Silver Peak (#23)

Silver Peak.

One of the benefits of trying to hike as many peaks as possible is that I inevitably find peaks that I never knew existed. Such is the case with Silver Peak. It is only a half-hour drive from my house, and I've driven past it dozens of times in the past without noticing it. I don't even know the history behind it, although I suspect that at one time there was a silver mine.

It is a smaller peak, and is surrounded by hills nearly as tall. I was excited to explore this relatively unknown summit.

There is a dirt road that meets the highway and I parked on a side-road of the dirt road, under a tree. Since this was a smaller peak I decided to attack it with a circuitous route. I would ascend the “Younger Sister” as I will call it, a nearby and connected peak a few hundred feet lower. Then I would follow the ridge in a counter-clockwise route that would descend several hundred feet before regaining it, and then some, to the top of Silver Peak.

"Younger Sister Peak."

The ascent up Younger Sister wasn't too bad. I was able to take it slow and steady without too many breaks. Along the way I found a snake skin shed, but it was so faint I couldn't tell whether it was a rattlesnake or not. But it kept me on my guard. I heard a few weeks ago that stepping on a rattlesnake is a lot like stepping on a garden hose.

The top of the hill became rockier and I found a chute, through which I ascended. Still the summit remained higher. I persisted, climbing over boulders until I reached the top of Younger Sister Peak.

I am not including this in my official peak count because it is minor. But the view from here was still great. The two dominant features to the south were Stoddard Mountain and Iron Mountain, the latter having a communication tower on top. Highway 56 stretched out below and the Desert Mound Road behind me. For this first little peak I gained just over 1,000 feet in elevation.

Looking south from Younger Sister Peak toward Stoddard Peak.

I continued on, following the ridge to the northeast. Through the juniper trees I was able to catch glimpses of Silver Peak to the northwest. As I walked I noticed there were a lot of downed trees and old horse droppings. The trees didn't appear to be cut through, just toppled over. And with the horse droppings, I couldn't decided whether they were wild or belonging to a cowboy or miner.

A gradual descending ridge brought me lower in elevation. I dropped into a ravine where I saw more human activity, including a fence that stretched across the canyon and a little gate. I followed the ravine until I came to what I was looking for: a pile of tailings and white rock. It was at the edge of the cliff, up a level from the bottom. I walked up to the site and inspected it. I was confident that a mine was here at one time, but now there was nothing left of the portal. I'm sure they were mining silver, hence the name of the canyon.

Mysterious horse droppings.

Supposed old silver mine. 

Interesting square hole in the ground.

I had another hour and 700 feet to the top. I followed an old mining road part of the way up, but eventually had to bushwhack it. Twice I found markers created from a pile of rocks and a long stick acting as a pole. The second of these sat adjacent to a deep square hole dug into the ground. It didn't go any further than maybe twelve feet deep.

Silver Peak provided a decent vista. I had a good view of “Younger Sister,” as well as Iron and Stoddard Mountains. Behind me sat juniper-filled hills with nothing of distinction. To the east I could make out Red Mountain and a glimpse of Cedar City. Out west were mostly hills, but also with a view of the agriculture fields between New Castle and Beryl.

Looking south from Silver Peak. "Younger Sister Peak" in foreground.

Looking east from Silver Peak toward Cedar City and Brian Head.

Geological marker.

Looking west from Silver Peak toward New Castle and Beryl. 

I did not return the way I came, but instead completed a circuit. I was happy to have this peak under my belt, but it was certainly nothing to write home about. ♠


Silver Peak

Distance from car: 3.4 miles

Net elevation gain: 1,306 feet

Total elevation gain: 1,985 feet

Final elevation: 7,256 feet

Total round-trip distance: 5.7 miles

Death Near Davidson Peak (#22)

Davidson Peak has been on my radar for a while now. For one thing, when driving north on I-15, north of Vegas, it protrudes from the desert like a jagged pyramid. Although often overlooked by its more impressive cousin, Moapa Peak, Davidson Peak is still spectacular in its own regard. Every time I drive past I study it and ascertain which distant slanting slope might be the best to reach the summit.

But that's not the only reason why it's been on my radar.

Some time ago I learned the story of the Davidson family, a trio of hardy pioneers in the 1860's who all perished while crossing the desert on their way to Utah. It was a sad ordeal. I don't know when they named the peak after the deceased family, but most motorists on I-15 who see the formidable rocky bulk have no idea the name of the mountain, let alone the story behind the naming.

I spent the night sleeping in the back of my vehicle a few miles north of Mesquite, just off the freeway. I arrived right at dusk and was able to see the silhouette of Joshua trees against the sunset. In the distance, Moapa and Davidson peaks loomed on the horizon.

I sat in my camping chair, enjoying a Subway sandwich and watching the red and white lights stream along the freeway. A warm breeze blew across the arid ground. The evening felt perfect.

Sunset in the Mojave Desert.

Early night sky.  Moapa Peak in background.

But I knew this was far from how it gets during summer. Due to its location on the edge of the Mojave and Great Basin Deserts, the climate on Mormon Mesa during summer months can become brutally hot. When the Davidson's were traveling in June, the temperature likely neared 110º Fahrenheit. And beyond the Muddy and Virgin Rivers, there was little water to be had anywhere.

The next morning, as I began my eight-mile drive to my starting point, I was reminded of this brutal landscape. Although the road was graveled, it was a lot rockier than I would have preferred. I stayed at ten miles per hour along the serrated path. With each passing minute the craggy slopes of Davidson Peak came closer into view.

Approaching Davidson Peak.

At last I arrived at my destination and found a small turnout where I was able to park. The Davidson's would have passed right by this location. By this point it was unlikely they were admiring the majesty of the mountain or the beauty of the Joshua trees. They were likely in a panic, desperately searching for water. By this time, Death was already creeping in.

I parked and began my hike across a little valley that separated the main bulk of East Mormon Mountain with a smaller group of hills. Two sets of power lines stretched across the valley with accompanying service roads. In addition to these there were scattered Joshua trees, creosote bushes and a dry wash that emerged from the mountain. The weather was ideal, but I knew it would get hotter. The forecast predicted it would be 97º in Mesquite.

Beginning the hike.  Davidson Peak in background.

There are no trails that ascend to the summit. I determined my route by studying a topographical map and guessing which slopes were less likely to have insurmountable cliffs. I chose to enter a gulley on the east side that would gradually take me to a ridge that I could follow westward to the peak.

Let me give some background on the Davidson family.

The parents, James and Maria, were both born in the first decade of the nineteenth century near the east coast of Scotland, just twenty miles from each other. In 1828 they married in Glasgow.

While in Scotland they became converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, also known as the Mormons. As with most of the converts at that time, there was a desire to “come to Zion” and join the bulk of the Saints in Utah. James and Maria were able to come in 1866. Their daughter, Diana, previously immigrated in 1855.

When the Mormon pioneers first arrived in 1847, Brigham Young went to work sending them to various locations throughout modern-day Utah, Idaho, Wyoming, Nevada, Arizona and into California. It was a wild frontier. They had to build cities from the ground up using tools that would be considered primitive by today's standards. They had to become completely self-sustaining, which meant if a crop didn't do well, they wouldn't have enough to eat. They also relied on each other. There were stone masons, blacksmiths, cabinet makers, millers, cobblers, and many other occupations.

The Davidson's were weavers, a trade they learned in Scotland. When they arrived in the Salt Lake Valley they obtained employment at Woolen Mills. When the mill received a special order for fine work, Maria would supervise and inspect it.

At two miles into my hike, it was time make a turn to the west and head up the ridge. This is where it started to get steep. With the exception of one small cliff, the trek up this first steep slope wasn't difficult. I dodged cactus and strained my legs. The view improved with each step. Now I could see more rocky and dry mountains to the north, as well as the expanse of desert to the east. A hill just to our east had a road leading to a communications tower.

Beginning the climb, looking back south.

Utah century plant on the hill, looking north.

One reason I chose to hike this peak during April was because of a nearby hike I did last April when the desert wildflowers were all in full bloom. It was beautiful and I hoped for a repeat this year. That didn't happen. But the flora on this dry mountain was still impressive. Joshua trees continued to grow on these higher slopes, as well as California barrel cactus, a Utah century plant, an occasional cholla, as well as several other varieties of cactus.

The Joshua tree fits perfectly with this story because it was named by Mormon pioneers. There's a story that the tree was named by Elisha Hunt who led a caravan of Mormons to settle San Bernadino, California in 1851. The sight of these uniquely desert trees reminded these pioneers of Joshua in the bible, and how he stretched out the spear in his hand.

Joshua trees.

Once I arrived at the top of that first steep incline I gave myself reprieve. The slope was now relatively flat and my legs suspended their rebellion. It was here that I found a very steep cliff and ravine dropping off to the north. Embedded in this cliff, on the same side where I stood, was a large cave or alcove. It could be a fun place to explore, but getting down there from my location appeared either impossible or miserable. It wasn't in the cards today.

I could also feel the temperature creeping up, along with my exertion. Salty sweat began to form on my neck and forehead. I stopped from time to time to drink water. I brought three liters and would have to space them out to make them last. I was acutely aware that no water in this environment would be sure death. My mind constantly flashed back to the Davidson family situation with no water and temperatures 10 to 15 degrees warmer than today.

Looking toward summit of Davidson Peak.

Here's the rest of the story.

James, Maria and their twelve year old son, Joseph, went to St. Thomas, Nevada to visit their daughter, Maggie Davidson Paddock. There are different versions of the story, but one says that Maggie wanted her parents to live there, so they came to check it out. St. Thomas is now a ghost town, covered by Lake Mead.

On June 9, 1869 they began their return to Salt lake via St. George. They had only traveled a few miles when a tire came off their wagon. Their son-in-law helped them fix the tire. They were supposed to meet up with a group that included Lorenzo Snow and travel with them to St. George, but that group had already left. They waited another day before they decided to make the trip alone.

In those days there were two paths to travel across the desert. One followed the Virgin River, which had plenty of water, but involved many river crossings and possible quicksand. The other route led the traveler ten miles north of the river. Here there was no water, but at least the ground was solid.

The latter route was no problem for the experienced frontiersman, but these novice pioneers were just three years from living in Scotland, and the unforgiving Mojave Desert was like nothing they had ever experienced.

The exact movements of their travels are lost to time, but they must have traveled across Mormon Mesa and along the southern edge of the East Mormon Mountains, just as I did. It is unclear whether they ran out of water first or broke another tire. Whichever the case, their spring wagon made it no further than the eastern edge of the mountains, and before a great expanse of nothingness.

They sent twelve-year-old Joseph out on a horse to look for help and water. On the evening of June 12th the horse showed up at a camp near Beaver Dam, roughly fifteen miles away. The horse was fraught with thirst and near dead himself. Knowing this wasn't a good sign, one of the men from the camp rode up the road on his horse and found the boy Joseph dead with his face on the ground trying to drink water from a hole he had dug. There was an empty canteen and keg near him. He dug a grave for the boy and buried him.

Six days later Lorenzo Young was traveling to “The Muddy” when he came across the bodies of James and Maria. They sat beneath the meager shade of a Joshua tree with a blanket over them to block the sun. The parents were buried where they were found and later their son was exhumed and buried with them.

Cactus in bloom.

Thoughts of this poor family stayed with me during my entire trek up the mountain. I thought of those original pioneers who sacrificed everything to live in peace and practice their religion without disturbance.

I also knew I didn't want to perish from thirst either, so I continued to drink my water in a measured fashion. By now I had finished off one liter and had begun drinking the second.

I was also making good progress up the mountain. It was slow and tedious, but I stayed the course. Most of my route involved steep upward slopes with intermittent (relatively) flat sections.

One highlight came when I was over half way up the mountain. I heard a faint noise to the left on the rocks. I looked over and saw a bighorn sheep non-nonchalantly walking across the hillside. He paused to look at me, but didn't seem at all startled. His horns curled into a semicircle above his head. I looked toward the ravine from which he emerged to see if there were others to follow, but this ram appeared to be solo.

Bighorn sheep.

As we stared at each other I withdrew my camera to take a few pictures. He didn't seem to mind and continued his amble. In a calm tone I continued also, but angled toward his direction. Only once did he move with a small trot.

He worked his way over to the side of the hill, at the edge of a deep canyon. For a couple minutes he stood boldly silhouetted on the horizon before disappearing on the other side.

Bighorn sheep about to disappear. 

California barrel cactus.

I was near the top, but had two more steep sections left. All they required was a little grit. There were two nubs at the top, and I wasn't sure which was the true peak. It turned out that the first nub, which is labeled as the peak on Google Maps, isn't the true peak. The second nub is about 40 feet higher.

It took 3½ hours to reach the peak, climbing 2,622 feet in elevation.

From the summit of Davidson Peak it is truly a spectacular sight. The most obvious spectacle of all is Moapa Peak, which from this angle appears like a bottle-shaped monolith. The hike to the summit of Moapa Peak requires a class 3 climb with lots of exposure.

To the east and northeast are Virgin Peak and Mount Bangs with their accompanying mountain ranges. To the northwest of Davidson Peak the ground drops at a precipice that would kill human and animal alike. I kept my distance. Beyond the cliff on the other side of a valley are the Mormon Mountains, an isolated range that is rarely explored.

On the peak was an ammunition box tucked between the rocks. Inside the box was a Tupperware container, and inside that a notebook with a climber's log. I flipped through the leaves and learned that the last person to reach the peak was about a month ago. It was a Mihai Giurgiulesco from Romania.

From the summit looking at Moapa Peak and Rainbow Pass Road.

Mormon Mountains and Rainbow Pass Road.

Looking east from the peak.

As much as I loved the view from the top, I was anxious to get down. The heat was ramping up and I wanted to ensure I would have enough water. I also hoped to visit the Davidson family gravesite.

The hike down was much easier, although I only shaved half an hour off my time. I saw no bighorn sheep, but I did see a baby snake that was red and black. By the hair of my chin I was able to stretch out my third and final bottle of water.―I had an ice-cold Gatorade waiting for me in the vehicle.

Cave near the peak.

Finally in the comfort of my vehicle, I drove another mile down the road, then turned off onto a side-track, passing creosote bushes which seemed as tall as I was. Within a few minutes I was at my destination, a lone burial in the desert with a Scottish flag flapping from a pole.

There's just a little bit more to this story that I haven't told.

After James and Maria were buried in 1869, the location of their burial site was all but forgotten. Interestingly, none of the immediate family knew of the exact location. They had at least four living children.

Nearly 70 years later, around 1939, a prospector stumbled upon the grave. He reported it to the Sheriff, who came out to investigate. Initially he believed it to be a more recent death, but when the bodies were exhumed he learned they were much older. The locals in Bunkerville knew it was the Davidson's. The Sheriff removed a wedding ring from Maria so he could confirm it with the family. The bodies were then re-interred. According to one account they had been buried in their wagon box. A year later a grandson, George A. Reid, learned of the finding and came in possession of the ring. It is unclear whether he ever went to the grave.

Scottish flag and Davidson family grave.

In the early 1970's the Reid family decided they needed to find the location of the grave. One of them traveled to Bunkerville and was led by locals to the location of the grave. In November of 1973, one hundred and four years after their deaths, a proper monument was erected for the Davidson family.

So here I was in the middle of nowhere in the Mojave Desert paying homage to a family I never knew. It was a humbling experience. We have it so much easier than they did. They paid the ultimate price trying to build the kingdom they so sincerely believed in.

As I stated earlier, a flagpole with a light-blue banner with a white “X” flapped with the wind. At the foot of the pole was a flat headstone adorned with coins and plastic flowers. Engraved in the stone were the names and dates of the Davidson family.

As I drove away from the burial site on that spring afternoon, I had a greater appreciation for the sacrifice the Davidson's made as well as other pioneers from that era. I also left with a greater understanding of the brutal harshness of such an arid, yet beautiful landscape. ♠

Davidson family grave.

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