Two Peaks And A Brush With Death (#'s 6 & 7)

The night was cold and dark as I laid in my tent reading a ghost story by Bram Stoker. We were far away from anyone. The closest person was at least six miles and we slept high in the mountains next to Baker Lake on the eastern side of lonely Nevada. The lake sat in a cirque with steep talus-filled cliffs on the far side. 

Suddenly I heard a loud clanking on the rocks and splashing as if a heavy animal was running across the lake, his hooves striking on the stones. I rose from my bag, assured myself of what I was hearing, then flung off my cap and desperately searched for the zipper of my tent. By the time I opened the door and craned my head from the orifice, the noise was gone. I waited for it to come back, but nothing. All I could hear was the snoring of my son in the other tent. 

I contemplated what the sound might be. An elk prancing along the shore? Unlikely. I concluded it must have been a small rock avalanche coming off the cliff-face, then tumbling and crashing into the water. The noises of the night can be puzzling and even spooky when alone in such remote terrain as this.

Baker Lake at sunset.

 

After a good night's sleep we awoke to a calm September morning on the small lake. This would be a huge day for us. Our plan was simple, but daunting. Using Baker Lake as our base, we would hike up a saddle to the main ridge that connects the highest peaks of the southern Snake Range. Then we would stay on that high ridgeline and hike several miles south to Mount Washington. After that we would return the way we came, back to our camp. Then, if time permitted, we would climb Baker Peak which stood a mile to the north, but out of sight. It was a big serving, and possibly too much. Now it was time to find out. 

We loaded a few items inside a day-pack, which included a couple water bottles, coat, gloves and snacks. Jordan brought a disposable poncho. We left the campsite and hiked toward the slanting talus slope that led to the saddle. 

Camping at Baker Lake.

If one looks at the Snake Range from above it appears as a slithering creature, with Bald Mountain to the north and winding down to Wheeler Peak, Baker Peak, Mount Washington and beyond. Perhaps this serpentine appearance is where the name came from. Others suggest it derived from the Snake Indians, a collective name given to the Northern Paiute, Bannock and Shoshone tribes by a French explorer, Pierre Gaultier de Varennes, in 1739. Whatever the reason, the name emits a mystical vibe. 

After following several switchbacks on a faint trail, we arrived at the top of the saddle, and hence on the main ridgeline. From here we would follow generally in a southern direction, averaging approximately 11,400 feet the entire time. 

On our left, or to the east, we passed a basin with another lake pressed up against the base of the slope. I explained to Jordan that this was Johnson Lake, and that down there hidden in the trees were old cabins and other remnants of the Johnson Mine, an operation from the early 1900's that mined tungsten ore. I had been down there once before, but this time neither one of us felt like descending a thousand feet, just to have to climb back up again. 

Johnson Lake and Pyramid Peak.

The crest of the ridge at this point is filled with large boulders and even some rare high-elevation trees that make hiking cumbersome. The east side of the ridge is steep, but not necessarily sheer. There are many good views of Johnson Lake with Pyramid Peak in the background. 

The ridgeline increases in elevation gradually until it arrives at a summit, unnamed on most maps, but known to many as Johnson Peak. My altimeter gave it a height of 11,765 feet. We were happy to make it to the top, but quickly learned the inevitable that we had yet another peak ahead of us. 

Johnson Peak.

The distance between Johnson Peak and Quartzite Peak, which is the next one down the line, is only half a mile. Like its neighbor to the north, it has a very similar altitude at 11,765 feet. Quartzite Peak is not named on most maps. As Jordan and I trudged to this new summit, I anxiously anticipated the view beyond it. 

And as we arrived, it didn't disappoint. In the distance sat Mount Washington, our goal. We still had another mile and a half to go, but at least now there were no other obstacles that stood in our way. And best of all, the path from here smoothed out. Yes, there were still rocks, but not the large and randomly strewn stones that we had been walking over up until now. The ridgeline now took on a colorful look. It appeared as if there were a golden strand along the mountain's crest. 

First full glimpse of Mount Washington.

Mount Washington is unique in appearance compared to other peaks on the south Snake Range. It is primarily made of gray limestone with a gradual slope on the southern side. Unfortunately for us, we were approaching from the north which is much steeper, but doable if in the right place. To the east and west of Mount Washington are spectacular sheer cliffs, striated in geological layers. 

But with that initial sighting of Mount Washington, we also had a foreshadowing of what was to come. Storm clouds were now gathering over the limestone peak, dark and foreboding. We knew that time was of the essence, so we made haste in that direction. 

Mount Washington.  Curious rock artwork in foreground.

At the base of the peak, on one of the flanking saddles, I was excited to find a grove of bristlecone pine trees. This species of trees can only be found in Utah, Nevada and eastern California. There were several living bristlecones on this particular slope, but several of the trees were dead, their twisted and gnarled trunks appearing as ghosts. Indeed the sight was beautiful and surreal, as well as a bit eerie. Bristlecone pine trees are among the longest living forms of life on earth. 

Gnarled bristlecone pine tree.

 

Now we didn't have time to explore the grove.  A tempest was brewing. We would have to catch it on the way back. It was about this time that we heard our first rumbling of thunder. A chill went down my spine as I knew we were entering a danger zone. 

I have been in this situation a handful of times, a situation where we have traveled a long ways to summit a peak and at the same time a lighting storm is gathering on the mountain. Conventional wisdom is to immediately turn around and find lower ground. But when you've come this far, that is easier said than done. 

The view beyond Mount Washington.  Lincoln Peak on right.

Thunder continued to rumble as we now started to ascend the peak. This was no walk in the park, even without a storm. The slope was quite steep with loose rocks. We worried about rain making it even more dangerous on the way down. We found a seam that ran upward with no loose rock and we took this route. We were now close to the summit with just one more level to ascend. 

And then we saw the lightning strike. It came from the far side of the peak. At this point we were far above any trees and we took note of any safe place to hide from a strike. The wind picked up and we felt drops of rain. When a second bolt flashed nearby, we made the quick decision to hunker down with our backs facing the edge of a cliff. We were still very close to the top, but at least we didn't stick out.

This is the first place we hunkered down.

We waited several minutes. This was nuts! We were foolish and we knew it! We sat there next to each other, our knees to our chest, waiting for a lull in the storm. 

At this point we were about five minutes from the summit. Our plan was to make it to the top, quickly get all the mandatory photos, then race down the mountain as quickly as possible. 

And then we saw our window. 

We scurried to the top, arriving there as quickly as expected. But the view we found brought exhilaration and terror all at once. On the south side of Mount Washington loomed a sky as dark as the Witches' Sabbath. Nothing good could come of this, I thought. 

Spooky sight as we crested the summit.

As I had rehearsed in my mind, I whipped out my camera and took pictures on every side, beginning with the menacing storm. I included a panorama as well as a view of the path on which we had come. Then, last of all, it was time for that final photo, the obligatory selfie of the two of us to prove to the world that we actually made it to the peak. 

I flipped the screen on my camera so we could see ourselves. Once we were framed, I pressed the shutter, which in this position always has a three-second timer. Simultaneously, our ears heard the same thing: the small sizzle of static electricity coming from the camera! We looked at each other with eyes wide open. I had never heard that noise coming from my camera. There was definitely electricity in the air! We took one more picture with the same result. Then another boom somewhere behind us and we knew it was time to run. 

Obligatory photo on the summit, with static electricity coming from the camera!

We took off running down the the northeast side when another clap was heard. This one was accompanied with a crackling that sounded exactly as if a whip was being cracked behind us. We picked up the speed. 

There was nowhere to hide, but we had to do something. To our north was the sheer face of Mount Washington. A fall from here would surely be fatal. But along the rim was a small indention that was the perfect size for two men to sit. 

We hunkered down. We both had coats, but Jordan was the only one smart enough to bring a poncho, even if it was just a cheap disposable one. We pressed our curled legs together and he draped the plastic over my knees. We were just in time because now it started to hail. Before us sat a rugged mountain canyon thick in pine trees. 

Just then a long bolt of lightning flashed before us and struck the trees just 300 yards from where we sat. Everything happened in an instant. Where the bolt struck I saw a red glow and was sure that at any second there would be flames rising in the air. But also in that same instant I felt a strong buzzing shock in my left thigh. That scared me. I quickly turned to Jordan to see if he was alive. Luckily for me, he was still ticking. He had also received the same shock, but in his legs, butt and tailbone. My left thigh was touching his right leg. Both of us appeared to be alright, but were amazed that somehow that electric shock had traveled underground or invisible through the air and into our bodies. It was an experience like none other that I've had in my life. 

For the next several minutes we huddled together knowing that any breath could be our last. It would only take one strike, aimed a little closer, to sizzle us alive. The thought crossed my mind that if we were to die here, they might not find our bodies until spring or later if it knocked us off the cliff. 

This is where we hunkered down and felt the lightning.

The bulls-eye of the storm finally drifted to the east. Although the wind still blew and somewhere in the distance echoed a rumble of thunder, we felt that now we were out of imminent danger. We made it down the precariously steep slope with loose rock. We spent time at the bristlecone pine grove, but not too much because we were anxious to get back. 

Our walk back to camp was no walk in the park. The wind often blew at ferocious speeds. One time I fell and hit my knee, elbow and jaw hard on the rocks. The distance seemed to last forever. All I wanted now was to lay down on a soft sleeping bag inside my tent. 

At last we made it. 

Another bristlecone pine tree.

Beautifully colored rock with Mount Washington in background.

Up until now I knew I wanted to climb Baker Peak, but didn't know if we had the time. We hadn't done it yesterday and I knew it would be foolish if we were to do it tomorrow before hiking out. Today was our only viable choice. 

After a one hour break inside our tents, it was now time to summon our energy once again. We now had two hours before sunset. Baker Peak was one mile away as the crow flies. The only problem was that we weren't crows and we would have to gain 1,678 feet in elevation! 

Finally back at camp.

From our campsite we found a backdoor route that took us up the steep rocky slope. A mountainside strewn with talus, most of it stable, led us to leap and climb over boulders of all sizes. My legs were exhausted. We stopped every few minutes so this old man could catch his breath and rest his thighs. Quite often I would set my sights on an unusual rock up ahead, then make the goal that there would be no stopping until we reached that rock. Usually this tactic worked. 

The higher we climbed the more I realized that we weren't going to make our one-hour goal to reach the summit. Still we kept moving. There would be a lot of regret if we didn't make it. At least now there was no threat of a thunderstorm. 

We were well above the treeline and the crest of the peak was still ahead. We could see what looked like a summit, but we weren't sure if it was the true high point. 

At last we made it to the ridge of the crest, but realized that we were off on where we gauged the summit to be. We had veered to the left, while the summit was far to the right. By now our one-hour goal had failed, but we still moved on. Once on top, the steep slope had been replaced with a gentle uphill. Scrubby tufts of alpine grass gave our feet occasional rest from the pounding of rocks. 

At last we arrived at Baker Peak, elevation 12,298 feet. The view was spectacular and we had no thunderstorm to chase us off! To the north Wheeler Peak dominated the scene, rising nearly 800 feet higher. To the right of it, Doso Doyabi, the second highest peak in the range, made its presence known as well. 

At the summit of Baker Peak.

Wheeler Peak (left) and Doso Doyabi.

As it was nigh before sunset, the entire view in the basin below glistened in golden hue. In the westerns sky the sun, although hidden by a cloud, shot beams across the farms and fields below. To the extreme east we could see Notch Peak, as well as the rugged hills of the Confusion Range. 

Baker Peak is the fourth highest summit in Nevada, yet is rarely climbed due to the favoring of nearby Wheeler Peak. The peak, as well as the lake and town, are named after George W. Baker, an early settler who arrived in the area in 1876. 

Jordan and I knew we couldn't stay and relish the moment too long. This time we were racing against sunlight. Negotiating the steep talus slope wouldn't be much fun in the dark. 

Beautiful beams of sunlight.

From Baker Peak looking east.

With thirty minutes left until sunset, we made our way down the mountain. Going downhill was much easier, but still a challenge. Rest stops were nearly eliminated. Even though the sun had set, our eyes adjusted to the new low light and we made it all the way back to camp without a flashlight until we got down to the level of the lake and had to walk through the trees. 

What a day! It was certainly one we would never forget. I think that both of us had certainly gained a new appreciation for life, not only because our lives were spared, but also because of the new beauty we had discovered. Life is good. ♠

Looking  back across the Snake Range, with Mount Washington in the distance.

Mount Washington


Miles from car (one way): 9.5 miles 

Elevation gain: 3,658 feet 

Final elevation: 11,658 feet



Baker Peak


Miles from car (one way): 7.4 miles 

Miles from camp: 2 miles 

Elevation gain from car: 4,298 feet  

Elevation gain from camp: 1,678 feet  

Final elevation: 12,298 feet

Wheeler Peak

Most people are surprised to learn there is a summit that rises above the Great Basin to over 13,000 feet—complete with a glacier and 2,000 year old pine trees. But then again, most people have never heard of Wheeler Peak.
 
We begin our journey just above the 10k line. The trail slants upward through a grove of aspen. There are three of us and we enjoy conversation as we walk. Occasionally a trickle of water will cut across the the path, but other than that it is dry. We've had an extremely heavy snow year, so at some point we expect to find snow, even though it's mid-July.
 

Wheeler Peak on right; Jeff Davis peak, left.

The first couple miles are beautiful, but nothing out of the ordinary for a mountain setting. The trail cuts back and works its way up into an expansive meadow. From here Wheeler Peak comes into full view, along with its companion, Jeff Davis Peak. (Personally, I feel that in our P.C. sensitive world we need to work on getting that peak renamed!)
 
The trail then climbs onto a ridge where we get our first views of Stella Lake, one of a few alpine lakes in this area. It is here that we cross our first patch of snow and also where we begin to encounter other hikers.
 

Stella Lake, with Jeff Davis Peak in background.

I was curious before this hike as to how many people we would encounter. Great Basin National Park is relatively remote and one of the least visited national parks in the country. The first man we pass is resting next to a tree and admittedly out of breath. He is a bit overweight and after we pass him we quietly agree with each other that there is no way he'll make it to the top.
 
The second man we pass appears to be more ambitious, but is insistent that he doesn't want to stop for long, or his legs will shut down. He is from Florida. For us, that's all we need to know. We bet against him, too. The air is too thin and cold for a flat-lander Florida man to make it to the top.
 

Deep patches of snow on higher slopes.

Next we pass two older intellectual types who are on their way down. They look miserable. Jackets are zipped to their chin and their cheeks and ears are red. “Did you make it to the top?” we ask. Their answer is an emphatic, “No!” They say that once they began climbing the ridge that the wind blew gusts around forty to sixty miles per hour. They don't seem to anxious to talk, but continue on down.
 
From this point the hike begins to change. We gradually leave the sheltering comfort of pine trees and enter a steeper climb of shale rock. The bare nature of the mountain leaves us exposed to the brute force of the wind. I add another layer of clothing, including a beanie to cover my ears.
 
Large swaths of snow cover portions of the trail. We can either walk over the top, or choose to walk around. Some of the drifts are over three feet deep. 

By now we are well above the tree line and can see for miles in every direction, except south. On the west a wind farm spreads across the valley like rows of white toothpicks. North of us rises another massive mountain range, with a bald hill crowning the summit. This is Mount Moriah. Far to the east I can see Notch Peak, a massive fissure in the skyline. That is our destination tomorrow.
 

Wheeler Peak getting closer.

About half way up someone has built several wind-breaks using shale rock. They are in U-shapes and could prove beneficial on such an exposed ridge. This is certainly not the place to wear a ball cap. It's kind of funny how the wind will blow at near hurricane speeds, then stop on a dime.
 
We pass more people coming down. These are in a group from Vanderbilt University in Tennessee. They have come for a one-week field trip to visit the national park and nothing else. They flew into Vegas and are flying out tomorrow. There's about a dozen all together. We give cordial gestures as we pass each of them. We talk to the lady who organized the trip. Apparently they are part of an outdoor rec class. They seem nice enough, but I just can't imagine why you would need outdoor rec classes in a university! And yes, they all made it to the top.
 
The last person we pass on our way to the peak is a solo hiker. He appears to be limping, but only slightly. Each step is placed carefully. We greet each other in passing. It is then that I notice his footwear. He is only wearing open-toed sandals! This guy is crazy! No wonder he is limping. His right big toe is swollen and white as a ghost. This is certainly no environment to be wearing footwear like that. This whole mountain is nothing but rocks. He is going to have a long, miserable hike down.
 

The final ascent.

The final portion of our ascent leads us over large boulders, sometimes having to use all-fours to complete the task. At last we reach the top. I would like to say that we have a grand 360 degree view, but that's not the case. Yes, we can now see the rugged mountain valley to our south, but there is an east-west running ridge on which we stand that blocks part of our view. And our view to the east is now blocked by the aforementioned Confederate peak.
 

Panorama view from the top.

But what a beauty it is to be 13,065 feet high, having the entire peak to ourselves. There is a very deep ridge of snow along the summit, and I find how truly deep it is as I try to walk on top and fall through, my right leg being completely submerged in the snow.
 
On the east side of the peak is the most precipitous side of the summit. To get to this ledge I have to jump over a steep chute that likely would kill me if slip. There is a chasm between here and Jeff Davis Peak, with the glacier being out of sight and directly below us. We humbly spend time admiring the ruggedness of this location. Here footsteps are placed carefully and we are mindful of ourselves at all times. I am a bit nervous about recrossing the chute, but luckily Devon finds a safer crossing over the ridge across a snow bank. It is a majestic location, but I am relieved to leave.
 

Relaxing at summit with Jeff Davis peak in background.

Debris at the summit.

Surprisingly the wind is not too strong here at the top. A couple of wind shelters have been built and we use one to sit down and eat our lunch. After eating half an avocado, I toss my peel over the edge, only to watch it rise up like a helicopter and and then boomerang back in the opposite direction! Obviously there are still pockets of strong wind.
 

Now it is time to work our way down the mountain. Of course, the descent is much easier. The only eventful moment comes when we decide to take a shortcut by sledding down a snow field. I am skeptical at first, fearing that it only takes one sharp rock poking through the melting snow to do some serious hind-end damage. But Dave goes first down the slope, probably a sixty-yard run, and safely reaches the bottom. When it's my turn I sit down on the one-rut track and begin to slide down. The ride is a bit bumpy, but by the time I come to the bottom there is a big smile on my face.  The back of my pants are sopping wet!
 

Sledding down the mountain!

Instead of returning the exact way we came, we opt to take the Alpine Lakes Loop Trail, which passes by the two major lakes we could see from the peak. At the junction to the loop I find my biggest surprise of the hike. A huge four-point buck is loitering about the meadow with a doe. They take their time cropping the green grass. The doe seems more concerned than the buck about our presence. He is still in the velvet and his antlers are thick. I'm guessing he's about thirty inches wide.
 

Nice four-point buck still in the velvet.

Stella Lake is our first stop on the loop, and then about a mile later, Teresa Lake. Both are beautiful and maintain a reflection of pine trees when the wind isn't blowing. We even spot another smaller lake that is hidden beneath a copse of forest.
 

Stella Lake.

The other pleasant surprise comes when icy-cold streams begin to crop up everywhere—and I mean everywhere! At one point it seems like they are all around us. Some from melting snow and others shoot forth from underground fountains. They crisscross the trail, creating a mud-mess. And they are bitter cold. I stoop down and fill my water bottle, submerging the neck into the rushing water. By the time it is full, my hand and fingers are numb.
 
There are more hikers here, which is an indication that we are getting closer to the main road. It is still a far cry, however, from the busy national parks. At last we cross the bridge at Lehman Creek and walk upon the pavement. It is just another half mile to our vehicle. We hope a nice person will drive by and we can hitch a ride, but that doesn't happen. ♠ 

A slew of running water coming down the mountain.

Wheeler Peak in black and white.

Road Trip to Great Basin National Park

Memorial Day weekend can be a tricky time to travel, with floods of people anywhere you go. This year we made a wise choice and missed the crowds. We traveled northwest through some pretty isolated country, our final destination being Great Basin National Park in Nevada.

From our home in Enoch, Utah, the one-way trip is 138 miles. The largest town we passed through was Milford, population 1,360. Other than that, it is a desolate stretch of land. We saw a few small herds of antelope, sheep, and cattle; small farms in the desert, and a ghost town.

The average person could call this land boring and monotonous. "Ugly" may be the term used by the most cynical. But for me, it is fascinating! Any terrain that is this remote has got to have layers of mysteries waiting to be discovered. I ponder the stories that may never be told and geological wonders that have never been discovered. Here's a small collection of what we found.

Frisco. Just fifteen miles west of Milford on Highway 21 is the ghost town of Frisco, named because it lies at the foot of the San Francisco Mountains. At its height—around 1885—this mining town had twenty three saloons and a population of 6,000. That's really hard to believe because now, no one lives here.

We parked just off the highway and walked across strewed debris and old foundations. On the side of the hill are five beehive-shaped charcoal ovens (below) used by miners to serve the smelters. Most of the large conical ovens are well preserved.

With more time, and a big enough interest, a man could spend all day exploring Frisco. Many old mines and buildings are scattered around the area. Being on a tight schedule, we chose only visit the ovens, and then the cemetery.

The cemetery (above left) is located due west of the ovens, and accessed by a good graveled road. I was pleased to see that the graveyard still sees visitors, as evidenced by coins, flowers, boots, and other knick-knacks left at many of the graves. Headstones are intermingled with wild grass, sagebrush, and juniper trees.

The demise of Frisco is a fascinating tale. One evening in 1885, the night shift had just emerged from the Horn Silver Mine when the foreman realized the ground was shuddering beneath him. He held off on sending the next crew down, and a few minutes later there was a “thundering roar” that shattered windows as far as Milford. All at once, the entire mine collapsed, taking with it not only dirt and ore, but also the jobs of those in town who were employed at the mine. In the years that followed, Frisco held on by a thread, but by 1920, the town became empty.

The next sixty or so miles from Frisco takes you through some pretty lonely territory, with long stretches that cross the Wah Wah and Pine Valley's (above).

As the highway climbs another crest and takes a noticed turn to the northwest, the first view of the snow-capped mountains of Great Basin National Park come into view. I was also impressed with the fields of Indian Paintbrush that grew like wheat in the valley (right).

We pulled over to a corral that was just off a dirt road and found scattered wool on the ground. It appeared that this had been a spot for sheep-shearing not too long ago.

Garrison, Utah. The first hint of any civilization in nearly seventy five miles, Garrison is a tiny town in Snake Valley. I don't know much about the history of this little place, other than it was founded in the 1850's by cattle rustlers and other outlaws. Sounds interesting to me.

Other than farms, there isn't much here. An LDS church that appears to be made with two modular homes sits in the middle of town. Behind the church is an interesting cemetery (left), with several old graves and a graveled ground. The majestic Snake Range stands as the backdrop.

Baker, Nevada. Less than a mile after leaving Garrison, we cross the state line into Nevada. Seven miles later, we are in Baker. Baker isn't much bigger than Garrison, if at all. Total population: 68.

Baker is headquarters to Great Basin National Park, and tends to have the look of a National Park border-town with hippie-like art on some of the buildings. 

We took a small drive around town, past the elementary school playground, and past the community church (above).

At the center of town, it is necessary to take a left-hand turn onto Lehman Caves Road. This is the road that will take you to the main entrance of the park. Along this stretch you will find several pieces of “art” if you pay attention to the fence posts (above). Although this is the main thoroughfare to the park (and we were there on Memorial Day!), you'll still have the road mostly to yourself. Take your time and see what you can find.

Lehman Caves. Around 1885, Absalom Lehman discovered a small opening in the hillside above his ranch, leading to a spectacular cave that would later bear his name. Although the exact story of how this rancher/miner from Pennsylvania discovered the caves may never be known, we do know that what he found is pretty amazing.

The cave is damp and cool inside, maintaining a constant temperature of fifty degrees Fahrenheit. We opted for the ninety-minute tour, which we took with fifteen other people. No gum, no food, no water bottles, no camera bags, no touching—among other rules—are strictly enforced. Cameras are allowed, and flashlights and jackets are recommended.

Our tour took us a little over half a mile past stalagmites, stalactites, helictites, shield formations and other configurations. The entire walk is conveniently placed on a cement path, along with some stairs. There are a few clear pools of water inside the cave. In the Inscription Room, several names are written across the ceiling, including one from 1903.

It is hard to fathom how the early discoverers of the cave got around without a foot path. They must have used lots of ropes and candle light.

There is evidence that Native Americans used the entrance hole as a burial spot, judging from bones found below the opening. But nothing suggests they explored the cave.

Wheeler Peak. The omnipresent Wheeler Peak seems to be visible from about anywhere in Snake Valley, and inside the park. This snow-capped crown is the second highest in all of Nevada, reaching 13,063 feet in elevation.

Although hiking this summit is on my to-do list, I knew it wasn't practical on this trip. We had little time, young kids, and the peak was still packed in snow. I had hoped to hike to Stella Lake, which sits below the peak in an Alpine setting, but the rangers told me it was under snow also.

So, we did the next best thing and drove ten miles up the Wheeler Peak scenic drive to a lookout point near 10,000 feet. The drive is pretty, and climbs at a steady pitch. Along the way you have great views of nearby Mount Moriah, as well as distant Notch Peak. There is also a roadside kiosk explaining the history of the failed Osceola Ditch project.

I will admit that when I came to the view point I was very disappointed.  Several tall trees grew around it (blocking the view), and it faced the wrong direction (toward the east, rather than Wheeler Peak). Therefore, the vista it provided was only mediocre.

I did what I tend to do and briskly walked a quarter of a mile further up the road toward a bend that appeared to have a promising panorama. Few cars passed me. Patches of snow clumped around the foot of the Englelman Spruce that grew from the steep slope that dropped at my immediate left. The high mountain air was welcoming and I breathed it deeply as I continued a quick jaunt.

At last, I reached the bend in the road, and as expected, the trees opened up, the valley below unfolded, and Wheeler Peak in all her majesty stood before me. Caked in white, with rugged granite ledges peeking out, I admired the splendor of the mountain.

But knowing that I had a wife and three girls waiting on me back at the car, I knew I had to leave. I steadied my camera with my right hand and trotted back down the road. ♠