A Navajo Lake in Paiute Territory

When I first moved to Iron County twenty-seven years ago, I was baffled and somewhat amused that Navajo Lake should have such a name. My hometown—over 300 miles away—was just thirty minutes from the Navajo Reservation. There were no Navajos over here, I assumed. Therefore I concluded that Navajo Lake was so named only because it had a good ring. 

Carmen Clark, Chairwoman of the Shivwits Band of the Paiute Tribe had similar feelings. Commenting on a proposed bill that would rename many landmarks that indigenous people find offensive, she said, “Why is it called Navajo Lake when the Navajos weren't even in this area? It should have a Paiute name.” 

Navajo Lake sits in the northeast corner of Kane County, Utah.

For those unfamiliar, Navajo Lake is located in a picturesque setting on the Markagunt Plateau at an elevation of 9,200 feet. It is nestled in a little valley, surrounded on all sides by pine trees. The lake was formed by a lava flow on the eastern side of the valley. An interesting detail is that there is no stream running out of the lake. Instead, the water seeps into an underground drainage that emerges at Cascade Falls, over a mile away. 

Nowadays the lake is used primarily for recreation. Near the shores are a couple of campgrounds, a lodge and several private cabins. The waters are stocked with three varieties of trout. Last summer our family took kayaks on the lake. Despite the popularity, Navajo Lake retains a peaceful setting. 

Recreation is now popular, but not overwhelming, at Navajo Lake.

But it wasn't until a few years ago that I learned the story behind the naming of the lake. And, no, it wasn't named on a whim. And, yes, there were Navajos in the area at the time. 

The story was told by Joseph H. Pollock in 1930, one of two surviving men at the time who were part of a posse to round up a group of thieving Navajos. As the story goes, it was October of 1869 near the town of Kannara when a passing camper with his span of mules woke up to learn that during the night his animals had been shot full of arrows. A posse was quickly summoned, and as they pursued the tracks they learned that just two and a half miles north, the Indians had taken a large herd of horses.

Joseph Henry Pollock (right) poses with his brother, Samuel.

With two natives as their guides (presumably Paiutes) they headed east and climbed nearly 2,000 feet to the top of what is now Kanarra Mountain, passing through Blue Valley. Near a head of a fork of the Virgin River, they spotted an Indian who quickly disappeared into the gulch. Then they found a horse belonging to one of the townspeople, unfortunately full of arrows. Just before they got to Black Rock, they found a horse mortally wounded. Further on they found six more dead horses. 

They came to a big mountain north of the lake where they made a grisly discovery. This horse was not dead, but was full of arrows and hamstrings cut out. There, darkness overtook them and they paused to build a fire and decide their next move. It was decided they would continue the chase until the thieves were caught. 

Pine-covered hills on the north side of Navajo Lake.

They walked along the high ridge on the north side of the lake (but at this time they didn't even know the lake existed) and then stepped off their horses to lead them down the steep embankment. As they approached the east side of the lake, one of their Indian guides could smell the smoke of a campfire. As they came up and over a small knoll, they could see the fire and horses tied up. 

They hoped to surround the camp, but unbeknownst to them, they were being followed by a dog, and with a barking alarm the Navajos fled into the darkness. Shooting ensued, but no one was killed. The horses were quickly gathered and the posse, needing a break, led them to a nearby meadow where they had a quick bite to eat. This was their first meal since they left Kanarra and it was now one o'clock in the morning. 

They decided to camp there, someone always standing guard throughout the night. When daylight came they learned they were next to a large lake. The picturesque setting must have surely surprised them. The two friendly Indians with them gathered up moccasins, blankets, bows and arrows that were left behind. The Navajos were never caught. 

Rough road to Navajo Lake, probably around 1930. (photo courtesy of Sherratt Library, Special Collections Department.)

From this expedition, the lake would later be known as Navajo Lake. But what was it called before 1869? To the white man it wasn't known. It was the Southern Paiutes who were familiar with this territory and knew this mountain up and down. What was their name for it? 

William Palmer, a local historian who was very close to the Paiute people, gave this insight: “The Indian name for the lake was beautiful and it had a poetic connotation. The old Indian trail ran along the top of the ridge north of the lake and overlooking the body of water. Being situated between two high ridges and protected thus from stiff winds, the surface of the lake is not much ruffled. From the trail above, the sky is clearly reflected in the water and the lake appears to be filled with clouds. The Indian name was “Pah-cun-ab” which means cloud lake, or a lake of clouds.” 

Another name the Paiutes gave was “Pa-voo-weap,” which was the name of the valley or basin which holds the lake. There is also a third name, “Pang-ap-its,” which translates to “water babies.” 

The phenomenon of water babies is interesting because I have seen it documented in two other areas of the country that are far from Navajo Lake. Sometimes there may be a small variations in appearance, but most of the descriptions are the same. 

Photo from Paiute Restoration and Gathering Powwow in Cedar City.

According to Palmer, he had first-hand accounts from older members of the tribe who had seen the creatures in Navajo Lake. The Paiutes said they were near half human, half bird and half animal. Their skin was dark, like that of an Indian's, and their hair black, with long tresses that hung over the shoulders. Dark brown hair also covered their bodies. Their feet were webbed and they could fly, swim, or walk on the water like a man. 

One distinguishing feature that made them uniquely eerie was their cry. When they hurt, they cried like a baby. No matter what the Indians did, they could not kill them. If hit with an arrow, the Pang-apits would flutter around and cry like a baby, then fly away. 

Palmer states: “In the moonlight these creatures could be seen in large numbers walking around over the lake splashing and whipping the water with their wings like they were having a real sporting time. About the time the Mormons came these strange creatures disappeared and have never been seen in the country since.” 

It would be easy to dismiss water babies as a myth if it weren't for the first-hand accounts and also due to stories from other locations. It is a very fascinating feature associated with the history of Navajo Lake. 

Today the lake is a favorite spot for anglers and boaters. Very few of them know the history of how it got its name, nor do they know the older Paiute name. When they camp on its banks at night, I'm sure they don't listen for the crying shriek of a water baby. ♠ 

 

Depiction of water baby, by Savanah Lacy.

 



Sources  

Palmer, W. R. (1951). Forgotten Chapters of History (Vol. I & II). Merill Library and Learning Resources Program. 

Webber, Megan. “It should have a Paiute name: Shivwits chime in on state bill proposing name changes of landmarks.” Cedar City News, 29 December 2020. https://www.cedarcityutah.com/news/archive/2020/12/29/mrw-it-should-have-a-paiute-name-shivwits-chime-in-on-state-bill-proposing-name-changes-of-landmarks-offensive-to-native-americans/#.Y_-x7h_MKUk.

Funeral at Carmel-by-the-Sea

We entered the Carmel Mission and were told that all of it was open to the public, except the chapel, which was closed for another forty-five minutes due to a funeral. That immediately piqued my curiosity and as I entered the little courtyard I gravitated toward the heavy wooden doors of the chapel. 

One door was propped open, but there was a sign indicating a private service: Do not enter. I stood back and observed from a distance. My view inside was obscured at best, but I could sense a full congregation and could see all the way to the front at the altarpiece. 

I wondered for whom this funeral might be. Was it a priest, or a worker at the mission? Could anybody choose to have their final services here, or did you have to have a connection? 

As I watched I could hear hymns being played on a pipe organ, accompanied by singing. There were several hymns in a row, all familiar, but only one I knew for sure, "Ave Maria."

Just outside the chapel stood three Marines in dress blues, patiently waiting for the service to end. I decided to take a leisurely stroll around to the north side of the chapel into the old cemetery. Here there were many graves from the late 1700's. As I passed the graves, many of them decorated with abalone shells, I could still hear the vibrant music of the organ. What a beautiful setting! 

For a short time I wandered to other places in the mission. This included the museum and a larger courtyard. Relics from the past were put on view for all to see. Set at a table were ceramic bowls and jars and two wooden chairs, displayed to give the appearance of a humble Spanish home over 200 years ago. 

In a gallery next to the chapel sat a travertine marble sarcophagus with a life-size bronze sculpture of the deceased Father Junípero Serra resting atop. Father Serra is clothed in the Franciscan habit, with crucifix, cord and rosary, as he would have been upon preparation for burial. His bare feet rest upon a grizzly bear cub. Father Juan Crespí stands at the head of Serra, bending forward in an attitude of veneration. Father Crespí died two years before Father Serra, so this represents him ready to meet his friend in the spirit world. The sculpture is a cenotaph, meaning that it is just a memorial, and that the body is buried elsewhere. 

Junípero Serra was born in Mallorca, Spain in 1713 and came to the New World as a Franciscan Priest. He established nine of the 21 missions in California, including the one at Carmel. He presided over the mission from 1770 until his death in 1784. He was buried beneath the floor of an old adobe chapel.

Then I returned to the courtyard. It was lovely there, with beds of flowers and cactus flanking the plaza. I knew the funeral was about to end because now the military men were getting into position. One stood near the doors of the chapel with a trumpet while the other two at a strategic point in the courtyard. They held a tightly-folded flag. 

One by one the family and friends of the deceased filtered out of the chapel and into the courtyard. All were dressed in Sunday best with suits and ties for the men and dresses for the ladies. 

When all were out, they created a quarter circle around the Marines. As Taps began to play, the two servicemen unfolded the flag until it stood as one sheet, taking in the rays of sun and held firmly by the white gloves of the men. 

They held it taut, horizontal to the sky, then with ceremonious attention, they tilted it to a forty-five degree angle so the tiny crowd could see. Then they returned it to horizontal and proceeded to fold it again. They folded it precisely and with duty, their white gloves tucking it in and making sure all was snug. 

One of them took the folded flag and walked it to the widow. He handed it to her and with the utmost respect gave a slow salute. All was silent in the courtyard. 

And with that the funeral was over. Family and friends walked over to hug the widow. The servicemen walked to the gate and left the courtyard. I watched in awe, taking in the beautiful ceremony. 

Within five minutes, much of the crowd had cleared and all was returning to normal at the mission. For the first time I entered the chapel. It was long and narrow with two rows of pews and one aisle that ran toward the altar. The altarpiece was elaborate, with several sculptures, including one of the crucified Christ at center. 

At the front of the chapel on the left side of the altar, etched into the floor, were the grave markers of three burials. The middle one read: “Fr. Junípero Serra, Apóstol de California, 1713- 1784.” 

The little adobe chapel where Father Serra was originally interred was torn down and in 1797 a bigger, more magnificent basilica was placed in its stead. His body remained beneath the floor of the sanctuary, precisely below where I now stood. I wondered how many funerals over the years had been held in this very hallowed spot. ♠

 

Curse of the Gypsy

(Photo by Jenelle Lacy)

By Margarete Eichler

(Note: The following story is taken from the autobiography of Margarete Eichler, translated into English from her native German tongue. She writes of her Mother-in-law, who was born on Christmas Day of 1864 in a small village in the Kingdom of Prussia. The story of her encounter with the Gypsy lady likely took place near this village, which is now located in northern Poland near the city of Gdansk.)
 

Now I want to write something about my husband's family. Ernst's mother, Klara Mathilde Eleonore Kohland, was married to Johann Dombrowski. They had nine children - three boys and six girls; three died in infancy. Ernst's father became very ill and was confined to his sick bed for a long time. Life was very hard for Ernst's mother. She had to care for her sick husband and her six children. She herself had a sick leg which never healed. Once I asked her how long she had had that sore on her leg and she told me the following story: 

She lived in the country with her parents and her sister. One day gypsies came through the village. They stayed several days and tried to make a living begging for food. Little Klara, her sister, and a few other girls played on the village road. Suddenly they saw this gypsy woman walking by, going from door to door, begging for food. Well, as children are, especially when they have a big mouth and don't like somebody, they yelled after the gypsy woman and called her bad names. Klara, being a good little girl, did not participate in this name calling. The angry gypsy chased the children down the road, she shook her fist at them and threatened them. The children became quite fearful and ran for their lives. 

Only Klara did not run. She reasoned she did not call any of those bad words, so she had no reason to run away. As the gypsy came closer, though, Klara became very frightened, too. The gypsy looked very scary, and Klara looked at her with big, frightened eyes; the gypsy looked to her like a scary witch. She grabbed Klara by the arm, shook her fiercefully, and spoke some awful things to her; she even put a curse on her. Then she let go of her and walked on. Klara was terrified. She ran as fast as she could, crying all the while, tripping and falling. She hurt her leg as she fell. 

The next day the leg was very red and painful. Her mother tried to treat the leg with ointments and compresses - it would not heal. The parents never took the child to the doctor. An open, festering wound developed which never healed; she had the wound until the day she died as an old woman. Her mother told her: "Yes, the gypsy put a spell on you. She cursed you and your leg will never heal."

 

Klara Mathilde Eleonore Kohland.

 

Forsyth Trail to Burger Peak (#3)

After a disappointing hike last week in which I failed to summit Big Point, I decided to try another peak in the Pine Valley Mountains. This one, I hoped, had a better established trail and was even a couple hundred feet higher. My goal was to hike the Forsyth Trail to Burger Peak. 

The trail is named after Forsyth Canyon, which is named after Thomas Forsyth, one of many hardy pioneers of that era for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Born in Scotland, he joined the church in 1844 and came west with the Saints. 

After a stint in Salt Lake, he was called as one of the original pioneers to Southern Utah and in 1861 he and his family moved to the newly settled town of Pine Valley, a quaint little place nearly 4,000 feet higher in elevation than its sweltering neighbor of St. George to the southeast. 

The valley, surrounded on three sides by steep mountains, was an ideal place to harvest lumber. With that in mind, Forsyth built a sawmill at the mouth of the canyon that now bears his name. According to some accounts, wood from that canyon was used to make the organ pipes for the tabernacle in Salt Lake. 

But just as Thomas thought it would be a great idea to build a sawmill in Pine Valley, little did he know that there would be four others with the same bright idea. After just a few years he packed up and moved to the east side of the mountains in Toquerville where he died at the old age of 92. But his name lives on in Pine Valley, as it is forever embedded into the geography of the mountain. 

Thomas Forsyth

Carving on aspen tree, most likely from a descendant of Thomas Forsyth.

It had been at least twenty years since I last stepped foot in Pine Valley, a fact which I am embarrassed to admit considering I live just over an hour away. With the abundance of snow from a generous winter, the valley was now fresh with life as I caught my first glimpse from the highway. The gorge of Forsyth Canyon stood out from the rest of the mountain with steep jagged walls. 

The trail begins on the south side of town and winds its way southward into the gorge, quickly meeting up with Forsyth Creek. The ascent is gradual, but constant, with bursts of steeper terrain. Coniferous trees abound, with long stretches of aspen. The trees are spattered with etchings, some going back several decades. This provides extra entertainment for the enduring hiker. 

Forsyth Creek.

Compared to my hike last week when I saw nearly no one, this hike on the Forsyth Trail had a handful of people, and even a rider on horseback. Most of them I saw in the first couple miles, but beyond that I had the path mostly to myself. 

This time I came better prepared than last week. I had plenty of water and a flashlight, although it was assuring to know that the trail followed the steam for most of the hike. At the point where the stream dried up there was a lengthy etching on an aspen tree to let you know. 

Rocky hill in the Pine Valley Mountains.

Trail up the gorge of Forsyth Canyon.

Forsyth Trail.

 

I have to say that the trails on Pine Valley Mountains are notorious for lack of maintenance. I hiked in July and the trail looked good up to the junction with the Blake-Gubler Trail. From that point onward there had been absolutely no maintenance. Toppled trees from heavy snow covered the trail like toothpicks. One felled tree had to be at least three feet in diameter. Who knows how many years had passed since that portion of the trail had seen a chainsaw. Luckily for me the trail was decipherable the entire length. I learned from passing backpackers that beyond that point it was an absolute mess. 

For the majority of the hike the scenery plays out as a peaceful forest setting. The last couple miles, which brings the athlete to the southern portion of the mountain, offers expansive views of the red rock desert. From here one can see Snow Canyon, St. George, Veyo Volcano and the Beaver Dam Mountains. 

It was July 5 and I crossed a few patches of snow. At the elevation above 10,000 feet I also encountered some Bristlecone Pine trees, famous for their old age, gnarly shape and fox-tail bristles. 

Trail sign on an aspen tree.

Snow in July at higher elevations.

Unmaintained trail.

South face of Pine Valley Mountain, looking toward Quail Creek and Sand Hollow Reservoirs.

Bristlecone Pine tree.

Found on Forsyth Trail by Sue Reynolds. (Photo by Hirschgirl in Family Search)

The spur to the summit was the only part of the trail that was hard to find. I was told there would be a sign for the spur, but there wasn't. The trail was marked with cairns, with several rock outcroppings being possible candidates for the highest point. At this elevation, everything was still covered in trees. 

At last I found the correct outcropping and climbed to the top, an elevation of 10,322 feet. Two geological survey markers at the top confirmed the location. The view, surprisingly, was to the north. Everything to the south was blocked by the tops of trees. Within my view I could see much of the Pine Valley Mountains, as well as Grass Valley. Most of Pine Valley, the town, was blocked by another hill. 

Summit of Burger Peak, looking north toward Pine Valley (of which you can't see much) and Grass Valley.

Panorama from Burger Peak.

Survey marker on Burger Peak.

Burger Peak is the second highest in the Pine Valley Mountains, the highest being Signal Peak. But considering that Signal Peak is on a knoll covered in trees, I am told that Burger Peak offers a better viewpoint. 

My quest to gain a peak was successful. I saw some country that normally I would not see. But one thing that I unexpectedly gained was the knowledge of a true pioneer, Thomas Forsyth. You can be sure I will be learning more about him. ♠



Burger Peak 

 

Miles from car (one way): Roughly 6 miles 

Elevation gain: 3,660 feet 

Final elevation:10,322 feet 

 

At the Summit.

 

Burger Peak is not so conspicuous.

 

Big Point Disappointment

Death occupied my mind as I trudged up the steep mountain trail alone. 

Just the day before we had learned that my brother-in-law was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer that had spread to his liver. The prognosis was grim. I thought of him, his three kids still living at home and his wife. 

This morning I stopped at the cancer center for my semi-monthly “injection,” which is nothing more than a shot in my arm to fight a mutation of blood cells. I passed through the room with patients in large recliners receiving chemo treatments. One was Volney Morin, a patron on my mail route. He used to come out and talk at the mailbox, but that was before he was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. As I passed through I waved at his wife who sat lovingly by his side. Volney sat on the chair, hooked up to tubes, sound asleep with mouth wide open. 

I parked at the trailhead at 9:45 am. It was 75 degrees and as I began to walk along the sandy path, my mouth felt a dry sensation and I wondered if maybe I wasn't hydrated enough, or if I should have brought more water. I remembered the last time I hiked this trail and recalled the long, steep and torturous path. It's too late now, I thought. And I continued. 

This hike was part of my “peaks over age fifty” goal that I had set, hoping to climb 35 peaks in only five years. I had already knocked out two, and this one was nearly a fait accompli. All I had to do was put in the work. I had hiked most of this trail a few years ago, all but the last two miles. It would be an easy add-on, I thought. 

I kept my head down, looking for rattlesnakes. I had been on this trail twice before and saw rattlers both times. 

I chose to ration my water and not drink until I was an hour into the hike. At the sixty minute point the trail had taken on a steeper pitch and I sat in the shade of an oak bush and guzzled ice-cold water from my tumbler. 

It was at this point on the trail that I recalled another memory regarding death. Yesterday was the five-year anniversary of the death of my friend, Dave Bolton. His wife posted it on Facebook. Dave was the exact age that I am now. We went on many hikes together and it was on a hike (although not with me) when he collapsed and eventually died of heat exhaustion. 

Death was real. Death was all around me. Death demanded respect. 

I crested the steep slope and was now overlooking more rugged mountains. The modern world was now a long ways away. I thought of my cell phone and wondered how much battery I had left and cussed myself for not bringing a battery pack. Then I remembered that I didn't bring a flashlight either. I thought I would have plenty of daylight but then envisioned the scenario of myself trying to walk off the mountain using my phone as a flashlight and having only a sliver of battery left. Indeed I had been foolish. 

My intent was to hike to the top of Big Point, elevation 10,023 feet. Previously I had summited Mount Baldy, which is accessed by this same trail, but Big Point required at least two additional miles and an extra thousand feet of elevation gain. 

I took note that the trail was not well maintained. A few people had been up here, including someone on a horse, but tall growth covered many sections along with dead trees that had toppled over the winter. 

A rivulet of water crossed the path, which was a relief. I could refill my water bottles here on the way down if I needed to. I remembered this stream from my last hike, which was about the point where I departed the trail and bushwhacked to Mount Baldy. This time I would continue on the trail. 

From this point forward, the trail began to deteriorate quickly. Entire sections seemed to be missing. Large trees that had fallen during winter blocked the way with no effort from a chainsaw to remove them. This frustration reminded me of another time on another trail on Pine Valley Mountain when the trail suddenly disappeared. It made me wonder if I was really bad at route-finding or if the Forest Service was just really bad at maintaining their trails. 

The trail on which I now hiked gradually diminished, then completely disappeared. At this point I was in a little valley with hills all around. Each slope was choked with aspen and oak. Two little streams ran down opposing hills and coalesced into one. I had no clue which way the trail should go, so I decided to try the no-trail way. 

Bushwhacking proved to be ten times slower that walking on even the most pathetic path. I stepped over fallen trees, pulled myself up steep hills with sapling aspens, and cussed the Forest Service for not maintaining their trails. 

My goal was to get to the top of a very tall hill and see what was on the other side. Time was of the essence now and I thought very much of the battery life left on my phone and the fact that I had no flashlight. I have to turn around at 3 pm, I told myself. That would give me an hour. I couldn't risk it. The worst case scenario was that I turned around and couldn't find the trail, and then have the battery run out on my phone. And, yes, the thought of death crossed my mind. 

I spent the next hour pushing through a tedious forest. Once I heard a deer snort and take off without catching a glimpse of him. I was making very little progress, and by this time I knew I wouldn't make it to Big Point. At least I wanted to make it to the top of the hill. 

And at last I did. 

I scrambled up a final rocky knoll and there I found a semi-decent view of what laid ahead. I saw Big Point in the distance and determined I was still a couple miles away. What a disappointment. I wasn't even close! 

I descended the knoll and found a nook where I could relax and eat a sandwich. I certainly wasn't out of the woods yet, both literally and figuratively. I still had to return through that tangled jungle and hope to find the trail. 

The entire adventure left me plenty of time to think. Was this a waste of time? I think not. I gained valuable experience and my legs got a workout. I learned lessons that I hoped to correct next time. And most of all, I learned to enjoy being alive. Each day is a gift. For some people, their days are numbered. For others, their days are done. For myself, I didn't know what lied ahead. 

Luckily for me, I found the trail and made it down the mountain before sunset. The entire hike I passed no one. I was alone. Except for at the very bottom, about half an hour to the end, I passed what had to have been a homeless man pushing a bicycle up a rocky gully that was a sorry excuse for a trail. On his bike were strapped about four gallons of water and other bags with aluminum foil and whatever he might need to survive. He stopped and talked with me for a minute, asking me for a smoke and cursing some of the previous landowners in the area. I felt bad for the man. Now it was his turn to trudge up the steep mountain trail alone. ♠ 

 

 

No Name, No Trail, and Hopefully . . . No Snakes (Peak #2)

For years I've had my eye on a peak visible from the Interstate. That's what I do when I go on road trips—I look out the window and find all the places I want to hike. Once, while deer hunting, I drove close to the mammoth hill. I examined it for an easy route up and concluded it didn't exist. It would be a gnarly ascent no matter how I sliced it. 

Fast-forward to now and recently I made a goal to hike 35 peaks in 5 years. This is a good goal for me. It is forcing me finally convert all those highway day dreams into realities. 

This peak is only forty minutes from my house. The last four miles are on a rough road. The peak has no name that I've been able to find. I've never even seen an elevation for it. And, of course, there is no trail to the top. 

One of my biggest worries has been rattlesnakes. This is the time of year when they come out and when there is no trail, the odds of stepping on one is so much greater. Before I began I pulled out my snake-bite kit and refreshed myself on the instructions. 

A tiny stream with gold-colored residue.

Old gnarly tree on the route up.

Old bleached elk antler.

I parked just south of the prominent hill, at an elevation of 6,324 feet. I scoped out the hillside for a way up and found a route I thought feasible that followed a ridge, then upward between two rock ledges. I noticed two peaks on the hill, one east and the other west, not sure which was taller. At different angles, each appeared to have greater elevation, but ultimately I concluded the the west side was taller. 

I began walking north over rolling hills that had been chained. It would be at least a mile as the crow flies before I would gain any serious elevation. I crossed a little stream that appeared to have a gold-colored mineral residue along the banks. This was a stream that had been dry in years past and was now flowing due to high snowfall over the winter. 

The chained area ended and I now walked through junipers and up over a large knoll, then back down a ravine where I spotted an old brittle elk antler. Then the climbing began in earnest. 

A view of the route up.

A view of what I had just climbed.

I took it slowly, searching the ground with each step for rattlesnakes. Small and medium-sized rocks on the steep slope made for a slippery climb. I counted the liquid in my pack and wished that I had brought more than 52 ounces. The sun was starting to warm things up and I said a silent prayer for my safety, knowing I wouldn't turn back. 

At this point I won't bore the reader with my arduous climb up the hill. Needless to say, it was brutal. The higher I got, the steeper it became and the more vegetation grew. I grabbed onto oak brush limbs to help pull me up and at times had to climb over rocks. I slipped and fell several times, poking and scraping my arms. 

As I neared the top it was very slow-going. Oak brush covered the slope and there were no clear avenues to walk through. The view became better now as I could see the snow-capped ridges of the Markagunt Plateau and Little Creek Peak. There was now a sudden change in the air. I didn't know if this was from the elevation gain or the rain storm that was moving in. There was now a musty smell and in the distance a rumble of thunder. 

Little Creek Peak in the distance and birds flying in the storm.

A defiant chukar.

Nearby I heard the squealing of a bird and thought that unusual. Then I spotted a chukar on a rock. She stood there defiant and didn't budge although I was only 15 feet away. I stood and watched her gray breast and the black stripe across her face. She must have been protecting her young, I thought. Otherwise she would fly away. 

I was now on the summit of the west peak, which in reality was a ridge. I followed the ridge to the north as it gained elevation ever so slightly. At this elevation I was not above the treeline, so thick brush and trees grew all around. At last I came to a point that I decided was as good of a place as any to call the top of the mountain. 

I sat down on a ledge that overlooked the west side. Far below I could see the traffic on I-15 and a dark storm cloud hovering over that was pelting the traffic with rain. To the north I saw the Tushar Mountains, very much covered in snow for the first day of June. I was disappointed, however, that my perch didn't allow me to see what was behind, which included Buckskin Valley and Sandy Peak. I took out my phone and figured out the elevation: 8,687 feet, a climb of 2,363 feet. 

The Tushar Mountains far to the north.

I was surprised to see this clearing at the top of the mountain.

I-15 getting pelted with rain.

It was definitely chilly now. Wind blew and a rain storm felt imminent. I looked down from the ledge and learned that it was much more steep and rugged than where I climbed up. My view was spectacular, but knowing how far it was down to my truck and how rigorous of a climb it took to get here, I was anxious to return. According to my phone, the trip to the summit was 3.43 miles, most of that in tiny zigzags. 

So I began my journey to the bottom. In a way it was more difficult than the hike up. Going down is always more dangerous. I fell about a dozen times, nearly twisting my ankle, knee and hip. I did not get rained on, and luckily, I did not see a single snake. ♠




No-name Peak 

 

Miles from car (one way): 3.43 

Elevation gain: 2,363 feet 

Final elevation: 8,687 feet