfect balance.

Little Shelly Peak as seen from trailhead.

Climbing up the steep slope toward the peak. Mount Baldy in background.

I had several purposes for this hike. The first was for the view. I hiked Mount Baldy a couple years ago and knew the view from Little Shelly would be the perfect angle for Baldy. Second, I'm trying to hike any peak I can, and especially all the peaks in the Tushars. And thirdly, Jenna and I both had the day off and it was an opportunity for the two of us to get out together.

There is no trail that we know of to Little Shelly. We parked at the Indian Creek Trailhead and followed that trail for ten minutes before diverting and bushwhacking up the hillside. The route to the top was logistically simple. Once we hit the ridge it would be a straight shot to the peak.

We decided that much of this area must have been scorched from wildfire in the recent past as many of the trees were young and at times there still remained the skeletons of trees. I recalled the Twitchell Fire that burned near here in 2010 and assumed that this was the event to claim so much territory.

Once we gained the ridge the steep slope subsided and we were left with a gentle uphill climb. Still the young aspens grew thick, but soon that ended and our final obstacle to the peak was shale rock. I'm sure that “Little Shelly” got its name from its shale-filled summit.

From the summit, looking toward Indian Creek Reservoir and Mount Baldy.

Panorama from the summit.

Although not among the highest peaks of the Tushars (elevation only 9,886 feet), Little Shelly Peak boasts an incredible view. In addition to the aforementioned Mount Baldy, one can also see Mount Belknap, Gold Mountain and Signal Peak, all above 11,000 feet.

We sat at the edge of the summit and enjoyed an avocado with salt and pepper. The view behind us was largely obscured in smoke due to two large wildfires, but the view in front was undiminished. A small patch of wildflowers grew atop the summit, adding to the beauty.

Our plan was not to simply turn around and go back, but to continue along the ridge and see what else we might find. The ridge that includes Little Shelly makes an “n” shape and if one had enough time they could walk the entirety of it and circle around to the vehicle. As we began our hike in the afternoon, I doubted we'd have enough time to make the full circuit.

As we continued along the ridge to the north side of Little Shelly, we found skeletons of large gnarled trees that at first I assumed were bristlecone pines. I was told that there is a grove of bristlecones somewhere on the Tushars, but I wasn't sure of exactly where. We expected to find nearby “living” bristlecones, but never did. Regardless of what kind of tree they were, the skeletons appeared mystically ghost-like.

From the summit of Little Shelly looking north toward summit #2.

We dropped about 400 feet down the slope, then regained it on the other side. This second peak was just twelve feet shorter than Little Shelly. Although similar in elevation, they were very different in character. This peak had no shale rock, but boasted trees and other vegetation. To one side the ground dropped precipitously into a mini amphitheater with a couple hoodoos that somewhat resembled those in Bryce Canyon, but with a chalky color.

From here we now had a profile view of Little Shelly and a slightly closer angle of the four big peaks to the east. Indian Creek Reservoir was no longer in view.

The good news was that it was all downhill from here!

From summit #2, looking back toward Little Shelly Peak.

U.S. Geological Survey marker. 

Surprisingly we found a trail while descending the southeast side of the aforementioned peak. The shadows were becoming longer and we had no interest in anymore bushwhacking. We followed the trail for over two more miles, all the way down to the vehicle.

Although Little Shelly would be considered a minor peak, it had major views of the surrounding summits and Indian Creek Reservoir. It was good to learn another little chunk of the Tushars, and next time I'm sure I'll push myself a little bit further into the unknown. ♠

Ponderosa pines.

Little Shelly Peak

Distance from car: 1.6 miles

Elevation gain to peak: 1,868 feet

Final (peak) elevation: 9,876 feet

Total elevation gain: 2,176 feet

Total round-trip distance: 5.3 miles

From summit #2, looking east toward four peaks of the Tushars.

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

Mount Holly in January (Peak #20)

It was seventeen degrees Fahrenheit when we pulled into the parking lot of the lodge. That was warmer than I expected. We were the first ones there. The sun had just crested over the forest of trees in the east.

We got out of the car and put on extra layers of pants, shirts, gloves and jackets. Then we strapped on snowshoes and began our small journey northward on a steady uphill slope of packed snow.

We were fortunate. Although it was the last week of January, this year was unusually dry. There had been some good storms at the beginning of winter, but for the last 50 days the mountain saw no snowfall.

But I didn't know what to expect. I'm not a seasoned winter hiker and had no idea whether I could stay warm. I wore three layers of pants, including good snow pants on the outside. My socks were doubled, one of them made out of merino wool. On top I wore a pair of long johns, a t-shirt, two long-sleeve sweat shirts, and a Loftek jacket that in the past had done well to keep the cold out. A black balaclava covered most of my head, topped with a beanie and the hood of my jacket. Two pairs of gloves covered my hands. My only weak spot was my boots. All I had were regular hiking boots. The sole on my snow boots were coming off.

The hike began from the lodge at 10,349 feet. Our original plan was to hike Delano Peak and take snowmobiles in five miles on another road, but the guy renting out the snowmobiles backed out on that plan due to possible whiteouts. So we opted to hike Mount Holly, which was closer to the lodge.

The first part of the hike fell within the boundaries of the ski resort, but we soon arrived at the backcountry. It's hard to say how deep the snow was here, but I would guess maybe a foot or more. It should have been several feet deep during a normal year.

One thing that made me nervous about hiking in the backcountry during winter was the fact that we needed to carry avalanche beacons. The thought of being buried alive under an avalanche terrified me. I would rather be shot to death. When Ricardo first invited me on this excursion, I told him the one stipulation was that we didn't get buried in an avalanche.

I should mention who was on this hike. There were three of us. Ricardo from Uruguay was a friend of mine, and several years ago he and I ran a trail marathon on this mountain, the Crusher in the Tushars. The other guy, Trevor, I had never met, but later we learned that we were distant cousins, which is never a surprise here in Utah.

I've climbed Mount Holly ten other times according to my count. In many ways it's an easy hike due to its proximity to pavement, but it's a steep little bugger and will certainly test your thighs. But I had never hiked it in winter . . . until today.

As we hiked, my body stayed relatively warm except my nose and my right-hand fingertips. As for the nose, I just had to put up with it. I tried pulling the balaclava over it, but it just steamed up my glasses. For my hands Trevor gave me a little heating pad that I shook up and placed between my two layers of gloves. That seemed to do the trick.

Despite the fact that most of the higher peaks had a couple feet of snow, I was pleasantly surprised that the southern slopes of Holly was largely devoid of snow due to constant wind. Once we arrived at a bare spot on the southern flanks, we removed our snowshoes and began the arduous hike in just our boots.

This part of Holly is difficult. It can separate the casual from the serious hiker. I think most hikers could do it, but it requires stamina. We pushed upward, resting every few minutes. As I climbed the blood pulsated through my body and my thighs burned. As we got higher, the intensity of the wind increased. There were shallow patches of snow, but nowhere near what I expected.

The peak of Mount Holly was as blistery as anticipated. The wind ramped up five-fold and suddenly we faced gusts that had to have been near sixty miles per hour. The view was the same I had seen many times over, only it was now covered in snow: Delano Peak reigned to the north, Mount Baldy to the northwest and a steep basin to our east. I could see no mountain goats anywhere.

Every time I removed my right glove to take a picture, my fingers stung with a frigid burning. I walked around, looking over the ledges on the east side to look for goats, but to no avail. We stayed at the summit no longer than ten minutes. The wind chill had to be near zero. Even the snot that drizzled from my nose to my beard instantly froze. It was time to find a location free from wind, and there we could take a small lunch break.

* * *

This account wouldn't be complete without sharing what happened after we finished our hike and were back at the car. Now the entire parking lot at the lodge was full with skiers and snowboarders moving around like ants. Trevor, who had a season pass for his family, proposed that we stay an extra hour and all go skiing. We could go for free on his pass.

My only objection was the embarrassing fact that I had never skied in my life, other than cross-country skiing a couple of times. Trevor agreed to be my tutor, and we could practice on the “bunny slopes.”

To make a long story short, the next hour was more miserable than anything we did on Mount Holly. I spent the entire time trying to make “pizzas” with my skis, wiping out on the snow, trying to get back up, and probably getting scoffed at by school kids who had aerial views from the ski lift. I received bruises on my elbow and hip, and would have received a concussion if I weren't wearing a helmet. I concluded that you can't teach an old dog new tricks! ♠

Mount Holly

Distance from car (one way): 1.9 miles

Elevation gain: 1,654 feet

Final elevation: 11,993 feet