My old Subaru Outback chugged along the freeway as I made my way closer and closer to the mountains. Off in the distance the Wasatch mountains are a formidable sight. As I drew nearer and nearer to them I began to realize how insanely tall 10,000 feet really was. It's when you get right at the base of the mountain that you think you can actually climb it because: 1. at least you're starting to climb. and 2. your perspective is so thrown off at that point that it doesn't look all that bad.
The entrance tot he park was a little town catering to the needs of skiers and snowboarders. Every signpost and store facade seemed to have some allusion to being on the slopes. I liked it. I stopped at a 7eleven to pick up some new batteries for my GPS. (I still say that is one of the best $95 I've ever spent). After driving up the twisty road for about 3 miles I pulled off to the side in a snow bank and geared up. I had wisely chosen to wear my old hand-me-down Columbia jacket instead of my new pea coat this time around; it was light, it was warm, and I didn't really care if it got torn up.
It only took a few yards of hiking for me to notice the benefit of bringing the ski poles. It only took a few more yards to realize that my body was still not used to a brisk walk with such little oxygen available. I climbed along the gently zig-zagging path which was clearly intended to be at least bicycle (if not wheelchair) accessible. Too tame, I thought to myself. I looked down the narrow and inviting pathway, and then looked directly to my right at the boulders ascending high overhead. That's the route for me. I first tried to tuck my ski poles in between my pack and my coat; then I attempted to insert them vertically between the strap and my spine. In the end I left them dangling from my wrists while I climbed over the first boulder. Since the poles kept getting snagged on cracks and branches I deduced that their benefit on this particular outing was outweighed by their hindrance. I left them on top of my first boulder and trusted to my GPS that I would be able to recover them after I was done gallivanting.
I scrambled up over the next few boulders only to find that the way up from that point was impeded by several scrubby looking shrubs and juniper trees that were grown too tightly together for me to pass without a machete. I surveyed my surroundings and found the cliff on the opposite end of a small valley to be much taller, more interesting, and inevitably more fun. As I traipsed along the edge of this ravine I took note of the slippery, sharp shale that lay all about in varying different hues. There were some large chunks that were light green, like rusted copper; the majority, however, was a deep purple color.
I made my way to the bottom of the canyon and began again my ascent. The entire cliff face was comprised of multiple layers, and leaning several degrees towards the south. It looked kind of like giant ice cream sandwiches someone had set up like dominoes that were slowly tumbling down. Often I would have to do some legitimate rock climbing to get up to a ledge where I could rest and reevaluate. When I though I was on the right rock I could climb all the way to the top I realized that I had to switch to another one and jumped across. It was a bit disconcerting when something I took to be a very solid rock broke off in my hand. I let it fall and it seemed to hang in midair until it was obliterated on the other rocks below. A lot of the climb was along the tilted face of the rocks and so I didn't really need to cling on for dear life, but I definitely couldn't have stood up and hiked. It was a job for all fours.
One time I got as high as I could on a certain face and had to switch to another. the gap in between the two was about 12 feet, more than I wanted to jump, and less than I could span with my body. I had to back track a little and go at it again. I've found that I like down climbing much less that up climbing. When you're going up you can forget how far you've come and you don't really notice that you're 300 feet off the ground; you can also see the hand holds ahead of you. When climbing down you have to feel around with your feet for a secure hold while your hands are getting more and more tired from supporting your body weight, and the weight of all that stupid trail mix you brought along. Side note: Steel toed boots do not make good climbing shoes. If ever I got nervous, or started to freeze up I had to remind myself to just keep moving. The longer you wait, the more tired you get, and the more psychologically strenuous your activity becomes. Besides, I was out there alone. The only clue I had left was a vague facebook post about climbing another mountain. I don't know if you know this or not,but there are a freaking lot of mountains in Utah. If I slipped, fell, broke something, got mauled by a mountain lion, or got lost, there was no one coming to get me; such is the cost and risk of going off the beaten path. -Don't worry Mom, I'm really just trying to make this sound cooler than it actually was-
I rested at the top of the final cliff and took some video. The first set of boulders I had climbed seemed so remote. I hadn't covered that much ground horizontally, but from my Subaru (that I could still see) to my perch atop these rock was about a 750 foot climb. The winding road I pulled off of to park was more below me than it was beside me. It's a strange phenomenon that's hard to describe, and feelings of vertigo can set in pretty quickly if you're not careful. The whole mountain is tipped one way, gravity is pulling you another way, and the road that you know to be level, flat, and smooth is laid out in front of you. I found myself leaning further back than was probably necessary just to avoid an unintended front flip.
After my short recess I continued to climb. Hiking is a lot tougher for me than rock climbing. After a few feet I already missed my ski poles. My lungs ached, and each step got exponentially harder than the one before. I finally got up to about 6,100 feet before the same scrubby brush that had stood in my way before showed up. I couldn't go any further up the mountain, and I surely didn't want to go back the way I had come. I decided to go down the nice sunny side of the mountain. It still involved a lot of down climbing, and some leaping from rock to rock, but all in all it went favorably. Near the end of my descent I came across a few boulders that were inclined too far for me to down climb in my current skill level,and too high for me to jump down. I realized that I hadn't yet tested out my rope. I looped it around a rock and began to slide down to the ground below. It was about a 15 foot descent onto uneven ground. I still didn't fully trust the rope. It was cheap stuff I had picked up at a hardware store back in Wisconsin. My brothers, my nephews, and I had been using it to practice rappelling down the tree in my mom's back yard. It was only rated to 135 pounds, and I weigh 30 more than that without the backpack. I doubled it up, and lamented the fact that I didn't have thicker gloves as I let the rope slide through my hands. So far so good. Once safely back on the ground I attempted to unloop the rope, but to no avail. It had gotten stuck good and tight. I tried a couple times to climb the difficult incline. I would get up about 8 feet then run out of good hand holds. I dropped back down a few times, then took a swing at it without all my gear. Still no luck. I realized that: 1. I'm really not that good at rock climbing, 2. Steel toed boots are really not good for rock climbing shoes, and 3. I was tired out from all the other climbing I had already done that day. I left my stuff and walked around to find a more favorable way up. Such a way was found only about 50 feet away; guess I didn't need to use the rope after all.
After getting back on the trail at the base of the mountain I used my trusty GPS to get me back to the ski poles. I hiked down to my Subaru, and collapsed into the front seat. All in all it was a pretty good hike, and I still had time to get home and shower before the dance that night.
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