Escape to the High Country, Part 1

There is something peculiar about high altitudes. The atmosphere possesses a certain flavor, a distinct personality. It invades the airways with vim and vigor, caressing your insides with a sweet, mysterious concoction of dust and nothingness. The sun hits different up there in the high altitudes, bouncing off the sharp, pointy rocks uninhibited. Hardy plants willingly decide to cling to the most uninviting surfaces, existing in spite of all things reasonable, shouting to the world, "Look at me! I am here! I am alive! Gaze upon my existence and weep!" And some people do and some people don't and most people don't even notice these things at all. They simply keep walking amongst the rocks, the tiny little gnarly plants barely perceptible, far too small to be of much notice to the common passerby. 

The high country. It's a spot of meditation. A spot to clear the mind, to take it all in, reflect on things, look into the sky at nothing in particular. Keeps the mind rolling; a fantastic mental lubricant. I needed to get away for a bit, needed to meditate on something in particular that I won't get into right now. When dealing with the confusion of life, the hectic curveballs it throws at us, when it presents a situation that is both shocking and tragic and bewildering and just plain sad, different folks will process the aftermath in different ways. I chose to escape to the high country. Solo. Just me and my thoughts and the road and the endless sky. 

Long clouds, bumpy hills. Sagebrush and sand and dirt and rocks. Road work. Loose gravel. Old guys driving old trucks, fast and slow and slow an fast. Tanned arms, hanging out the window, swarthy as can be. Old buildings, peeling paint. Quiet towns, nothing going on. No kids out playing in the park. Too hot. No one out on the street either. Just a bunch of closed down shops, boarded up windows, vacant restaurants. 

These tired towns are much like the hardy alpine foliage of the high country; both barely cling to existence yet still somehow survive in spite of everything. I drive from one town to the next, each connected by a thin little line of a road, a delicate string, a mere strand of hair in a vast country of rugged mountains and expansive flatness and omnipresent heat.

And soon I'm really out there in the boonies; wouldn't see another town for the next 80 miles. Driving up and down, up and down. Down into the basin, up into a range, back into a basin, up into another range. No cars. Just an old, cracked road. 

Expansive country, empty country. Well, not entirely empty. There's a whole bunch of prickly plants and scorpions and wasps and lizards and beetles and mice and coyotes and hawks and flies and trillions and trillions of single-celled microorganisms. Can't forget about those buggers. Them's everywhere.

But you see, it's more dramatic if I say it's empty; makes it seem like I was really out there roughin' it in the great outdoors, man vs. nature, something real silly like that. Truthfully, I paid no mind to the scenery. Didn't give a hoot as to whether it was empty or not. Just stared at the road and listened to Ween and Jorge Ben the whole way.

But eventually my trance was interrupted when I finally saw the high country in the distance. I saw the gray peaks, I saw the lighting, the fantastic air. Yep. I needed to get there. And I drove towards it, the scene growing closer every moment. Excitement. Anticipation. Soon I had crossed the border into Nevada and was driving through the town of Baker. Stopped at the visitor center. Filled up my bottles. And then it was off into the National Park, driving along the road, first asphalt, then dirt. Reached the end of the road. There was an outhouse there. It did not excrete any unpleasant aromas. Whoopee. And the clouds had grown and were now stretching across the sky, a big ol' gray and puffy blanket. 

Alone. No one around. Baker Creek gargling and barbling. A slight breeze. I got out a book and read it in the shade next to the creek. Dipped my toes in it. Too cold for my liking. And then some people showed up and they walked along. I walked as well, sauntering through the aspens, thinking of nothing and everything, hands behind my back. And then I returned to the creek and walked back to the ol' car and sat and rolled down the windows and listened to some George Carlin and watched a bunch of deer cross from one side of my field of vision to the other. And then it got dark. And then I got tired. And then I rolled out the pad and took off my shirt and curled into a fetal position and dreamt of silence and snow, the night an illusion, the passing of time no longer making any sense.

Baker Peak in the distance

And I awoke and guzzled down some butter toffee peanuts and began my day of mountain meditation. This would be a long meditation, one rife with sweat and soreness and anxiety and awe and serenity and some obligatory bowel discomfort. Always gotta have that. 

I walked along the trail, slowly gaining elevation, the morning nice and calm. Unlike my bowels. They do not like the morning. Or maybe they just don't like me. For the past week I'd been forcing my homemade yogurt upon them. Stuff was disgusting. I'd burnt the milk and let it sit for far too long, the end product looking more like cottage cheese than yogurt. Had to force it down. Why not just throw it away you might ask? 'Cause I ain't gonna waste it. I ain't no quitter. I finish what I start, dammit!

And so I continued to force this disgusting "yogurt" upon my digestive tract and finally, that nice and soft and quiet morning in the peaceful serenity of the forest, my guts figured it was a good idea to reward me with the kind of bowel movement that would make most people forgo their belief in all things holy. What a marvelous scene it was; the sunlight filtering through the green leaves of the swaying aspens, the gargling stream of Baker Creek, the stately pines, the chirping of birds, all of it calm and composed, placid and still. And then there was me in the bushes grunting like a ghoul, sounding for all the world like a horse in labor, sweat dripping from my brow and toes gripping the inside of my shoes like bat does the roof of a cave. 

Baker Creek

A few moments later and the exorcism was finally complete, so I continued on my merry way, everything bright, brilliant, beautiful. A wonderful trail, a fantastic trail, slowly leading me into the high country, the place I needed to be. The grass vanished, the trees became more hardy, shorter, less stately. These trees had seen some stuff, they'd been around the block a few times, they shared little in common with the prissy sissies in the lower elevations. And the ground became more rocky and the clouds more puffy, blocking out the morning sun. Up and up, a few switchbacks here, a few there, and then finally, finally, I had reached the trail's terminus, the end of the line, the main destination: Baker Lake.

Baker "Lake"

Baker Peak

More like Baker Puddle. Due to the lackluster winter this year the thing was drastically low, the whole thing split into two distinct sections of shallow, murky water. Sad, but not sad enough to rouse a tear from my eye. In fact I was rather indifferent. I had bigger fish to fry at the moment. Saw Baker Peak off to my right. Looked like a jolly good slog. Just what I needed.

And so I waved goodbye to Baker Puddle and started off to Baker Peak, noticing a group of backpackers who had camped at the shore packing up their stuff and getting ready to head on back to the trailhead as I made upward progress. Up and up, lots of rocks, lots of beautiful, striated, sparkly, amazing rocks. Great Basin's gotta have the prettiest rocks I've ever seen. There's just something about them; they got style, grace, a wonderful pizzazz. They're a joy to see. A joy to hear. Clink clank clink. A soothing cacophony, a benevolent auditory ointment for the ears.

Looking back at Baker Lake

Trailhead is way down there somewhere

And it was a class 2 slog for sure but the footing wasn't too bad and the beauty of the rocks made it worth it and soon I was near the top, big ol' puffy clouds forming in the southeast. A slog here and a slog there and I had finally made it to the wide summit, the thing surprisingly flat and open. I found the register. Looked inside. The booklet was placed in August of 2024 with the most recent entry dated April 6th of this year. I scribbled down the date (July 2nd) and left my marks, my entry bringing the total to eight for the entire booklet. Yep. Either most people who summit this peak simply don't bother with the register or this thing gets very few visitors. I suspect that both assumptions are true. 

Baker Summit, West Baker in the distance

North, Wheeler Peak (left) and Co.

The clouds became more puffy and dark, finally bursting at the seams and dumping thin strands of rain over Pyramid Peak a little ways to the south. I heard no thunder or lightning, but the scene didn't sit right with me. Definitely didn't want to repeat the events of Wildrose Peak. Nuh uh. No sir. So I didn't linger long on ol' Baker, instead rushing off the summit towards the next closest highpoint just to the west. I kept an eye on the puffy clouds to the southeast, the things static, stationary, slowly dripping moisture over the high country, neither growing more insane nor dissipating into something less severe. 

Tiny flowers

West Baker

I reached West Baker, a fairly unremarkable spot in my opinion. Only thing it had going for it was a tremendous view of Baker Peak. By far the best view I saw all day; truly spectacular, in every sense of the world. High cliffs, crumbly walls, a massive cirque, all of it accentuated by an unfathomable smattering of beautiful and jagged rocks that covered the whole scene, sprinkled on top of the land like powdered sugar from the hand of a giant celestial chef. I lingered for a moment or two, admired the scene, inhaled, exhaled, felt the cool air invade my lungs, and then made my way off the summit, heading towards this ridge directly to the south. 

Wheeler Peak and Co. from West Baker

Baker Peak. Wow.

Along the southern ridge

The idea was to make a loop of sorts. I wanted to spend as much time in the high country as possible, climbing as many summits along the way as seemed necessary. One such summit was Pyramid Peak, an aesthetically pleasing mountain that I saw on the drive through the desert the day prior that I knew I just had to climb. But Pyramid Peak lay on the other side of a large cirque, almost directly opposite of Baker Peak. Didn't wanna climb all that way back down to Baker Puddle and then climb back up to Pyramid Peak. No no no. Didn't wanna lose all that vert. I'd worked hard to gain that vert. And I was damn well gonna keep it.

So I figured I could traverse this ridge, staying high in the process, walking up above and to the west of Baker Puddle and maneuvering my way to the saddle between Pyramid and this other mountain called Johnson Peak. Earlier that morning, when I was looking at the ridge from Baker Puddle, I was a little apprehensive about this plan. The ridge appeared to be a wee bit precarious. A jagged, precipitous, crumbly mess. But as I was heading down to this ridge from West Baker the thing looked fine and dandy, no worse than class 2. Just had to stay off the crest and I'd be just fine. 

Traversing the ridge, Baker Lake below

Staying off the crest, lots of loose side-hilling

I stayed fairly low, side-hilling along the somewhat loose class 2 western slopes of the crumbly ridge. There was one spot where I had to perform some class 3 downclimbing, but I'm sure this can be avoided with the use of patient route-finding skills, something that I severely lack. I don't know man. I saw the puffy, rainy clouds up ahead and I was like "Well, if they come over here I'ms screwed" so I was trying to make it to the saddle as fast as I could, heading to a spot where I knew there would be some shelter if it were to start stormin' like crazy up there. 

But the clouds never came. In fact, they grew soft and wispy, disintegrating away on their journey to the southeast, leaving me alone for the time being, my rush to the saddle in vain. Oh well. Better to play it safe I suppose. 

The saddle between Pyramid and Johnson

At the saddle, I made what I believe was the smart decision to not climb Johnson Peak. I coulda, but I didn't. There were these big ol' clouds forming near Wheeler Peak to the northeast and these even bigger clouds off to the northwest, both of 'em heading in my direction. Didn't like the looks of 'em. So I decided to shorten the day and climb Pyramid Peak, something that I had more than enough time to do before these clouds rolled in (if they rolled in at all; weather is sooooooo unpredictable in the mountains as I've come to learn over the years...). Plus I had a big day planned for the next morning and I'd need my legs to be in somewhat good shape and climbing Johnson Peak probably woulda been a step too far anyways so I said see you later, thank you, goodbye, and high-tailed it up the southwest ridge of Pyramid, following a use trail most of the way to the pointy summit.

Johnson Peak and Johnson Lake (below)

Eagle Benchmark (left) from Pyramid summit

Wheeler(in shadow) and Baker(center) from Pyramid Summit

Southish

There was a tiny lil' register tucked in the rocks of a wind shelter. Thing had wayyy more entries than the one on Baker. I can probably figure why. Pyramid Peak, for all intents and purposes, is a bona fide classic. The thing looks like a peak. Sounds like a peak. Tastes like a peak. It's triangular. Pointy. Rocky. Cardiovascularly challenging. It checks all the boxes, covers all bases. Plus the views from the top are pretty dang good too. 

I signed my name and the date, the last entry from June 26th of this year. And then I sat on down and nibbled on some bread and looked at the dark scary clouds in the distance and went "yep" and then got up and started truckin'. Couldn't linger too long. I ain't riskin' gettin' caught in a storm again. Been there, done that.

And so I descended off Pyramid's northeast ridge, heading towards its subpeak, "False Pyramid." My oh man. How I feel for those who climb False Pyramid first. That ridge was steep as all ever could be. A textbook slog. I can only imagine summiting False Pyramid, thinking that you've finally done it, that you've reached the summit of this most peaky of peaks, only to see this steep-ass northeast ridge separating you from the true summit. That would just plain suck. Perhaps this ridge is what they use in the dictionary to describe the word "suck." I don't know. All I know was that I was glad I was descending it. Don't think I'll ever climb up that thing. If I do then that means something went horribly wrong at some point in my life and that I've ran out of options and am likely at the end of my rope. If you ever see me climbing up that ridge...send help. 

Descending the steep-ass northeast ridge to False Pyramid

And I reached the bottom of the steep-ass ridge and began climbing up a much more mellow ridge to the summit of False Pyramid. Not a whole lot going on up there, truth be told. No register, no signs of any recent human visitation. Just a bunch of rocks. Jumbled, sparkly, beautiful Great Basin rocks. 

Pyramid from False Pyramid

Eagle Benchmark

Baker (left) and Wheeler (center left)

Northeast

With the last peak of the day finally in the bag, now all that was left was a nice and short descent off the mountain and back to the trail. Only problem was that I had no idea which way to get off the mountain. Do I continue to the northwest, descending a mellow ridge into the forest and then bushwhack my way to the trail? Or do I take a more direct descent and charge down the north gully directly beneath the summit, the thing steep, loose, unknown. Could be cliffs down there. Wouldn't wanna get cliffed-out. 

And so I decided to take what is likely the worst option: a direct descent down the west face of False Pyramid. Do NOT go that way. I repeat, do NOT go that way. Just don't. I thought it would be a fun little boot ski down some soft scree. Nope. Nothin' but horribly loose, unstable, super steep class 2 on sharp rocks that gave out from under my feet at every damn step. But I'd made my decision and I certainly wasn't gonna go back up the thing and so I cautiously made my way down, careful not to destroy my ankles too much. I'd need 'em for tomorrow. 

Beginning of the descent, not too bad...

Ugh....

Got to some fairly level ground eventually, causing a few minor rock slides along the way but oh well. The trail was still a long ways off and I still had a whole lot of slope to descend, but luckily it was much more manageable and a hell of a lot more stable. My recommendation for those who decide to summit False Pyramid (which I wouldn't see why you'd be doing that in the first place unless you're a complete freak like myself) is to just take the north chute for the descent. When I eventually got back on trail I stopped at a spot where I could see the chute and the thing looks like it goes and goes well, leading steeply off the summit into a small forest of aspen trees.

Lookin up at the steep, loose nonsense

Trail is somewhere in that line of trees...

Finally done with the loose nonsense, I took a wee breather and soaked in the views that stretched before me. Clouds hadn't moved in yet and I was well on my way out of the danger zone so I damn well took my damn time soakin' in this view. At long last I could finally sit and relax and absorb the essence of the high country without worry or fright. And I sat and observed, watched the light dance upon the rocks. I could see everything I'd done that day, see Baker Peak off to my right, the crazy ridge dead ahead, Pyramid off to the left. Gorgeous shadows, rugged pines, puffy clouds, a piercing blue sky. Yep. Doesn't get much better than that.

Meditation complete, I sauntered the rest of the way off False Pyramid, walking through some deadfall and debris back to the trail. Down, down, down, out of the high country, back to the desert, the environment changing before my very eyes with each passing step. Goodbye limber pines, hello aspens and grass and rushing water and hey, there's those backpackers from earlier that morning, chilling in the creek, just having a grand ol' time...

Baker Creek

And the aspens turned to sagebrush and shrubs and a cactus or two, some in bloom, some not. And I made it back to the trailhead and sat down and stretched and ate more butter toffee peanuts and read a little more and then drove on out of there, down the road, dusty, dusty, hot. Drove on over to the Lehman Caves Visitor Center. Filled up my bottles. Pulled up a chair. Sat there for hours. Read. Walked around. Stared off into space. Wanted to see the Astronomy Program later that night. I was simply killin' time. And killed it I did.

And the sun set and people started showing up and I walked over to the amphitheater and learned about "creatures of darkness" and the history of telescopes and stuff like that. And then everyone got into neat little lines and we each took turns lookin' through the telescopes. Saw Alcor and Mizar. Saw the Swan Nebula. And it was well past 10pm and I had to get up mighty mighty early in the morning and so I didn't stay for the whole event and I thanked the telescope operators and then drove on out of there, parking the car at the Osceola Ditch Trailhead. Rolled out the pad. Took of the shirt. Conked out. Well, not really. My bowels came back to haunt me yet again. But that's a story for another time...

Griffith Peak, Cathedral Rock, Echo Cliffs

 06/26/26

I cooked up a freeze-dried meal with what little water I had left, leaned against a tire in the shade of my car and proceeded to inhale the sorry contents inside the shiny metallic packaging with the kind of speed and efficiency that would make a Dyson Vacuum blush with envy. Barefooted and dirty, my face crusted with salt, my shirt even crustier, I got up, shook my empty gallon jug, and said something like, "Damn, I need more water." 

And so began the search. I drove on over to the Hilltop Campground with windows down and eyes peeled, trying to find a pump of some kind, a spigot, a fountain. Nothin'. Not a ding dang darned thing. Probably coulda just asked the campground host about the facilities, but that woulda been too easy. I like making things difficult. Gives life a little extra zing, like eating an entire bag of Takis before running a 4x400m relay. 

And then it was on to the Mahogany Grove Group Campground. Families stretched out in comfy ol' camp chairs, little kids running amok, people grillin' and eatin' and having a grand ol' time next to their colorful tents and climate-controlled trailers. No water though. Damn. I really didn't wanna drive all the way back into town. But that seemed to be what I was gonna have to do.

And so I drove on down State Route 158, out of the mountains, out of the peaceful serenity of the high country, off and away into the arid land below. I made a stop at the Spring Mountains Visitor Center but it was closed. No water there. Damn. That was my hail mary. Ah well. Maybe the lodge had some water bottle filling station or something. 

So I found me a spot, parked the car and waddled into the lodge with dead legs, clutching my gallon jug like a child does its favorite toy. And I looked around and didn't see nothin', at least, nothin' of the water-filling sort. Just a clean lobby, shiny floors, soft lighting; and over in the corner, just out of view, a fancy restaurant of sorts, the clatter of silverware and the mixed drone of unknown conversation drifting through the open doors. I walked up to the reception desk, the concierge dressed in a well-fitted suit. I said, "Umm, is there a place where I can fill this up?" And he looked at me with a barely perceptible gaze of contempt but it only lasted a split second and he said, "I can fill it up for you." And I said "really?" and he said "of course!" and I handed him the jug and he disappeared into the restaurant, a man on a mission. 

He returned with the jug no more than three minutes later, the thing filled to the brim. He handed it to me. He was now wearing gloves. Latex gloves. And he looked at me and said, "Unfortunately it isn't cold" and I said, "ahh, no problem, thank you very much, seriously, I really appreciate it" and while I was saying that he was slowly removing his gloves and he gave me that barely perceptible gaze of contempt and then it was gone and he smiled and I walked through the doors and hobbled on up to the car and drove off into the sleepy town of Mt. Charleston to the South Loop Trailhead. 

And I found me a spot and posted up for the night, the day's foolish endeavor finally catching up to me in the form of aches and pains dancing up and down my aggrieved legs. And as I was brushing my teeth, the sun going down, the surrounding mountains bathed in twilight, I saw a spigot, clear as day, positioned right there between the two bathrooms. Wow. Nearly choked on my own spit. What a funny thing, life is. I glared at the spigot with the same barely perceptible gaze of contempt of the concierge, and then I smiled, and then I yawned, and then I crawled into the car and tried to get comfortable for what turned out to be a long and tedious night of pure restlessness. 

When it was bright enough to see my dirty ol' toes I knew Friday had finally come and that I should probably start walking 'cause brother, this was gonna take a while. The day before, on my long hike to Mt. Charleston, I'd noticed Griffith Peak off in the distance. Looked interesting. Had to see what was up there. Plus, I was curious to see what the South Loop Trail had to offer. Like the North Loop Trail, it too leads to the summit of Mt. Charleston. From what I'd read it's a little shorter mileage-wise with a lot more elevation gain. Perhaps I shall take this route the next time I visit Charleston. Who's to say. As for right then and there: Griffith Peak. Had to do it. And so, with water bottles filled to the brim with fancy lodge water, I got out the ol' trekking poles and began the hike to the summit, the early morning light bouncing off the high cliffs like a dodgeball off a face.

On the South Loop Trail

And there were several people out and about, all of them heading up the trail towards Griffith. Some with huge packs, some with tiny cheap nothing packs, some with no packs at all. The folks with no packs at all fit into one of two types: the shirtless macho dudes who didn't need no stinkin' backpack and the girlfriend or wife or whatever making the boyfriend or husband or whatever carry all the gear. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits, terrifically excited to be walkin' around in the fantastic and mystical out-of-doors.

And the trail was steep and there were a few switchbacks and most of it was in the shade. And then the trail curved into the sun and it was switchback after switchback, unrelenting, one after the next after the next. But they were well made and wonderfully graded and I continued along, one step at a time, chuggin' along up the side of the mountain. 

Charleston came into view. I stopped. Gazed at the summit. Followed the ridgeline to the north with my eyes, making out Rocketship and Lee, and then off to the east, farther down, Mummy Mountain, rocky and steep and hauntingly gorgeous. The memory of those summits was still fresh in my mind. I looked at them and I knew what they were all about, I had been there, I'd seen what there was to see. An interesting perspective, the surrounding country slightly less mysterious. I looked, I pondered, I digested, I carried on, walking past a fallen sign welcoming me into the "Mt. Charleston Wilderness."

Mt. Charleston

Switchbacks

Up and up, Griffith Peak coming into view. Sunshine and blue sky up above, crunchy dirt and scattered pebbles down below. Nobody passed me. And I passed nobody. For a brief moment, I had the whole trail to myself. A magical time. Magical like the last glistening gas station hotdog still rollin' strong and warm underneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the local gas station at 2am that will surely cause severe gastrointestinal distress once consumed so you simply look at it with a hungry gaze and settle for a bag of chips and some Mountain Dew and carry on down the road, off into the night, the tail lights of your car slowly disappearing into the eerie mist. 

And I reached the top of the switchbacks, having gained a ridge of sorts. Wind, wind, wind. Blowing this way and that. Cold wind. Chilly wind. Had to don the ol' windbreaker. I put it on, my pack pressing it against my sweaty backside. That woke me up a bit. Just a bit. A minor shock, a minuscule drop of adrenaline. But it got me going nevertheless, and soon I was on my way to the summit, the thing not too far away, the trail leading me all the way to the top.

Griffith Peak comes into view...

And I got to the top and went "Yep" and I sat down and performed my usual summit ritual: eat, look, eat some more, look some more, get up, find a new spot, repeat. And I found me a spot just east of the summit, nice and secluded, out of the wind, out of sight. People came and went, took their summit photos, signed the register, hopped up and down in terrific excitement and then descended off the mountain without a clue of my existence. 

I sat there and looked out at the urban sprawl of Sin City. I could see the strip. I could make out the individual buildings. Looked hot and hazy. Not a good place to be. Much better to be up, above and away. Far away. As far away from that jazz as could possibly be. I've done my time on the Vegas Strip. I've seen the sights. I've walked the streets. I've written all I can think of to write about that silly ol' spot. I doubt I'll be back. No want. No need. It ain't my kind of thing. 

Mummy, Coxcomb and Fletcher from Griffith

Charleston from Griffith

Mostly south

East

The Strip

I sat for a good long while on Griffith. Makin' up for lost time on Charleston. But what comes up must come down and eventually me, myself and I had to come back down. 'Tis a law of nature. And I obey nature. At least, most of the time...

Plus I was now completely out of food so the idea of driving into town and sinking my teeth into the greasiest grub I could find was more than enough to provoke my soul from its comfy resting place, commanding my aching corpse to get up and get going down the mountain, back to the car. 

Off the mountain, back to the ridge. I took off the ol' windbreaker. Didn't need it no more. And then it was switchback after switchback, going down, down, down. And there were several people, tons of people, all kinds of people heading up. Young and old, fit and not-so-fit, I saw 'em all, and they all smelled clean and fresh and all of them seemed to be greatly enjoying themselves, even the folks that were drenched in sweat and red in the face and hunched over coughing, hands on their knees, spitting into the dirt. 

And I passed this one lady who was raising her hands in the air and I stopped and chatted with her a bit and she said she had to give herself "pep talks" to keep her going but damn it all, she was gonna keep going and she was determined and disciplined and she damn well was gonna make it dammit! 

And I passed this group of teenage boys posted up in the shade munchin' on apples and these influencer lookin' ladies who were talking more than breathing and these two young men smoking cigarettes and blasting alternative music and unaware of anything and everything. And the sun was high in the sky and everything was nice and bright and the cliffs were tall, precipitous, endearing, foreboding, and I carried on down the trail, my feet sore, my poles click-clackin' on the dirt. Lots of steps to go, many, many more to go. 

Heading down, Harris Mtn right

But putting one foot in front of the other got me where I needed to go, and soon I was back in the shade of the pines, the sound of the parking lot finally meeting my ears. But I wasn't done yet. No sir. Saw me a sign. Said "Cathedral Rock" with a little ol' arrow pointing to the right. And it wasn't too far away. Figured I might as well check it out since I was in the area. And so I did.

Echo Cliffs (AKA "Prana Peak")

Cathedral Rock

I went slow and low, my poles doing most of the work. People passed me by, I passed people, everyone going a their own pace, everyone living their own story. I followed the trail the whole way to the rocky summit, the thing crowded, folks everywhere taking pictures and playing music and looking at their phones, most likely checking the stockmarket or something like that. Very important stuff to do when you're in the fantastic and mystical out-of-doors.

Good views from Cathedral Rock

Charleston (far left) and Mummy (right) from Cathedral

Harris Mtn (left) and Echo Cliffs (center)

And I hunched over my poles and exhaled and then leaned back and went "alright" and then set off down the trail, back from whence I came. But first, a minor pitstop. Cathedral Rock had been cool and all, but something about it didn't sit well with me. Not too sure what it was. Maybe it was the lack of solitude. Who knows. All I knew was that I simply couldn't let it be the last peak of the trip. Needed a proper send-off, a proper showstopper, one that would bring this crazy weekend of excessive peaks to a definitive, satisfying conclusion. 

But what was there to climb? How about the Echo Cliffs. Looked like a mighty fine objective from down below on my way over to Cathedral Rock. Once atop Cathedral, I saw that the highpoint of the cliffs wasn't much of a "peak," but it still looked interesting nonetheless. And so, more so hungry than exhausted, I ordered my body to leave the trail at a point that seemed best and head up the steep slopes to the Echo Cliffs highpoint, the going incredibly steep and loose. 

Off trail 

Class 3, likely avoidable

Steep, loose class 2

Fossils!

I took a straightforward, no-nonsense line of ascent to the summit, encountering a small class 3 obstacle along the way that was likely avoidable. And I slogged my way up steep, loose, crumbly class 2, heading straight up the thing, the poles a godsend. I'm sure if one were to ascend just a little more to climbers right, the going would be far easier. But I was impatient and I wanted something challenging anyway so it was A-OK and fine by me and I slogged up the thing with a smile on my face and sweat on my brow and soon I topped out on the ridge and walked the rest of the way to the top, an old campfire ring marking the highpoint. 

Echo Cliffs Highpoint

And I sat on down in what little shade I could find and there was a register off to the side, weathered and worn, filled with a smattering of entries going all the way back to 2004. Apparently this highpoint has an official name: "Prana Peak." Well golly gee whillikers. You learn something new every day...

Cathedral Rock down below

And this was a far superior summit with superior views and superior solitude; Cathedral Rock ain't got nothing on this spot. A fine conclusion to a weekend of stupidity. I was satisfied. Fully content. All I needed was some food. My stomach grumbled. I grunted. Alright. Time to head back...

Heading back to the trail...

Back on trail...

"Prana Peak" from the trail

Down the loose stuff, poles in the pack now, using my hands for balance, ready to catch myself if need be. And I made it back to the trail without issue and waltzed the rest of the way to the parking lot, no clouds in the sky, the temps hovering in the low 80's. I found a shaded spot, stretched a bit, hopped in the car, changed out of my reeking clothes, put the car in drive, and then coasted on out of there, out of the hills, into the desert, into the heat, nothing on my mind but the coming meal.

And I drove to the restaurant I had in mind and I did it right this time. Oh yeah. Definitely did it right. I messed up on my last weekend trip. I was unaware of the establishment's "unlimited" menu. For $28, you have an 1½ hours to eat as many burgers and sides as your belly can hold. This time I was prepared. I was ready. And I sat down and ordered me the greasiest, most calorie-dense items I could find, shoving them down my gullet without a care in the world. 

Satisfied with my act of gluttony, I payed the tab and drove on out of there, back to Utah, back to the ol' homestead, hopped in the shower and went straight to bed, completely wiped-out. Man, what a trip. Ain't ever done something like that before. And I doubt I'll ever do something like that again, at least for a long, long time...