The Road Goes Ever On

Mt. Aspiring National Park: Gillespie Pass Circuit - Conclusion

2026-10-13T21:30:08.815-07:00

This way to Gillespie Pass

After an enjoyable but vigorous hike to Crucible Lake the previous day, it was time to move on to the next segment - heading over Gillespie Pass into the next valley. The hut warden told me I'd have decent weather for the first part of the day, with chances for light rain that afternoon. Since I'd be climbing a few thousand feet to reach the pass, I was glad to hear that no severe threats loomed in the immediate future.

Taking the same route as the day before through the grassy valley, the initial approach was easy enough. Once past the junction with Crucible Lake trail, the path immediately made a beeline for tree clad slopes. I was not surprised at all to encounter the same kind of terrain as what I had seen 24 hours earlier - roots.

Beech roots, again

Thankfully the use of hands was not required as the grade was not as steep, but the intertwined roots definitely necessitated paying attention to foot placement.

The route to Gillespie enters a valley nearly directly opposite that of Crucible Stream. The profile here is less constricted and more gradual in elevation gain - at least at first. Gillespie Stream descends through the ravine, with occasional breaks in the tree cover allowing for views of the surrounding landscape.

The trail ducks in and out of the bush, staying just above the streambed as it climbs. Where things open up the destination ahead comes into focus. Like Crucible, the valley ends in a semi-circular ring of high mountain peaks and ridges, and some hardy adventurer needing to cross over discovered a slightly less arduous way to get there.

The valley extends for several miles before the trail eventually starts transitioning to the flanks of the mountain. As in similar landscapes, with increases in elevation there is a corresponding change in vegetation - fewer trees, more shrubs, and eventually grasses.

As I turn back to survey my progress, I can see Crucible Valley across the way where I had been the day before.

Crucible Valley on the opposite side

Continuing on I can now make a guess as to where the pass might be. With the path fully above treeline, the way is marked with orange poles.

The trail becomes quite steep in the last couple of miles, winding through large clumps or tussocks of snowgrass. Erosion has carved deep ruts around the growths, and in many places there are big step-ups to manage.

Snowgrass tussocks

As I approached the pass clouds enveloped me, and near the ridge the wind became a force to reckon with. I put on an extra layer as the temperature dropped considerably. Unfortunately at the apex visibility was limited to just a few yards, and I wasn't able to capture any of the panorama I had hoped for.

The saddle of the pass is fairly broad but very exposed, and I wasted no time making my way to the other side. After an extended scramble I finally reached the lower extent of the cloud bank and was able to see where I was headed.

What goes up, must go down

Just below the clouds

I had been warned by the Siberia Hut warden that descending the pass in the direction I was taking would be more of a challenge than if I had gone the other way, but with patience it was manageable. The same snowgrass tussocks with deep ruts and big steps were present on this side, and I relied heavily on my trekking pole to prevent slips and slides.

It took the better part of an hour to reach the head of the valley, where Young Stream has it origin. Once I had gotten to the bottom I could relax, and focus more attention on where I was. I also had time to admire some of the local attractions.

After a break I continued towards Young Hut, my destination for the night. Now in the valley proper, the trail followed the same progression as the way up. Sub-alpine grasses and shrubs lined the area around water, with sheer rocky slopes climbing steeply on both sides.

I was becoming acquainted with the environment of this unfamiliar land as I traveled slowly through it, acknowledging the differences and the likely reasons for them. As an island nation, there are much more pronounced maritime influences on the weather, which are in turn accentuated by the extreme southern latitude.

Even though the mountains are not especially high by alpine standards, they are certainly lofty enough to capture and retain significant amounts of snow. The prevalence of moisture laden fronts that originate in the polar ocean also allows for a temperate rain forest at lower elevations, and the abundance of plant life is testament to that. All in all a big change for a desert rat like myself.

Making way downstream, the trail crosses over the stream on a sturdy steel bridge. As elevation continues to drop the inevitable appearance of trees ahead means I'll soon be back in the bush for the foreseeable future.

Bush ahead

The rest of the day passes uneventfully, with additional trekking in the now dense foliage leading to arrival at Young Hut. The hut was nearly at capacity with hikers heading the other direction, and most were eager to hear about my hike to Crucible and conditions at the pass. I shared some perspective and photos to an enthusiastic crowd looking forward to their next day.

Young Hut

Rain began to fall not long after my arrival, and once again I gave thanks for a warm, dry place to take refuge. Huts are definitely an upgrade to my usual backcountry experience, and while it's a great idea I'm not sure I would want it to become an expectation. As far as I'm concerned self-sufficiency is part of the adventure, and for me it enhances the satisfaction I get for doing it.

The Final Day

I slept as well as you might expect given that the hut environment is a shared dormitory - earplugs are a big plus. After coffee and usual minimalist breakfast, I shouldered my pack and headed down valley to meet the 2:00 p.m. jet boat appointment at Wilkins River.

The remainder of the trip continues through bush. I mentioned in the earlier Crucible post how dense and tangled the roots of the beech trees are, and the terrain here was no exception. The trail attempts to stay just above the river but the topography is complex, meaning lots of ups and downs.

Pictures are not adequate to show the complicated nature of the trail. There were a few sections that qualified as unremarkable, but following the stream closely made others exceptionally convoluted. Progress was slow and at times frustrating, as near constant scrambling over and through big root clusters created a literal puzzle at every turn.

The tricky deviations of the path were one thing, however there are different hazards lurking in wild places, with events sometimes leading to unforeseen consequences. In a somewhat ironic turn of affairs, I was walking a section that was for the most part level and unobstructed, bordered on either side by dense vegetation. That led to my downfall, literally.

The width of the path was consistent, and I made the most of easier progress with confident steps. Unfortunately the outside edge of the trail had a sudden drop of at least 8 inches, obscured by the unbroken line of plants. Where I expected firm ground, there was nothing but empty space under my right foot.

My forward momentum and weight of my pack meant the crash was swift and unpreventable. I did not have time to extend my arms to break the fall and I hit the ground hard, face first.

After the bleeding stopped

The force of the impact left me stunned, and the pain rendered me nearly breathless. It took more than a few minutes to recover my senses, and as the initial shock faded I noticed there was plenty of blood, especially from the cut across my nose.

I applied direct pressure with a bandanna, and it took 20 minutes to staunch the flow. When that was accomplished I examined my glasses, which had understandably sustained damage. Fortunately I had the good sense to bring an extra pair - having a backup was essential to me continuing.

As the most significant hurt faded, I was left feeling embarrassed and angry, but most perversely of all thankful no one had witnessed the incident.

Once I gathered myself enough to continue, I began to dread the inevitable encounter with other people and the requisite explanation of the gore. The next few days were going to be interesting. And although the wounds were mostly superficial they hurt, and served as a constant reminder of my lack of attention.

There are many times in life when you have to recognize that you are not in control of a situation, and this was one of those instances. The fall had happened, the damage was done, and all I could do was be grateful it wasn't more serious.

A less difficult section

The meadow ahead suggests the end (of the trail) is near

One last look back

A couple of hours later I emerged from the bush, battered and bruised but still capable of moving. Even then I started to realize this misadventure on the last leg of the Gillespie Pass Circuit would become be a story to share with others once the passage of time had provided the necessary perspective.

After all, without a tale to tell it's just another day in the woods. And on a positive note, I still have a jetboat ride back to Makarora.

Mt. Aspiring National Park: Gillespie Pass Circuit - Part Two

2026-10-07T21:47:11.172-07:00

This way to Lake Crucible

My first night at Siberia Hut was enjoyable as I met other travelers who were working their way around the Gillespie Pass Circuit. I mentioned in the first post that the majority of people do this hike in a counter clockwise fashion, mostly due to personal preferences and travel logistics.

It seems many people choose to approach the pass from Young Hut as it allows the steepest section of the hike to be completed in an uphill direction. And to some degree the logistics of the jetboat company plays a part with more departure options available from that side.

Whichever direction is chosen many people include extra time in Siberia Valley for the attempt at day hiking to Crucible Lake, booking 2 nights at Siberia Hut for that purpose.

On the Way

On my arrival the day before the hut warden had warned of a chance of rain, possibly making the trip dangerous if not impossible due to flash flooding on the unbridged river crossings. Fortunately the early morning weather update forecasted only slight chances of rain, mainly later in the day.

Siberia Valley is a sea of grass, with the trail running roughly parallel to the river. The prominence of relatively young mountains on either side is impressive, as time and erosion have yet to significantly soften the jagged peaks and ridges.

The hike to Crucible from the hut is about 9 miles round-trip, with the first couple of miles through expansive meadows. Although little elevation is gained, walking requires attention as the ground is uneven, with sudden depressions often obscured by vegetation.

Shortly before crossing the river for the first time the trail splits, with one branch headed for the lake and the other continuing on to Gillespie Pass. The lake trail then approaches Gillespie Stream, flowing down from the heights I will scale the following day. After rock hopping across the water, the trail continues northwesterly to the next crossing, this time of Siberia Stream. The channel here is wider, and there's no way to get over without either changing into water shoes or having wet feet.

I use my camp sandals to negotiate the frigid water, and continue on once I change back to my hiking shoes. Now the trail follows Crucible Stream as it approaches the steep beech covered slope immediately to the west.

Crucible Stream

This is my second outdoor adventure in New Zealand, with the first being my attempt at Round The Mountain track on North Island. What I learned after that first hike is there is a difference between hiking I have done in other places and hiking here: Switchbacks are optional.

In thinking about it I can see why past trips have elevated my expectations. In most previous instances creating a less severe grade via switchbacks was the sensible approach. But in New Zealand there is definitely a "no nonsense" attitude about trails: you want to go uphill, then go uphill. End of story.

The way to Crucible is a great example. The stream descending from the alpine lake above tumbles down the slope through a narrow, heavily wooded gorge. The energy and effort required to build the kind of trail I am looking for is simply not feasible. Instead the route basically attacks the hill in a full frontal assault, no excuses.

The bush here is dense, and rather than clearing trees and shrubs for a path the trail makes use of what there is: roots. Before the Gillespie Pass Circuit is over I will become intimate with roots, more so than I would desire. More on that later. For now it's using tangled anchors of beech to haul myself upwards.

I literally scramble using hands and feet through this natural jungle gym, thinking of how much fun it will be to come back this way. The one real positive is that I'm so focused on what to grab next and which foot to wedge in what crevice that time goes by quickly, and eventually I reach an area where the terrain becomes slightly less challenging.

I should mention that the hike to Crucible gains around 3200 feet in elevation, with no small part of that coming from the all fours root route. Once past that section there is still some climbing to do, but at least now there is something that looks like a trail.

An actual trail

This section is somewhat less arduous, but the bush is still thick with lots of smaller ups and downs as well as clambering over and through extensive root growth. It makes for slower progress but every now and again you get a glimpse of where the trail is taking you.

Making progress

There's one final water crossing on the way up before the trail leaves the bush, and it's a little tricky because of large and slippery moss covered boulders. I change my shoes again and slip into cold, knee deep glacial meltwater.

Once past the icy torrent of Crucible Stream, the path continues through the bush a bit longer before emerging into the basin beneath open but partly cloudy skies.

Crucible Lake is at the head of the valley

Feeling slightly less claustrophobic, I take time to observe some of the flora in the alpine meadow. I don't recognize any of the species, but I'm not from these parts so I simply take pleasure in their beauty.

I can see the terminal moraine ahead of me at the head of the basin, and realize I'm getting close to the lake.

Almost there

The last bit is a few hundred yards of picking through a large jumble of rocks to reach the rim of the lake basin. Once at the top you are greeted with a unique and worthwhile sight - small glacial icebergs floating in placid blue waters.

This was a first for me. I've seen plenty of alpine lakes, and visited a few summer icefields in the lower 48. But icebergs are certainly new to my experience. I was inspired to fill my water bottle from the lake, and I'm pretty sure it was the cleanest water I drank on this trip.

After taking a break while admiring the vista, I decided it was time to head out as clouds were gathering on the peaks above. As I began the trek back I couldn't help but admire the view down towards the valley I had just traveled.

The way back

The return journey was uneventful. Having been through it I knew what to expect, and even the long traverse through the beech roots went much easier than anticipated. Soon I was back to the floor of Siberia Valley and on my way to the cozy comforts of Siberia Hut.

I consider this hike to be fairly strenuous even as a day outing, but I can honestly say that if you pass this way you'll be sorry if you don't take advantage of the opportunity to see this unique gem. I'm very glad I did.

Next: Gillespie Pass and Young Hut (and more roots!)

The Mountains Are Calling.... So I Answered - Conclusion

2026-10-03T13:16:19.196-07:00

The Mighty Sequoia Tree

It usually takes a while, but once I settle into a rhythm the daily routine becomes habitual. Wake up slowly as light begins to illuminate the walls of my shelter. Recognize the now familiar seams and patterns of the tent roof above me and recall that I'm somewhere else, far from home.

Once I'm fully in the world, it only takes a few minutes before I'm moving, changing from camp clothes back into shirt, shorts, and socks from the day before. When dressed I stuff the sleeping bag into a compression sack, deflate and roll up the insulated pad and pillow, pack loose sleeping attire into a stuff sack, and get the small items (headlamp, water filter, lip balm, earbuds, etc.) out of the tent.

Becoming upright, I begin heating water for coffee. While I'm at it, I sort through the bear can looking for breakfast, and whatever snacks and food I'll want through the day, putting things where I can get at them. Then I address the tent, remove the fly if I used it, set it aside so any overnight condensation can dry, and pull the stakes from the corners.

I like freestanding tents because you can fully open the door zipper, then lift the entire thing off the ground and invert it so any dirt or debris inside can be shaken out. Once that is done, unclip the tent body from the poles, and pull the poles from corner grommets. Collapse the poles, insert into the pole sack, and put tent stakes into their respective bag. Gather the fly and place on the now collapsed tent body along with poles and stakes, fold and roll. Into the bag and ready to attach to the pack.

It all comes together like a magic trick. For trips like this the stuff I need fits into or attached to a 65 liter pack, and it's pretty compact. When I reach my next camp, out it comes again, and in short order constitutes the necessities of home in the wilderness. This is one of the things I enjoy most about the whole affair. Go where your legs can take you, and what you have makes it possible to be comfortable when you get there.

I am in Evolution Valley, with my next destination the junction with Piute Pass trail 7.5 miles away. I won't climb to the pass today, in fact I won't reach the pass until the day after tomorrow. Knowing I only have a few days left allows me to slow down and take time to enjoy my surroundings. As mentioned in the previous post, Evolution Valley is a somewhat kinder, gentler manifestation of sometimes severe Sierra geography, and that makes walking at a more leisurely pace easy.

The elevation on this stretch is the lowest I'll see on this trip. From the north end of McClure Meadow, the trail descends an additional 1400 feet, ending at an altitude just over 8000' at the junction. But tomorrow when I begin the ultimate exit, I will be climbing once again towards the pass at 11,400'. On the other side I'll be dropping back to 9200 feet at North Lake, the final destination.

Evolution Creek

Today's grade is easy and except for multiple rock hops over numerous creeks fairly uneventful. There is an unbridged crossing of Evolution Creek which can be dangerous in late spring/early summer, but by this time of year it is usually only around 18 inches at the deepest point. This is where having a good pair of quick drying camp shoes comes in handy, or you could do it barefoot if your feet are tough enough.

There is an alternate bypass that can be used if the main crossing is unsafe, however it traverses a sensitive wetland in Evolution Meadow, and Park Rangers ask hikers to use it only as necessary.

After wading through Evolution Creek the trail continues on the south side of the valley, and the canyon narrows again.

Evolution Creek begins to drop into Goddard Canyon

Not long after crossing the trail begins to drop with a series of switchbacks, losing around 600 feet of elevation as it leaves Evolution Valley behind. This section is fully exposed with few trees, and despite the relatively mild weather it was a relief to reach shade. At the bottom the path enters Goddard Canyon and a union with South Fork of San Joaquin River.

Sunny switchbacks lead into Goddard Canyon

The trail immediately crosses the river on a sturdy bridge, then continues through the canyon for just under a mile before crossing on a second bridge back to the east. Along the way the river cascades over several drops, and water plunging over massive rocks into deep pools fills the air with white noise.

Just before Piute Creek, the trail heads away from the river for a short distance before coming to a crossing of the creek on Piute Creek Bridge. This is also the junction with Piute Creek trail, which leads to Piute Pass. In just over 17 miles from here my journey will reach the end. But for today this is as far as I go.

Over the last week and a half I have encountered numerous hikers each day, most JMT hikers heading south towards Mt. Whitney. But today has been notably quiet, and so far I have seen only 3 other people. At the junction there is a solo traveler taking a break before heading on, but no one else. I have the place to myself and find a good spot for a tent near the bridge. I spend the rest of the afternoon enjoying the sound of water rushing over boulders, while allowing a cascade of random thoughts to occupy my mind.

This spot marks the northern boundary of Kings Canyon/Sequoia National Park. The trail continues some 70 miles north towards Yosemite, with the next section traversing part of the John Muir Wilderness. This is my fourth time passing this way, and although there is still spectacular country beyond this point, I really enjoy the time I have spent in the National Park.

North to Yosemite

The direction I came from

It's early September, and a few weeks from now the autumnal equinox will mark the end of summer. For the most part the weather has been very mild, with some nights at higher elevation approaching freezing early morning temperatures. But most telling is the shortening of daylight hours, with a few minutes at either end given over to later sunrises and earlier sunsets.

I've mentioned before having mixed feelings about the end of summer. The transition seems to loom larger in my mind as I get older, probably because it's another measure of how quickly time is passing. Sometimes fall seems melancholy as vibrant green fades to brown, and the skeletal frames of deciduous trees replace rustling canopies of leaves. But the air is crisp and cool, and skies take on hues of deep azure.

The turning of the seasons along with the impending end of this trip make me reflective as daylight wanes. It's not sadness exactly, just pensive contemplation of how it will be another year before I can return. I find myself wishing I could stay in this moment just a while longer, but the rhythm of life demands constant change. The consolation is I still have a couple of days to go.

Heading Out

I'm up early as usual, and packed to go within a short time. I'm already at the trail junction so I turn east and begin the long climb to Piute Pass. I don't know how far I'll go today, but since it's 17 miles to the exit I will try to make around half or maybe a little more of the distance.

The first hour or so is in shade as sheer mountains hide the morning sun. The route follows Piute Creek nearly all the way to the pass, and water is never far away except for a short stretch higher up.

Looking ahead

Looking back

The canyon is narrow at first, but a long series of switchbacks rising through a bench covered in manzanita shrubs opens the terrain up for more expansive views.

Manzanita

Fun fact about manzanita: Everybody has heard the word heliotropism, right? That's where plants actively track the sun across the sky to maximize the energy received. Except that manzanita does it differently. Manzanita leaves need light just like all chlorophyll containing organisms, but it typically grows where it can be hot and dry.

In an adaptation designed to reduce moisture loss from evaporation, manzanita turns its leaves away so they are perpendicular to the light, minimizing the surface area exposed to direct sun. Pretty cool, huh? (I'm sorry - once a tour guide, always a tour guide).

Once the trail reaches the level of the descending creek, it stays very close to the water for a while. Here is where I take my first break of the day. There is a shelf of granite that protrudes like a tongue into the creek bed, and water flows on either side. It is so restful and warm sitting there I am reluctant to move on. But as the saying goes, "miles to go before I sleep".

Upstream view Piute Creek

Downstream view Piute Creek

I shoulder my pack and continue on. Alternating between trees and exposed talus slopes the trail continues an upwards trajectory. Increased altitude brings about the environmental shifts seen multiple times on each day of the journey.

One very common feature I see day after day on Sierra trails is a hallmark of their construction. The mountains are young, composed of varying types of granite, one of the hardest rocks on the planet. Creating a path here for pack animals (and eventually humans) was a monumental undertaking, and prodigious amounts of hard labor was needed to make it happen.

But physical effort alone is not enough to move obdurate and sometimes impossible stone. The use of explosives was an absolute necessity, especially when large outcroppings of granite blocked the path. Using hand drills, the builders would bore into the rock, place a charge and light the fuse. The evidence is everywhere, from unused holes to the telltale radial blast pattern where the dynamite was detonated.

Radial blast mark

Unused drill holes

When I walk here I marvel at the effort required to establish a navigable path through this rugged mountain range, and I am reminded again of the tenacity and determination of the people involved.

As the day progresses I approach a section where the trail begins to climb above the valley floor, and the sound of water starts to recede. I estimate I have covered nearly half the distance and decide to start scouting for a place to settle in. Below me I can see some nice flat openings in the trees close to the creek, and make my way down.

A likely spot

Near my chosen site there is a small waterfall, and easy access to the creek. As I have done the last two days, I set up camp reasonably early then spend the rest of the afternoon basking in late summer sun. All too soon the light of our companion star disappears over the western mountains, and I retreat to the warmth of my sleeping bag not long afterwards.

The next morning arrives on schedule, and I am quick to reassemble my gear into a coherent package. As I said before I'm getting good at this. Then it's back up to the trail and onwards to the pass.

There is an extended ramble through the forest, with the creek now quite a ways down below me. Once I'm above 10,000 feet again the contiguous forest disappears, replaced by random stands of limber pine.

Piute Pass will be the eighth time I have transited a saddle through the mountains on this trip (I did Bishop Pass twice). Like the others before, as I approach the high point trees vanish altogether, and a stony alpine basin surrounds me.

There is a strong breeze, and the wind definitely has a bite at this altitude. I started the day in a short sleeve shirt and shorts, but as I move through the area am prompted to put on my puffy (down) jacket for warmth.

The pass is just up ahead, and immediately below it is a small body of water called Muriel Lake. I can see places where previous hikers have camped, but today would be challenging with the brisk wind and not much shelter.

Muriel Lake

Past the lake and one last uphill, and I am over Piute Pass and descending the eastern side. I had hoped the wind would subside once I crossed over, but mountain orographics frequently defy conventional wisdom, and the stiff breeze is now blowing downhill. Even so it's not as biting as before, and I am able to shed my jacket while moving on.

I know I have belabored this point already, but pass geography is like a mirror image, where landscape features found on one side are repeated on the other. Dropping down into the basin below, I pass a series of alpine lakes, each having an outlet stream that feeds the next one in series. As the altitude lessens, the stony barren granite surrenders to more and more vegetation, and trees multiply as I go.

Even though I could easily reach the trailhead at North Lake today, I want to spend one more day immersed in beauty. If I break up the remaining distance, I will have about 5 miles to complete tomorrow, making the last day easy and giving myself plenty of time to find a ride back to Bishop.

There is an actual Piute Lake on this side of the pass, and that is my goal for the day. The wind is persistent, so when I reach the lake I seek a place that is reasonably sheltered. Fortunately several large granite outcroppings cradle the shore, and one of them has a space large and flat enough to set a tent.

Piute Lake

This is the last day of my adventure, and I take full advantage of the remainder of the day to simply absorb whatever thoughts, ideas, feelings, and sensations being here offers. As I mentioned earlier, the end of a trip like this engenders wishful thinking, wanting the experience to last. But I also know it will be o.k. to sleep in a real bed, to eat food that is not rehydrated, and to resume the normal patterns of my daily life.

The sun goes down, the day comes to a close, and before I know it I am awakening to a new dawn. Packing up camp is so routine I scarcely give it much thought. I am on the last section of trail as it drops swiftly to the valley floor below. North Lake is also a popular recreation destination, with people coming for extended backpacking trips, day hikes, and camping and fishing in the basin.

It's just after noon when I reach the parking area and campground at the trailhead. Once again I walk the road for a while to find the best spot for hitchhiking, and it takes about 30 minutes before I am offered a ride.

As I sit in the passenger seat of a kind strangers car, I share stories of the last few days, the things I've seen, the people I've met, and thoughts I've had. And although it's the end of this story, it's the also the beginning of the next one.

The Mountains Are Calling.... So I Answered - Part Two

2026-09-20T16:13:22.691-07:00

On The Road (Trail) Again - Bishop Pass

The morning of my ascent and temporary exit from the mountains dawns mostly clear, with a few fleecy clouds passing overhead. I've been over Bishop Pass several times on previous trips, so I know what lies ahead.

Right from the junction with the JMT/PCT, the trail begins an ambitious uphill on a series of switchbacks that roughly parallel the Dusy Branch, a vigorous stream descending from the subalpine basin above me. Today I will hike just over 12 miles and climb 3200 feet to the pass before dropping back down 2100 feet to the terminus at South Lake.

After hiking for 5 days my body has mostly adjusted to the rigors of the trail, and I make good progress on the steady grade. My spirits are also buoyed by thought of real food, a shower, and clean clothes.

I don't want to give anyone the wrong impression - I love being outdoors and spending time away from "civilization", but living out of a backpack for days has its limitations, and I can appreciate a few simple comforts on a regular basis.

The trail continues without interruption towards Dusy Basin, one of my favorite places I've visited in the Sierra. I'm looking forward to seeing it again, but the view as I rise above the valley requires me to stop frequently to take in the current surroundings.

Glorious morning sun

Dusy Branch originates from the multitude of lakes below Bishop Pass, and merges with the Middle Fork of Kings River in the basin I'm hiking out of. Around a third of the way up on the lower section there is a place where the stream sheets over a inclined slab of contiguous granite. The rock is nearly impervious to erosion, and so far the water has yet to cut any kind of channel.

Dusy Branch flows directly on granite

Dusy Branch tumbles down from above

After a couple of hours I reach the lowest level of Dusy Basin. This "hanging valley" is a broad area suspended above the terrain below, with a lake and stream filled landscape laid out beneath rugged peaks. I have passed through here on multiple occasions, and each time I just want to stop and spend more time appreciating the aesthetically appealing topography.

Dusy Basin

Looking back at the upper end of the basin

Nearing the uppermost area of the basin

I did camp here for a couple of days on a earlier trip, and thoroughly enjoyed spending time rambling around the many rocky outcrops and blue green lakes. Except for the marmot who stole and tried to eat my hat. I can't really blame the little guy - many wild animals (mice, deer, marmots, etc.) are attracted to gear and clothing for salt residue from sweat.

The basin has a couple of tiers like stairs as it continues to rise towards the pass. Each step contains myriad small lakes, ponds, and streams where residual snowmelt continues to feed the network that eventually emerges, providing vital water to the valleys beyond the mountains.

Upper Dusy Basin

Soon the topography of the basin yields to unrelenting granite. Like all the passes I have tackled in previous days, Bishop Pass exists in a treeless, rocky saddle. Because of the elevation and lack of cover the wind is a persistent and unwelcoming feature, and I don't waste much time beginning to head down.

Bishop Pass 11,972 feet

The descent begins with a series of rocky switchbacks. As Bishop Pass trail is a widely used access point to the mountains as well as a challenging day hike, I pass multiple parties heading up. Some overnight hikers are beginning a popular route known as the North - South Loop. This 5 day backpack connects North Lake and South Lake, and can be done in either direction.

The subalpine basin below me contains many lakes. Due to relatively easy access, people who live in communities up and down the length of Highway 395 frequently make the trip to fish, hike, or camp - sometimes all of the above. Their presence is a good thing, because eventually I need to find someone going down to Bishop who will offer me a ride.

The basin below Bishop Pass on the eastern side

South Lake at the Bishop Pass Trailhead

Though I started early, by the time I reach the parking area it is nearly 4:00 pm. Fortunately many of the visitors who came just for the day are beginning to leave. I walk down the road some distance to find a safe spot to stick out my thumb, and within a short time a kindly soul pulls over to help me out. Once I am dropped off in town, I locate a place for the night then begin to organize a plan for resupply and return to the mountains.

Right Back Where I Started (Finished)

The next day sees me doing what I did the day before in reverse order. Having replenished my food and fuel as well as making myself hygienically acceptable again, I stand on a main street in Bishop with my opposable digit extended.

Hitchhiking is one of those things that I don't normally engage in as a regular practice, but when traveling away from home without a car it sometimes becomes a necessity - I definitely did a lot it of on my PCT attempt.

The good news is this area sees many transient backpackers, and the sight of someone with a large pack on the road to the mountains is common. Since there is a steady stream of people heading up for their own recreational pursuits, it is only a matter of time before another good hearted person pulls over to give me a lift.

I always have great conversations with the considerate drivers who offer me a ride, and since both of us are heading for the same place usually have a lot in common to discuss. I have met many interesting and thoughtful people in this way, and I extend my gratitude as always, since their generosity makes it possible to get where I need to go.

Once I reach the trailhead it's back up and over Bishop Pass, this time climbing a mere 2100 feet before dropping 3600 feet to the junction with the JMT/PCT.

Looking up towards Bishop Pass

Most of my backpacking trips are uneventful affairs, but I am in a wilderness setting and avoiding trouble requires paying attention. The trails here usually see some annual maintenance, but near constant erosion and rockfall create numerous obstacles and challenges. Making my way down the switchbacks I need to watch my footing, but even so I occasionally step awkwardly on a loose stone.

As I descend not once but twice I manage to twist my left ankle. I hike a lot, and am prone to "wobbly" ankles, where my foot can suddenly turn to the outside. It's almost never to the degree that I injure myself but I am always aware of the possibility. In this case the first time I did it I the tendons let me know it was a bad idea, and mentally reminded myself to be more careful.

The second time it happened I definitely felt it, and immediately thought I might have done some damage. I tested usability by continuing to walk, and to my relief the pain subsided after a short while, existing mostly as a residual twinge. I've been a Wilderness First Responder (WFR) for over 20 years, and understand what the stakes are for backcountry injuries.

I make it the rest of the way to the junction without repeating the incident, and set up camp before removing my shoe to check the status of the ankle. Thankfully I didn't see any obvious bruising or swelling, and decided to keep an eye on it for the time being.

Muir Pass

Although I slept reasonably well I could feel tenderness in the joint whenever I shifted around in my sleeping bag. When I got up the next morning I tested it again by putting weight on it and walking around, and was satisfied that although sore, I was going to be able to continue on.

The Bishop Pass trail junction lies near the bottom of the valley, and as I rejoined the trail heading north it climbs immediately towards the next pass in line - Muir Pass. Named for the famous Scottish naturalist who was to spend much of his life exploring and journaling his fascination with the range, Muir Pass sits 7.5 miles away at 11,970 feet - a gain of just over 3100 feet in altitude.

I have a love/hate relationship with Muir Pass dating back to my first encounter in 2018. At the time I was 800 plus miles into my PCT hike, having been on trail for nearly 2 1/2 months. The winter of 2017/18 had been slightly below normal, but in mid-June there was still plenty of snow to deal with in the Sierra.

As I approached the pass for the first time, snow covered the trail at the higher elevations, and there was no obvious way forward. People transiting before me had created a confusing network of paths, electing to go wherever they thought made the most sense. The net result was a web of chaos, and it took me quite a while to find the correct route.

June snow - Sierra 2018

One thing that is critical for traveling the mountains in late spring is crossing larger snowfields early in the day, before the sun has a chance to soften the top layer. If you don't make it in time, you will face a long, miserable slog as you posthole through crusty, thigh deep snow. And that's what happened to me.

I reached the pass around 2:00 pm that day, and after a break tried to proceed into the broad basin beyond the pass. I was already tired from my frustrating climb that morning, and the first several hundred yards was a struggle that left me tremendously discouraged. Looking ahead all I could see was miles of snow covered landscape that would take untold hours to negotiate.

Wanda Lake is out there somewhere

Muir Hut - my refuge in 2018

After considering my options I looked back to the pass, where a memorial hut commemorating John Muir was erected in 1930 by the Sierra Club. Both an homage to Muir and an actual emergency shelter, the building utilizes robust construction techniques to withstand extreme alpine conditions. Feeling somewhat sheepish I turned around and retreated to the easiest alternative.

I slept in the hut that night, and as expected did not see another person for the rest of the day - no one else was foolish enough to attempt crossing late. Despite feeling a sense of defeat, staying at the hut was a practical necessity. Given the circumstances I now realize had I attempted to continue, I likely would have put myself in peril from exhaustion or injury.

In subsequent years I have returned to the mountains, but later in the summer when most of the snow was gone. And last year when doing a hike similar to this one, I developed a sinus infection as I was starting, and it greatly impacted my aerobic capacity. By the time I reached Muir, my congested head and chest made the ascent so difficult I had to tackle it over two days.

In any event, here I am again facing the same climb but with no snow and a healthy constitution. The only potential issue is my ankle, which although functional is also warning me that another twist is all it will take to put me out of commission.

Being very conservative in my pace slows me down, and it takes longer to reach the pass. Still I am grateful to be in such a beautiful place, and remind myself to stop frequently and appreciate the view.

Helen Lake

I attain the pass late in the afternoon without doing further damage to my ankle. I pause for a brief rest while contemplating memories of my first encounter with Muir Hut. I don't stay long - to find a place to camp I must continue for at least 3 more miles, as the broad alpine valley before me is nothing but rock.

The trail begins a lengthy ramble through the expansive basin before dropping to the next tier. After a while I reach Wanda Lake, whose outlet creates Evolution Creek. Along the way other streams converge from many alpine lakes, each contributing to what will join the South Fork of San Joaquin River in the valley below. Wanda and Helen Lakes sit astride the pass and bear the names of Muir's two daughters.

The name Evolution Creek pays homage to another man of 19th century science and discovery, Charles Darwin. There are other features nearby that also bear his name - Darwin Bench, Mt. Darwin, and Darwin Canyon. This area is well known to experienced Sierra travelers, and someday I hope to return to explore it for myself.

Wanda Lake offers the first place to camp, but at 11,500 feet I know it will be cold at night, and especially so in the morning. I decide to keep moving until I reach Sapphire Lake, which is roughly 1000 feet lower. I hope to find stands of limber pine there, which might offer shelter from the brisk wind blowing through the pass.

Late in the afternoon I reach the upper end of Sapphire and spot a place below the trail near the lake. After carefully picking my way several hundred yards down slope I locate a suitable site. It's been a long day and I'm too tired to do much of anything but get into camp clothes and make dinner before retiring to the tent.

I slept fairly soundly and awoke just after dawn. It's near freezing and my determination is not to abandon my nice warm sleeping bag until the sun crests the mountains. It doesn't take long, and before long I am on the trail again. Like the night before, I could periodically feel discomfort in the ankle, but it's a minor distraction and reminder to watch my step.

The progression of environment as I walk is a familiar pattern. Barren and sere rocky terrain eventually yield to scattered clumps of vertically challenged trees, then slowly other shrubs and taller trees begin to appear; sparse at first then more numerous. This valley like the previous ones stays as close to the creek as geography allows.

Evolution Valley

There's no Golden Staircase here, but by mid-morning the trail begins a drop on a series of switchbacks to quickly lose around 800 feet of elevation. At bottom the trail once again joins Evolution Creek through a broad valley containing one of the least common environments in the Sierra - lush riparian meadows.

Ankle turning rocks fill the trail on the way down

Referred to as Evolution Valley, this part of the region offers easier hiking in forested vales next to Evolution Creek. Abundant stands of pine frame verdant meadows under spacious skies, and the creek winds placidly through marshy bottom lands in wide meanders.

Tranquil meadows and marshes

There is no pass today, or tomorrow, and as I mentally map out the next days decide to slow my progress a bit. I will climb another pass the day after tomorrow, but I'm in no rush as it will mark my unavoidable exit from the mountains. After eight days I am settled into the rhythm of the outdoors, but know all too well the trip will be over sooner than I'd like.

I reach McClure Meadow where an inviting spot along the creek lures me to an early end of the hiking day. I can't resist the opportunity, and being able to set up camp just after lunch means more time to simply be in the moment - that's the reason I'm here.

Evolution Creek in a serene state

For me no greater pleasure exists than to just sit and observe the world around me. There's no deep pondering or contemplation of life's mysteries.... just peaceful repose while surrounded by majestic landscapes.

I did spend a few minutes looking at my feet - they're kind of beat up but they got me here. The left foot is slightly swollen, but all things considered it could be worse. I ask a lot of my pedal extremities and they have gone above and beyond.

Gotta love those feet

The afternoon inevitably passes with swiftness all too common in my later years, but I try to make the immersion linger as long as possible. Watching shadows lengthen and colors shift on the peaks makes me appreciate my situation all the more. I am very fortunate to be here.

Late afternoon sunlight filters through the trees

Still waters

The last light of day on the peaks

Tomorrow I'll continue on, content to ramble through the rest of the valley to reach the junction with Piute Pass trail, where the final stage of the journey begins. But for now it's enough to sit and watch the stars come out, one by one, before the promise of a warm and cozy sleeping bag entices me to bed.

Next: The End of this Story

The Mountains Are Calling.... So I Answered - Part One

2026-09-14T16:30:37.854-07:00

The Minarets near Mammoth Lakes

I recently posted about my love affair with the Sierra to express how this amazing mountain range has come to inhabit my imagination. Since my introduction to the Range of Light 10 years ago, my fascination with this rugged and remote environment has only grown.

The idea of returning is never far from future plans, and this year was no exception. In June I started considering options for a late summer trip, and was fortunate in securing a wilderness entry permit for the last week in August. Here is a detailed narrative of that visit.

The Heart of the Matter

The Sierra is more expansive than what I have seen up to this point. There are valleys and basins and peaks that will take years to explore, and so far I have limited myself to the "easiest" and most approachable regions. Becoming comfortable with the territory is mandatory; like Grand Canyon, the Sierra is a place where the insignificance of a lone hiker is painfully obvious, and learning what sort of challenges you might face is just common sense.

In saying I have focused my last several trips on areas where trails and access are less difficult, in no way does it diminish the notion substantial effort is needed to traverse any part of it.

Visitors must tackle high altitude passes on steep, rocky trails just to enter. If you want to travel any meaningful distance once you get there the process will repeat, sometimes on a daily basis. But real rewards require commitment, and that is certainly true in the Sierra.

For this excursion I chose a particularly well known route, covering 130 miles over the course of 13 days. Because of limitations on how much food I can carry, I needed to exit the trail after the first 6 days for resupply. This required climbing over a pass to reach a nearby town where I could restock, and then returning the next day back over the pass to continue the journey.

The John Muir Trail

One of the most celebrated and sought after hiking adventures for outdoor enthusiasts is the John Muir Trail (JMT). This 211 mile wilderness trek through the heart of the Sierra is the closest many people will come to completing a long distance through hike. It can be done either in a north or southbound direction, which for most hikers is determined by the availability of permits.

For the full experience the terminus on the north end is at Happy Isles in Yosemite National Park, and the southern end is located at Whitney Portal. One of the chief attractions for those who complete the trail is reaching the summit of Mt. Whitney (14,505 feet), the highest peak in the lower 48.

The popularity of the JMT makes securing a permit quite a challenge - numbers are strictly limited to protect the fragile alpine ecosystem. The selection process is a lottery administered by recreation.gov. If fortunate enough to be awarded a permit, hikers can take anywhere from 14 to 30 days to complete the trip. The biggest challenge beyond conditioning for most participants is resupply logistics.

Many excellent guidebooks and online resources abound to assist the JMT hiker in planning and executing a successful journey - the Wilderness Press edition is among the best.

JMT guide from Wilderness Press

My 2018 NOBO (northbound) PCT attempt allowed me to experience nearly all of the JMT. At the point where the PCT and JMT become the same trail, I was able to summit Mt. Whitney. Near the end the two paths diverge in Yosemite, continuing for PCT hikers to Tuolumne Meadows instead of Happy Isles.

I did not have the time or desire to complete the entire JMT on this trip, so it was easier to get a wilderness permit for a different entry point along the way. This allowed me to focus on the some of the best the JMT has to offer.

Kearsarge Pass

My wilderness entry permit was for the Onion Valley Trailhead, located at the end of a paved road about 14 miles west of Independence on US Highway 395. The starting elevation here is 9200 feet, so hikers with a full pack not acclimatized to altitude will definitely feel the physical effort of climbing 5 miles and 2500 feet to Kearsarge Pass (11,700 feet). Thankfully the trail offers plenty of opportunity to stop, catch your breath, and enjoy looking east over the Owens Valley far below you..

Kearsarge Pass 11,700'

Once over the pass you officially enter Kings Canyon National Park, a showcase of some of the most spectacular landscapes on the planet. Kings Canyon is administered jointly with Sequoia National Park, another crown jewel of exemplary beauty.

At the apex the view of the basin and mountains seem to stretch into infinity, providing all the reward you could hope for in making the climb. It's worth the time to savor both the panorama and the effort.

After the pass the trail descends roughly 2 miles into the valley where it meets up with the JMT/PCT junction. A turn south leads 40 miles to Mt. Whitney or head north to reach the boundary of Yosemite Park, 140 miles away. I opt for north then take a short side trail that leads to Charlotte Lake, my destination for the first night.

Charlotte Lake

Nestled at just over 10,300 feet, Charlotte Lake is a convenient waypoint to settle in after the up and over of Kearsarge Pass, and a welcome respite from the strenuous beginning. I arrived somewhere around 3:30 in the afternoon, and selected a spot to set up my tent. Afterwords there was a much appreciated interlude to just sit and reflect on the majesty of the setting.

My experience with backpacking over the years has taught me that the first day or so of a trip is often a restless one, with the body not yet accustomed to the rigors of the trail. Muscles that typically don't see much use make their presence known, and despite a good quality inflatable sleeping pad it takes a while for hips and shoulders to adjust to the change. As usual my sleep that first night is shallow and intermittent, and waking multiple times through the night allows me to experience the absolute quiet that envelops the darkness.

Dawn arrives just as I finally manage a few hours of dream laced slumber. Since I have places to go I'm quickly up and packing my gear, preparing to move on to the next objective.

Passes, Passes

A primary aspect of hiking the Sierra is the truly up and down nature of the terrain. Most days the hiker can expect to ascend and descend thousands of vertical feet, first climbing towards a mountain pass that allows for reaching the next valley or basin. The goal for today is to approach, climb, and drop over Glen Pass (11,957), a relatively modest 1600 feet above the lake.

The approach to Glen Pass

The trip has just started and what I call my "pass legs" have yet to reach the point where going uphill feels comfortable, so I adjust my pace accordingly. My general goal is around 10 miles per day, which sounds reasonable, except for the fact that distance here is measured in effort, not time.

In general most people's walking pace on relatively flat terrain is around 2 miles per hour. Start walking uphill, add loose rock, high altitude, and a heavy pack, and that average drops significantly. Despite a regimen of fairly strenuous physical conditioning and being acclimated to a higher altitude (I live at 7300 feet), pausing frequently for brief moments of rest is a necessity.

Besides constant uphill, rocky trails, a heavy pack, and altitude there is another factor at play - what I call the dreaded Sierra Step.

A typical Sierra Step

When trails were first constructed throughout the range, the primary mode of travel was the use of horses and mules, which have much longer legs than humans. There are many places where the path goes up or down, and given that rock (granite) is the dominant material builders of the trail used what was at hand. The steps exist in great numbers everywhere you go, and those of us not blessed with long limbs must repeatedly negotiate the stone risers.

Sometimes there is what I call a cheat, a rock or ledge on the side that offers the opportunity to shorten the distance, which someone who has been struggling with the effort to repeatedly lift their legs can truly appreciate. But step or no step moving forward means accepting the trail as it is.

Despite the inherent challenges of traveling this rugged mountain setting, steady effort eventually delivers me to the pass and more stunning vistas overlooking the next basin 1400 feet below. For Sierra hikers Rae Lakes is a well known and spectacular chain of alpine lakes set amidst the towering peaks.

Looking over Rae Lakes

Trail switchbacks across the talus

The descent towards the lakes takes nearly as long as the approach to the pass, as loose talus slopes require paying careful attention. I'm not a fan of trekking poles in general; in sections where rocks are numerous pole tips are likely to get lodged in a crevice, quickly turning into a nuisance. But if Sierra Steps are present a pole can be a blessing as a knee saver, and I carry a single adjustable pole for that reason.

Trailside along a beautiful blue/green lake

The trail eventually delivers me to the shores of several lakes in the basin. On previous visits during warm late summer days I have often pondered how inviting the cool waters appear, but so far I have resisted the effort needed to actually take the plunge.

Lots of great "pack rocks" abound

Taking a meaningful break every couple of hours is my approach to backpacking, and finding plenty of incredibly scenic spots to do so is very easy here. I like to find a nice flat rock to dismount my pack, remove my shoes so my feet can breathe, and sit for at least 15 minutes while snacking and rehydrating. Shoulders and feet both appreciate the respite, and when I'm ready to move on I can feel the difference in my energy level.

Moving past Rae Lakes, the trail continues on a steady downward track, following the South Fork of Woods Creek as it heads for the confluence with the mainstem of Woods Creek. This lake outlet stream drops nearly 2000 feet more while the environment transitions from a subalpine Limber Pine forest to a continuous canopy of Jeffrey and Ponderosa Pine at the lowest point.

Down, down, down into the valley

The junction of South Fork and Woods Creek proper is the stopping point for the night, and once again removing the pack, changing into camp shoes (sandals), and setting up my home away from home offers a welcome change from the hours of steady walking. The pause also allows me to fully appreciate where I am rather than constantly looking at the the tops of my footware.

Pinchot Pass

As mentioned before, Sierra travel is basically a series of big ups and big downs each day, and today is no exception. I begin at the lowest point, where Woods Creek and the South Fork converge. From here it is a steady climb up to Pinchot Pass (12,127 feet) some 7 miles away. Because the trail gains 3600 feet over this distance, that translates to a slightly steeper grade overall and I mentally remind myself to adopt a slow, measured pace.

Travel in mountainous areas is generally easiest when following the contours of the landscape, which in most cases means a route carved by a stream or river. Obviously there are exceptions, especially when the river plunges into a cataract filled canyon or if you need to exit the valley. But early explorers tried to use watercourses wherever they offered the path of least resistance, and most of the well trodden trails in the Sierra use this principle.

Morning sunlight on the peaks

Trails usually follow the water

Cascades over granite

The weather is very cooperative, and sunny skies with moderately warm temperatures favor my passage. Before leaving home I checked the forecast and there was a hint of precipitation at the end of the 7 day time frame, but I have enough experience to know that one or two days is about as much of a guarantee as you'll get. Even so I'm not concerned because I know better than to venture into the wild without the right gear.

Getting to the summit of Pinchot Pass takes considerable effort, as muscles are still adjusting to continuous repetitive use. For me one of the true ironies of extended backpacking trips is that by the time you reach the end all systems will finally be functioning at high levels, and you feel as though you could just go on forever. But the trip is done and all that conditioning will fade - such is the tragedy of the part-time mountain (or canyon) man.

As the trail continues to climb unmistakable signs of environmental change appear, as altitude and the subsequently harsher climate influence what survives. Summers are brutally short above 11,000 feet, and strong winds keep most vegetation from growing too tall. Plants cluster together to retain moisture in the nutrient starved decomposed granite soil, and naked rock becomes the dominant feature.

Rocky tors gradually replace trees

Strong winds limit tree height

Subalpine environments require resilience

Near the pass the trail begins a series of long, rocky switchbacks that gradually tackle the remaining elevation. The last few traverses tease a weary hiker with proximity to the summit, but only determination and persistence will deliver the goal. Getting there is all the excuse needed to take a break and survey where you've been and where you're going.

Pinchot Pass has the greatest elevation gain of any pass I complete on this visit, and the long grinding uphill was a physical challenge. But now it's over and down into the broad valley below. Once I leave the barren, stony alpine basin behind I start looking for a suitable place among the trees to pitch my tent. With clear skies I elect to leave the fly off so I can see the stars as I drift off to well deserved rest. Tomorrow is another day, and another pass.

A room with a view

Mather Pass

After a decent night's sleep due to my effort of the day before, I wake at 6:00 (as usual) and get packed for another day of up and down. The next height to conquer is Mather Pass (12,094 feet), and it won't be as much of a challenge as Pinchot since the lowest elevation in this valley is just over 10,000 feet. Still, climbing 2000 feet at high altitude takes patience and determination, and I hit the trail as early as possible.

I follow the outlet streams of Lake Marjorie and several smaller bodies of water as they make their way into the valley. After several miles they merge with the South Fork of the Kings River descending from the basin I'm climbing into.

Another beautiful day

Streams originate from alpine lakes

Heading down the change in landscape is the reverse of yesterday. Stony, nearly barren basins slowly give way to more abundant vegetation. This valley has a somewhat gentler profile, with a broader, more open feel. Once I cross the South Fork Kings River the difference becomes more pronounced, with widely distributed forest landscapes and willow thickets crowding adjacent streams.

Seeing wildlife in their natural habitat is always an added bonus to the experience. I came across three mule deer bucks grazing along the trail. My presence did not seem to disturb them, and I'm guessing it's because they live primarily in the National Park, where they are safe from hunting. In any event seeing these handsome fellows with antlers still in velvet was quite rewarding.

A relatively easy walk leads to a repeat of the environmental shift that has become a daily routine. A remarkable man whose life spanned the late 19th and early 20th centuries named C. Hart Merriam was among the first to propose what he called "life zones". The basic idea identifies similar plant and animal communities that correlate both to change in latitude and change in altitude.

This association is commonly used to explain how living things commonly found in Canada at areas near sea level will also exist much farther south, but at much higher elevations. In my home state of Arizona 6 of the 7 so called life zones can be found as topography ranges from a low of 72 feet near Yuma (Sonoran life zone), to a high of 12,633 feet (Arctic/alpine life zone) atop Mt. Humphreys north of Flagstaff.

Walking along I notice the subtle transitions and observe how weather has shaped the vegetation. Stunted Limber Pines display what I call the "flag" effect, where one side of the tree has almost no limbs while the opposite side is full. In this way it is possible to discern the general bearing of prevailing winds, as constant pressure from one direction dictates how a tree minimizes its profile to create less resistance.

As I approach the pass the sunny blue skies of morning slowly disappear as low grey clouds begin to stream in over the mountains. At first it doesn't appear too threatening, but as I descend into the opposite valley a few warning drops of rain fall from the sky.

Blue skies yield to dark clouds

The shift in conditions is somewhat unexpected. None of the other hikers I've encountered over the last two days have mentioned anything about a storm, other than a very slight chance for a scattered thunderstorm. But ready or not the occasional raindrop soon becomes a light drizzle, and I respond by covering my pack and donning rain jacket and pants.

I've nearly reached Palisades Lake, a high altitude alpine tarn set amidst a stark but beautiful granite bowl. I've been here before and had hoped to spend part of the afternoon just enjoying the scenery, but Nature has other plans. Increasingly heavy precipitation compels me to find a camp site as quickly as possible. I locate a spot, but as the steady rain continues I'm only partially successful in erecting the tent while also keeping the rest of my gear dry.

Once the tent is up it's time to address the chaos inside. After shuffling, reorganizing, and contorting myself into a pretzel in the narrow space I reach a state of equilibrium and settle in. The rain has not abated; if anything it has slightly increased in intensity, and I give thanks for a mostly dry refuge. I can hear other late arriving hikers also scrambling to get under cover, and feel empathy for those who struggle in the downpour.

The ground around me is visible as there is slight gap between the tent body and fly, and as the storm continues I notice the mix of poor soil and pine needles isn't absorbing much. It soon becomes obvious the drainage around my selected site is not ideal, and become concerned as water gathers all around me. There isn't much I can do and before long my tent is sitting in a shallow pool.

Modern tents have a bottom section referred to as a tub, with a waterproofing agent infused or applied in some fashion. The most effective barrier is a PVC coating, but attempts to make backpacking gear as light as possible rules that out. The tradeoff is newer tents offer a high degree of protection from water intrusion, but given enough time and hydrostatic pressure all fabrics eventually "wet out".

The short version of the story is that it rained for 6 hours. As I lay there listening to the insistent drumming of water on the tent roof, I reconciled myself to the fact that I can't change any of it, so I close my eyes and drift off to sleep. I'll face whatever comes tomorrow.

Tomorrow (Now Today)

As light began to illuminate the fabric of the tent, I awaken and hear..... nothing. No rain. I unzip the vestibule door and peek out, hoping for a clear blue sky. It's overcast but dry. I get up and start packing gear but now everything is wet and that adds a few complications.

The water that surrounded me is gone but the ground is saturated and shows signs of erosion from runoff. I had pitched the tent near a small grove of limber pine, and wet needles stick to everything they touch. All the gear inside my tent is slightly damp, and the fly and groundsheet will definitely need time to dry out. Wet, damp, or dry I shove it all in the associated bags, and hope at some point today the sun will emerge and help remedy the situation.

The other people who camped nearby fared about as well as I did. Everyone reported the same - standing pools of water that to some degree or another penetrated tent floors and caused some small discomforts. But everyone is sanguine about the situation and ready to move on to the next destination.

My effort today will be somewhat easier as I am not climbing a pass. After Palisades Lake the trail begins a steep drop into the valley below, and eventually reaches a junction with the Bishop Pass Trail. I'll stay the night there before making an exit up and over the pass to reach the town of Bishop, where I can restock food and fuel before returning to complete the 2nd week.

Palisades Lake

As I get moving the sky remains grey but the clouds are moving fairly quickly to the south. Yesterdays "surprise" storm is no big deal but it's always more enjoyable when the weather is favorable. The trail contours around the east side of the lake and looking around I recall previous visits under warmer and sunnier skies.

Once past the north end of the lake the granite walls narrow, and the outlet stream is constricted to a narrow chute which begins a steep drop. Where the stream is visible multiple waterfalls churn into a white noise symphony that fills the air.

Palisades Creek

The canyon narrows

Today I walk around 12 miles, losing 2100 feet in elevation, all of it while paralleling Palisades Creek. The loss of altitude is very gradual with the notable exception of one area called the Golden Staircase. Over the course of just over a mile, a series of rocky switchbacks drops the trail around 1300 feet as Palisades Creek tumbles down a severe granite rockface.

Lower section of the Golden Staircase (from a previous visit)

I have never ascended the Staircase, but as there are many Sierra Steps involved I imagine how difficult it is for travelers headed south. Even going down requires sustained effort, tackling long strides and rock filled trail tread while fighting the pull of gravity. It's a relief to finally reach the bottom and a more reasonable grade.

Easier grades at the bottom of the valley

Soon the valley is filled with stands of Lodgepole, Jeffrey, and Ponderosa Pine, with areas of significant deadfall from past winter avalanches. Looking up at the steep sides surrounding me it's easy to see how slides would be a common occurrence, especially when the Sierra has a big snow year.

After an uneventful day I arrive at the junction that afternoon and locate a suitable site. The rain has not returned, and although I haven't seen the sun temperatures have been mild. Letting things air out for a bit at camp helps, and by the time I slip into my sleeping bag the storm of the previous day is a fading memory.

Tomorrow I will take a necessary detour to the east, climbing up and over Bishop Pass for a gain of 3200 feet, and a total hiking distance over 12 miles. My reward will be an actual meal (not backpacking food!) and a hot shower - maybe even a visit to the laundromat to wash some pretty funky clothes.

Next: More of The Story in Part Two.

Mt. Aspiring National Park: Gillespie Pass Circuit - Part One

2026-08-16T15:16:41.636-07:00

Mountains!

On My Way

Having successfully weathered the storm and two day delay in Wellington, I arrive as planned in Queenstown. The flight to South Island kept me glued to the window since I was seeing the so-called "Southern Alps" for the first time. The seemingly endless mountain ranges were a siren song to me - I was ready to return to the wilderness.

Queenstown is a resort town in the Otago region, widely considered to be a major hub for many recreational activities found in the area. I would spend one night here before traveling north to Makarora, and would return once my adventure in Mt. Aspiring National Park was completed.

Getting Around

Before I launch into my next backpack, I want elaborate on navigating both North and South Islands without a car. When planning this month long journey, a key component was getting from Point A to Point B. Many visitors to New Zealand elect to hire a car, or in some cases a "caravan" (self contained camper). I considered the option, but several factors dissuaded me from choosing this route.

Going the Wong Way

First and foremost is cost. I'm not cheap, but I generally travel solo and would bear the expense alone. The price of fuel is high in New Zealand, and rental fees plus insurance increases the outlay significantly. Also spending multiple nights in the backcountry meant any vehicle I was renting would sit unused for that time.

Finally there is the fact that roads here are generally narrow and winding, with drivers using the left lane. I am sure I could have made the adjustment, but being distracted by unfamiliar customs, terrain, and signage were issues I did not want to deal with.

Instead I used a practical and robust intranational transit network called Intercity. The system has an option called Flexipass, which allows for selecting blocks of time. Each trip is allotted a specific duration that is deducted from the amount purchased, and time can be added if plans change. I found the process easy - using the website or mobile app I was able to link all of my destinations together, and modify trips as needed.

Intercity uses large modern coaches which are very comfortable. Not having to drive or be concerned about how to get where I was going made the experience much more relaxing, and I was able to spend my time enjoying the view from expansive windows, reading, napping, or whatever. And many of the coach drivers were excellent (and sometimes quite funny) guides, sharing lots of history and other interesting information.

The Next Adventure

South Island is a different place altogether from North Island. The landscape is significantly more mountainous, with multiple ranges stacked up along the southern and western coasts. This is because South Island straddles a tectonic boundary between the Pacific and Australian plates. Called the Alpine Fault, the subduction of the diving Australian plate forces land on the Pacific edge to rise, elevating and crumpling the terrain.

The abundance of peaks and high altitude environments are what led me to choose 3 of the 4 trekking routes on South Island. I selected Gillespie Pass Circuit as one of the hikes because I could do the entire loop in 4 days, and there was an elective day hike I could attempt along the way. And it sounded cool because I had to take a jetboat on the Wilkins River to reach the starting point.

Jetboating is a uniquely New Zealand experience - in fact the modern jetboat was invented here. Many rivers in the lower valleys and plains are shallow, braided affairs, non-conducive to traditional outboard motors. In 1950 an inventive fellow named Bill Hamilton needed a practical means of navigating rivers on the sheep station he was working on. He learned of an American made model which he tried, but found still ineffective for his purpose.

Jet boats work by drawing water in and then using a nozzle at the rear of the craft to expel it. He experimented with different configurations before coming up with the current design. They have since evolved from an efficient way of travel into a booming tourist business. Today thousands of visitors take trips up and down waterways at high rates of speed, skimming along in shallow water and executing hairpin turns in tight spaces.

Tuck - Mayor of Makarora

Makarora

After a quick night in Queenstown I boarded a coach for the 3 hour drive to Makarora. It would be a mischaracterization to refer to Makarora as a town, but it does offer an airstrip, lodging, a couple of restaurants, and a petrol station.

Once I arrived, I checked in to the office of Wilkins River Jets. Other than providing people with exhilarating jetboat rides on the river, they offer scenic plane and helicopter flights over Mt. Aspiring National Park, as well as providing backcountry access to people like me.

I was the only passenger on the afternoon boat, which made sense as most people would have taken the morning ride to get an earlier start. It really didn't matter since I was only hiking about 8 miles, and as it was summer there was plenty of daylight with enough time to get to the first hut.

Wilkins River

I did not take any pictures on the jetboat ride. This was because once you get moving the driver of the boat wants* to show you a good time - this basically means slaloming across the river from side to side and taking the most aggressive line possible at a very high rate of speed. Out of necessity I was holding on to the grab bar and thoroughly enjoying the experience.

*I have to admit - this guy has one of the most fun jobs I could ever imagine

Now We Walk

The jetboat delivered me several miles upstream to the start of the track. When we arrived there was a sizable group of people waiting on the bank for a ride back to Makarora. I gathered my things and with a big smile plastered on my face said thanks to the boat driver. Within a few hundred yards I was alone and immersed in the peacefulness of the valley.

In a matter of minutes the track swung away from the river and onto the forested shoulder of the mountain - I was back in the bush.

Unlike my first hike in Tongariro, this track had me following a river valley for much of the duration, eventually climbing up and over Gillespie Pass into the next valley over. But the pass was for another day - today my destination is Siberia Hut.

The path was in reasonably good shape, and more like what I am accustomed to. There were no boardwalks or staircases, just good old fashioned trail tread, roots, and rocks. The canopy was dense in places but frequently opened up enough to see peaks rising around me. As the mountains are geologically young, they rise steeply from the valley floor.

The lower elevations are primarily boreal rainforest, with lots of trees, ferns, and mosses. The alpine environment is limited to the highest altitudes, which is low relative to where I usually hike. At home alpine landscapes are typically found above 11,000 feet; here the southerly latitude allows for much lower presentation, around 7000 feet.

Close proximity to Antarctica and the abundance of high summits lead to frequent winter snow storms, providing meltwater in warmer months to numerous creeks and streams. I could see and hear multiple waterfalls cascading down precipitous slopes before eventually reaching the river.

Copious water

Remnants of last winter's snow

The weather was fine, mostly cloudy but rain free. The highest mountains played hide and seek with the occasional squall, and I could see snowfields draping the loftier peaks. I rock hopped across many smaller streams, and my desert sensibilities were reassured to see abundant water should I need to refill my bottle.

I was doing the trek in the opposite direction of what the majority of hikers choose, and it appeared that the only other people out here had been the group on the riverbank where I was dropped off. There was no one else on the trail. Although there wasn't significant elevation gain, there was somewhat of an uphill component. In sections the track became rougher with larger rocks and plenty of tree roots - a harbinger of what was to come.

Gets kind of rocky in spots

Trees grow on boulders here

If you look closely at the picture above, you'll see something on the lower right that I found everywhere I went in New Zealand - a trap. Placed by the DOC, these snares are one way to address a pervasive problem in the country.

New Zealand is an island, and has been isolated from a continental connection for millions of years. As a result native fauna evolved without natural land predators. This exemplified itself in a proliferation of avian species, especially flightless birds. When European settlers arrived, they intentionally and unintentionally introduced a variety of mammals that found the local wildlife easy prey.

Thousands of traps in the backcountry

Rats, weasels, stoats, ferrets, and other carnivorous creatures have decimated the bird population, and large scale efforts have been underway for years to eliminate these invasive animals. This is a contentious issue in part because DOC also uses poisoned baits, which some people find objectionable. Personally I think New Zealand is right to protect their biodiversity, and I support the effort to defend native populations.

One of many things I enjoy about being outdoors in summer months is the beauty of wildflowers. I am familiar with many North American varieties, especially those found in the western part of the country. But we're not in Kansas anymore, are we? I found these southern hemisphere beauties along the way. Despite consulting a reference book listing the most common species in New Zealand I was unable to identify them.

After several hours of enjoyable walking in solitude, I sighted the valley where I would find Siberia Hut. Local lore has it that the area received the name when an early explorer struggled so much with the terrain they decided it was as unpleasant as Siberia. I haven't been to Siberia so I can't comment on any similarity. Didn't seem that bad to me.

Siberia Valley

Siberia Hut at the edge of the valley

Home Sweet Home.... For a Bit

I reach the end point of the day's hike and the warden greets me from the deck of the hut. I gladly remove my pack and breath a sigh of relief. It's tradition for trekkers to leave hiking shoes outside, as trails are often quite muddy. I'm more than willing to give my hot and tired feet some fresh air, and putting on my sandals is a just reward for the effort to get here.

Another hut custom is signing in and showing the warden (if there is one) your "ticket" proving you have reserved space for the night. There is a log book for recording your visit and ongoing intentions, which is useful to Search and Rescue if someone goes missing. Once formalities are observed, you can pick a bunk in the dormitory and make yourself at home.

I'm here for two nights before continuing on. One of my goals for this trek is to complete a day hike to Crucible Lake. The warden tells me the weather has been wetter than usual and there are unbridged river crossings that could be impacted if rain is in the forecast. She'll have an updated weather report early the next morning, and I should know then if it's wise to attempt it.

I've already had to jump through a few hoops because of Mother Nature, so I figure I'll deal with it as it comes. Lo que será, será - whatever will be, will be.

Weather Or Not.... Wellington

2026-08-12T13:21:47.885-07:00

The Pacific from the hills above Wellington

A Quick Recap (or How I Got Here)

I planned my trip to New Zealand around 4 iconic hikes, taking place over the course of a month during late summer in the Southern Hemisphere. The first of the outdoor adventures was a 4 day/3 night backpack in Tongariro National Park, located in the central part of North Island.

The Round the Mountain Track is a circuit of Mt. Ruapehu, traversing the flanks of the mountain through bush and volcanic desert ecosystems. The terrain proved far more challenging than I anticipated, but the primary factors in my decision to abandon the hike after 3 days was deteriorating weather and the onset of a sinus infection.

After leaving the track I arrived in the town of Okahune, located at the base of the mountain. Once I had checked into a motel and visited the pharmacy for decongestant relief, it was time to assess the next step in my journey. The original plan called for me to travel by coach to Wellington on the southern coast, and then cross Cook Strait via interisland ferry to South Island.

Turning Lemons Into, Well You Know....

When making arrangements months in advance, I took it on faith that everything would proceed as anticipated. But as I sat in an Ohakune hotel room watching local news, the weather forecast upended my carefully crafted plans. The storm that chased me off the mountain was intensifying, and high winds and significant rain were now anticipated over all of North Island. Extreme conditions were expected to lead to cancellation of all ferry sailings and domestic flights between the islands.

Having no influence on the weather, I had no choice but to accept what was and change my approach. Essentially I would be stranded in Wellington for at least two extra days, with no way to make it to my lodging and transportation connections on South Island.

I have since learned that ferry disruptions are a major headache for residents and visitors, and weather is not the only reason ships can't cross. Mechanical issues and failed safety inspections frequently lead to a ship being stuck in port. When cancellations occur both cargo and people stack up, leading to further delays in being able to cross the Strait.

In five days my next backpacking outing was supposed to depart from Makarora, a hamlet in the southern region of South Island. But first I had to get to Queenstown to make the connection. Being large enough to offer regular air service from Wellington, I elected to schedule a flight in 3 days, hoping conditions would allow resumption of travel. I cancelled all prior reservations, trusting the new plan would get me where I needed to be on time.

Now the question of what to do in the interim was my next concern. Fortunately Wellington is a major city, home to a wide variety of diversions and attractions. This post is about my unexpected time there.

Wellington

After two rainy but recuperative days in Ohakune, I boarded a coach and traveled south. Wellington is 1) New Zealand's third largest city, 2) the world's southernmost capital city, and 3) is ranked as the 4th most livable city (tied with Tokyo). Two major universities and the seat of government are primary influences on the culture. Oh, and 4) it is also the world's windiest city, which became obvious to me while the storm was still in play.

Many young people come from around the Indo-Pacific region to study, making the city quite diverse with a youthful and surprisingly creative vibe. I also couldn't help but notice the wide array of different cuisines, with food from around the region as well as lots of international fare represented.

I had essentially two free days before flying to Queenstown, and I decided to navigate the city on foot and by using the extensive transit system. I needed to resupply items that were either used up or required replacement (food, rain pants and a pack cover), and that meant visiting different areas to find what I was looking for - a perfect excuse to explore.

Aside from that I had some elective time; and settled on a guided tour of Wētā Workshop, as well as a visit to one of the more impressive institutions in New Zealand - Te Papa, the National Museum. More about these places later.

Like Auckland, walking around the Central Business District was very interesting. The city is a primary financial hub in the region, and tall skyscrapers share street space with historic older buildings. Wellington also serves as a major port, with cargo terminals surrounding the harbor to facilitate the import/export trade.

The city itself is situated on the southwestern coast of North Island amidst rolling but relatively steep hills. Its location on Cook Strait and direct southern exposure makes Wellington a frequent target of storms that originate in the Roaring Forties, which explains the well deserved "windiest city" designation. Many parks and preserves are located in and around the metropolitan area, and the maritime climate supports lush greenery.

After completing my necessary errands, I had the opportunity to see two notable attractions that Wellington offers.

Wētā Workshop

The story of Wētā is fascinating to me. When NZ native Peter Jackson made the fateful decision to attempt a movie adaptation of the monumental Lord of the Rings trilogy, he had to find a way to bring his vision to life. Enter Peter's collaborator and fellow Kiwi Richard Taylor, founder of RT Productions, a small creative company that previously worked on creatures, prosthetics, and makeup for television productions.

In 1993 Peter had approached Richard about producing effects for his films Heavenly Creatures and The Frighteners. This led to Peter joining the company which was renamed Wētā Workshop, along with the creation of a CGI effects department called Wētā Digital (Wētā is a Maori word describing a group of large arthropod insect species native to New Zealand). These modest entities would form the homegrown backbone of one of the most ambitious film projects in history.

With a relatively limited budget, the producers of the Lord of the Rings (LOTR) movies were faced with the daunting task to design and manufacture every prop, costume (including weapons and armor), and structure for the sweeping tapestry created by author J.R.R. Tolkien. This included all CGI special effects and miniatures to augment physical sets and landscapes.

In a somewhat unorthodox but brilliant decision, principal filming of all three movies was completed simultaneously over the course of a year. Every shot was made on location in New Zealand, which given the geographic diversity of the country is understandable. Post-production would take another several years, with emphasis on large scale special effects, many of which Wētā Digital invented for the films.

Artwork commemorating Wētā in Wellington

In spite of the challenges this superlatively creative group managed something like a miracle, and the trilogy went on to become a tremendous critical and financial success. Their triumph established the divisions of Wētā as heavy hitters in the film industry.

In the years since the release of the LOTR films, Wētā has become one of the most prominent production companies in the world. With many Academy Awards and other cinematic prizes attesting to the quality of the work, Wētā has become a significant contributor to the Wellington economic picture.

At present most of what Wētā does takes place in far flung locations across New Zealand and other countries. Accordingly the Workshop is a showcase, a snapshot in time displaying props, miniatures, and costumes from previous productions. There is also an in-house armory for the production of weapons ranging from medieval to alien death rays.

The tour takes place over a few hours, with a guide sharing all kinds of insider knowledge including how certain effects are achieved, and anecdotes about behind the scenes incidents. Overall it was interesting and certainly worthwhile. Incidentally, the price of the tour included pickup and dropoff from the city center - this was a plus as the shuttle driver for my group was quite entertaining, providing lots of supplemental information about the city enroute to the Workshop.

I won't spoil the experience by divulging too much - I'll just share pictures of what I was allowed to photograph (unfortunately most stuff is off limits due to licensing agreements).

A Troll from The Hobbit

"I'm going to squash you into jelly..."

Turned to stone by the rising sun

One of many miniatures

A prosthetic mask of some really ugly dude

"My precioussssssss....."

Te Papa

Te Papa

When used in the context of the National Museum, the Maori words Te Papa translate to "the Treasure Box" or "Container of Treasures". It's a very apt description of one of the most comprehensive collections of art, artifacts, specimens, and exhibits regarding Aotearoa (New Zealand).

With an emphasis on biculturalism, the Museum aims to provide a space to tell the story of Maori and European settlers whose shared home includes immense geographical and biological diversity.

Housed in a modern multistory structure in central Wellington, Te Papa is the crown jewel of New Zealand's artistic, cultural, and natural history. With over 2 million objects in the collection, there is something for everyone here. Free for New Zealand residents, international visitors pay a modest 35.00 (NZD) for a full day pass.

Gallipolli Exhibit

I only had part of the day to visit, and I am truly sorry I did not get to see more of what is available, but I have to admit I gave most of my attention to a truly jaw-dropping exhibit focused on New Zealand's role in the invasion of Gallipolli.

Covering the disastrous early World War I campaign, there is substantial space devoted to the experience of Australian and New Zealand soldiers who participated in the long, grueling, and ultimately unsuccessful attempt to open another front in the war.

Part of what makes visiting an institution like Te Papa worthwhile is that something new can be presented in a way that makes you want to learn more, and that is exactly what happened to me. The exhibit is designed to be immersive, and I found myself seeking to explore the details of what happened and why. When I returned home I spent time on a deeper dive into the history of the invasion, and I discovered things that were previously unknown to me.

For me the most impressive part of the presentation is the inclusion of 8 large figures sculpted at 2.4 times their original size. These portray the stories of New Zealanders and their personal experience during the brutal months long conflict. Coincidentally, these enormous depictions were created by Wētā, taking over 24,000 hours to produce. I attempted to capture some of the amazing detail with these photos, but like many things they are poor representations of the actual objects.

What we call PTSD was referred to then as "shell shock"

Rations were less than appetizing

On the left - see the tiny human?

The doctor's face says it all

The rage of battle

Meticulous detail, down to the fly

Sad news for loved ones from the front

The realism that Wētā achieved is astonishing, including details as fine as individual hairs on a soldiers hand. The facial expressions alone made me believe that the figures would suddenly turn and speak.

One of the important ideas conveyed by the exhibit is the coalescing of a national identity for New Zealanders. Although they became involved in World War I as a result of their association with the UK Commonwealth, afterwards they began to see themselves a separate and unique people. And the casualties were not limited to descendants of settlers; Maori people fought and died alongside their countrymen.

When I finally managed to pull myself away from the Gallipolli exhibit I spent my remaining time with the natural history and environmental presentations, but honestly I could go back for at least another day to give the rest of the Museum its full due. Next time, I promise.

After spending two unanticipated but thoroughly enjoyable days in New Zealand's capital city, the weather cleared as hoped for and I boarded a flight to Queenstown on South Island for my next destination - The Gillespie Track in Mt. Aspiring National Park.

Tongariro National Park: Round The Mountain Track

2026-07-12T19:51:22.908-07:00

North Island - Tongariro National Park

Mt. Ruapehu - the heart of Tongariro

My flight from the U.S. took me to Auckland, and it made sense that the first of my planned hikes should begin with North Island.

When spending extended periods in the outdoors, I usually prefer mountainous alpine or sub-alpine geography. Based on that criteria there are two regions on North Island that appealed to me. One is Taranaki, the other is Tongariro National Park.

Taranaki is located on the far southwestern coast, while Tongariro is found in the central part of the island. Each park encompasses landscapes with high summits and lofty elevations. And both are volcanic in nature, which is a defining characteristic of the highest North Island environments.

Of the two, Tongariro is larger and has more options for hiking in alpine and sub alpine terrain; in addition some key Taranaki tracks are closed long term due to erosion and rockfall hazards. Since I wanted a multiday outing it made more sense to focus my attention on Tongariro.

In Tongariro the most popular trek by far is an extended day hike known as the Tongariro Alpine Crossing. Requiring a shuttle to complete, this strenuous track takes the hiker up and over the heart of the volcanic/alpine environment. Another popular option is the Tongariro Northern Circuit, a multi-day trip covering even more of the area. My choice was to do something called the Round The Mountain Track, which is just what it sounds like.

I really had no idea what to expect other than what I had read online. I envisioned this hike to be a reasonably challenging circumnavigation of the volcanically active Mt. Ruapehu, traversing the slopes well below the summit but at a relatively high elevation. As is usually the case when making assumptions about things I have no firsthand knowledge of, my experience turned out to be somewhat different - more on that later.

At approximately 41 miles, the loop can be walked in either direction, but the Department of Conservation (DOC) recommends studying weather forecasts carefully as two unbridged river crossings occur at either the start or end of the loop, and rising water from heavy rain can render them impassable. I chose a clockwise direction encountering the rivers at the conclusion of the hike, with the option of bailout routes available should conditions deteriorate.

Know Before You Go....

DOC rates the track as Advanced, and recommends 4 - 6 days to complete the circuit. I gave myself 4 days/3 nights to complete the route, which seemed reasonable with an average of 10 miles a day. However since hikers must stay at designated huts, the distance between them would determine how far I would have to walk each day.

I chose to stay at Waihohonu, Mangaehuehu, and Whakapapaiti huts. Of the three, Waihohonu is part of the Northern Circuit track, and it is fully booked during peak season, so reservations well in advance are essential.

Huts are Awesome, but....

Huts ranging from primitive to highly developed exist on most hiking tracks in New Zealand, and they offer trampers some level of comfort to make the experience more enjoyable. Every hut provides basic commodities - shelter, bunks in shared dormitories, some type of water source (subject to rain/snow collection), a space to prepare meals, and pit toilets.

The bigger huts generally have more amenities, being serviced with gas for cooking, solar powered lighting, and in some cases a wood stove with a supply of firewood. Most of the largest huts are found on Great Walk tracks, and these typically have a Hut Warden to check visitor permits, provide information, and keep order.

However.... it is strongly advised by DOC to carry emergency shelter (i.e., a tent) and extra food in the event weather or some other unforeseen occurrence prevents you from reaching a hut.

There are many rivers in New Zealand, and you can't count on the existence of a bridge. In the event of heavy rain it is likely you will have to wait for floodwater to recede before being able to safely cross. Also, if you fall ill or are injured mid-trail and can't self evacuate, you need a means to protect yourself from the elements until help arrives.

I carried a full pack like I would on any trip, with equipment for such contingencies. My experience has taught me being prepared is the difference between an enjoyable time and an existential struggle. Huts are great, but make no mistake - they only offer refuge if you can get to them. I saw many people hiking without extra gear, relying entirely on the huts - not smart in my opinion, but it comes down to what you are personally comfortable with.

Day One - Whakapapa to Waihohonu Hut

Maori Totem at the Visitor Center

The day before my hike I made the trip from Auckland to the community of National Park, where I spent the night. The next morning arrived with mostly clear skies and favorable temperatures as I took a shuttle to reach Whakapapa Visitor Center, the starting point for Round The Mountain track.

From the outset the trail is well developed, beginning in what is called the "bush", a Kiwi expression for a heavily wooded/vegetated environment. Unsurprisingly the trees were unfamiliar to me (mostly Mountain Beech) as were most of the plants in the understory. I got to see a lot more of the bush before the month was over.

The first part of the track leads to Taranaki Falls, a popular day hike as it is only a couple of miles each way. I saw numerous people on that first day - but after departing from Waihohonu Hut I didn't see anyone else until I left the trail at Ohakune Mt. Road 2 days later.

Bridges and well built paths

The Bush

Taranaki Falls

Once you leave Taranaki Falls the path climbs up to open tableland, featuring tussocks and expansive vistas of the mountain. Visitors looking for a longer day hike can continue to Tama Lakes from here.

Yup, that looks like a volcano

I was surprised at how well developed the track was, with many thousands of linear feet of wooden planking for long stretches. The labor and expense required to construct the path had to be substantial.

Along the way I passed a couple of vigorous streams which originate on the flanks of Mt. Ruapehu. I should mention at this point that Tongariro has the distinction of being New Zealand's first National Park, with the land being donated to the Crown by Maori people for protection. Visitors are expected to respect the sacred nature of the landscape. This is why camping at large along the track is not permitted, and hikers are asked to refrain from swimming in lakes and streams.

The distance to my first nights accommodation was not far, only about 8.5 miles. I had planned the trip around averaging 10 miles a day, and any distance short of that would have to be added to another day's total. But that's just the way it is; once I reached Waihohonu I could advance no further until the next morning.

Waihohonu Hut

Waihohonu Hut is fairly new, having been constructed within the last few years. As such it is large and airy, and accommodates a respectable number of trekkers. It has gas cooktops, tables, solar powered lights, non-flush toilets, 28 bunks, and water. The water comes from rain/snow falling on the metal roof which is collected in cisterns. Signs warn it must be treated or boiled before use but the hut warden told me she drank it everyday with no issues. I had a filter and used it just to be safe.

The hut warden was personable and great to talk with. She had lots of interesting information to share and was very welcoming. I settled in to the hut, chose a bunk, ate dinner, and reflected on an enjoyable first day hiking in a foreign land. I burrowed into my sleeping bag for the night with high hopes for the next day.

Day Two - Waihohonu to Mangaehuehu Hut

The next morning brought two unwelcome developments. First and foremost I woke in the pre-dawn hours with an unpleasant scratchiness in the back of my throat. I have enough experience with that particular sensation to know that it presaged a sinus infection, which I seem to get once or twice a year. And not at all surprising since two days before I had spent 12 hours in an enclosed metal tube with 300 other people breathing the driest air known to mankind.

Mars? The Moon?

The other issue was a low pressure system that moved in overnight with misting rain, wind, and sullen grey skies - the perfect accompaniment to my soon-to-be stuffy head. In spite of it all I was there to hike, so I packed up my stuff and resumed the trek towards the next hut - Mangaehuehu.

Immediately after leaving Waihohonu, the character of the landscape changed dramatically, along with the nature of the the track. I found myself in a stark, nearly barren volcanic desert, and what had been well maintained trail became a chaotic ramble through abundant rocks ranging from pebbles to basketball (and larger) sized stones.

The route was now marked by a series of posts, some topped with an orange triangle . The post ahead was spaced to be visible from the marker you just passed, but when low clouds and fog rolled through could be hard to spot. Trying to keep the same heading, I often had to hunt for the next marker to be sure I was still moving in the right direction.

Progressing on somewhat level terrain at first, soon a seemingly endless series of deep gullies and high ridges began to appear. The rocky slopes were steep, and no actual trail allowed for picking the path of least resistance. I took almost no pictures during the day, primarily because I was focused on keeping my footing. The image below is one of the few I captured, and it shows the general condition of the route. If you look closely you can see posts marking the direction of travel.

If you like rocks, we got rocks.

It had been consistently windy all morning, but the intensity began to increase as the day went on. I estimate the winds were blowing at a steady 30 - 40 miles per hour, with higher gusts. No trees or vegetation exist to provide a windbreak, and on the many exposed ridges the winds were at their strongest. This sometimes made it difficult to stand upright, especially with a big pack presenting a large cross section. As I stumbled along a hill crest trying to keep my feet, a particularly strong blast ripped the rain cover off my pack, and I watched helplessly as it tumbled away down the slope.

I'm usually able to maintain some perspective when hiking in difficult environments, realizing it's all part of the experience. Years ago I learned an expression that is useful in situations like this: "Embrace the Suck"

I am not ashamed to admit there were times I really struggled here. My newly arrived head cold, the wind and rain, the lost pack cover, and the fact that I was making very slow progress all combined to discourage me in ways that I generally don't experience.

By early afternoon I had covered more than half the distance, but by the time I reached Rangipo Hut I was nearly spent. The terrain had proved far harder than anticipated, and there were no indications it would improve ahead. Then I saw the DOC sign indicating that it would take the average person 6 hours to travel the next 5.5 miles - that's less than a mile per hour.

Not a helpful sign at Rangipo Hut

Fortunately the hut allowed me a place to stop for much needed rest, and an opportunity to get out of the weather while replenishing calories and hydrating. After about 40 minutes I felt some of my energy return. Despite a lack of enthusiasm I knew I had no choice but to keep going. I loaded up once more and headed out.

Down, over, and up - one of many

I'd like to say I was rejuvenated and tackled the remaining miles with renewed vigor, but in reality the afternoon was just as hard. I was already tired after 7 hours of hiking to reach Rangipo Hut, and conditions going forward were as difficult as what I had been dealing with all morning. The only bright spot of the afternoon was the strong winds eventually subsided to an intermittent nuisance.

One notable passage occurred when I came to a sign warning that the next 1/2 mile was a very dangerous section, and hikers should proceed through it as quickly as possible.

The area in question was yet another barren, rocky river valley, but here the unmistakable sulphur stench of volcanic fumes filled the air, and the water was a muddy brown slurry. The river originates near the active vent of Mt. Ruapehu, and in the past has been the conduit for multiple lahars, a violent, fast-moving debris flow composed of a slurry of water, mud, pyroclastic material, and rocky debris.

The channel provides evidence of past lahars

One person at a time - even then it felt sketchy

The smell alone was enough to prompt me to move along, although climbing out of the valley was anything but quick - a slow, awkward pace on the steep, rocky, and unstable slope was all I could manage. Still, it was a relief to leave the danger zone behind.

After lots of stops and starts and more than a few bad words directed at my own foolishness for underestimating the track, I reached Mangaehuehu Hut. The sign was not wrong - It took me just over 6 hours to struggle through the broken landscape to arrive at my destination.

I had seen no one all day, and the hut was likewise empty. I literally collapsed on the bunk, unable to do more than just lie there for 30 minutes. Unfortunately that was a mistake, because when I attempted to stand every muscle in my legs immediately seized with massive cramps.

It took some time and stretching for the cramps to subside, but once they did I started a fire in the wood stove. And above the stove - a very useful wooden rack which could be raised/lowered to hang wet gear and clothes. Nearly everything I owned was suspended on this indoor "clothesline" to dry.

One other event marred my otherwise "perfect" day - climbing over the steepest, rockiest parts of the route had caused my rain pants to split through the crotch. After dinner I spent time with needle and thread attempting to repair them by headlamp - I managed to pull the two halves together but ended up making them so tight they eventually split again.

All in all it was one of the least favorite hiking days I've ever had, but the bottom line is I survived to tell the story. And most fortunately it was the only truly awful day I experienced for the rest of the trip, although New Zealand still had a few things to teach me. And as a reward of sorts for the difficulties I encountered, I got a great sunset. Plus since no one else showed up, I had the place all to myself. So, not all bad.

My first New Zealand sunset

Day Three - Mangaehuehu to Whakapapaiti.... Almost

I should have fallen into an exhausted sleep immediately on crawling into my sleeping bag, but when I have pushed my body to its physical limit it is sometimes difficult to find rest. Also my head was very congested, so it took a while before I finally slipped into a restless slumber.

I awoke around 6:30 the next morning to the sound of rain. The night before the clouds had broken, giving me false hope that the weather would be more cooperative, but it was not to be. At least my stuff was dry thanks to the fire I had set in the wood stove - a small mercy. I gathered my things, ate a meager breakfast, loaded my pack, and headed out into the drizzle.

Just prior to reaching Mangaehuehu Hut the previous day, the landscape had changed back to bush. That didn't make the going easier, just different. The folds and creases of the mountain flanks necessitated climbing into and out of numerous drainages like the day before. But the rocks had all but disappeared, with the terrain becoming muddier, marshier, and dense with vegetation.

As a result, long stretches of planking like I had seen in the beginning returned. These walkways are mostly elevated above ground, and in places many, many steps negotiate the multiple ups and downs of the landscape.

Mind the gaps

Cable bridges

Lots of steps

Miles of boardwalk

The skies remained moisture laden as the day progressed, and views beyond the immediate surroundings were very limited. While it had been raining fairly steadily through the morning, showers became more numerous and heavy that afternoon. I started to consider I might not be able to cross the two unbridged rivers ahead. Accordingly my thoughts turned to the next bailout opportunity and modifying my plan.

Fortunately there's a road (Ohakune Mountain Road) visitors use to reach the flanks of Mt. Ruapehu, and it is fairly heavily trafficked in the summer months. I decide if rain is still coming down when I reach that point I will try to get a ride down to the nearest town - my head and ears are thoroughly congested and I'd like to try to find some type of medicine that will unclog me.

Before I get to the road, I come to one of the places people visit using the road - Waitonga Falls.

I have Arrived...

Waitonga Falls

Sadly I'm not that interested in a side hike to the falls, mostly because I am soaked through to the skin, and my skull is pounding with a sinus headache. I carry on doggedly through the bush heading for the exit.

Once I reach the road and parking area for Waitonga the skies really open up and confirm my strong desire to retreat to civilization. Fortunately I only have to wait about 15 minutes in the driving rain before someone heading down takes pity and offers me a ride.

I arrive in the town of Ohakune, an unforeseen destination with my attempt to complete the Round The Mountain Track brought to an untimely end. It's also where the storm I didn't see coming has something to say about my future plans. But after finding a place to stay, it's off to the pharmacy in search of some much needed congestion relief.

Coming Up: Man Proposes, Nature Disposes.

Spiderwebs capture droplets of rain

The Other Side of the World - New Zealand

2026-07-02T18:08:05.869-07:00

Auckland

A Different Perspective

I have lived a fortunate life in many ways - I have access to one of the most beautiful regions on the planet, and for many years explored extensively into remote and breathtaking places that enriched my soul and inspired my mind.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I haven't seen every place on the Colorado Plateau that is worthy of visiting, but life has a way of redirecting purpose and plan. In my case that redirection included a realization that time is slipping away, and any ideas I had about seeing other incredible places would need to become a priority.

On my list of things to do: Visit one of the most diverse and scenic countries found anywhere - New Zealand. I thought at one point I would like to hike Te Araroa, the 1900 mile Kiwi* version of a National Scenic trail. This serious physical undertaking would require around 4 months of living out of my backpack, something I've done before but never in a foreign land. After reading quite a lot about the conditions I would likely face, I decided I wasn't ready for that kind of commitment.

*New Zealanders are commonly referrred to as "Kiwis", a reference to the small flightless bird that has become a national symbol

Instead I chose a much more modest goal - spending a month in pursuit of a variety of backpacking trips, a sampler of sorts. Now a month may sound like a good amount of time, but I have learned that it really only allowed me to get a glimpse of the possibilities. Over the course of the next several posts I will present the hikes I did manage, and hopefully inspire others to make the journey to this truly magical place.

Getting There

The most amazing thing to me about traveling from America to New Zealand is the idea that you can board a plane in Phoenix and 14 hours later you are on the opposite side of the world. I went in February, technically winter here in the U.S. but summer "down under". To be fair, we didn't have much of winter in Flagstaff, and perversely the weather in Aotearoa (the Maori word for New Zealand) was distinctly un-summer like for at least part of my visit. As an outdoor enthusiast I was prepared for whatever Nature chose to offer, but everywhere I went people talked about how unseasonably cool and rainy it had been.

The country has a distinct geographical personality based on the 2 major islands that make up the landscape, and I spent time on each to try and get a sense of the environment. More on the differences in subsequent posts.

Thoughts and Observations On Arrival

Downtown and the Sky Tower

The major international airport is in Auckland, on North Island. My first impression of course was the city of Auckland itself. With a population of nearly 2 million (close to 35% of the country's total), the city is an interesting mix of old and new. The downtown business district has the requisite number of sleek modern skyscrapers, and surrounding areas reflect a variety of architectural styles ranging through periods from the early to mid 1900's.

Because the country is relatively "young" by most standards, any sense of long term history truly belongs to the indigenous population, the Maori.

There is a very strong Maori influence in many aspects of New Zealand culture, quite the opposite of what we see here in the U.S. All official aspects of Aotearoa life are presented in both English and Maori languages, and there is a greater awareness of Maori presence in everyday life.

A Cruise Ship at Queen's Wharf

There is also a pronounced Asian/Southeast Asian influence and presence in the city, not a surprise given the proximity to this part of the world. Not only is New Zealand a popular tourist destination, but many people from Asian countries come here to go to university and also to work. I met many students and temporary workers who were here on various types of work visas, spending roughly 4 months doing mostly menial jobs in return for a month of leisure travel.

Prior to visiting, I had been reading as much as possible about the current state of affairs just so I would be more familiar with my surroundings. One of the common themes is the national economy was in a downturn, especially in terms of wages and opportunities. This apparently has led to a significant exodus of New Zealanders to Australia where jobs are more plentiful and pay is higher. There appears to be no shortage of service related jobs, but wages in the sector are uniformly low, and most positions were held by international citizens here on work/holiday visas.

As to the physical landscape, there is lots of greenery in and around the city. The major metropolitan area is situated amidst low hills and lots of open space. As it is a maritime climate plants and trees of many varieties thrive, and the vegetation was lush and abundant.

Overlooking a settler cemetery in the city

Although I am not a city person, overall my impression was quite favorable. Everyone was friendly, and I never felt unsafe walking the streets. Getting around was easy, as the Auckland Transit system is comprehensive, affordable and timely. And due to a favorable (for me) currency exchange rate, most things were quite affordable.

Planning the Hikes

New Zealand is a Pacific island nation located in proximity to the Ring Of Fire, the boundary line of tectonic plates where seismic and volcanic events are relatively common geologic occurrences. But as I noted earlier the two islands that comprise the country are different, particularly in one notable respect - North Island has an active volcanic region along with significant geothermal activity, which is absent on South Island.

I need to elaborate on a couple of things: First, North Island only has a few regions with high elevation profiles but by no means is the terrain gentle. I traveled by coach through a great deal of the island and got to see lots of countryside, and I was impressed by the sheer hills and deep valleys found in the interior. Seeing it firsthand helped me understand why sheep and cattle farming is a big part of the economy, as traditional agriculture looks to be nearly impossible on the steep slopes.

The second point I want to make is that New Zealanders have a well established "trekking" culture. The country is incredibly rugged, and roads are somewhat limited, which is understandable given the inherent obstacles. Both Maori peoples and early European settlers had to make most journeys on foot due to the unforgiving geography, and the resulting legacy is a network of paths and tracks that provide access to remote areas.

In addition New Zealand offers something quite different from what I am used to: a sprawling network of huts that range from somewhat primitive to highly developed. Another unique feature of the hiking ethos is a set of trekking routes designated as Great Walks, some of which are very popular and require long term advance booking (think Bright Angel campground or Phantom Ranch at the bottom of Grand Canyon). I'll detail my one experience completing a Great Walk in a subsequent post.

The absolute best source for learning about these routes is the New Zealand Department of Conservation, which is equivalent to the National Park Service in the U.S. Their website offers reams of helpful information about hiking in all parts of the country, including how and when to make bookings for the more popular hikes and huts. There is also an incredibly helpful app for phone or PC at Plan My Walk, provided by the New Zealand Mountain Safety Council. Together these two resources can provide all the necessary information for planning an adventure.

At the time I started thinking about this trip, I decided somewhat arbitrarily that a month would be enough to sample some of what New Zealand has to offer. Of course not all that time could be spent hiking and backpacking - I had to allow for travel not only between the islands but to different regions, making connections using a reasonably well developed inter-island transportation network.

Based on my interests and the required logistics I was able to plan 4 separate outings, one of which was an overnight backpack, with the others being multi-day wilderness treks. As North Island geography is relatively limited in alpine terrain, I selected one trip there, with the three remaining hikes taking place on the abundantly mountainous South Island.

Up Next: The First Backpack - Tongariro National Park

The Sierra

2026-05-03T17:07:00.035-07:00

Half Dome

The first time I ever saw the Sierra Nevada (Spanish for "snow covered mountains") was in 2016, on a student trip I was leading to Yosemite National Park. The overall intention of the trip for the teacher and students was to summit Half Dome, a prominent granite spire in the heart of Yosemite Valley. We were there for a total of 4 days, and the itinerary was tightly structured, so the opportunity for me to explore was limited. Nonetheless I was suitably impressed with the landscape and vowed to return in the future.

Little did I know then that my next encounter would occur 2 years later, when I would attempt to hike the Pacific Crest Trail, a continuous 2600+ mile trek from Mexico to Canada through California, Oregon, and Washington. That story is for another post, but on that occasion I entered the Sierra at a place called Kennedy Meadows, and for the next 400 miles walked through the most awe inspiring and rugged mountains I had ever seen.

Even though I traveled through the heart of the range, which extends north and south through central California, I did not have the luxury of time to enjoy it. Hiking the PCT in a single season is not a leisurely backpack, and the hiker needs to average 18 miles per day in order to reach the Canadian border in Washington before the snow flies in the Cascade Range. It was frustrating but necessary to pass quickly through the majesty of the "the Range of Light", which is how John Muir referred to the mountains.

When my PCT hike ended later that summer, I committed myself to return to the Sierra the following year and take more time to really see and experience the place. Accordingly, I have been back on multiple occasions to immerse myself in the spectacular scenery.

The Range of Light

John Muir always disagreed with the name Sierra Nevada, proposing instead the name given to the mountains reflect what he called their luminous quality. I can't say that I disagree, as early morning and late afternoon light make the mountains appear to glow. But in all fairness nevada is also appropriate, as in winter the range can get buried in massive quantities of snow.

As the first geographic obstacle to storms originating from the Pacific Ocean, the peaks (many rising above 14,000 feet) wring prodigious amounts of precipitation from the clouds, often resulting in feet of snow in a single storm, while also leaving the Great Basin region to the east without appreciable moisture.

Geographically defined as roughly 400 miles long and anywhere from 50 to 80 miles wide, the Sierra is part of what is known as the American Cordillera, a chain which roughly parallels the western edge of both North and South America. This part of the range is relatively young, with uplift beginning around 5 million years ago.

Glaciers then carved steep valleys which resulted in some amazing prominence, defined as the verticality measured by distance from valley floor to peak. On the eastern slope of the Sierra, it's not uncommon to see 10,000 feet of elevation gain in just a few miles, which helps explain the jaw dropping perspective.

The environment here is undeniably rugged. Although there are a fair number of trails that allow travel into remote backcountry areas, they are inevitably steep, rocky, and subject to damage from rockfall or heavy spring runoff, and not all trails see maintenance or frequent use.

On extended trips such as the PCT or the John Muir Trail, the ability to resupply is extremely limited, in most cases requiring exiting the mountains via steep, high passes with a long descent to the nearest town, with a similarly difficult return trip. And in much of the Sierra stringent bear deterrent measures are required, meaning all food must be carried and stored in approved bear resistant containers.

Muir Pass in early June 2018

Sierra weather is surprisingly temperate in the summer months, but snow can and does occur anytime of year, and after heavy snow years there can still be significant amounts that linger well into June and July, especially on north facing slopes and at higher elevations. In those circumstances hikers would be wise to carry additional gear such as spikes or crampons, gaiters, and an ice axe (as well as the knowledge how to use it).

Of course snow melt is what feeds the numerous rivers, creeks and streams, with early season (May - June) runoff that can make it dangerous to ford the many unbridged crossings.

Also it is not uncommon during what is sometimes referred to the monsoon season (late July - August) to experience daily afternoon thunderstorms, which necessitate being well clear of higher, exposed areas like summits and passes due to frequent lightning.

The Lay of the Land

Devil's Postpile National Monument

The Sierra encompasses a wide range of public lands, comprised of Sierra, Sequoia, Inyo, Tahoe, Eldorado, Stanislaus, and Plumas National Forests. Inclusive to the forests are designated Wilderness areas such as John Muir, Ansel Adams, Desolation, Emigrant, Dinkey Lakes, Monarch, Golden Trout, and South Sierra.

Then there's the National Parks and a Monument; Yosemite, mentioned at the beginning of this post, and Devil's Postpile National Monument near Mammoth Lakes.

Equally beautiful but not as well known is Kings Canyon - Sequoia National Park. Here is found one of the oldest and largest living organisms, the mighty Sequoia tree.

Sequoia

The largest Sequoia ever discovered measured 311 feet tall, and another specimen had a trunk diameter of 29 feet. If left to grow undisturbed, a lifespan over 3000 years is not uncommon. The tree is natively found only in the Sierra, but has been introduced widely in other parts of the world.

The mountains themselves are composed mainly of granite, basement rocks formed deep underground. The presentation is dominated by light colored, coarse grained multi-faceted stone, which is likely why Muir attributed an incandescent quality to their appearance. The overall steepness, lack of soil, and harsh high altitude environment limits trees and other vegetation to low angle slopes and valley floors, leaving naked rock to soar high above the landscape.

Many people are surprised to learn that the highest mountain in the continental U.S. is not in Colorado. Although the Rocky Mountains have 58 peaks that reach 14,000 feet or more, the prize goes to California for Mt. Whitney at 14,505 feet, with an additional 11 Sierra peaks rising over 14,000'.

Plaque placed in 1930

View from the summit of Mt. Whitney

Yours truly at the summit in 2018

The trail to the summit

A defining feature of traveling the Sierra are the many mountain passes. The most commonly hiked trail south - north (or vice versa) incorporates both the PCT and the John Muir Trail, and traversing this route means encountering 9 major passes over 10,000 feet, with the highest being Forester Pass at 13,180'. Approaches and descents of the passes frequently require vertical gains/losses of 6000 feet or more; this combined with lower oxygen levels at altitude and a typically heavy pack means a sustained physical effort is needed to tackle them.

Another major factor is water. As a resident of the desert southwest, water is usually the most important consideration in any extended outdoor activity. The absolute scarcity of this precious resource where I live is why I hold it in such reverence, and to travel in an area where it is abundant beyond need is a paradigm shift for me.

What It's All About

I have spent a considerable amount of time in the Colorado Rockies, as well as extensive travel throughout the Intermountain West. I lived in the foothills of the Wind River Mountains in Wyoming, another superlative mountain range. So I'm no stranger to massive, towering peaks that reach for the sky.

But there is a something, an indefinable quality or atmosphere about the Sierra that imparts a feeling I have not experienced elsewhere - and it makes me keep wanting to go back for more. Whatever it is, I'm not the only one who has felt that way - just ask John Muir or Ansel Adams.

So instead of trying to explain what a profound effect the Sierra has had on me, I am going to simply post a selection of pictures from my travels to the region. The images will do a much better job than I at trying to convey that feeling.

New Directions

2026-05-03T13:07:00.002-07:00

The Road Goes Ever On: The Next Chapter

I started this blog nearly 20 years ago, mostly because I wanted to journal my exploration of awesome places found within the geographical borders of the Colorado Plateau.

Through that span I traveled into and experienced many amazing landscapes, enjoying the thrill and appreciation of discovery each time I turned the corner or crested a hill to see some new (to me) vista.

I can't say that I've seen it all, for the scope and scale of the landscape is simply too large. The span of a normal human life is not enough, even if all I ever did was travel. I am fortunate that I had time, opportunity, and desire to accomplish what I did, but I realize there are places I'm not going to see, and that's just the way it is.

As I've gotten older, I've shifted my focus to whatever time remains to me. I'm still reasonably fit and capable, and with the world a very large place, I am compelled to travel beyond my backyard. I know I can't possibly see everything that appeals to my sense of wonder, but prioritizing my future wandering may allow me to get to some of the locations I've always wanted to visit.

The exploration and personal discovery of the southwest will always be part of me, and I still enjoy living in proximity to places that helped shape my appreciation of the natural world. But going forward, this blog continues as a chronicle of new adventures as I embark on journeys farther from home.

Shhhhh.... It's Edmaier's Secret

2024-08-11T19:02:00.015-07:00

Paria River Valley

When I started this blog many years ago, my intention was to document all of the wonderful places I visited within the Colorado Plateau region. While I was reasonably faithful at first about creating posts, it soon became apparent that producing the kind of in-depth content I prefer takes time; and as any older person can tell you time is a commodity that has a vanishingly short shelf life.

As much as I would like to just ignore everything else and sit down for a spell to catch up, I am resigned to finding a few moments here and there to hammer out a post. So here in my latest installment I'll cover another slice of a most amazing place.

Edmaier's Secret

I've spent a fair amount of time along the Arizona-Utah border working as a guide in the area of the Grand Staircase - Escalante and Vermilion Cliffs National Monuments. This region was for many years unknown to the majority of visitors, most of whom are focused on the large National Parks surrounding the area - Bryce, Zion, and the North Rim of Grand Canyon.

The pandemic changed all of that, as people who had been told to stay indoors and away from crowded places discovered that being outside was an effective antidote to quarantine and isolation. Even so the area is vast and for the most part roadless, and except for more well known features such as the Wave and White Pocket there is lots to discover without having to negotiate crowds.

One such place is Edmaier's Secret, which despite the name is really not unknown. This large area of fins and sandstone formations is named for German photographer Bernhard Edmaier, who supposedly identified them from a small plane. Located just outside the permit area of North Coyote Buttes (home to the Wave), reaching the area requires a relatively easy hike, although once you arrive you'll want to do some exploring which necessitates a fair bit of scrambling.

Buckskin Gulch

Also in the immediate area is Buckskin Gulch, one of the narrowest and deepest slot canyons in the southwest. I won't cover the Gulch here as it is one of those places where you'll have lots of company, being very well known and somewhat easy to reach. I mention it specifically because getting to Edmaier's Secret requires starting at the upper (northern) trailhead for Buckskin Gulch, located on House Rock Valley Road. The route follows the same trail for about 2 miles before diverging from the wash that leads to the Gulch.

From the trailhead the path drops into a shallow canyon, meandering from side to side trying to stay out of the sandy washbottom. In spite of the overall lack of anything resembling grass, this is cattle grazing country, and browsing cows have created their own network of trails. Not to worry though; as long as you follow the canyon bottom getting lost is unlikely.

Visually the first couple of miles is not particularly interesting, although wandering in the confines of a canyon anywhere is a fine way to spend the day. Vegetation is typical of a high desert environment, with juniper, pinyon pine, rabbitbrush, sagebrush, and prickly pear cactus being most obvious.

You'll know you are getting close when the trail begins to parallel a barbed-wire fence, as shown in the picture above. Shortly after this point the trail will return to the wash bottom, and a tributary drainage will appear on the left. Follow this drainage as it approaches the sandstone ridge that rises above and to the east. Once the wash reaches the base of the formation there is no path other than the one you choose.

Crossbedded fins

The most common feature of the Navajo Sandstone landscape is something called a "fin", which is an exposed remnant of lithified sand, representing a period of time in what used to be an Eolian sand dune desert from around 190 million years ago.

Eolian (also spelled Aeolian) refers to the process by which wind erodes and transports material, specifically in this case grains of sand.

Over hundreds of thousands of years wind shaped the sand into massive dunes, with silicates compacted and cemented together in discrete layers. At the end of this geologic era the dunes were buried by thousands of feet of overlying sediment from nearby mountain ranges worn down by relentless wind, water, and time. During this period the transformation of the sand into sandstone was completed through the process known as diagenesis.

Millions more years passed during which erosion stripped away deposited sediment, revealing the now fossilized dunes. Once exposed the same forces began to work on the sandstone, carving and shaping the rock. The fins exist because select layers are more resistant due to higher rates of compaction and a greater concentration of minerals bonding the grains together.

Despite this enhanced cohesion the vestigial layers are exceptionally fragile, and great care should be exercised when walking among them.

As mentioned earlier, there is no path or specific destination. The entire western exposure has many areas of fins, as well as other visually appealing formations. The following images provide a sampling of what you can see if you are willing to explore.

Looking south towards North Coyote Buttes

Looking north towards Buckskin Mountain

Caprocks of slightly harder material form toadstools

Fossilized footprint of an eroded sand dune

The more time you have the more you'll discover. While covering a fairly large area, the majority of interesting formations can be seen in about 6-8 hours. I recommend contouring to the south, climbing higher and essentially criss-crossing the slope if you see something that piques your curiosity. If you have the time stay until the sun starts to descend into the west - the shadows and fading light make for better pictures.

Anyway you do it you'll have uncovered another "secret" gem in a land of immense riches.

Summer "Rains" Supreme

2024-07-16T10:58:00.440-07:00

Lazy Days

Summer meadow wildflowers

I find every season has something to cherish; Winter brings cold crisp blankets of enveloping white, with (sometimes) deep snow to smooth an otherwise challenging landscape. Spring offers the promise of longer, warmer days with a transformation from monochromatic views to a greening world. Fall signals the close of another year with vibrant, blazing color, intensely blue skies, and cooler temperatures.

Even though I enjoy being outdoors all year long, Summer has to be my favorite because days are longer, and spending time simply inhabiting the woods in a leisurely fashion is a gift beyond compare.

That's not to say summer does not have challenges, particularly in a warming world. Even though I live at relatively high elevation, we are not immune from the impacts of climate change. Anyone who has been here for many years as I have can testify that weather patterns are changing, with longer stretches of above normal temperatures and shifts in seasonal rain patterns.

Fortunately the environment is so far proving remarkably resilient, and now that summer rains have arrived so have the flowers, along with the hope we will escape a devastating wildfire season. So aside from editorializing on what we humans are doing to our only planet, I'll move on to a more pleasant topic and showcase some of the visual pleasures I am privileged to see on my ramblings.

Author's Note: The flowers and plants shown here are found in the area north of Flagstaff called Dry Lake Hills, a range of volcanic mountains associated with the San Francisco Peaks. These rocky, forested prominences rise to a height of 9300 feet above sea level, with average elevations between 8000 and 9000 feet. Like most of Northern Arizona surface water is almost non-existent, with precipitation arriving principally as winter snow and daily summer thunderstorms.

Scotch Thistle

I need to be honest - it's hard to find anything positive to say about thistles. Growing abundantly in fire scars and areas where the soil has been disturbed, the leaves and stalks sport wicked barbs that outdoor enthusiasts need to be mindful of. Even so, the flowering plant has a few attractive looks during the blooming stage.


Mountain Agoseris

If it weren't for the distinctive color and differing leaf structure, Agoseris could easily be mistaken for a very common plant, the humble Dandelion. This species is easy to miss as it is not widespread.

Western Evening Primrose

Starting summer hikes before sunrise allows me to witness hillsides covered in white and yellow Primrose, which blooms overnight. Later on the flowers will fold in like crumpled tissue, hiding from the heat of the day.

Lupine

Among the most common species of plant/flower in the forest, Lupine is readily identifiable by the pinnate leaves and purple blossoms arrayed on a central stalk.

Purple Locoweed

Another ubiquitous and prolific forest resident is a member of the Vetch family known as Purple Locoweed. Reviled by ranchers, Locoweed can be toxic to grazing animals.

Rocky Mountain Iris

The Iris is also fairly common in the area. This flower has an intricate and appealing shape but the appearance of the bloom is swift and short-lived. By mid-summer all that's left is a slender stalk bearing the seed pod for the next generation.

Yellow Salsify

Salsify seed head - approx. 2.5" diameter

Salsify is not native to the Americas but was introduced from Europe or Africa. The plant has been historically cultivated for its appearance and the edible root, and the seed head resembles that of the Dandelion family, albeit many times larger.


Indian Paintbrush

Similar to Lupine and Locoweed, Paintbrush is abundant throughout the region. There are many different varieties; without examining the plant for specific identifying characteristics it is not known which type this is.

Sticky Geranium

Sticky Geraniums are widely distributed throughout this ecosystem. The name "sticky" implies a theory that this species may be evolving carnivorous capabilities similar to other plants that attract and trap insects. We'll have to check back in in a few thousand years to see if it happens.

Golden Columbine

Columbine has become more widely distributed in recent years. Though not especially common this graceful mountain flower is easy to spot with its distinctive shape.

Blue Beardtongue

This beautiful member of the Penstemon family is fairly common in and around grassy meadows and open forest spaces.

Paper Bellflower

Another meadow loving species, Bellflower is found early to mid-summer growing amongst the grasses and forbs of open areas.

Scarlet Penstemon

Also known as Scarlet Beardtongue or Firecracker Penstemon, the vivid red color flags the visitor's attention from a distance.

Spreading Dogbane

Flowering shrubs are not abundant in the relatively arid Southwest. Apache Plume, Cliffrose, Wild Arizona Rose, Common Raspberry, and Dogbane are among the few.

Fleabane

Sometimes also called Aspen Daisy, this delicate rayed flower is fond of sunny, open spaces.

Blue Flax

Nodding gracefully on long slender stalks, delicate Blue Flax is another meadow-loving species.

Many Flowered Stoneseed

This inconspicuous yellow flower grows well in exposed areas with rocky soil. Growing relatively low to the ground with small blooms, it is easy to overlook.

Mountain Gentian

A relatively late bloomer, Gentian is found mostly in sun-drenched open spaces and meadows.

Santolina Villosa

This flower is quite uncommon, but I see it in a few random spots each year. Although not showy or extravagant, it adds a nice touch of color to the surroundings.

False Springparsley

Also commonly called Mountain Parsley, this is the smallest and least showy flower in the forest. This variety sometimes presents with an reddish-orange color.

Wild Arizona Rose

Unlike the heavily cultivated domestic Rose, the wild variety is small and not particularly impressive. Even so, the delicate pink blossoms are unique among flowers growing in this landscape.

Dalmation Toadflax

An invasive species, Toadflax is sometimes referred to as "Eggs and Butter" given the distinct color variegation of the bloom. This species is well established throughout the Intermountain West.

Yarrow

Found around the world, Yarrow is very adaptable and has many properties that lead to multiple uses in traditional herbal medicine. From the Aster family, Yarrow is one of the last plants in bloom as summer wanes.

Cliffrose

As the name implies, the scent of the blossoms are highly reminiscent of Roses; I nearly always smell Cliffrose before I see it. This woody shrub is an important plant for grazing animals that overwinter in the region, as it provides a source of food when grasses are no longer viable.

Mariposa

From the Lily family, Mariposa is an attractive white flower also referred to as Sego Lily. Like many other plants, Mariposa has value for the edible parts of the plant and for uses in traditional herbal medicine.

Streamside Fleabane

Since surface water is so rare in Northern Arizona the name of this flower is hardly accurate. But this small daisy-like flower grows abundantly in meadows where the last of the winter snowmelt forms shallow ponds, and the soil is slow to dry out after the surface water is gone.

Richardson's Geranium

Richardson's Geranium is not as widespread as the Sticky Geranium, and it has a slightly different presentation. This flower is also referred to as Cranesbill and Cloudberry.


Bracken Fern

Though not a flower, no plant is more indicative of summer than Bracken Fern. Once the snows have melted, spiral stalks begin to emerge from the brown, dessicated beds of last years growth. Unfolding by degrees, by early summer these vivid green fronds will have reestablished lush colonies.

Vervain

Known as New Mexican Vervain or Spike Verbena, this is a fairly common flower in this environment. The flowers are small but attractive, growing on the cone/stalk of the plant.

Graceful Cinquefoil

Many varieties of Cinquefoil can be found throughout the Mountain West. The Graceful variety is common is grassy open spaces and meadows.

Raspberry

Ripening berries

Fire has recently impacted a significant part of the area, and one result has been the proliferation of Raspberry shrubs in burned areas. Though many of the plants have yet to mature it seems likely there will be abundant berry crops in the coming years.

Coyote Mint

This slight purple flower is a member of the Mint family, with the characteristic aroma of the species.

Narrowleaf Four O'Clock

Another modest but attractive purple blossom is the Four O'Clock. The name comes from the plant's practice of unfolding flowers later in the day.

Scarlet Gilia

Scarlet Gilia is comparable to Scarlet Penstemon, as both flowers exhibit the same bright red coloration which makes it easy to see. This plant is also referred to as Skyrocket.

Manyflower Tobacco

The Latin name for this species is Nicotiana acuminata, hence the word Tobacco in the name. This species is native to South America, but is now found in many locations.

Mullein

Mature Mullein stalk

Mullein is possibly the most successful invasive species in southwestern mountain environments. One reason is the plant produces an overabundance of seeds, which can lay dormant for long periods awaiting the right conditions. It thrives in disturbed soils such as burn scars and areas that have been mechanically logged.

Plains Coreopsis

This perennial yellow rayed flower is common across the globe, growing in many different environments. The picture at the beginning of this post with the field of flowers is Coreopsis.

Carroway

I had a tough time identifying this plant, but based on a couple of different sources I'm pretty confident in labeling this one Carroway. It grows on a long stalk which radiates into separate bracts.

Slender Mountain Sandwort

This is also an uncertain identification. The flower is very diminutive, and similar images online don't inspire me with confidence. Given that this is a species found at comparable altitudes and latitudes it is likely Sandwort, but I can't be 100% certain.

Bird's Foot Lotus

Another small inconspicuous flower that is difficult to photograph. The small blooms are dispersed across the plant which generally grows close to the ground.

Peavine

Like the Bird's Foot Lotus, Peavine produces small indistinct flowers on a ground hugging plant, often amongst tall meadow grasses. The flower has an irregular shape making it hard to photograph.

Pingue Rubberweed

I'm not sure I can say much about a plant/flower called Rubberweed. Suffice to say it is yet another yellow rayed flower, one of many.

Tansy Aster

Another common rayed flower is the Tansy or Purple Aster. Aster is a late bloomer, and will be more prevalent as summer comes to a close.

Goldenrod

Goldenrod is also a late summer species, and like Yarrow and Aster will be one of the last flowers "standing" as the season wanes.

The next three flowers were found on a north facing slope in an isolated area. I had never seen them before and I did not recognize any of them. Despite the localized presence, distribution was widespread so I'm reasonably sure they are native.


Birdbill Dayflower

Torrey's Craglily

Jack-o'-the-Rocks

ADYC

When it comes to yellow rayed flowers, even experts sometimes struggle to identify species, simply because there are so many of them. Some are familiar like sunflowers, but in general the most common appearing type of flower in the world looks similar across species. Hence the acronym "ADYC", which among botanists stands for "Another Damned Yellow Composite".

In attempting to provide accurate names and descriptions of some pictures here, I used a couple of different plant identification apps. One is called Leaf Snap, and the other is Plant Net. Leaf Snap is a commercial product, although it can be used free of charge if you don't mind watching ads each time you ask it to identify a species.

Plant Net is a community sourced app with no ads or charges, but some species have not had many images provided by users so the database may not be as extensive. I think they both do a reasonable job, but depending on the quality/quantity of the images provided for comparison it may be hard to be entirely certain.

Lupine and Paintbrush

While I've tried to present a reasonably thorough accounting of flowering plants and shrubs in this particular area, there will be omissions simply because not every plant grows where they can be easily seen, and not everything is in bloom simultaneously.

I am not attempting to create an exhaustive catalog - I'll leave that to PhDs and Graduate students writing the next field guide. What I really want to share is just how appealing the forest is at this time of year.

As I said at the outset every season has its merits, but Summer not only provides a colorful pageant of flowers, it also is gracious enough to offer the time (and usually) the weather to enjoy them. As my Mom used to tell me when I was younger - Go outside!

The Leaves Are Leaving!

2023-10-14T13:14:00.004-07:00

I was raised in the desert Southwest, a place characterized by plants adapted to hot, dry conditions. This manifests itself with shrubs, trees, and cacti that show very little change with the seasons, except for a brief "green-up" after a wet winter. Once summer settles in the landscape reverts to the dominant color palette, that of various drab shades of brown and beige dotted with clumps of pale green.

Palo Verde tree

Desert plants evolved to retain moisture, finding novel ways to avoid losing precious water from evaporation. One of the more common strategies involves having very small leaves, or in some cases no leaves at all.

Cactus are one example, having all the necessary photo-synthesizing chemicals within the waxy flesh of the plant. Native trees follow suit; the Palo Verde (spanish for "green stick") has no leaves, with the bark and stems incorporating chlorophyll to absorb the sun's energy.

Thus the arrival of "fall" to the desert meant little to me as a kid, as the only apparent change was the remission of scorching heat, shorter days, and a lower sun in the sky. I saw pictures of what autumn looks like in other parts of the world, and I could only imagine standing in a sun dappled grove of hardwood trees with blazing red, orange and yellow leaves falling gently around me.

When I got older and relocated away from the desert I finally got my wish (sort of). I've never lived in the northeast or mid-Atlantic region, nor have I had the privilege of visiting these areas during the fall, so my childhood dream remains unfulfilled, but the experience of watching leaves change in the intermountain West has been everything I could have hoped for.

I won't attempt to convince anyone that fall in these parts rivals the abundant color found in the Eastern US, but I will extol the virtues of our unique experience. What the west lacks in variety, we make up for in other ways.

For instance, a blazing yellow stand of Aspens set amongst dark green conifers has a very pleasing aesthetic.

And if you know where to look, you can find pockets of color that resemble (to a degree) landscapes of the East, with Gamble Oak and Sugar Maple displaying hues of red and orange.

A stand of Sugar Maple

One intangible I feel keenly is the sensation of fall - the natural ebb and flow of one season into another. When late September arrives, the sun's long slow decline to the south is already well underway, with each day growing shorter by several minutes.

Flowers and grasses have gone to seed, and begin to fade from vibrant green to pale yellow and brown. The sky turns a deep cerulean blue, providing the perfect backdrop for nearly incandescent yellow leaves.

Green turns to yellow as grasses cure

Arizona Rose

Bracken fern fades to silvery brown

Because each grove of Aspen grows from a singular root structure, the organism can live for thousands of years as long as environmental conditions allow. This also means trees of the same clone will change color at the same time, with neighboring Aspens growing from a different root complex turning earlier or later.


Aspens regenerate first on burned slopes

Gambel Oak leaves are last to go

Autumn sunshine filtered through Aspen leaves

Geranium leaves add color at the ground level

Slender white trunks reach for the vault of sky

Fallen leaves carpet the forest floor

Entire slopes blaze with color

Though I cherish the change of seasons the end of summer is bittersweet, even a little melancholy. I know in my head it is just part of the larger process, but my heart already misses the soft green rustle of Aspen leaves on a warm breeze. But winter is coming; and all of Nature knows it.

While the color of fall is ephemeral and fleeting, I revel in it every moment that I can. Though this year's leaves are nearly gone, I know they'll be back, and I look forward to next spring when the buds reappear, heralding the next generation of life.

Walking (Snowshoeing) In A Winter Wonderland

2023-02-26T20:56:00.118-07:00

The Peaks from inside

I am soooo neglectful of my blog these days - time has become a premium where I jealously hoard every spare minute, and I still don't seem to get everything done that I had planned. So it was a pleasant surprise to learn I did not have to work today due to another blast of winter weather. Bad roads and not many people venturing out I guess.

Anyway I immediately knew I wanted to get outside and revel in the vestiges of the latest storm. I've lived in Flagstaff more or less consistently since 1992, and I've witnessed a depressingly high number of exceptionally dry years, so having a season where the snow falls with regularity and abundance is a real blessing.

I enjoy snowshoeing when conditions allow, and this year I have had ample opportunity to get out into the backcountry and make some tracks. One area I especially enjoy is called the Dry Lake Hills, a collection of volcanic outliers of the San Francisco Peaks that lie just north of Flagstaff, a short drive from my home.

While I was adventuring, I realized it would be relatively easy to shoot some video with my phone and share some of the experience. Probably not Oscar worthy, but certainly not a candidate for the Razzies either, at least not in my humble opinion. Anyway watch if you like, or just enjoy some of the random pictures I took.

The large open area at the top where the "Dry Lake" is located

My route started by climbing the hill on the left

Is there anybody out there? (Nope)

But Wait... There's More!

Barely a week after I posted this, Flagstaff received yet another storm, this one dropping anywhere from 26 to 30" of new snow, bring the total (as of March 2nd) for the season to 142 inches - making the winter of 2022/23 the second snowiest since official record keeping began 101 years ago.

Of course I could not wait to get back outside and decided to document the adventure more completely. I actually tried to get out during the storm but strong wind and the threat of being crushed by falling fire-killed snags made me rethink the attempt, and when the storm began to clear the next day off I went. So here in six parts is my vlog of the outing - don't worry, this one features the actual environment instead of my handsome mug, so you might actually see something worthwhile.

The Start Of A Beautiful Day

The Easy Part Is Over

The Ravine

Just Over Halfway

Getting Close Now

The Top!

If You Could Die From A Broken Heart.....

2022-11-13T13:55:00.160-07:00

Wyatt 2011 - 2022

I've used this blog once before to note an event of great personal sadness, when I lost my two husky/malamute companions in 2011. Although not specifically related to the travels I've documented here they were there for many of the adventures, and their absence made remembering these trips a bittersweet memory.

So here I am, 11 years later once again processing profound grief due to having to say goodbye to the best dog I've ever known. It's an unfortunate truth that the choice to share your life with a canine companion means that you will inevitably have to watch them die, but the time we are given is such an amazing gift it is almost worth the price.

Wyatt

After the death of the "girls" (what I used to call them) in the spring of 2011, I vowed I was done with having a dog, mostly because of the anguish their passing left on my heart. I've had dogs in my life almost continuously since I was a child, and the cycle of raising, loving, and eventually losing a beloved friend had become more than I could bear.

I was true to my word, at least for a while. For only the second time time in my life I had no dog, and in many ways the freedom was liberating. If you have owned a dog, you might know that many places are not "dog friendly" due to regulation or environmental challenges, and in the months that followed I took advantage of the fact that I had no such encumbrance to worry about. There were of course moments along the way where I missed the companionship a dog can give, but I did not dwell on the absence.

When fall arrived and my travels came to an end, a little voice in my head suggested that maybe I should consider another dog. At first I was able to dismiss the idea - although the grief of the girls deaths had subsided, I still remembered all too well the horrible choice I had faced not once but twice when the time came to end the suffering of my friends.

But the voice kept chiseling away at my resolve, and by January of 2012 I had decided to sign up with a Malamute rescue group. I was in no hurry to adopt a new dog, but I rationalized that if one became available in the future I at least would have the option. I imagined it would take a while, since the adoption coordinator initially told me there were no dogs available to adopt at the time, and I was just fine with that.

First look: Wyatt at 2 months

Barely a week had passed since my application when I received an email from the coordinator. She told me that although no Malamutes were yet available, they had something else. The picture says it all.

The email also contained information about his origins. The story is he was turned over to the Arizona Humane Society. The person surrendering him found him as a stray, and had him for ten days before deciding not to keep him.

The Humane Society identified him as a Wolf/Hybrid mix, and because of liability involved with this breed could not offer him to the general population for adoption. They reached out to wolf dog rescue groups to see if they could place him. They set a deadline of Friday to find an organization to take him - if no suitable taker could be found, he was to be euthanized.

I don't necessarily believe in fate or destiny, but I do know that in some way the stars aligned in this case. A big-hearted wolf dog rescue operator stepped forward to save this unbelievably adorable little guy from an undeserved end. Although he was already at capacity, he found room in his home to take Wyatt. He wanted to keep him, but he already had too many commitments to make it practical. Using his network of connections he put the word out that Wyatt was available for adoption, and that's where I came in.

I might have hesitated for a second or two when I saw the picture. Not because I did not want him, but because I knew immediately that making the decision would start the clock on this ultimate conclusion: the grief of once again losing something you gave your heart to in the fullest. Despite that momentary misgiving, I told the coordinator I was interested.

The BEST dog in the world

The beginning of our relationship was odd. I had to go to Phoenix (where he was found) to pick him up. He had been transferred to another wolf dog rescue center because of space limitations with his original rescuer, and when I arrived I found Wyatt in a pen playing with a group of much smaller puppies. As he had been passed around a few times before he met me I'm not sure he appreciated who I was or what was happening, but I loaded him up in a crate and put him in the car. I was told by the operator of the rescue organization that she had noticed Wyatt was uncomfortable traveling in a vehicle, which manifested itself by uncontrolled drooling. She was right.

Pandora and Wyatt

When I returned home to Flagstaff, Wyatt was greeted by my roommate's relatively new dogs - Pandora and Roadie. They were also rescues and were still young. Because Roadie had a few personality issues as well as congenital vision problems, it was Pandora who immediately took to Wyatt in his new home.

For the first few months I was somewhat apprehensive about what I had gotten myself into. I had done extensive reading about wolf dogs, and knew that if the percentage of wolf vs. dog was high enough, I could be in for some significant behavioral challenges. As time went on however it became apparent that my fears were unjustified, although he did exhibit some odd characteristics I did not initially understand.

I spend a a lot of time outdoors, being enamored of hiking and recreational travel. I wanted a dog precisely for that reason, and Wyatt evolved into what I can only describe as the most well mannered and best behaved dog I have ever seen. For starters, his housebreaking was practically non-existent. He was crate trained, and he never protested going into his "den" when prompted. He did not cry at night like some puppies. He was very reserved towards me at first, as though he were waiting to see if this was actually going to be his forever home.

Initially I started walking him in the woods near the house, at first on leash because I did want him chasing any wildlife we might encounter. Within an astonishingly short time I was able to turn him loose, something that was always a challenge with his predecessors. He had almost no interest in taking off when the random deer or elk crossed our path, although he tried (unsuccessfully) to catch a few squirrels.

Wyatt at 4 months

During that first winter, his coat was short but dense, and the resemblance to a wolf is undeniable. But as he grew something very odd happened - he became a woolly mammoth. For the rest of his life, his fur was unbelievably dense, as though he lived north of the Arctic Circle. Like most dogs of a northern origin (huskies and malamutes) he had a thick undercoat, which is supposed to disappear when summer arrives. Although he did shed the undercoat, it seemed like it was always later than it should have been, leading him to pant consistently through the warmer months .

His discomfort with traveling in cars persisted well into his first year. It was always wise to have a thick towel at hand to soak up the massive amounts of drool. Fortunately as time went on it slowly became less of an issue, eventually disappearing altogether. This was fortunate, as we were to travel throughout the western U.S. over the next 6 years.

Wyatt in his winter glory

We took many trips until 2017, and would have probably taken more had I not suffered the loss of my truck and camper when we were run off the road by someone passing illegally. Ironically we were on our way home from Colorado where we had just spent 10 days exploring the mountains.

The vehicle I ultimately purchased to replace my full size truck was somewhat cramped for Wyatt, and this dampened his enthusiasm for long distance travel. Even so we still managed to hike extensively in the local area, but the crash effectively marked the end of any extended adventures.

Despite his size (well over 125 lbs.) Wyatt was the gentlest and least aggressive dog I have ever known. This was fortunate because he was so big, and had he been even enthusiastically affectionate he could have been a menace. On the contrary he was always very wary of people, going out of his way to avoid strangers. This may have been due to whatever he experienced before he was rescued, or it may have been just a quirk of his personality.

A 130 lb. baby

Another unusual trait was his penchant for playing with rocks. Yes, I said rocks. I once knew a guy who had a dog who liked to chew rocks, with the unfortunate end result of prematurely wearing down his teeth. Thankfully Wyatt's fascination with rocks was limited to rolling them down the hill and chasing them. Watch the following video for a demonstration:

I worked in the winter sports business for many years, and on occasion we would go to the ski slopes in the evening to hike. He had a strong aversion to anyone on skis, frequently running great distances to avoid them. This was particularly obvious the year I moved to New Mexico to work at a resort there. The home we lived in had a view of the slopes, and anytime he was outside in the yard it was obvious that the people on skis and snowboards made him nervous, even though they were some distance away.

Another odd tendency he would display occurred when we would visit the Dog Park. Whenever a strange man (usually with a hat) would approach, Wyatt would bark at him incessantly as though he had some reason to dislike men in hats. Again, possibly a result of earlier experiences. Otherwise Wyatt liked the other dogs and was never aggressive, but was especially fond of female huskies. It's funny that although he was neutered he always tried to hump any willing participant.

Wyatt on Mt. Elden 2019

Time passes all too quickly. We all experience the sensation of wondering how so many years could have gone by without our realizing it, and with dogs their limited lifespan makes the interval seem even shorter. By 2019 going for long and difficult hikes became mostly a thing of the past, as the physical effort became more apparent on Wyatt's aging body. I reluctantly stopped asking him to accompany me, opting instead for shorter and easier walks in the forest around the house.

This pattern would continue pretty much uninterrupted right up until the end. In my heart I knew the day would come when even the easy walks would stop, and then I imagined it would just be a matter of time before he was gone. I tried to be honest with myself in facing the inevitable, and I even imagined what it it would be like when I no longer had him in my life. The truth is that nothing can really prepare you for the sense of loss, absence, and loneliness that follows.

Last year Wyatt had a small mass on his back that I suspected was a lipoma, a fatty tumor that frequently occurs in dogs as they age. We took him to the vet to have it excised, and during the examination the doctor also discovered a much more serious growth on his tongue, a dreaded hemangiosarcoma. After removal the vet cautioned us that although she thought she had gotten it all Wyatt could still develop other tumors, as this aggressive form of cancer often targets internal organs.

With cautious optimism we returned to the established routine, and up until very recently all seemed reasonably normal. But in the last few months both my roommate and I had started seeing things with Wyatt's overall presentation that while not overtly alarming presaged the possibility that something was maybe not quite right.

While some may wonder if I should have taken him to the vet for some kind of intervention, the outcome would have likely been surgery which may or may not have prolonged his life. In a dog of his size and age the most likely scenario is a few extra months with the additional consideration of pain and prolonged recovery from any procedure. With that in mind I chose to let nature take its course.

Because of the hemangiosarcoma discovery, during this last year I suspected that one morning I would find Wyatt's lifeless body on the deck, having passed away in his sleep. I should have known better, as no dog I have ever owned has had the decency to spare me the decision of whether to end their life.

When the end came it was sudden and abrupt. I had gone to Phoenix to help my mother for a couple of days. Just before I left Wyatt had begun limping, slightly at first then much more pronounced. My roommate who has always looked after Wyatt when I have been absent for one reason or another agreed to keep an eye on him and let me know if things got worse. As it happened his mobility rapidly deteriorated further, and before I could return home he had lost all ability to stand.

I came home as quickly as I could to find him sprawled awkwardly on the floor, whimpering in pain. I had asked my roommate to administer oral pain medication while I was gone, but whatever was causing his suffering was obviously more profound than what the drug could control. At first I just sat with him, telling him how sorry I was he was in pain, and that I loved him.

We could not move him, as he would not stand, and every effort only resulted in causing him more pain. We had already made an appointment with the vet for that afternoon, but realized there was no way to get him there. My roommate tried to find any local veterinarian who would come to the house, but no one was willing. We were desperate when finally someone suggested a doctor who was relatively new to the area. After leaving a message on his voicemail, we waited for an answer.

After what seemed like an eternity the doctor called and somewhat reluctantly agreed to come to the house that afternoon. While it was not the best possible outcome it was the only way forward, and I stayed with Wyatt for the next 3 hours, doing whatever I could to comfort him. It was obvious he was in terrible discomfort, and it was heart wrenching to see him suffering. I promised him that his pain would not last much longer, knowing full well what that probably meant.

When the doctor arrived, he took a few minutes to assess the situation. I knew what he would say, and the rest happened with the unstoppable force of a speeding locomotive. Within 30 minutes Wyatt was gone.

The last couple of days have been unbelievably surreal. My head knows that my beloved dog is gone because I buried his body in the backyard that very afternoon. But as is the case with an environment that is rich in memory and experience, I look around fully expecting to see him on the couch, or on the deck, or in the kitchen at dinnertime. The daily walks in the woods will never happen again, and I can't express how sad that makes me. This house is too quiet.

Wyatt was a gentle soul who I loved with all of my being. Words alone cannot convey what he meant to me, and the love, affection, and devotion he gave were beyond my ability to describe. The time I was given is a gift beyond compare, one that I know I'll never have again. Eventually the hurt will fade, but right now I am raw with emotion, and righteously angry that I live in a world where I am required to end the life of the most amazing companion anyone could ever ask for.

I've told myself once again that I will never make this choice for another dog. I also know that this is just the way it is - when we agree to open our hearts to a dog we are living on borrowed time.

Goodbye my furry friend. Thank you for trusting in me. You were such a good boy, and I will always love you.

The BIG (Mostly) Yellow Rock

2017-04-28T19:11:00.000-07:00

When I first heard of the place called Yellow Rock, I was not expecting to find a massive sandstone monolith rising from an already spectacular formation known as the Cockscomb (which in geologically correct terms is called the East Kaibab Monocline).

Located in what is arguably one of the most diverse and scenic landscapes on the Colorado Plateau, the Cockscomb is a textbook illustration of various faults, folds, and uplifts that interrupt the normally "tranquil" sequence of sedimentary layers found throughout the region.

Yellow Rock is a singular manifestation of Navajo sandstone, nearly 1/2 miles across and several hundred feet in elevation. While mostly yellowish in hue, the stone is striped and swirled with multiple shades of red, purple, orange, and white. The "staining" of the rock by chemicals such as iron and manganese does not always follow the bedding plane of the rock, resulting in wonderfully abstract patterns.

While not as popular (yet) as other nearby places such as White Pocket or the Wave, more photographers and slickrock enthusiasts are making their way to this relatively remote landmark for pictures and exploration. In my humble opinion, there is more to see in this one area than either of the aforementioned locations, and there are certainly less hassles (no permits or difficult drives through deep sand) to get here. Having said that, there is some effort involved.


Cottonwood Canyon and the Cockscomb

I won't give specific driving instructions here, since there are guidebooks and online resources that provide detailed information. I will say that making the trip involves traveling the fairly well known Cottonwood Canyon Road, one of only three routes bisecting the Grand Staircase - Escalante National Monument.

This 46 mile dirt road is usually maintained, although conditions can vary greatly from season to season, and I'll repeat my frequent refrain about NEVER using a Utah backroad when rain or snow is in the forecast. Check current conditions with one of several BLM field offices located around the Monument before heading out.

Anyone visiting the area needs to be aware of environmental hazards, specifically weather. Summer temperatures regularly approach and sometimes exceed 100 degrees, and water is scarce. Thunderstorms are common from July to September, and lightning can be a significant threat along the higher terrain.

Flash floods can happen without warning, and rock near the edge is frequently fragile and unstable. Cell phones almost never work out here - this is truly wilderness, and help can be hours away if something happens. Be prepared for the unexpected, and use appropriate caution.

Once you are on the road, park your vehicle at the Brigham Plains road junction. If you are planning on spending the night there are a few excellent camping spots just up the road to the east, around 1/4 mile or so.

Brigham Plains road marker

When you're ready, walk directly across the road to the west to find a faint trail heading for Cottonwood Wash. There are several different paths as people pick their own way through the brush, but basically head for the wash and find a place to cross the very shallow stream.

Looking west towards the Cockscomb from the road

Cottonwood Wash

Once across the wash, look for a shallow canyon in the Cockscomb - it's the first one due south of the Lower Hackberry Canyon opening. By now a more defined trail appears heading into the canyon.

Beginning of Yellow Rock trail

The path quickly begins a steep ascent of the slope to the right (north). Wasting no time and not bothering with such refined constructions techniques like switchbacks, the trail climbs quickly to a narrow ridge connecting the outer canyon wall to the rim.

Up and more up

The good news is that the views more than compensate for the strenuous effort required to reach this point. Take a few minutes to look across the valley, and soak in the panorama stretching to the north and south.

Brigham Plains road climbs steeply up the east rim

Looking north

...and to the south

The trail heads west, and the bulk of Yellow Rock soon appears over the horizon. Cairns mark the path over slickrock sections, while the way is obvious through sand and soil areas.

The trail to Yellow Rock

Yellow Rock is not the only interesting formation


Cliffrose perfumes the air with heavenly scents

Altogether the hike out to Yellow Rock is about a mile, with the most challenging section being the swift climb at the beginning. Once you reach the base, there is no trail, just unlimited slickrock scrambling.

Yellow Rock is larger than it first appears, and of course is fairly high as well. Pick a line that allows you to explore the different features while climbing to the summit. You'll probably want at least an hour or two to check out the various aspects and angles found all over the rock. Here are some pictures of my visit:

The views from the top of Yellow Rock are pretty amazing as well. One well known feature on the northern horizon is Castle Rock, a pinnacled dome of white Navajo sandstone. Just on the northern edge of Yellow Rock you'll spot Lower Hackberry Canyon, where a nearly 20 mile long crevasse cuts into the Cockscomb.

Castle Rock


The southern end of Hackberry Canyon

To the south another canyon leads to the Paria Box, where the muddy and sluggish Paria River cuts through the Cockscomb.

After discovering the wonders of Yellow Rock proper, take some extra time and detour south towards the canyon there. With some scrambling and off trail route finding there is much more to see. Some examples:

Turtle Rock?

The Artist used the full palette here

While Yellow Rock may be the main attraction, in half a day of wandering I found more unusual and striking rock formations in a relatively small area than just about anywhere else I've seen. And I have so much more I want to see on subsequent visits that I may have to live another 50 years to make it happen. I'm working on it.

The Sand Hills - Not Just Another Pretty Place

2017-04-16T12:46:00.000-07:00

Although there is growing recognition of the features contained within and around the Vermilion Cliffs National Monument, most people simply overlook the area as a whole because it is large, remote, and can be difficult to access.

Additionally, the few relatively well known places (The Wave and South Coyote Buttes) receive the majority of the attention but are subject to strict limitations on the number of daily visitors.

But what most people miss is literally the big picture. The Paria Plateau (aka the Sand Hills) is big, and has a variety of beautiful and seldom seen sandstone formations scattered throughout the area. The challenge of course is having a suitable vehicle to reach more isolated sections, and then having the time, ability, and desire to explore large ridges and bluffs on foot to discover these hidden gems.

The pictures here are from a day trip to an area known as Kid Pen Valley, named in reference to the early pioneer days when Mormon ranchers brought goats to the Plateau to graze on the semi-arid desert shrubs and grasses. I spent several hours walking around a single outcropping of Navajo sandstone, and barely saw the half of it.

Rock pillars exist in abundance

Toadstools resulting from preferential erosion

Cross bedded sandstone twisted by soft sediment deformation and striking forms created by preferential erosion dominate the landscape. Vibrant reddish orange colors resulting from iron and manganese saturated water percolating down through the sediments provide contrast and color, adding another dimension to the scene.

Cross bedded sandstone captures ancient dunes

Mineral rich waters seeped into sand layers from prehistoric seas

Moki marbles and iron rich concretions surround hardy plant life

Miniature arch

Getting permits to visit the Wave and South Coyote Buttes is difficult at best, but there are countless other alternatives available with comparable scenery. Of course driving in the Sand Hills requires an appropriate vehicle and a willingness to explore off the beaten path. For me that in and of itself is really what it's all about anyway.

Havasupai - Paradise Lost?

2016-11-16T21:13:00.000-07:00

Land of Blue Green Waters

Ask people for a "bucket list" of things they want to see and it's likely a fair number of them will mention the turquoise blue waters of Havasupai Falls.

Because of countless pictures of this idyllic paradise found in travel magazines and the internet, the waterfalls found in this tributary of Grand Canyon have become one of the most recognized scenic wonders in the western U.S.

Accordingly this well deserved reputation as a must see destination has led to a dramatic increase in visitation in recent years. Like many popular attractions, demand has exceeded the carrying capacity of what is essentially a finite space.

This post will offer a look at not only the iconic landscape but a few of the challenges that surround getting to see it.

The Havasupai ("Havasu 'Baaja") People

For nearly 800 years the Havasupai people have called the Cataract Canyon region of the Grand Canyon their home. As hunters, foragers, and farmers the people lived on the rim and in the canyons as seasons changed, ranging over a wide area.

By James, George Wharton

Like most native tribes, the arrival of white settlers in the 19th century meant being displaced from their territory. In the 1880's all but 518 acres of land was usurped by Federal decree, leaving the small band of natives with only a limited area along Havasu Creek. Through hard fought litigation from mid-century into 1975 the tribe gradually regained control of 185,000 acres of land in and around the west rim of Grand Canyon.

Today nearly 650 people live and work in and around Havasu Canyon, with an emphasis on tourism surrounding the scenic environment.

Havasu (Cataract) Canyon

Havasu (also sometimes called Cataract) Creek is a tributary of the Colorado River and begins as a trickle on the south side of Grand Canyon. It flows for nearly 50 miles to the north before entering Havasu Canyon where it is supplemented by Havasu Springs, which flows year-round.

Because of dissolved calcium carbonate minerals, the water appears bluish or turquoise colored in the canyon bottom. The calcium laden water also forms deposits known as travertine, leading to terraces and pools associated with major waterfalls along the creek.

The Cataract Creek drainage is the second largest tributary system on the south side of Grand Canyon, with a network of many smaller canyons that collect rainwater and snowmelt from a large area. Consequently Havasu Canyon and the creek are subjected to large and relatively frequent floods during the summer thunderstorm season.

Getting There

All visits to Havasu Canyon begin at Hualapai Hilltop - a remote location that offers no services other than a starting point for the journey. The village of Supai (tribal headquarters) is located in Havasu Canyon, 8 miles in and 2000 feet below the rim.

To get there you can do as the vast majority do and make the trek on foot. Alternatively you can try securing a seat on a helicopter flying from the Hilltop, or hiring a horse to take you and your belongings into the canyon.

Permits

All visitors must secure a permit from the tribe before visiting, a process that has become so difficult for the average person that it is the subject of media articles and internet discussions. As pictures of the incredible scenery have circulated widely on the web, the popularity of the falls has increased exponentially.

As a result when reservation phone lines (no web bookings) are opened up in February for the coming year, those seeking permits can expect constant busy signals and disappointment as permits for peak seasons (March - October) go quickly.

If you are successful in securing a permit, expect to pay $40.00 as the entry fee, with a charge of $17.00 per person per night for camping. As most people spend 3 days to make the trip on foot, that means a visit will cost around $74.00 per person.

The Hike

To see the waterfalls and pools of blue green water, be prepared as a hiker to make a challenging journey. From Hualapai Hilltop to the campground it is 10 miles and 2200 feet of vertical descent in what is primarily a hot, dry desert environment.

Once you reach the creek at 6 miles you'll have water and shade, but prior to that you'll be hiking in a canyon with limited cover and summer temperatures that linger at or above 100 degrees.

If you can make arrangements to do the trip in spring or fall that will help, but colder weather can mean limitations on desires and abilities to play in the water.

If your trip occurs during the warmer months, you can mitigate some of the unpleasantness by not hiking during the hottest part of the day, i.e. starting before sunrise. Temperatures usually peak around noon to 4 p.m., and begin to decline as the sun disappears behind canyon walls.

Another key to a successful hike is to stay hydrated and eat plenty of snacks to maintain electrolyte balance. It may also be desirable for some to hire a horse to pack in camping gear, thus lightening the load on the hike.

All visitors should be aware that summer is also the season for flooding. Thunderstorms occurring generally from July to September can produce significant rain upstream - it is possible to experience floods even if skies above the main canyon are clear. As mentioned earlier the Havasu Canyon watershed is very large, and storms anywhere in the drainage are reason enough to be on alert.

Beginning of the trail

Hualapai Canyon

The hike begins with a moderate descent of the canyon rim, dropping 1000 feet into Hualapai Canyon in just about a mile.

Switchbacks into Hualapai Canyon

On this section in particular hikers will want to be watching for pack animals used by the tribe to transport gear and supplies into the canyon.

Unlike Grand Canyon trail mules used in the National Park, these animals are usually not tethered together and they travel at a faster clip. They also sometimes have very large, bulky coolers or packs which take up a great deal of width, and inattentive hikers could be pushed off the trail or injured in a collision.

Untethered pack animals

Once the trail reaches the canyon bottom, the next few miles feature a relatively uninteresting walk in a broad sandy wash. Little to no shade will be found along the way, and it won't be uncommon to share the trail with other hikers and pack animals.

The further downstream one goes, the more scenic the surroundings become. At first modest walls of sandstone begin to climb above the dry streambed, eventually reaching several hundred feet high.

Additionally the wash bottom becomes narrower - this is definitely where you want to be sure of a good weather forecast.

At around the 6 mile mark, large cottonwood trees and other riparian vegetation mark the junction of Hualapai Canyon with Havasu Canyon. Here is where the warm (usually around 72 degrees), bluish waters of Havasu Creek flow year round, providing people and animals with a necessary resource.

Soon afterwards, the nearly level trail reaches the village of Supai, home of the tribe and seat of Havasupai government. It is here that visitors must register with the Tourist Office.

Anyone who comes here should recognize that all outsiders are guests of the Havasupai, and should behave accordingly. The tribe has its' own government and rules, and operates as a sovereign entity. Please respect the privacy of tribe members, and remember that people who live here tolerate the hundreds of thousands of tourists in order to generate vital revenue for the tribe.

There is a lodge in the village that offers accomodations if camping is not your thing. Supai also has a variety of other services including a small market and emergency clinic. To reach the campground you must follow the trail another 2 miles into the canyon.

Along the way you'll come to the first waterfall at about 1.25 miles - Upper and Lower Navajo Falls. Prior to 2008, there was only one set of falls at this location, but flash flooding rerouted the creek and created 2 sets of cascades. The main falls here are roughly 50 feet high.

At 1.5 miles the trail passes by the third set of falls - Havasu Falls. Consisting of a single plume falling 100 feet into a travertine pool, Havasu Falls is one of the easiest accessed and more scenic attractions in the canyon.

The campground is 1/2 mile beyond Havasu Falls. Sites are primitive, with a few outhouses and spring fed sources of potable water. Continue hiking through the campground for an additional .25 of a mile and you will arrive at Mooney Falls, named for a white miner who plunged to his death in 1882.

Although easy to view from above, the approach to the base of the 200 foot falls is challenging, especially for anyone with a fear of heights. Climbing down a steep and rugged cliff is required, and the rock face is often slippery from mist coming off the falls. Although chains, ladders and handholds exist it's a precarious slope, with the added challenge of traffic moving in both directions.

The pool at the base of Mooney Falls is the largest of the three upper features, so getting to the base is definitely worthwhile.

It's possible to continue downstream all the way to the Colorado River by hiking an additional 8 miles. The trail is often faint and rugged and requires multiple crossings of the creek. About 4 miles downstream of Mooney Falls you will reach the last of the 5 falls in the canyon - Beaver Falls.

Most visitors only get to the 4 uppermost falls, and few ever make the complete round trip to the Colorado River and back due to the distance and difficulty involved. Still ambitious hikers with multiple days can make the journey and visit more remote parts of Havasu Canyon.

My most recent visit was in June of 2016, and my overall impression was less than favorable. Despite the beautiful natural setting I experienced crowding and congestion at both Mooney and Havasu Falls, and finding solitude and quiet was nearly impossible in the upper canyon.

There was significant amounts of litter along the trail, from both visitors and tribal members. And given the cost of fees for entry and the size of the campground, it's hard to believe the tribe is not generating enough money to make much needed improvements to water, sanitation, and other campground infrastructure.

Setting sun rays above canyon walls

It is too bad that such spectacular natural features become victims of their own inherent beauty, and that providing access to such grandeur for the masses means diluting or in some cases eliminating much of what makes a place worthwhile. While it's true that nothing diminishes the natural character of the waterfalls, it is sad to witness the commercialization of the canyon.

Of course what often makes a place special is the challenge of reaching it, and the unique character of the environment. Havasu Creek and the now famous waterfalls certainly fit that criteria - Just don't expect to have it all to yourself.

Get to the Point!

2016-05-29T14:05:00.001-07:00


Powell Point - 10,188 feet

If the Colorado Plateau has a heart, it's probably located near one of the most recognizable landmarks in the region - Powell Point. As the prominent and highly visible face of the highest step in the Grand Staircase, the feature referred to by locals as "Pink Point" towers over the surrounding landscape.

Powell Point is part of the Aquarius Plateau, the highest such landform in North America, where the uppermost elevations exceed 11,000 feet above sea level. At the southernmost extension where the Point is found the heights are slightly more modest at just over 10,000 feet.

Before continuing, I would like to mention that you can visit the Point itself and experience truly incredible views of a vast area extending west, south, and east. In fact during summer months it is possible to drive (with an appropriate vehicle) on unimproved roads to within 3/4 of a mile of the Point, then hike on a moderate trail to the edge of the plateau.

The rest of the year depending on snowfall it may even be possible to hike a strenuous 2 mile trail to the top of the plateau and then ski or snowshoe another 2.75 miles out to the Point, but that story is for another time. This post focuses on another equally delightful aspect of the Point - just being in proximity to it.

Stump Springs Trailhead (aka The Under the Point Trail)

Most of the region around and atop the plateau is located in the Escalante Ranger District of the Dixie National Forest. A great place to begin a visit to this beautiful region is at the Interagency Visitor Center on Highway 12 just outside Escalante, Utah.

This cooperative enterprise among multiple federal offices has a great deal of information about the many things to do on public lands all throughout the area, and can provide maps, trail guides, and current road condition updates (very important on Utah backroads!).

During many trips to the area over the years, I had driven by the Forest Service sign pointing out the Stump Springs trailhead - mostly because the name itself did nothing to inspire me to check it out, and there were many other places to see that clamored for my attention.

On a recent visit I found myself seeking to expand my horizons and dropped by the Escalante Visitor Center for additional ideas. There I was given a map of the district showing several possibilities for hiking. This led to my discovering a very cool and appealing trail known as Under the Point (previously disguised by the somewhat obscure name of Stump Springs).

Using a series of well maintained Forest Service roads getting there is straightforward. At the end I found a large parking area with some information kiosks, and no one else around.

The trail departs the parking area heading directly for the Point with outstanding panoramas of the towering cliffs right out of the box.

The elevation here is relatively high, and the vegetation is a mix of ponderosa pine, subalpine fir and spruce, and low growing clumps of manzanita. The best time of year to hike would be the warmer summer months, and milder spring and fall seasons. During my visit in late May I actually experienced brief snow showers, but by and large it was extremely pleasant.

The Under the Point trail can be hiked as a simple "in and out" excursion, or for those with more time be done in conjunction with a series of trails to make a long loop hike. To basically go as far the junction with the Henderson Canyon Trail is 4 miles each way, and this would likely be sufficient for most people.

Map of trails in the area

If you want a simple explanation of what this trail is all about, the name says it all - the path basically contours beneath the sheer walls of the plateau edge, traversing undulating terrain for several miles in a general northwest/southeast direction.

But don't be fooled - even though the trail does not ascend the cliffs, there are some fairly significant ups and downs. This is of course only natural since the route stays near the base of the cliffs, negotiating broad alluvial fans of sedimentary debris that have accumulated over time.

The rock here is fairly young from a geologic perspective. Sixty million years ago a large inland lake accumulated deposits of limestone, shale, sandstone, and conglomerate. When the uplift of the region occurred these layers were elevated above the surrounding terrain, and a variety of forces have since been sculpting the formations.

As part of the uplift process, large vertical fractures appeared in the rock. These cracks allow water to penetrate, and through the action of dissolution (weak carbonic acids), freeze/thaw cycles, and preferential erosion the rock weathers into the spires and hoodoos for which the Claron Formation is famous.

The color of the rock layers is dependent primarily on iron and iron oxide content. The uppermost layers (the White element of the Claron) have little to no iron, while subsequent levels have greater degrees of, well, rust.

Regardless of the process, there is something really magical about pillars of stone shaped into many weirdly wonderful forms, and so richly colored in hues of white, pink, red, and orange.

Across to the west is the ultimate manifestation of this magnificent erosion - Bryce Canyon carved into the eastern flanks of the Paunsagunt Plateau.

Here are some great examples of conglomerate - a sedimentary rock that has many inclusions of rounded gravels. Note the layers of sandstone in conjunction with the conglomerate.

The trail itself is not difficult, with the exception of the aforementioned ups and downs. The path is easy to follow, and although there are some spots which present a challenge, overall the hiking is easy to moderate.

One spot that does merit mentioning occurs early on in the hike. As the trail winds around the cliffs, there are outcrops of different geological layers. Most are stable and easy to negotiate (although may be challenging when muddy) but one in particular is especially nasty when wet, and not that much fun when dry. Combine that with many small ravines which plunge off the steeper terrain above and you've got an obstacle.

Channel cutting across the trail into shale layer

Closeup of the shale and trail crossing

This section has a deep channel cut through a shale layer, and the trail all but disappears as this easily eroded material washes away with each cycle of rain/snow. If dry, crossing requires some scrambling as the ravine has gotten fairly deep, and climbing the bank on the opposite side can be a challenge since the soil is very soft and loose. If wet, well good luck.

Once past that section the rest of the way is relatively easy.

The trail climbs gradually to a ridge, then descends into a valley on the other side. If you don't have a lot of time it's best to turn around at the top of the ridge. For a longer outing you can continue to the Henderson Canyon junction or go even farther if so desired. Once you reach the valley floor there are several large drainages to cross, some of which may have flowing water.

The views are somewhat less spectacular on the north side of the ridge, but as far as I'm concerned any day spent outdoors in the forest is a good day.

On this outing the turnaround point is the trail junction at 4 miles in. Going back includes a vigorous climb to the ridge, but the scenery is just as good going as it was coming. Here is a look from the ridge to the west and Mt. Dutton.

For me Powell Point is more than a landmark. From it's lofty perch it is visible over an amazingly large area, and I can be many miles away and still see it. It's a beacon of beauty, one that tells me I am right where I want to be - in the heart of all that I hold dear.

Powell Point from Cottonwood Canyon Road

Lee's Ferry and the Spencer Trail

2015-03-14T02:40:00.008-07:00

In the year 2015, the average American lives in a world of modern conveniences unimaginable to people of the late 1800's. For instance, take the automobile and all of the attendant infrastructure that is associated with it, particularly the highways and bridges spanning the vast western landscape.

In our climate controlled vehicles we speed through arid and broken terrain without giving much thought to what it was like to negotiate a dry wash, a muddy plain, or to cross a river with a wagon and team of horses. In the span of a few generations we have gone from giving heartfelt thanks for the ability to make 10 grueling miles a day to wondering why it takes so long to get anywhere, even at 70 miles per hour.

I often reflect on this and many of the other challenges faced by the unbelievably hardy folks who came to the region in the latter half of the 19th century. A good place to come face to face with their reality is at Lee's Ferry along the banks of the Colorado River. This isolated but incredibly important geographic location played a major role in establishing towns and cities to the south and east, and today is still one of only two places to cross the River for nearly 300 miles.

The Mormons

No single group of pioneers had more impact on the region than the members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (LDS). After fleeing west in great numbers to avoid religious persecution in 1846, the emigrants arrived in the area of the Great Salt Lake and began establishing a new society that quickly expanded to surrounding areas. Under the direction of church leadership groups of settlers were dispatched to all points of the compass to begin colonization of what was considered "unsettled" territory, although in most cases native peoples already inhabited much of the land.

Despite relatively harsh environmental conditions found in the southern region, LDS families faithfully heeded the call to wrest a living from the earth in whatever place a supply of water was available. Communities were founded along what is today the Arizona - Utah border, with plans to push into northeastern Arizona and the Little Colorado River Valley. One significant obstacle to this mission was the resistance of Navajo and Ute peoples who already called the region home.

Conflicts between Mormons and native peoples were fairly common in the early years, however leaders of the church were intent on continuing their expansion to the south and east. In 1864 noted Mormon pioneer and scout Jacob Hamblin led an expedition to northeastern Arizona in a heavy handed attempt to intimidate tribal leaders, hoping to prevent further raids and harassment of the newly arrived homesteaders.

Travel in the region in the latter half of the 1800's was challenging at best, especially given the extreme vertical topography that characterizes much of the country. A particularly vexing problem was finding a route where it's possible to reach the Colorado River from both sides.

Hamblin had found just such a place in 1858 where the the Paria River joins the Colorado. Only in this spot did canyon walls lower enough to make an approach, and Hamblin realized early on that an outpost and ferry here would permit access into the Arizona Territory. In 1864 he and the members of his delegation to the Navajos proved that point when they built a raft to transport themselves and their horses safely to the other side.

John D. Lee

John D. Lee

In 1870 Hamblin led another party into the region. This group included LDS President Brigham Young, Major John Wesley Powell, and excommunicated Mormon leader John D. Lee. The most significant outcome from this gathering was a decision by Young to establish a ferry at the river with the directive that Lee should be the one to make it happen.

At this point John Lee was a fugitive from federal authorities for his alleged involvement in the Mountain Meadows Massacre in 1857, and he welcomed the opportunity as a way to stay out of sight.

John Lee's story is fascinating long before he arrives at the ferry that bears his name. An early member of the LDS church and friend to founder Joseph Smith, Lee was a prominent figure in the early history of the Mormon church. Although his role in establishing and operating the ferry on the Colorado River is a major milestone in opening up the territory, it is only one of many accomplishments in his lifetime.

Lonely Dell Ranch today

Lonely Dell Ranch

During an early visit to the area Jacob Hamblin had observed how fertile the land could be if properly watered. He laid out where he felt a farm should be built including digging the first irrigation ditch to deliver water.

Hamblin also realized how isolated the area was, and is credited with being the first to refer to the site as Lonely Dell.

In late 1871 Lee moved his family (including two of his nineteen wives) to the mouth of the Paria and began the work assigned to him by Young. Upon arriving at the desolate spot Emma Lee is said to have exclaimed "oh, what a lonely dell", perhaps echoing what Jacob Hamblin had declared several years before.

Paria River

Building an earthen dam across the Paria, Lee planted crops as well as an orchard in order to feed his family. Unfortunately, the structures were inherently weak and repeatedly failed during floods, necessitating constant repair and rebuilding. Irrigation channels often choked with silty mud after high flows in the Paria, and mucking them out was a neverending task.

Conditions at Lonely Dell were harsh despite relatively easy access to water. At an elevation of 3200 feet, summer temperatures regularly exceed 100 degrees, and in winter can drop well below freezing. The climate is dry and dusty, with average rainfall of just over 6 inches, much of that often coming all at once in sudden thunderstorms.

High flows on the Colorado also presented a danger to the ferry, and vessels were frequently lost or damaged when spring snowmelt swelled the river to epic proportions. Flash floods also ravaged the landscape in summer, wreaking havoc on trails and carving deep muddy channels that were difficult to negotiate.

The nearest communities of any size were many days ride distant, and self sufficiency was the only reliable resource. Despite the adversity, the Lee family and others who followed managed to make a life for themselves while engaged in developing, maintaining, and operating the ferry for over 50 years.

Lee's Ferry 1873 - 1928

Typical ferry crossing

The first craft to transport passengers across the river was launched in 1873. Aptly named the Colorado, it had a short lifespan as floodwaters on the river washed it downstream later that year. A new barge was soon constructed and the crossing became a focal point for Mormon pioneers and other hopeful immigrants.

Over the next several years, settlers continued moving into new lands to the south, while couples heading in the opposite direction to seal their marriages in the Salt Lake temple made a difficult journey along the Honeymoon Trail.

The Honeymoon Trail

Tensions with native peoples nearby resulted in the construction of a fortified building called Lee's Ferry Fort in 1874. Although the relationship remained uneasy between the Mormons and their Navajo and Ute neighbors, no major conflicts occurred, and the fort eventually became a trading post.

John Lee remained a free man until 1874 when he was arrested and held on charges of murder stemming from the Mountain Meadows incident. His first trial ended with a deadlocked jury, in part because prosecutors attempted to implicate Brigham Young in the crime.

John Lee awaiting execution in 1877

A second trial focused only on John Lee's part in the attack, and the jury convicted him of first degree murder. He was sentenced to die, and in March of 1877 he was taken back to Mountain Meadows where he was executed by firing squad. His last words can be found here - the sentiments of a man betrayed by those he held in great esteem.

Emma Lee continued to operate the ranch and ferry for several years after John's arrest and eventual death. The LDS church bought the rights to the ferry and surrounding lands in 1879, granting them to a succession of families who continued the operation.

This practice continued until 1928, when the existing ferry sank causing the death of three men. By this time, the Navajo Bridge across Marble Canyon was nearing completion, and it was decided not to rebuild the ferry.

Original Navajo Bridge

For a period of six months there was no effective way to cross the river, forcing travelers to make an 800 mile detour to get around the canyon. This lengthy bypass illustrates how important the ferry was to anyone who needed to traverse the region, and highlights what a vital link the existing bridge is today.

Lonely Dell Ranch

Dugout or root cellar at Lonely Dell Ranch

Interior of dugout

Orchard planted in 1965 at Lonely Dell

Charles H. Spencer

The settlement of the western frontier was as much about exploitation of resources as it was making a life on the frontier. History is littered with examples of those who came to make their fortunes, or in some cases to take the fortunes of others while promising a hefty return on the investment.

One such individual was Charles Spencer, an entrepreneur and would be mining magnate who believed the shale formations around Lee's Ferry held vast amounts of recoverable gold. In 1910 Mr. Spencer formed the American Placer Mining Company with the intention of using hydraulic sluicing to strip away the soil. He employed his apparently considerable power of persuasion to raise a great deal of capital, and proceeded to purchase and assemble boilers, dredges, flumes and an amalgamator at the remote site.

One of the challenges was the need for coal to fire boilers, which generated steam to operate equipment. Unfortunately the nearest available supply was located 28 miles upstream at Warm Creek, a tributary of the Colorado. The early answer to this problem was construction of an overland trail to be traversed by mules or burros, but in reality the trail was simply too long and difficult to ever be practical (see Spencer Trail section below).

Since money was apparently no object (at least not where Charles Spencer was concerned - that's what investors were for) a better solution to the energy problem was to transport the coal via the river, hence the need for a steamship. Commissioned in 1912, the Charles H. Spencer was a 12' paddle wheel steamer with a 110 horsepower boiler. The ship was built in San Francisco, and shipped piecemeal to Utah where it was loaded onto wagons and transported to Warm Creek for assembly.

Charles H. Spencer

This handsome vessel was the largest ever to ply the river north of the Grand Canyon, but it's career was remarkably short. Despite the ability to transport 5 - 6 tons of coal on each trip it consumed more than it delivered, making it very inefficient.

Additionally, the hoped for gold bonanza never materialized due to problems with the amalgamation process, and by late summer of 1912 the investors bankrolling the project had lost patience. They withdrew funding and the mining operation including the new paddlewheeler were abandoned. The ship was beached and eventually sank during a flood in 1921.

Today all that remains of the American Placer Mining Co. are the Spencer Trail and rusting hulks of boilers, along with the submerged hull of the Spencer near the north bank of the River.

American Placer Mining boiler vessel

Hull and boiler of the Charles H. Spencer

The Spencer Trail

One enduring legacy of the attempt to extract riches from the earth at Lee's Ferry is the Spencer Trail, a steep, rocky 2 mile trail that climbs 1600' from the river's edge to the top of the nearby Echo Cliffs. Built by hand in 1911, the path was intended to be a route to coal deposits located to the north. But as a practical means of transporting fuel to the mine it was an utter failure, and was abandoned along with all other aspects of the operation in 1912.

Fortunately all was not forgotten, at least not completely. While existing as a rough and neglected suggestion for much of the last century, the trail received new life when it was rebuilt by conservation corps trail crews a few years back. Although still rocky and subject to slides, the trail is actually in pretty decent shape.

The beginning of the route is found to the east of the boat ramps and historic stone buildings, and is well signed. Consisting of a series of undulating switchbacks the trail climbs swiftly, and offers increasingly sweeping views of the area.

Vermilion Cliffs reflected in the Colorado

Looking east - southeast across the River

Steps on the Spencer Trail

Views across the beginning of Marble Canyon

The Paria River Valley below the Vermilion Cliffs

Nearing the top of the Echo Cliffs

Tilted sandstone formations at the top

After many zig-zags and large steps, the path emerges onto the high ridge of the Echo Cliffs. Views from the top encompass Navajo Mountain, Lake Powell, the Kaiparowits, and much more. Wandering around to some of the higher vantage points on the ridge offers the best vistas.

Navajo Mountain rises in the distance

The last remnants of Glen Canyon

Sheer canyon walls cleave the plateau

Today Lee's Ferry is all but forgotten as a once strategic corridor into northern Arizona, and the role it played in frontier history is not a widely known story. Most of those who know of it are more likely to be familiar with the Ferry as either a starting point for Grand Canyon river trips or as a blue ribbon trout fishery.

The launch ramp is the start point for river trips into Grand Canyon

I suggest the next time you're zipping across the seemingly empty landscape beneath the Vermilion Cliffs, you should consider taking a few hours to meet the ghosts of Lee's Ferry, the pioneers who blazed the way into the New West we live in today. As you walk the grounds and peer through windows of dirt floored cabins imagine yourself toiling in the fields under the mid-day sun, or watching muddy flood waters threaten your crops and livestock for the third time in a year.

Cemetery at Lonely Dell

Take a walk through the cemetery, where 25 graves that span nearly 60 years are located. Consider the large granite marker that memorializes the 4 Johnson children who died in 1891 during a span of 3 months.

They were unfortunate victims of a deadly diptheria outbreak that occurred when travelers arrived at the ferry with a sick child. The Johnsons did what was common at the time, and offered their home to the ailing family, only to pay the ultimate price because vaccinations had not yet been invented, and people had little understanding of contagious diseases.

Or hike the rugged and exposed Spencer Trail, imagining you're the wrangler with a 20 mule train heading for Warm Creek almost 30 miles away. There's no shade, little water, and it's a long and dusty trip in each direction. Your reward for a day's work in the saddle will be a bedroll on the hard ground and perhaps some beans and salt pork for supper. Your wages might equal a dollar a day, but it won't be hard to save money because there's no towns to spend it in.

Afterwords you'll be able to return to an air conditioned car that forms a protective cocoon around you when you've had enough. But if you're like me you might just appreciate it a bit more after experiencing the blazing sun, austere landscape, parched air, and lack of anything remotely modern. And you might not even mind that you're still at least an hour away from the next town - even at 70 miles per hour.

Orchard blossom at Lonely Dell Ranch

The Wave Rave

2015-03-02T13:48:00.001-07:00

Remoteness is an attribute found in relative abundance across the Colorado Plateau, as geography, lack of roads, little water and a relatively harsh climate have combined to keep humans from populating the region in any significant way. That said it is becoming more of a challenge to find the solitude that used to be a hallmark of the area, as more and more people learn about fantastical geological landscapes found here.

The Wave is a perfect example of this encroachment. Located along the Arizona - Utah border in an area that is about as far from civilization as it's possible to be in the lower 48 states, the Wave has become a mecca much like Antelope Canyon for the photographer seeking to capture colorful and sinuous lines of cross bedded sandstone.

Inevitably stunning pictures of this beautiful rock formation quickly permeated the awareness of those who enjoy outdoor activities, leading to a hundred fold increase in the number of visitors over the last 10 years. As is the case with many spectacular but ultimately fragile locations, the government agency tasked with supervising the area was forced to take draconian measures limiting the number of people allowed to access the area each day.

In this post I'll explain the process would be visitors must attempt in order to obtain a permit, as well as illustrate the some of the incredible beauty found in this area.

Vermilion Cliffs - Paria National Monument


The Vermilion Cliffs rise above the Colorado River

Created in 2000 by Presidential proclamation, the Vermilion Cliffs - Paria Canyon National Monument includes nearly 300,000 acres of rugged and isolated canyons, buttes, and cliffs in extreme northern Arizona and southern Utah. It is one of several such monuments in the region which also includes the Grand Staircase - Escalante and Grand Canyon - Parashant National Monuments, all administered by the Bureau of Land Management (BLM).

In the Vermilion Cliffs Monument, there are several areas which have grown in popularity over recent years, including Paria Canyon, Wire Pass and Buckskin Gulch, and of course the Wave. The BLM has instituted a permit system for all of these areas, and it can be somewhat confusing for the uninitiated.

The area that encompasses the Wave is referred to as Coyote Buttes North, and permits for this area are the hardest to come by. According to a Los Angeles Times article, 48,000 people applied in 2012 for 7800 available permits. Only 20 persons per day are allowed, and no overnight camping is permitted. 10 of the permits are allocated online up to 4 months in advance using a lottery system - use this link to check availability and begin the process of applying.

If the dates of your visit are known this may be a good starting point for trying to get a permit. Unfortunately using this method you take your chances with the weather - if road conditions are hazardous or there is a possibility of flash flooding you may have to rethink your visit, and there are no rainchecks or refunds given for any reason..

If you are flexible with your travel plans and have an extra day to spend in the area there is an alternate way of possibly receiving a permit. This involves an in person visit to the Kanab BLM office the day prior to your intended hike. A lottery process begins each morning at 9:00 a.m. where the remaining 10 permits for the following day are issued. Be aware that the already slight chances of obtaining a permit decrease exponentially during the very popular spring and fall seasons.

As the BLM office is closed on weekends, permits for the following Saturday, Sunday, and Monday are issued in the Friday morning lottery. For those with really open travel itineraries this means you can enter the lottery for all three days in succession, modestly increasing the chance of being awarded a permit.

If you are fortunate enough to get a permit either online or in person, the rest is relatively easy.

Getting There

Driving to the trailhead usually requires a high clearance vehicle, and at times all or four wheel drive. Like most of the primitive roads found in the region weather can significantly impact the condition of the route, and it may not be possible to get to the trailhead. If heavy rain or snow are in the forecast, the road will be impassable and it is wiser to cancel the trip. Check with one of the BLM Visitor Centers in the area for current road conditions before heading out.

House Rock Valley Road

This scenic 29 mile unmaintained dirt road runs south and north along the base of Buckskin Mountain (the northern extension of the Kaibab Plateau). There is an entry point at either end, and which way you choose can be dependent on road conditions and weather. If coming from Kanab on the north end, travel 38 miles east on U.S. Highway 89 to the junction with BLM Road 1065. Turning south the road reaches Wire Pass trailhead at about 8 miles in.

Buckskin Mountain

Along the way you'll encounter Buckskin Wash, a usually dry channel that bisects the road. If there has been recent heavy rain there is a strong possibility that the wash will flood. Attempting to cross under these conditions is extremely hazardous, and may even result in death. Even if the wash is not running full, it may be muddy enough to trap a vehicle. Use extreme caution when negotiating the wash if water is present.

Another issue to be aware of is that the 8 miles of road from U.S. 89 to Wire Pass runs through a series of hills composed of shales and clays, which quickly turn to goo when wet. Avoid this section if rain or snow are likely.

Another option which mitigates some of the possible road hazards is to take the southern approach from U.S. Highway 89A. The route is longer (21 miles to the trailhead) but the road surface is primarily gravel based and somewhat less prone to washouts and flooding.

Wire Pass Trailhead

Once you've reached the starting point for the hike, finding the trail is fairly straightforward. Incidentally, all successful permit applicants are given a map with landmark pictures and a route description. This illustrated guide was prompted by multiple deaths in the summer of 2013, when hikers who became disoriented in the slickrock desert died from heat related illness.

BLM issued route description for the Wave

Beginning across the road from the modest parking area with pit toilet amenities, Wire Pass trailhead is also the entry point for two other hikes - Buckskin Gulch and Paria Canyon. The distance from the parking area to the feature known as the Wave is just over 3 miles each way.

Beginning of Wire Pass trail with flash flood warning sign

Shortly after crossing House Rock Valley road the trail drops into a dry streambed named Coyote Wash and heads left (north) with easy walking surrounded by an attractive landscape.

Coyote Wash

Staying in the wash for about 1/2 mile brings the hiker to the next waypoint, where the trail climbs out of Coyote Wash and heads generally east across a sandy, shrubby flat. The junction is marked with a sign for Coyote Buttes North as seen below.

Coyote Buttes North trail sign

Sandstone walls above Buckskin Gulch are a prominent landmark

The trail meanders eastwards over a sandy bench providing the first good look at Coyote Buttes for which the area is named.


Coyote Buttes

The trail soon crosses a northern spur of the Buttes over a low saddle and then makes a turn to the south (right). Apparently this is an area that easily confuses some hikers on the return journey as the guide emphasizes becoming familiar with landmarks in the immediate area to help identify the way back.

Begin heading south, keeping the ridge to your right and staying more to the upper section of the slope. The terrain here is mostly slickrock and sand which descend to the east at a shallow angle into a jumble of small ravines and washes, and staying high offers the best vantage point to see the route ahead.

A bit further out on the southern horizon is a useful benchmark called the Teepees. These colorful and interesting sandstone pillars lie beyond the Wave, but a hiker with an intrepid spirit and a good sense of the land could easily make a cross-country pilgrimage to see them up close.

The Teepees

The guide issued by the BLM is a useful aid to anyone who has never been here, or maybe to those folks who have no sense of direction, but for the most part stay near the ridge and continue south until you get a glimpse of the white sandstone formation seen below.

Closeup of the formation above the Wave

The area known as the Wave lies just below the northern face of this sandstone monument, and the large vertical crack or seam seen here is like a giant indicator pointing to the destination.

Before reaching the Wave, the trail crosses another large dry streambed called Sand Cove Wash, and then takes an upward slant on a moderately steep and sandy hill. At the top another short wash leads to the Wave itself.

The Wave

A fairly interesting notion about the Wave is that most people have seen one or more iconic photographs, and in their imagination the feature probably seems like it would extend over a great area. Truth is, the Wave is actually very compact and easy to see all at once.

I've been fortunate to see it when no one else was around, and that privilege allowed me to experience the solitude and symmetry of one of natures great works for a brief time. But when the other 19 permit holders for the day show up, the illusion quickly vanishes as each person scrambles for the perfect image.

The Wave

As much as I enjoy the stunning visuals offered by the Wave, there is a lot more to see in Coyote Buttes North than this relatively tiny (but spectacular) setting. For instance, most people never look up and see the small arch that is perched on the rock formation above the Wave.

Arch above the Wave

When I was there recently, I spent more of my time scrambling around and on the sandstone monument above the Wave, which afforded me some wonderful pictures of the surrounding area.

Looking north

The Wave from above - see the people?

Looking through the arch

An alien head frozen in stone?

The area surrounding the Wave has many attractive features

Small arch

From the highest point I could see across the Paria Plateau to the south, over Buckskin Gulch to the north, and even all the way into southern Utah where Powell Point looms over all.


Powell Point in southern Utah - the highest step in the Grand Staircase

Hiking to the Wave is easy, given you're in reasonably good shape and don't mind a simple cross country trek. The hard part is getting the required permit. Once you're there enjoy the phenomenon known as the Wave, particularly if you can arrive early or stay late and enjoy having it all to yourself.

But don't forget the rest of Coyote Buttes North. There is a lot of country out there, most of it as interesting as the Wave, and although there are no established trails that should not stop the well prepared traveler from exploring the nooks and crannies. I know I'll be trying my luck again in the future, trying to beat the odds and get that permit.

Grand Canyon - The Bright Angel Trail

2014-08-26T12:59:00.000-07:00

Old Faithful. Half Dome. Angels Landing. Most National Parks have an iconic feature with instant name recognition, and Bright Angel Trail at Grand Canyon certainly falls into this category. Nearly anyone who has ever ventured even a few steps into the abyss has likely walked this well used path which leads eventually to the bottom and the Colorado River.

Due to its location in the exceptionally busy South Rim Village, Bright Angel entices many casual visitors to take their first and possibly only journey below the rim. For those who dare to go all the way it is here that most hikers will discover if they have what it takes. And while there are no "easy" trails in and out of Grand Canyon, there are trails that are "easier" than others. For beginners Bright Angel makes a good first choice.

With ease of access, seasonal water, high likelihood of human contact, and a wide, well maintained trail tread, the Bright Angel is the logical route for anyone who wants to experience what Canyon hiking is all about.

Bright Angel Trail Origins

The Bright Angel trail owes its existence to a significant geological rift - the Bright Angel Fault. The presence of a generally east-west displacement here allows for one of the few natural trans-canyon routes. Wildlife first began using the contours of the fault to reach the bottom, and nearly 12,000 years ago early human inhabitants of the area followed their trails. More recently the Havasupai people utilized the path to reach crops along the perennial waters of Garden Creek, in a place known today as Indian Garden.

Ralph Cameron (courtesy photo)

The arrival of settlers and prospectors in the area in the late 1800's heralded an era of trail construction. For the most part the path we use today was improved by Pete Berry and brothers Ralph and Niles Cameron to reach mining claims below the rim.

Of the three men Ralph was more entrepreneurial, and he was quick to recognize the potential in extracting money from early Canyon tourists. Ralph fortuitously became sole owner of Bright Angel trail when Pete Berry transferred title to him in exchange for rights to the Grandview Toll Road, another improved trail to the east that served other Canyon mining claims.

Christened as the Bright Angel Toll Road, the (somewhat) improved trail offered visitors a chance to go below the rim for the modest fee of $1.00 per person. In conjunction, Ralph also developed a hotel on the rim and camping facilities at Indian Gardens. As Ralph saw it, the Canyon itself was likely to be much more profitable than any minerals it might contain, and he took advantage of all opportunities that came his way.

Bright Angel Toll Road Gate (courtesy photo)

In the early days competition for tourism dollars was intense, and the resulting rivalry was bitter. The arrival of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe railroad (ATSF) at the South Rim in 1901 facilitated an easy and comfortable way for the average citizen to see this natural wonder, and the age of popular visitation had arrived.

Sadly for the railroad Ralph Cameron had gotten there first, and his exclusive control of the only viable trail into the Canyon and development of tourist camps on the rim and in the Canyon became the subject of constant litigation. Lawyers for the ATSF tried repeatedly without success to wrest control of the lucrative holdings away from Cameron, and their efforts only served to increase the animosity between the parties involved.

To circumvent the stranglehold of Cameron's empire, the railroad and their partner the Fred Harvey Company built the luxurious El Tovar Hotel in 1905 as alternative lodging for their guests. Additionally in 1910 they constructed the Hermit Trail with access to Hermit Camp below the rim to compete with amenities operated by Cameron at Indian Garden. The railroad and Fred Harvey Company spent enormous sums of money to make sure the guest experience was far superior, and passengers could walk or ride a mule on their trail at no charge.

The establishment of Grand Canyon National Monument in 1908 and the subsequent transformation to National Park status in 1919 led to federal efforts to decertify claims exerted by Cameron over the Bright Angel Toll Road and Indian Garden below the rim. Much to the regret of the Park Service, by this time Cameron had thoroughly insinuated himself into Arizona politics, and as territorial legislator, County Supervisor, and eventually Senator he continued to exert a strong influence over the fate of "his" trail for years to come.

Despite Cameron's interference, the Mining Law of 1872 declares that claims must be constantly worked or "proved" in order to maintain legal ownership. Since Cameron was not doing any actual mining (except of the tourists), one by one his claims were revoked. After repeated appeals failed to reverse the outcome, Cameron lost direct control over the trail in 1913, and ownership subsequently reverted to Coconino County. Rather than accept defeat gracefully Ralph used his political clout and local anti-government sentiment to persuade the county to continue to operate Bright Angel as a toll road, keeping it out of the hands of the Park Service as long as possible.

For their part, the long struggle and subsequent failure of the Park Service to obtain title to Bright Angel resulted in a decision in 1923 to build the South Kaibab Trail, another amazing Canyon landmark. In retrospect the South Kaibab trail is probably the only real positive that resulted from the conflict, for without the decades long legal battle it would never have been considered, let alone constructed.

The contentious fight over who owned Bright Angel finally came to an end in 1928 when the Park Service was granted ownership of the trail by the county in exchange for a new road to the South Rim. The next two decades saw significant rebuilding and improving of the route by the Park Service and Civilian Conservation Corps, leaving us with the path used by hundreds of thousands each year.

The Bright Angel trail is considered a "corridor" route, meaning that it receives regular maintenance and is frequently patrolled by NPS Backcountry Rangers. It features seasonal water at various points, and is heavily used making encounters with other people very likely. It is one of only two trails (South Kaibab is the other) that offers a means to cross the Colorado River on a suspension bridge, and it has direct access to Phantom Ranch, the only established lodging facility at the bottom of the Canyon.

Even so it is still a challenging hike. It drops nearly 4400 feet from the rim to the river, and has an average grade of 10%. Temperatures at the bottom of the Canyon run generally 20 to 25 degrees warmer than at the top, and in summer the intense heat, lack of shade, and the demanding physical effort can lead to problems for unprepared hikers. Despite all that, the Bright Angel is one of the most popular and heavily traveled trails at Grand Canyon.

The Trail

Beginning near the Kolb Studio, the trail begins a 9.5 mile trek to the Colorado River with a seemingly endless sucession of switchbacks that last nearly all the way to Indian Garden. In the first 4 miles the Bright Angel loses 3000 feet of elevation, almost 3/4 of the total drop.

A wide, well maintained trail tread is a hallmark of the Bright Angel Trail

The upper sections of the trail sees many casual hikers

Looking down into the abyss

Switchbacks make the grade more manageable

Canyon walls rise quickly as the the trail makes steady downward progress

Anyone tackling the challenge of hiking Bright Angel will appreciate the placement of frequent excuses to stop and take a break, like Mile and a Half Resthouse, with shade, composting toilets, and potable water (seasonal). Another opportunity presents itself further along at Three Mile Resthouse, and again at Indian Garden.

Mile and a Half Resthouse with seasonal water offers a chance to take a break

Remember - what goes down must come up!

Indian Garden is nestled below the Redwall in a grove of cottonwood trees

The relatively flat bench of Bright Angel shale forms the Tonto Plateau

Looking back reveals a significant loss of elevation

After many zig-zags traversing sheer Canyon walls, the trail begins a shallower approach along a broad terrace of the Tonto Plateau as it heads for Indian Garden. This welcoming and shady oasis harbors a campground and Ranger Station, as well as trail options for trips down, out, east, or west.

Entering Indian Garden

Indian Garden sits alongside Garden Creek, and is characterized by mature cottonwood trees planted by Ralph Cameron. Historically the waters of the creek were used by native peoples to grow crops, and later provided drinking water to early tourists.

The campground at Indian Garden is useful to overnight Canyon hikers in two ways. As a destination for those who want to spend the night below the rim without making a trip to the Colorado River, it may be a more reasonable goal for first time backpackers at 4.5 miles each way. It can also be utilized as part of a multi-day trip, either as an overnight break on the way in or the way out.

Ambitious hikers also pass through Indian Garden enroute to Plateau Point, a there-and-back trip to a viewpoint perched on the rim of the Inner Gorge 1200 feet above the Colorado River. The distance overall is 12 miles, with an elevation loss/gain of over 6000 feet. Although a fair number of people make the journey as a day hike, the trip is physically demanding and should never be attempted in the hotter summer months.

Indian Garden also sits at the nexus of the only established east-west Canyon route, the Tonto Trail. Here backpackers can turn east or west, heading deeper into less visited parts of the Canyon.

Corrals and ramada at Indian Garden

Another item of note is the pump house at Indian Garden. Most visitors to the Park don't realize that all drinking water at the North and South Rims comes from within the Canyon. This scarce and precious resource originates from Roaring Springs, located at the base of the Redwall on the north side of the River.

A 12 mile pipeline constructed in 1963 carries water that is pumped to storage tanks on the rim. In many locations the pipeline follows the same route as Bright Angel, allowing for seasonal water to be provided to thirsty hikers.

Pumphouse at Indian Garden

Plateau Point and Tonto West trail junction at Indian Gardens

Tonto East trail junction at Indian Gardens

After departing from Indian Garden, the trail continues a modest drop through the upper end of Pipe Creek. The horizontal ledges of Tapeats sandstone form an attractive corridor, and the presence of water allows for some greenery in an otherwise austere landscape.

Though there are many places along this section where it is possible to reach the creek, the water is not recommended for drinking without treatment or filtering. It is suitable to use creek water to wet shirts, hats, and other garments to keep cool on a hot day.

Tapeats sandstone ledges give Canyon walls a "terraced" look

Pack mules carry supplies in and out of the Canyon

California King Snake, one of many reptiles in the Canyon

The Bright Angel emerges from the narrows of Tapeats sandstone and begins the final approach to the rugged Inner Gorge. The last 1200 feet or so of elevation loss to the River cuts through a dense, tortured metamorphic rock known as the Vishnu Schist.

This erosion resistant material has been submerged beneath the earth where tremendous heat and pressure have recycled and remade what used to lie on the surface. At around 1.2 billion years old it represents the oldest layer found in the Canyon, and is quite different from the many types of sedimentary rock found above it.

As harsh environments go, the Inner Gorge is about as unwelcoming as it gets. The dense rock resists fragmentation, and little to no soil exists for plants to take root. Even if a seed were to find a toehold, lack of water and intense heat keeps all but the hardiest vegetation from making a go of it. Still, nature abhors a vacuum and there are a few specialized plants that manage to exist in spite of the limitations.

Constructing a useful trail in this part of the Canyon necessitated liberal use of explosives to blast a channel in the rock. A section with the colorfully descriptive name of the Devil's Corkscrew consists of many switchbacks carved into the schist which lead to the bed of Pipe Creek.

First look at the section known as the Devil's Corkscrew

Despite the width there are still sections where empty space lies mere steps away

Last shade before dropping into the Inner Gorge

The trail carved into Vishnu Schist, a dark metamorphic rock

The trail was blasted into rugged walls of dense metamorphic rock

Final descent to the creek bed

The Inner Gorge - a landscape of naked rock and low desert plants

Once the trail reaches the stream, the grade becomes much less severe as it winds through the channel to the River.

Water flows in Pipe Creek

An old mine adit (shaft) along the trail

A narrow passage offers welcome shade in the morning and late afternoon

Lower Pipe Creek

Near the mouth of Pipe Creek the noise of the Colorado River is heard before the water comes into view. At this intersection we meet the River Trail for the final 1.5 miles to Phantom Ranch and Bright Angel campground. There is also a composting toilet here at River Resthouse (no water available) to accommodate those who have the urge, as well as an emergency phone to summon help if necessary.

River Resthouse

Looking back - the rim of the Canyon

The River trail is also blasted out of the gneiss (schist), and there is a modest gain in elevation as it climbs away from the Colorado. In summer this section of trail is best tackled in early morning or late afternoon, as it is exposed and brutally hot with nothing but heat reflecting rocks all around.

The River Trail connects Bright Angel to the South and North Kaibab trails

After about a mile of walking (sometimes in sand) the Silver Bridge crossing the River comes into view. The bridge was constructed in the 1960's and is a vital link in the earlier mentioned trans-Canyon water line from Roaring Springs. The pipeline carrying 500,000 gallons of water each day to the South Rim is suspended beneath the bridge structure.

The Silver Bridge

The trans-Canyon pipeline is suspended beneath the Silver Bridge

To Phantom Ranch, Bright Angel Campground, and the North Rim (via North Kaibab trail)

Looking upstream on the Colorado River

Once across the River, the path leads a short distance to Bright Angel Creek as it emerges from the north. Parallel trails on either side of the creek lead to Bright Angel Campground on the west bank, and Phantom Ranch on the east side.

Downstream footbridge over Bright Angel Creek

Bright Angel is the name bestowed on the creek by Maj. John Wesley Powell after his epic voyage of exploration along the Colorado in 1869. He initially referred to the clear water stream as Silver Creek upon the first encounter, but changed it to Bright Angel as counterpoint to the name Dirty Devil, which was a foul smelling and murky water course located upstream of the Grand Canyon. Since then many locations and features bear the name Bright Angel, much to the confusion of first time visitors.

Bright Angel Creek

A developed campground exists here that is nearly always fully occupied, as it is the only facility where camping is allowed in this part of the Canyon. Accessed by the Bright Angel, South Kaibab and North Kaibab trails, Bright Angel campground is where 99% of first time backpackers will experience a night below the rim.

Incidentally, all overnight use of the Canyon (except for staying at Phantom Ranch) requires a permit from the Backcountry Office. Since the Park Service recommends first time hikers use corridor trails such as Bright Angel, getting a permit to spend the night at Indian Garden, Bright Angel, or Cottonwood campgrounds can be very difficult, especially in the spring, summer, and fall when Park visitation is at the peak.

There is a lot of information available from the Grand Canyon National Park website, including when and where to apply for permits, but be aware that demand greatly exceeds supply in high use areas like Bright Angel.

Bright Angel Campground

If you are fortunate enough to get a permit, the sites here are spacious, flat, and feature picnic tables. Unfortunately there is also a serious rodent problem, since decades of careless campers have spoiled rock squirrels, ring-tailed cats, mice, and ravens with the reward of food, whether intentional or not.

In years past, various means of depriving these critters of snacks have been tried with varying degrees of success, but the most recent iteration is the food storage locker. Of course to be effective ALL edible items have to be placed in the box - woe to the hiker who takes a midnight snack into the tent, only to discover that nylon walls are no barrier to hungry mice.

On the prowl

Food locker

As utilities are available nearby, the facilities include restrooms with running water and lights. Although spending the night here is still "roughing it", it could be more challenging. Consider true backcountry camping, where water has to be located and then treated or filtered, tables consist of whatever flat rock you may find, and going to the bathroom requires techniques most folks are unfamiliar with.

Running water, flush toilets, and a roof - what luxury!

For those who have no desire to carry a heavy pack or pitch a tent, there is another option - Phantom Ranch. Although the area had been used for millenia by native peoples as a place of habitation, the modern day version of this rustic yet comfortable facility has it origins in 1902. That year a man named David Rust began planting trees along the creek and constructing a tent camp in the hopes of attracting visitors from the North Rim.

The location gained some prominence in 1913 when Teddy Roosevelt stayed here as part of a hunting trip, and the name was briefly changed to "Roosevelt's Camp". In 1922 the Fred Harvey Company took control of the area and gave architect Mary Jane Colter the task of redesigning and constructing a more permanent lodging facility.

Using native stone and timber and a style known today as National Park Rustic, Ms. Colter created a setting where individual cabins surround a central dining hall. Colter also suggested the current name, borrowing the word Phantom from an upstream tributary of Bright Angel Creek. In the 1930s the Civilian Conservation Corps made many improvements to the area, including the construction of a swimming pool. Unfortunately for hot and weary hikers, the pool has since been filled in.

Cabin at Phantom Ranch

Cabin interior - many have been converted to dormitories to accommodate more guests

By and large Phantom Ranch exists much the same as it did when first built, although some changes have been made. This includes the installation of such creature comforts as evaporative coolers in the cabins and cantina, as well as electricity for lights and modern plumbing.

Food and lodging are available by reservation only, as all goods must be delivered in and out of the Ranch via pack mule and space is limited. Incidentals like snacks and beverages are sold to non-guests after the Dining Hall has served scheduled breakfasts or dinners, so hungry or thirsty backpackers are not left out entirely.

The Cantina at Phantom Ranch

Cabins and dormitories at Phantom Ranch

Looking up to the South Rim from Phantom Ranch

Hikers also come into the area using the South Kaibab trail, the other "corridor" route that crosses the River to the east on the Black Bridge. Many visitors to the bottom use South Kaibab as the descent portion of the hike, as it is somewhat shorter at 7 miles (although steeper) from the rim, and hike out on the Bright Angel because of available water and potential for shade.

Looking east towards the Black Bridge and South Kaibab trail

Of course for some the visit here is not simply an "in and out" experience. The North Kaibab trail continues up Bright Angel Creek for 14 miles to the North Rim, and many backpackers use the campgrounds at Bright Angel and Cottonwood to complete a rim-to-rim hike.


Early morning light illuminates the Inner Gorge

All in all the area around the Ranch is very scenic and comfortable, with stands of mature cottonwood trees lining the banks of cool Bright Angel Creek. With a developed campground or a place to stay featuring 4 walls, a roof, and climate controlled comfort there is something for just about anyone intrepid enough to make the hike to the bottom.

That said, with all the options to make the visit as pleasant as possible, you still have to get here, and more importantly you have to get out. As hard as it may be to make the long trek up and down the Canyon walls, at least there is a wide, well used trail with some provision for water and shade. Go ahead - try it. You may surprise yourself.

Lower Antelope Canyon - Ancient Deserts, Modern Art, Many People

2014-07-04T13:35:00.000-07:00

Slot canyons are a but one manifestation of many different spectacular erosional features found throughout the Colorado Plateau, but they can be among the most magical of places. Here you'll find constricted channels where walls of polished rock form passages framing a narrow strip of sky, places where the sun is an infrequent visitor. The term "slot" refers to the vertical dimension of the canyon, defined as being significantly deeper than it is wide.

Lower Antelope Canyon from above

There are plenty of canyons in the slickrock wilderness of the Four Corners region, but perhaps the best known are Upper and Lower Antelope Canyon on the Navajo Reservation near the city of Page, Arizona. Not much to look at at from above perhaps, but hidden in the depths are twisting and fluted corridors of hazy golden light that attract thousands of visitors every year.

I usually avoid places as well known as Antelope Canyon particularly due to their popularity, but they are an essential feature of the southwestern landscape and should be included in the extensive catalog of spectacular earthly art. Just be warned if you go - this experience will be shared with many others, and photographers will need to exercise great patience to capture shots without human intrusion.

Lower Antelope Canyon

Page is a town created specifically by the Bureau of Reclamation during the construction of nearby Glen Canyon Dam. Today the city functions as a hub for recreation on Lake Powell, the reservoir associated with the dam on the Colorado River. Located just south of the Arizona - Utah border on the Navajo Nation, Page sits atop Manson Mesa in a high desert environment of sand and slickrock.

To reach Antelope Canyon visitors will travel east from Page about 2.5 miles on U.S. Highway 98. Both Upper and Lower Antelope Canyon are administered by Navajo Nation Parks and Recreation Department. All visitors must pay the required fees and be accompanied by guides, which are located on site. For information on cost, hours of operation, and permits for specialty photography (beyond casual picture taking) see the Parks website here.

Also be aware that the Canyons may be closed at any time during the summer due to the threat of flash flooding. In 1997 eleven sightseers were swept away and killed when a thunderstorm dropped heavy rain upstream. To prevent similar tragedies tours are suspended whenever there is a likelihood of a storm in the area.

On arrival to the dirt parking area you'll see the large Navajo Power Generating Station looming over the landscape. Naive tourists who inquire as to its purpose are often told that the area is so dry that it is a "cloud factory". The joke is on us however, as the coal fired plant emits a haze which often obscures formerly crystal clear western skies.

Navajo Generating Station

There are two tour companies to choose from in the parking area. Apparently one of them is operating illegally, although if that is the case I'm not sure how they are able to do so. The company I went with (legally) is called Ken's Lower Antelope Canyon Tours. The structure shown in the photo below will soon be replaced by a newer and more permanent facility.


Ken's Lower Antelope Canyon Tours (note new building in background)

Visitors are taken in groups of 20, with trips entering the canyon every few minutes. Before departing for the entrance, the guide runs through a quick list of prohibited activities. Once the introduction is complete the group heads across the sandy expanse of desert for the northern end of the slot.

The Rules

Heading out

Upon reaching the canyon, visitors plunge into the murky depths on a series of steep and sometimes slick (due to sand) staircases and ladders. Waiting your turn to descend you get the sense that a lot of people are moved through the canyon every day.

Approaching the entrance

Going down backwards is easier due to slick stair treads

People stack up on the way down

Once at the bottom, eyes take a few moments to adjust to lower light levels. The canyon is so narrow that the sun almost never penetrates directly into the chasm, and what illumination exists is reflected off golden sandstone. It is this particular quality that provides a colorful and rich ambient texture to photos.

I am a casual photographer at best, but can certainly understand why a serious photophile would want to spend hours trying to capture the textures and light that every bend and twist in the canyon offers. Because of time constraints the tour group moves through fairly quickly, and the next group is not far behind. I found myself lagging as far back as I could to take pictures with no humans in the frame.

Of course there were others of a like mind who wanted to shoo everyone through so they could take the perfect image, and even a few small groups of what looked like professional photographers with a private guide giving tips and tricks for the best shot. Altogether there was not a hint of a wilderness experience to be found, but then again I knew that's not what Antelope Canyon is all about.

Climbing back into the harsh light of day

I guess I would have to say seeing Antelope Canyon was worthwhile, if only for the chance to take some great pictures. Unfortunately it is not a place to linger and contemplate the work of nature, although it is certainly worthy of such. It is a visual spectacle, and like some National Parks there is no choice but to share it with throngs of others who have also come to appreciate the view.

I went, I saw, I took pictures. One thing is certain - my next slot canyon experience will be a much more personal experience. And I might share it with you. Maybe.

Grand Canyon - The Nankoweap Trail

2014-05-14T20:27:00.001-07:00

Colorado River in Marble Canyon

"The most difficult named trail". "Not suitable for anyone with a fear of heights". "Lots of exposure". "Waterless". "Not recommended for solo hikers".

Nankoweap Trail has an impressive resume of dire warnings, and in general I advise first time visitors to consider them carefully. Even so, having hiked all the named trails and routes in Grand Canyon at one time or another, in my opinion Nankoweap is really no worse than most.

As I see it the biggest challenge is not that there is exposure, it's there's so much of it, occurring in both the long traverse of the Supai layer before Tilted Mesa, and again on the relatively short and steep descent from the mesa to the drop through the Tapeats formation. There's literally a five mile stretch where a slip and fall would likely result in serious bodily harm or death, and anyone who is obsessed with the probability will not have an enjoyable hike. Otherwise it's the Grand Canyon, where every outing into the backcountry is a calculated risk.

Like most trails in the Canyon, Nankoweap arose from a path used by natives to reach the River. The Powell Expedition of 1882-1883 is credited with improving the route so that the team's geologist, a fellow named Charles Doolittle Walcott could bring instruments and horses into the area to study the rocks. His findings resulted in a series of well known scientific papers, and eventually Mr. Walcott went on to succeed J.W. Powell as head of the U.S. Geological Survey.

In later years the trail gained notoriety as part of the so called "Horsethief Trail" which was allegedly used by rustlers in Utah to drive stolen livestock across the Canyon into northern Arizona. Given the current state of the path it is hard to believe any animal would willingly make the trip, not to mention how riders on horseback would negotiate some sections, but things may well have been different in the last century.

The word Nankoweap has two different attributions. In one story John Wesley Powell is said to have used the Paiute word for "place that echoes" to name the canyon, while another has a similar sounding Indian word which means "people who were killed". In this version the word Ninkuipi was given to this place to honor Paiutes who died in an attack by raiding Apaches. Either way there is no mistaking the influence native people left on the area. More on that later.

Getting There

***Important Update, July 2026*** - There have been multiple large wildfires that have impacted the North Kaibab Plateau and Saddle Mountain Wilderness areas since I published this post. I have not personally been to this area in the interim, but based on information provided on post-fire effects I am certain that anyone attempting to reach the Nankoweap trailhead from either approach will likely encounter significant erosion, increased flooding potential, and the possibility of falling/downed trees in severely burned areas. Contact the Kaibab National Forest North Rim Ranger District office for more details.

There are two approaches to the Nankoweap trail. The most reliable year-round access is from FR 8910 through House Rock Valley, which comes in at a lower elevation and usually has less snow in the winter. The other way in is from FR 610 off the North Kaibab plateau. The road here is affected by the seasonal closure of State Route 67 (usually mid-October through mid-May), as well as other factors such as fire and fallen trees. If using FR 610 be sure to get current information from the North Kaibab Ranger District as restrictions may be in place.

These two roads access either end of Saddle Mountain Trail No. 57, which links House Rock Valley and the North Kaibab. The junction with Nankoweap occurs at roughly the halfway point along the trail. Entering from FR 610, the Saddle Mountain trail begins high on the rim at 8800 feet, and drops over the course of 3 miles to the Nankoweap trailhead at 7640 feet. The positive here is that the beginning of the trip is all downhill, but hikers should consider that the extra 1200 feet will need to be tackled at the end.

Using the House Rock Valley access point, Trail 57 climbs 3.5 miles from 6800 feet to the beginning of Nankoweap, with an overall elevation gain of 1400 feet before reaching the rim of Grand Canyon. The initial uphill climb may be challenging to some as packs are heaviest at the start of a trip, but consider the benefit of knowing the last leg of the hike out will be somewhat easier. This post addresses a hike using the House Rock Valley entry and exit.

Other Considerations

Whichever end of the Saddle Mountain trail you use to reach the Nankoweap, the overall distance to the Colorado River is 14 miles. There is no reliable source of water until Nankoweap Creek at around 12.5 miles. While it possible to hike the entire distance in a day, the journey will be much more enjoyable if you allow for 2 days in each direction. Since water is unavailable in the upper Canyon, plan to carry or cache sufficient supplies for dry camps coming and going. Marion Point and Tilted Mesa make good destinations for overnight camping, with more choices for camping available at Tilted Mesa.

Helicopters fly a fixed route over Nankoweap during the day

Another item worth mentioning is that the entire route lies directly in the path of the designated air tour corridor, and from sunrise to sunset the noise of fixed wing aircraft and helicopters will likely be present.

While certainly a distraction at times, the flights are far enough overhead (Federal law requires helicopters to stay 800 feet above the rim, while fixed wing planes must remain even higher at 1200 feet) to mostly be a minimal nuisance.

House Rock Valley/Saddle Mountain Trail 57

From the parking area at the Saddle Mountain trailhead, the eponymous geographical feature rises above. Starting with a deceptively gentle grade in a pinyon-juniper woodland, the path climbs in a generally southern direction along an old road.

Saddle Mountain Trail No. 57 from House Rock Valley

This continues for nearly a mile before making a turn to the east, where the first views into the chasm of Marble Canyon appear below. Towering above the relatively flat House Rock Valley is the 1200 foot high escarpment of the Vermilion Cliffs to the north, and the smaller but no less dramatic Echo Cliffs on the northeast side.

Vermilion Cliffs rise above House Rock Valley

Marble Canyon and Echo Cliffs

After climbing around 350 feet or so the trail makes an abrupt decent into a ravine, losing all the elevation gained to this point before beginning to ascend once more.

The trail continues upward through a mostly ponderosa pine forest, at first with a gentler grade in the dry creekbed. There is still over 800 feet to climb though, and soon enough the path obliges with a sharper incline and few switchbacks.

Stopping frequently to rest and catch a breath in the shade of mature ponderosa trees, hikers may note evidence of the 1960 Saddle Mountain fire which burned around 8000 acres. The vegetation here has made some progress in returning with Gambel Oak, manzanita, and small jack pines filling in the understory of the forest.

Eventually the trail begins to level off as it approaches the rim. In a half mile or so you'll reach the intersection of Nankoweap with Trail 57 coming from the North Kaibab.

Saddle Mountain Trail No. 57 Junction

Nankoweap Trailhead - Elevation 7640'

After so much up, it's time to go down. The first descent is relatively short but steep, a passage through Esplanade sandstone which leads directly to a lengthy traverse of the Supai layer below.

Dropping in through the Esplanade sandstone

Once you reach the Supai, the fun begins. This long (5 miles) and somewhat torturous section is where people experience the most anxiety, as a path that is often no wider than a footprint winds over and through red rocks on the edge of the canyon, with drop offs into empty space mere feet away.

I am an experienced Canyon hiker with many miles under my boots, and exposure in general does not bother me. There are always risks associated with hiking the wilderness of Grand Canyon, and falls from great heights are only one aspect. That said this trail is really not for the faint of heart, particularly if vertigo an issue.

The traverse features not only narrow trails on the edge of certain injury or death, but also a lot of up and down. Looking at a topographic map, the line representing the trail offers no clue as to the truly undulating nature of the Nankoweap, and it's for this reason among others that I recommend breaking up the trip into multiple days.

A welcome respite from the contour through the Supai comes at Marion Point, where a ridge extends into the Canyon and offers a small site for one or two tents. Here it is easy to get confused as well - the trail does not continue along the ridge; instead it turns back to the north and continues the traverse. Just past Marion Point at the head of a drainage is a small seasonal seep, which is only likely to have water after a very wet winter.

Marion Point

More exposure and more up and over continues until just before Tilted Mesa, where the trail finally makes a move towards the depths below. Tilted Mesa is another ridge extending out into the Canyon, with just enough of a slope to accommodate a trail through the always challenging Redwall formation. Here you'll find a few good camping spots along the ridge that make a suitable place to divide the trip.

The views from Tilted Mesa are pretty awesome as well, with the dry drainage of Little Nankoweap Creek to the east, and the upper watershed of Nankoweap to the southwest.

Little Nankoweap

Nankoweap Creek from Tilted Mesa

From Tilted Mesa on the path finally begins to get serious about losing elevation, beginning with a drop through the remainder of the Supai. A couple of rock bands present a bit of a challenge, but old snags in proximity to the descent are helpful in making the downclimb. Soon the trail reaches the top of the Redwall, following the ridge a bit longer before heading down. The Redwall descent here is comparatively easy, especially relative to the sections immediately afterward.

There is a mercifully short but somewhat sketchy drop through a layer of yellow shale that has a very loose and steep surface, and hikers with heavy packs will be glad for a walking stick or trekking poles.

When that charming passage is finished, another delightful section begins where the path plunges steeply down a ridge of loose rock. There is not a switchback to be seen in this part of the trail, and great care is needed to avoid a slip.

Yes, that's a trail

After the abrupt drop the trail resumes a slightly more reasonable descent, although still with areas of concern where hikers should exercise caution. There is a 1/2 mile traverse of Bright Angel shale where the trail is narrow with significant exposure. In many respects this area offers more challenge than the Supai, mostly because of a downward grade and loose material.

The trail is barely visible high on the slopes of Bright Angel shale

Once out of the Bright Angel, the Nankoweap begins a final descent through the Tapeats sandstone.

The hard part is finally over, as the trail winds down into a drainage. The exit onto a broad terrace of depositional material above Nankoweap Creek signals the final approach. Cottonwood trees in the streambed signal the presence of water and shade, and weary hikers can look forward to rest and relaxation in their midst.

Several good camping spots can be found on both sides of the trail confluence. Water flows year-round in Nankoweap Creek, with springs located above and below the junction.

Hikers may also elect to continue to the Colorado River to camp on a beach. Fair warning: those who do should know it is likely their spot will be overrun with river runners, since Nankoweap is very popular with river trips due to the granaries and large beach. I prefer camping along the creek where you can rest assured of peace and quiet, and reaching the River is easy enough with a short day hike.

Once you've settled in, it's time to hike downstream to visit the River and the famous granaries located in the Redwall above the Colorado. There is no established trail, but multiple paths meander in and out of the streambed, and crossing the creek occurs hundreds of time along the way.

There are small springs located at many places where water enters the creek out of fissures in the rock. These provide habitat for moisture loving plants that only exist with direct access to water - look 10 feet on either side of the creekbed and all vegetation is of the desert adapted variety.

After a pleasant walk of about a mile and a half along the creek, the mouth of Nankoweap widens and the towering walls of Marble Canyon are revealed ahead.

At the Colorado a network of river runner created trails leads to the beaches where many trips stop to visit the granaries or spend the night. Climbing up and out of the streambed to the south (right) will lead to the trail we're interested in - the one which ascends steeply to the sheer Redwall where ancestral puebloan granaries are found.

The granaries are easy to spot, and the trail which leads there is steep with big steps. As you approach, there is another granary set into an alcove which has no apparent access.

These fascinating structures date back to a time around 800 - 900 years ago, when native peoples were farming creek and river deltas and storing corn and other food staples away from rodents and pests. Given their age and popularity with river trips, the granaries are in remarkable condition.

Perched high on the slope above the River, the ancestral storage site offers a panoramic view downstream, with a great ledge to sit upon while reflecting on the people who built it.

The gorge here is narrow compared to the sections downstream, and the sheer walls of Marble Canyon rise over 3000 feet above the River. Unlike the Canyon downstream, the space here is confined with only shallow benches to break the vertical relief.

Once you've had sufficient time to absorb the sights and sounds of Marble Canyon, it's time to return once more to isolated yet beautiful Nankoweap Creek.


Scorpionweed

Globe Mallow

After a restful day and a rewarding day hike to the River, it's great to simply sit in camp and allow the hours to slip away unnoticed while the sun continues it's arc overhead. In this way it's possible to become part of the landscape, an object that belongs here as much as the rocks and trees which surround you.

You might even get lucky as a pair of mule deer walk within feet of your camp, untroubled by your presence and purpose. That's a great way to spend the day.