Mt. Nebo

We left Great Basin National Park a little after 12pm, driving along Highway 50 towards Utah. Not a whole lot going on out there in western Utah, just endless miles of empty desert and occasional roadwork. We came upon a stretch of highway that was one-lane, the guy directing traffic dressed like a Bedouin in a hardhat. Standing in the sun in 100° temperatures on the black asphalt, swaying back and forth and possessing an expression of general malaise, he was clearly having the best time in the world. On we went, driving through Hinckley, Delta and Lynndyl, small deserty towns where everybody knows everybody. 

A little ways outside of Leamington (pop. 278), the car in front of us swerved, overcorrected, and then launched off the opposite side of the road into a ravine, flipping upside down in the process. The vehicle luckily landed right side up, but every window had broken, every door was dented and crushed, the roof of the vehicle bent and deformed. We pulled off the side of the road in a spot that miraculously had enough service for us to call 911, while the truck behind us immediately stopped, the driver rushing directly to the accident without hesitation. Two other people pulled over to help, while others slowed down and asked what had happened. The driver of the crashed vehicle emerged seemingly unhurt with only a few scrapes and scratches visible. He walked over to us and pointed to our car pulled off the side of the road and said, "Hey, is that your vehicle?" We said "yeah." He said, "You guys got a dashcam?" We said "no." And then he went "ahh man." He was very disappointed. He really wanted to see the accident from another perspective. 

The authorities arrived, things were sorted out, the lucky man drove off with family friends to the local hospital, and that was that. Back to the road, back to monotony. We checked into our hotel in Nephi, showered (ahh, what a wonder to be clean!), got some pizza and more silly cubed ice for the cold box, and then turned in for the night. Tomorrow was a big day; we'd need our rest. 

The goal was to climb Mt. Nebo, the tallest peak in Utah's Wasatch Range. At 11,933ft, it's a hardy ol' mountain with a good amount of elevation gain and tremendous views. Or so I've been told. Couldn't tell for sure unless we checked it out for ourselves. So we went. 

We left town just after 6am, the mostly dark, eastern horizon a dull yellowish blue. We drove through Nephi, hooked left onto a road that went up Salt Creek Canyon, and followed it the rest of the way to the trailhead. The highest peaks in the range slowly made contact with the rising sun, turning from pink to yellow to golden within a few minutes. Onwards we went, stopping occasionally in random pullouts to take pictures of the morning mountain sunlight. 

There were only a few vehicles in the dirt lot, mostly trucks. We gathered our things and then started the trek, immediately going up a small hill. Ahh yes. This would be the theme of the day: up. We'd go up a lot, then down a little bit, then up some more, and then down a little bit. My knees were already thinking about the return trip; clearly, this was gonna be a knee-basher. But I tossed the thought aside and concentrated on the views, which were already amazing so early into the hike. 

The trail was well worn and dusty, the sides lined with thick brush and dying trees. We descended to a saddle of sorts and then gained it all back and then some on the other side, slowly walking uphill, the sun beating down on our necks. We reached a small meadow, a dry stream cutting through it. "You guys seen a moose back there?" called out a voice. Startled, I turned my head and saw a hunter standing no more than 50ft away, dressed in camouflage with a rifle tucked on the side of his pack. Neither one of us saw him standing there; goes to show how observant we are in the woods. We both replied "no" because that was the truth, we really didn't see any moose. There probably was a moose, but if we couldn't even notice a hunter standing 50ft away, what were our chances of actually noticing it? 

The hunter said, "Well, I saw a big one not too long ago and was just wondering if I could take the trail the rest of the way back." And I said "go for it, we just came from there and didn't see anything." "Alright, enjoy your hike guys." "You too." From then on, the two of us payed a lot more attention to our general surroundings. Wouldn't want to startle no moose. Them's is dangerous critters. 

After that brief encounter was a short but very steep slog the topped us out on a ridge. Hardly any switchbacks helped us on this section; it was pretty much just up. But once we got to the top, we both realized that the pain was worth it. Finally haven gained a significant ridge, we could see for miles and miles in most directions, the I-15 a tiny little line cutting across the desert floor. To the north stretched the the rest of the Wasatch Range, a few of the higher peaks clearly visible. And the best part: we could finally see our objective, Mt. Nebo, sitting not too far away to the south, jutting out of the earth, standing tall and steep and prominent. It looked like it would be a good climb. I was exited. Grace, not so much. 

Mt. Nebo

On the ridge

The next part of the hike offered some much needed relief, gently following the western slope of the ridge, in the shade, not too many gains or losses in elevation. At one point we startled a mountain goat, its white fur standing in stark contrast to the rest of the surroundings. It bounded away in a blink, never to be seen again.

The views continued to improve the farther we went, particularly those to the west. The small town of Mona could be seen far below, the many farms and buildings and roads appearing in miniature, the sounds of the Interstate barely reaching our ears. We stopped often to absorb the scene, to meditate on the vastness, to soak in the wide open expansive space that stretched out for miles before us. It also gave Grace time to meditate on the climb; the farther we went, the larger the summit appeared. It looked like it would be quite the climb; very steep, very up, very precarious. As she chewed on it, I grew more excited. I'd been wanting to climb this mountain since the first time I saw it back in 2021. The closer we got, the closer I came to realizing this desire. 

The path dumped us out on Wolf Pass, a dry area mostly devoid of large vegetation. Nothing but thirsty grass and tiny wildflowers and the occasional bunch of gnarly little trees. From Wolf Pass we could see much of the road that we travelled earlier that morning, as well as tremendous views to the southeast. Grace figured that this would be a good place to call it, so she walked over to the shade of some trees to wait while I pressed on, entering the most challenging part of the day. 

In order to gain the summit, I'd first have to ascend the false summit, known colloquially as Wolf Pass Peak. I could tell from just looking at it that it would absolutely suck. Imagine the 99 switchbacks on the Mt. Whitney trail, except there's only about 30 of them and most of the trail is just straight up. That's what the climb was like. Not too sure how much elevation is gained from the pass to the summit, but trust me, it's a lot. The pictures don't really do it justice. The thing is darn steep. 

The False Summit

By the time I reached the top of the false summit, I was soaked in sweat and out of breath, my legs on fire and my feet upset. But I could now see Mt. Nebo, and boy did it look awesome. A steep, almost knife-edge ridge cut straight across from where I was standing, a scrambly looking mess that would be fun to do if I had better shoes and more time. A use trail snaked to the west, avoiding the sketchiest parts of the steep ridge. I decided to stick to the trail, the thing no worse than class 2. Up and down and up and down—I was having an absolute blast, the ridge amazing, almost like a roller coaster. Making my way over to the true summit, I took my time to enjoy the views, watch my step, lower my heart rate and relax. This was happening. I was gonna make it. 

Mt. Nebo

Near the summit, looking north

It got quite steep as I neared the summit, but the trail helped out a lot and kept everything at a nice, comfortable class 2. I switched to the eastern side of the ridge for a bit, made a sharp turn west, and then gained the summit. I called Grace (there was plenty of cell service for the duration of the hike), informing her that I'd made it. Then I dropped my pack, took a seat, and performed my usual summit ritual of sitting down and doing absolutely nothing for 10 minutes. 

There was no register, no benchmark. The views, of course, were amazing; some of the best I've ever seen in my entire life. Unobstructed, 360° views on a fairly clear day in the high desert. Yep, doesn't get much better than that. To the north sat civilization in the form of Provo and Spanish Fork, the rest of the Wasatch Range visible as well, Mt. Timpanogos and Co. standing tall in the distance. Utah Lake sat blue and hazy, appearing as a large, flat pane of glass on the desert floor. To the west was the Mona Reservoir and East Tintic Mountains, both of them small and unassuming, the desert stretching out in the distance as far as the eye could see. To the south lay the southern summit, the route to get to it even more sketchy than the one I just took. And to the east rested the huge swath of the Uinta National Forest; nothing but green grass,  mountains, and pines going on without end. 

View south, southern summit right

More south

West

After having my visual fill, I stood up, dusted off my bum, grabbed my pack, and then carefully made my way down the mountain. Going down was a lot more sketchy than going up; lots of loose, crumbly rock defined much of the use trail, offering many opportunities for an oopsie-daisy. But I stayed steady and slow, being careful to watch my steps until the ridge flattened out a bit. From there I jogged the rest of the way back to the false summit, where I took a quick water break before the knee-killing descent. Ahh yes. This was gonna be fun. 

Heading back down to Wolf Pass

With knees destroyed, I met up with Grace and we began our trek back to the car, stopping occasionally for more pictures. Down we went, running into people every now and then. No more hunters, just hikers, most of them middle-aged. We'd stop and chat and I'd tell them about the summit and Grace would tell them about Wolf Pass and then we'd go our separate ways, never to see each other again. 

It was an uneventful descent, just lots of pretty views and pretty skies and pretty plants. Grace started jogging down the steeper parts, the both of us kicking up a lot of dust in the process. Boy did my nose hate all that dust. By the time we got back to the car I was a snotty, sneezy, wheezy mess. But it was worth it. Everything said about the hike had turned out to be true; I can now see why it's such a popular destination. Good trail, good views, good mountain. 

Afterwards, we continued to drive down the road through the mountains, completing the "Mt Nebo Scenic Loop" (even though we just went from point A to point B). From there we checked into our hotel, showered, and then drove 50 miles out of our way to eat at a restaurant that two of my coworkers recommended I should try. It was all the way in Salt Lake City, the traffic egregious, the road work insane. We arrived early; the parking lot almost full. They seated us in this weird room separate from everybody, no windows, the walls pink. The food arrived, enchiladas and rice and beans, and it was alright, save for the sauce. The sauce was fantastic. Man I miss that sauce. The stuff was damn good. But everything else was just alright. Don't think I'll ever drive 50 miles out of my way to eat there again, haha. 

Wheeler Peak and Environs

Wakey wakey. Time to get up and get moving and pack the crap and hit the road. Goodbye, Butte Lake. Hello, road. Quarter tank of gas took us all the way to Susanville, a tired looking town that appeared to enjoy its beauty sleep. And then it was on to Johnstonville, Janesville, down the 395, down past the gigantic Honey Lake (alas, not a lake of honey, just boring ol' water) towards Reno. And then we passed through Reno, merged onto the I-80, left the I-80, drove through Fernley and out to Fallon. And Fallon, well, that was it, the last chance, the last holdout, the last major fragment of society before the vast expanse of the nearly uninhabited Great Basin Desert. 

Three hundred and twenty-seven miles of road, interrupted by just three towns along the way. No cars, no buildings, no telephone poles, nothing. A long drive through empty country. Empty except for the road, a thin black line in the sweeping void of high peaks and dusty flora. Good ol' Highway 50, AKA "The Loneliest Road in America." A fitting name indeed. The thing is damn lonesome.

Except not really. It's got plenty of company, just not that of the man-made kind. There's mile after mile of sagebrush, Artemisia Tridentata, thousands of them, filling the air with their scent, populous and prosperous. They're everywhere, having conquered the land, living life to the best of their ability. Sage city after sage city. And within and around and between these cities of sage are the communities of saltbush, rabbitbrush, greasewood and miscellaneous cacti, all there, all alive. And though we didn't see any while flying down the road at 70mph, I knew there lurked in the hills a whole assortment of jackrabbits, mule deer, mice, voles, hawks, coyotes, mountain lions, rattlesnakes, lizards and all the rest of those tiny little miscreant desert reptiles and mammals and birds and whatnot that exist outside my knowledge but exist nonetheless. "Loneliest Road in America." Yeah right!

We drove through the Desatoya Mountains off into Austin, the first of three villages along the way. "What Happens in Austin...You Brag About It!" exclaimed a sign. We drove straight through, ascending the road through the Toiyabe Range, never finding out what it is that makes those who stop in Austin so braggadocious. 

More road, more sage, more mountains, more sky. We'd drive through a valley, go through some mountains, and then drive through another valley and then into more mountains. Mountains, valley, mountains, valley. This was the theme of the day. Drove through the Toquima Range up to Hickison Summit, down into another valley, and then up again through the Monitor Range and beyond. Then we stumbled upon Eureka, "The Friendliest Town on the Loneliest Road." There was a rodeo there. We stopped. Not to see the rodeo. Just to have lunch. Ate at a park in the outskirts of town, the sky dotted with clouds and the air crisp and dry.

And then it was back on the road, back through another valley, back through more mountains. Pancake Summit, Little Antelope Summit, Robinson Summit. These ain't mountains, just passes. Why they call passes "summits" I don't know. Maybe it makes them sound cool or something. 

After a long while of traveling through peaceful country we made it to the bustling metropolis of Ely, "You Made It!" Compared to Eureka (pop. 364) and Austin (pop. 47), Ely (pop 3,892) was like a big city, equipped with several hotels, saloons, gas stations, retailers and chain restaurants. We stopped at the biggest market in town for provisions, loading up on more fixin's for quesadillas and the like. And then we left town and hightailed it down the road towards Great Basin National Park.

Up through the Snake Range, out into Baker (pop. 16), and then off into the park. It was raining all around us, the sky full of big, puffy clouds. But the rain never reached the ground, it kind of just hovered around in the upper troposphere until it evaporated and disappeared forever. 

We stopped at the visitor center, making it just in time before they closed. Saw a chunk of "Prometheus," the world's oldest known tree that was cut down in 1964 to see if it was the world's oldest tree. It was, but not anymore. Now it's dead. And there was also an old rifle that was on display, a "mystery rifle" that was found leaning on a tree, abandoned for well over a hundred years, and nobody knows why. Ooooh. Spooky spooky. And then it was off to camp to set up the tent, cook dinner, and get ready for the evening ranger program.

The clouds had cleared up, the sky grew orange and then pink, dinner was consumed and we drove down to the amphitheater for the evening program, a double show. The first ranger talked about bacteria and how if aliens visited the earth they'd be far more interested in bacteria than anything else. This is a bacteria planet, after all. The little buggers are literally everywhere. 

And then another ranger came out and talked about exoplanets. The dude sounded exactly like my high school cross country coach. It was uncanny, like he was doing a perfect impression. But he wasn't; that's just how he talked. Very weird, very weird. Needless to say, his voice and mannerisms were distracting to me so I didn't listen to much of what he had to say. But no matter. Soon, the telescopes were brought out and calibrated and those attending the program got to observe the Hercules Cluster, the Swan Nebula, and Saturn and Titan. Great Basin has some of the clearest and darkest night skies in the entire country, so the stargazing was absolutely fantastic. 

The next day, Grace and I tried to snatch a reservation for the "Wild Cave Tour" in Lehman Cave. Unfortunately, the reservations could only be made online and it didn't even matter because the thing was sold out. So we nabbed a spot for another tour, the "Parachute Shields Tour," which wasn't happening for another 8 hours. With time to kill, we ventured into the depths of the park, driving to the end of the road to see what there was to see.

We parked in the lot at the end of the road and started on a trail to two alpine lakes, Stella and Teresa lakes respectively. Both lakes looked like big brown puddles, slowly evaporating, containing nothing but rocks, lukewarm water, and trillions of weird looking bugs. And then we hopped on another trail and entered the "Wheeler Peak Bristlecone Pine Grove." It was quiet there, very few people walking around, the sky bright and the sun harsh. The bristlecones stood tall and silent, still alive in spite of thousands of years of wind and ice and rain and snow and hail and drought and fire and storms and stuff. 

There were many posted signs, offering information about the Bristlecone Pines and how they're dated and how they grow and whatnot. We walked amongst them, gazing at their gnarled branches and twisted trunks and teeny-tiny pine needles. They almost didn't seem like living things, like they were just some sort of upward, colorful extension of the dead granite that lay scattered everywhere, like some type of petrified tree, frozen in time and long since dead. 

But they weren't dead (except for Prometheus, Prometheus is damn dead). Even when they're stripped of most of their bark, their branches bare, their roots sticking out, there's always some part of 'em that's always alive. We'd see a tree, dry and bleached and looking quite dead, and then we'd look closer and see a small patch of bark and some tiny branches sticking out with the smallest of greenery. These fellows simply refuse to die. I suppose that's why they're able to live for thousands of years.  

Wheeler Peak center right

We continued up the trail, towards the glacier that could barely be seen. Up out of the bristlecones, up out of the limber pines, out past the timberline, into the domain of rock and sun. Now within a cirque, the peaks of Great Basin rose around us in a gigantic semi-circle, Wheeler Peak being the tallest of the bunch. The whole area looked as if someone just copy-pasted a chunk of the Sierra Nevada and placed it in the middle of nowhere; I found the terrain familiar and comforting. We walked to the end of the trail, terminating well before reaching the almost non-existent glacier. Pictures were taken, water consumed, and stomachs rumbled in anger since neither one of us remembered to bring any food. Ooops. Time to head back. 

Back at camp, we consumed the rest of the instant rice that we cooked the previous night. And then we hung around camp for a couple hours until it was time for the tour. Down the road, out of the hills, off to the Lehman Caves Visitor Center. We checked in, got in line. A ranger showed up late and apologized, saying that the person who was supposed to do the tour "had a problem" (AKA, major diarrhea), so she was taking over in their place. We wiped our shoes, put on the sweatshirts, and then entered the cave.

Lehman Cave was like most other caves I've seen, fitted with stalactites and stalagmites and columns and water and weird cave bugs and the like. The ranger took us from room to room on the paved path, explaining the history of the cave, how it was discovered, how it was damaged, how it was one of the sets for the movie "The Wizard of Mars." We experienced absolute darkness, saw some 100+year old graffiti, and a whole lot of "cave bacon." 

But the one thing that was particularly interesting was the presence of "shields," a type of cave formation that's about as rare as, well, block ice. According to the ranger, Carlsbad Cavern, a cave system in New Mexico that's significantly larger than Lehman Cave, only has about five or six of the formations, whereas Lehman Cave had nine in just one room alone. Lehman Cave has more than 500 cave shields, perhaps the highest concentration of the formations in the entire world. Bearing witness to these ancient formations in the cool and damp atmosphere of the cave, listening to the muffled conversation of the other tourists, the shuffle of feet, the occasional cough, all of it made for quite the unique experience. And then someone asked the ranger "Is there any airflow in this cave?" and the ranger said "Actually, yes, there is, otherwise we wouldn't be breathing right now." And then it was time to go; we'd been in there for almost an hour.

The namesake Parachute Shields

Once we resurfaced, Grace and I drove back down the road, out of the park into Baker to get some more ice. And then we drove all the way back to camp and cooked a quick dinner of ramen noodles and broccoli, eating it just in time for the last set of ranger programs. The first ranger spoke of wildfires and how controlled burns are beneficial to forests. His presentation contained many "ums" and "likes" and "ums" and "so yeahs" and microphone failures and laser pointer malfunctions but he got the point across. 

And then the ranger who gave the cave tour came up and gave a presentation on space and theoretical space ideas, a knowledgeable and succinct presentation since she actually possessed a degree in astrophysics. And then the telescopes were calibrated and those attending got to see the Swan Nebula and Saturn again, as well as the Whirlpool Galaxy, which looked like a hazy spiral of powdered sugar against a backdrop of complete darkness. And the ranger pointed out Andromeda, visible to the naked eye, the only thing observable in the night sky outside of the Milky Way Galaxy (without the use of a high-powered telescope). And there was a lady there in attendance that had a PHD in astrophysics and a bachelors in whatchamacallit and was explaining things and answering questions from other attendees like she was an employed member of the parks service. Even the ranger asked her some questions. And as the night drew long only the real smarty-pants folks stuck around, asking questions about quasars and black holes and the Boötes Constellation which meant it was time for us to depart. So we did.

I awoke bright and early the next day, well before sunrise, the air a tad chilly. Wheeler Peak was on the menu, something that I'd be doing by myself (Grace doesn't like high altitudes). I drove to the Summit Trailhead and began the short but steep climb up the mountain, walking underneath the canopy of young aspen trees, the air silent save for the occasional whisper of a breeze. 

I had the whole trail to myself, walking at a steady pace, slowly gaining altitude one step at a time. At one point, I came across a small herd of deer. Five bucks, four does, three bambies. They payed me no mind. And then I reached the timberline and said goodbye to the trees and hello to the rocks and the weird little flowers that somehow find a way to make a living amongst the rocks. Maybe the rent is cheap. Who's to say.

Bald Mountain

Wheeler Peak

I walked in the shadow of a great mound of granite for a bit, slowly ascending until I finally reached a spot of brief flatness, Wheeler Peak straight ahead. All that was left was a steep jaunt up several switchbacks to gain the summit. The wind was howling, ripping over the ridge, originating from nowhere in particular. Despite the wind, I was working up quite the sweat heading up that ridge, trudging up the thing one foot at a time until finally reaching the top.

Wheeler Peak Summit

I had breakfast at the top. Panoramic views, a calm morning sun and rock shelters to block the wind all made this a rather pleasant occasion. As I nibbled on the bars, I looked around, observing the notable features of the land. I looked but didn't see, unable to recognize and name anything that stretched before me. All of it was just wild, wild country, unknown and mysterious. Mountains and valleys, mountains and valleys as far as the eye could see, only interrupted by the occasional collection of wind turbines and lonely country roads and struggling farms. What struck me most while observing all this was just how isolated everything felt. Everything stretched out far and wide, dry and bitter, barely marred by the rare fragments of civilization. There was a timelessness to the views, a feeling of eternity. Much of the country I saw likely hadn't changed much over the past hundred thousand years. And it would remain that way, changing ever so slightly, remaining seemingly static for generations to come. 

I walked east towards the rising sun, heading down a ridge to what I expected would be an overlook of the cirque Grace and I had explored the day prior. Sure enough, the ridge terminated at a cliff, and I sat down on a rock and looked at the cirque, most of it covered in shadow. Out of the wind, not a sound reached my ears. Not a damn thing. No birds, no echoes, no rockfall. It was eerily silent, like I had entered a soundproof room of some kind. Strange phenomenon. I rose and got going, entering the land of sound once again, my ears blasted with the screeches of the wind. 

It was time to go. I jogged most if the way down, the trail much more pleasant now that I was no longer going uphill. I passed many people on my way down, all of them making their way up, all of them breathing hard, trudging along, squinting in the sun blowing snot rockets out of their noses. I eventually made it back to the trailhead, completing the whole thing in just over 4 hours. The parking lot was completely full, the road leading down to the Bristlecone Parking Area closed for some reason. Perhaps it's only open on the weekends.

I returned to camp, sat around. Grace and I didn't have much else planned for the day, so we kinda just hung around camp and read for a bit. And then we went for a little drive, checking out Baker Creek and the Grey Cliffs Campground. And then we turned down a dirt road and followed it for a bit, driving next to a small cliff band dotted with a couple of caves. The road narrowed, the road curved, and then we took a right and ended up at the Pole Canyon Trailhead. With plenty of daylight left, and with nothing better to do for the rest of the day, we decided to hike the whole loop, a 6+ mile saunter through varied environments. 

It was hot at first, the surrounding flora dry and prickly, looking very similar to that of Quatal and Apache Canyons in the Cuyama Badlands. Pinyon pines, junipers, and snakeweed defined much of the landscape, the canyon fairly narrow and chocked with brush near the trickling creek. And then the canyon widened, the temperatures cooled, the pinyon pines disappeared, and we found ourselves walking next to meadows and aspen trees and ponderosa pines, tall and shady and pleasing to the eye. We continued to walk up the canyon, stopping occasionally in the shade every now and then. Reaching a junction, we turned right, heading out of the canyon, up to a saddle, expansive views of the east coming into focus. 

Pole Canyon

We reached the saddle, Baker Creek well in view, Wheeler Peak and Doso Doyabi filling up the background. Down we went, descending into Baker Creek, back into the shade of aspens, back to the sound of water. We crossed the creek, hit some more junctions, and that was basically it; nothing left but a nice downhill walk through some campgrounds and dirt roads on the way back to the car. 

Quesadillas for dinner, enjoyed in full, no rush, no hurry. There weren't no more ranger programs. No more telescopes. No more laser pointers. The evening was free. And so we sat under the stars and read books using the red light of our headlamps for a while before turning in for the night. No need to wake up early; only had to drive 150 miles the next day. We'd get a casual start, spending most of the morning in the park, using the time to refill our water jugs, have a picnic lunch, see dead Prometheus one more time, stuff like that. It had been a good stay in the park, a place neither one of us had ever visited. I'd like to go back someday, see some more sights, climb some more peaks in the area. Despite its small size, the park has a surprising number of things to do. It's well worth a visit. 

Lassen Peak and Environs

We left town around noon, heading up the 101 towards San Luis Obispo. 'Twas the first day of 17 days of travel. As such, we didn't go too far. Stopped at Taqueria San Miguel and ordered some burritos, then checked in at the ol' Peach Tree Inn. Something was wrong on that bright sunny Monday afternoon on August 11th. Traffic everywhere, on every street, unavoidable. Perhaps the Gifford Fire was to blame. Perhaps not. To this day it is still an unknown, and it will remain that way forever...I am too lazy to investigate. 

The next day was the long drive up to Lassen Volcanic National Park. We'd be spending four nights there, tent camping at Butte Lake. The massive plume of the Gifford Fire could be seen to the south, rising above the small mountains like a mushroom cloud. To the north was nothing but haze. And the haze persisted, refusing to go away, a permanent resident of the central valley. At one point I took a wrong turn, taking the 46 instead of the 41. Started heading towards Bakersfield. Oh Heavens! Not Bakersfield! I flipped a U-ie and high tailed it back to the 41, adding an additional 15 minutes to our overall travel time. 

Kettleman City, Santa Nella, Lathrop, Stockton. Beautiful country, absolutely stunning. Especially Santa Nella. They still got the Pea Soup Anderson's there. Still alive and running. Still kickin' it. But we didn't stop. We had tracks to make. So long Hap-pea and Pea-wee. See yah when I see yah.

Thornton, Freeport, Sacramento, Woodland. Still heading north, still in the haze. To the west were these mountains and hills; the Berryessa Snow Mountain National Monument. Distant, dusty, hazy. Not a whole lot out there. And farther along, in Williams, was Granzella's. Ahh, Granzella's. They give Pea Soup Anderson's a run for its money. Saw about 32 trillion billboards for it on the way up the I-5. We didn't stop. Drove right on by. They didn't need our businesses; the place was packed.  Instead, we stopped at a rest area just outside of Willows and ate a picnic lunch on a bench in 96° weather. St. John Mountain could be seen in the distance. It did not look inviting.

Orland, Corning, Red Bluff and beyond. We stopped just outside of Redding at a Chevron to get some gas and ice. The gas was almost $5 per gallon. The ice as almost $5 per bag. And they didn't have no block ice. Only the silly cubed ice. However, as we soon learned from our travels, block ice is extremely hard to come by—about as rare as Astatine. How foolish we were seeking such a precious commodity! 

Apparently my countenance was disagreeable, perhaps a result of the high prices for dino juice and frozen water. The clerk, who looked exactly like Felipe Esparza, looked me in the eye and said, "Blink twice if you need help man." And then he put his hands up in the air and said, "Ahh, just jokin' dude, just joking." Grace found that rather funny. 

With a car full of fuel and an ice chest full of cold, we hit the 44 and drove towards the park. We passed through Shingletown, a little ol' mountain town where the gas was 40 cents cheaper. Not a whole lot going on in Shingletown, although the Deli and Pizza Place looked rather good. Not too long after that and we were finally in the park. The haze was gone, a thing of the past. Nothing but clear, crisp, mountain air.

Didn't spend too long in the park. Just got a little taste. Grace added to her collection of National Park coins, I eavesdropped on the conversation between Mr. Information and Ms. Inquisitive. Mr. Information was sitting behind the desk, answering the questions of Ms. Inquisitive like he was Chat GPT incarnate. Ms. Inquisitive kept asking about "bump-ASS hell, how long a drive to bump-ASS hell? How far a hike to bump-ASS hell?" And Mr. Information answered like a robot and resembled a robot low on batteries. The light behind his eyes was fading fast. The dude looked about done. 

We drove the 45 minutes from the park entrance to Butte Lake, the last six miles of the day spent on a dusty, graded road. We pulled into camp, set up our $35 tent, and then went for a little walk around the lake. Had to stretch the legs, get the blood moving and whatnot. Some people were out and about, mostly coming back from a brief dip in the lake. The southeastern shore of the lake was entirely made up of volcanic rock; just a small portion of the much larger "Fantastic Lava Beds." Nobody was over there—far too sharp for the feet.

We walked a bit until we found a spot that offered nice views of most of the lake. Some people were kayaking, others paddle boarding. They were all checking out the small islands of volcanic rock and cinders interspersed throughout the lake. We stayed at the spot for a few minutes, watching the light grow dim across the gentle surface of the lake. And then it was time to go, time to make pasta, time to sit down and pig out. 

That night, around 10pm, we attempted to view the meteor showers, the "August Perseids." We had no idea when or where they would appear, but we figured 10pm was a good a time as any to see them. We stood around on the northern shore of the lake for half an hour in the dark, gazing up at the sky, and saw absolutely nothing. Ah well. That was to be expected. 

The next day was Cinder Cone day. Being so close to camp, we didn't even have to drive to the trailhead. Just walked straight from camp to the base of Cinder Cone. And what is Cinder Cone? A gigantic anthill, that's what. Only thing missing is the ants. 

A steep trail cuts up the north side of Cinder Cone, the designated path for all the weary travelers seeking to gain the summit. It is steep and it is silly, causing much frustration and discouragement along the way. I would describe the trek as being as difficult as climbing a sand dune, but this is not accurate. Climbing Cinder Cone is much more difficult than climbing a sand dune. This is the truth, trust me on this. Climbing Cinder Cone is as difficult as climbing...well...Cinder Cone. There is no other comparison. 

Lassen Peak

We eventually made it to the summit, passing one group of disgruntled travelers along the way. It wasn't too busy up top, just a handful of people walking around taking pictures and enjoying the 360° views. Lassen Peak and the Chaos Crags could be seen in the west, snow still clinging to the rocks despite the summer heat. Northwest sat Prospect Peak, an extinct shield volcano covered in pine trees. To the south were the painted dunes, a small, colorful deposit of pumice and volcanic ash. Red, orange, tan, they stood in stark contrast to the dark volcanic rock that surrounded much of the area. Off in the distance was Snag Lake, a little blue jewel nestled in between dark volcanic rock and green forest. To the east we could see Butte Lake and the entirety of the Fantastic Lava Beds, the latter the result of Cinder Cone's life's work of projectile vomiting superheated rocks upon the earth's surface. We stood on the highest point of the rim, looking at all of this, and then decided it was time to crawl down into the small crater. 

Butte Lake and Fantastic Lava Beds

Not much to see in Cinder Cone's crater. Just a big ol' pile of rocks left by those silly enough to slide down the steep trail to the bottom. We climbed back out, took a few more pictures, and then started down the southern side of Cinder Cone. There's another trail there, and we found it to be much steeper than the standard route. Going down was nice and fun, but going up would be an absolute pain. That's probably why we didn't see a single soul using this trail to gain the summit. 

The trail spit us out near the Painted Dunes. We followed it as it snaked its way around the western side of Cinder Cone. Nobody was around. Very quiet, very peaceful. We found some shade and took a small break, laying on our backs in the comfy cinders. 

We eventually found ourselves back on the main thoroughfare. Traffic was light; only a few people were making their way to the summit. We walked back to camp and ate the rest of the pasta we'd cooked the previous night. And then it was time to do some exploring. 

So we drove out of camp, back down the heavily graded road to Highway 44.  We followed the highway to the junction with the 89, and then took a right and followed it for a bit before turning into the parking lot for "The Subway Cave." Temps were hovering in the low 90's, and a nice cool dark and quiet subway cave seemed like the perfect place to be at the time. So we walked the short trail to the entrance, climbed down the concrete stairs, and then disappeared into the massive volcanic tunnel.

There were surprisingly few people wandering around down there. At times, we'd have a whole chunk of the tunnel to ourselves. Nice and quiet, nice and cool. We spent a good 45 minutes down there, walking the entire length of the tunnel, and then turning around and walking the whole length again. When we finally emerged the heat was like a smack to the face and the light a punch to the gut. It took some time to adjust to these bothersome overworld conditions. 

Finally adjusted, we drove across the street and filled up our gallon jugs in Cave Campground, and then drove back to Butte Lake where we realized we shoulda bought more ice. Stupid no-good cubed ice! That stuff don't last. We'd have to bring the ice chest with us in the morning. 

The next day, we drove to Old Station and got us some more stupid cubed ice. It was all they had; not even good ol' Old Station had block ice. After that, we drove straight to the trailhead for Lassen Peak and immediately began the climb to the summit. 

This hike was definitely more popular than Cinder Cone. Multitudes of people were making the trek to the summit. Young folks, old folks, fit folks, not so fit folks. We saw trail runners and casual hikers, children under 10 and seniors over 70. Some were decked out in the latest hiking gear, others wore nothing but jeans, a T-shirt, a straw hat and sandals. We walked up the trail, passing people, people passing us, people going up and down at all times. We took several breaks, not really because we had to, but because the views were so nice. Every step gained in elevation revealed a little more of the surrounding country, until finally we were out of the trees and in the land of rocks and wind and snow and unobstructed views. 

It was only about 2 miles from the trailhead to the summit. We topped out on a flat spot, marked by information pillars. On these pillars could be found particulars on Lassen Peak, the geology of the summit, the last time it erupted, and the details of a particular type of butterfly that enjoys spending its time at high altitudes: the California Tortoiseshell. They were everywhere, noiselessly flapping around without a care in the world. Why they like to hang out on rocky, exposed mountains is beyond me. I wouldn't know; I didn't read the signs.

We walked through some snow and then scampered up the last steep little chunk to reach the true summit. This seemed to be where most people ended their journey. And for good reason. Almost the entirety of the park could be seen from the summit, the views some of the best I've ever seen. Much of the hazy central valley could be seen to the west, as well as the mountains of the Shasta-Trinity National Forest. To the southeast was Warner Valley and the gigantic Lake Almanor, situated well out of the park. To the east sat Prospect Peak and various extinct cinder cone volcanoes in various states of erosion, the titular Cinder Cone in the best condition. Off to the southwest could be seen Brokeoff Mountain, a remnant of the once gigantic Mt. Tehama. And to the north, standing wayyy off in the distance, rose Mt Shasta, California's northernmost 14er, the tallest thing visible on the horizon in all directions. 

We spent a good twenty minutes on the summit, had some lunch, looked at the views, observed Lassen's crater. This crater wasn't as straightforward as the one found on Cinder Cone; it was much more maze-like and rugged and crazy. We figured it would be fun to explore it. So we did. 

The Crater

Off the summit, down into the maze. Huge deposits of dacite, rock just barely over 100 years of age, lay scattered everywhere, appearing as obsidian with little dots of snowflakes trapped inside. We weaved in and out and around these rocks and many others, all of them sharp and jagged. It sounded like we were walking on shards of pottery, the rocks were so full of silica. After some exploration, we discovered the lowest point of the crater, full of snow and smelling ever so slightly of sulphur. Various yellowish boulders were likely the cause of the smell, but who's to say. 

Crater Low Point

After having our fun in the crater, we finally started our way off the mountain. This took practically no time at all, just a nice downhill glide back to the parking lot. Despite being much longer and involving a lot more elevation gain, the hike to Lassen Peak was significantly easier than Cinder Cone. That's just the way it is. Cinder Cone is a mean little mountain. It's not to be taken lightly.

We left the parking lot and drove over to the trailhead for what Ms. Inquisitive referred to as bump-ASS hell. We had to circle around a few times; the place was packed. Very popular destination, more popular than the Lassen Peak Trailhead. When we finally managed to nab a parking spot, we got out, gathered our things, and then made our way down the short trail to see what was so hellish about this Bumpass. 

Brokeoff Mountain

We reached an overlook of sorts, a spot where we could gaze down on an area of geothermal activity. We learned from the information pillars that Kendall Bumpass, a man who was mining the area during the 1860's, had fallen through the crust and burned his leg so badly in the boiling, acidic water that it had to be amputated. Ahh, Bumpass Hell. A fitting name, especially since the entire area reeks of sulphur. 

We walked down into hell, making a little loop. The place is like a miniature Yellowstone, with bubbling and gurgling hydrothermal features everywhere. Yellow rocks, sometimes painted red and green by various extreme organisms, defined the area, with the occasional turquoise pool and effervescent mud pot interrupting the scene. There were these European tourists squatting by one of the outlets of a boiling water feature. They were sticking their hands in the water, grabbing some of the gray mud and wiping it on their faces and legs. The water itself wasn't hot at all, I would know, I checked. But that don't mean that it's safe. It's highly acidic, and I found my finger slightly irritated after having dipped it in the water. Those tourists were in for a world of fun later on. I'm sure that mud would do much more than exfoliate, hahaha...

Bumpass Hell

We returned to the trailhead, Grace about done for the day. Not a whole lot more was left on the menu after our visit to Bumpass Hell. All that remained was a short drive down to the Kohm Yah-mah-nee visitor center and Suplur Works, the latter being a small bubbly mud pot right on the side of the road. Afterwards, on our way back to camp, we pulled off the side of the road and dipped our legs in Lake Helen, Lassen Peak rising directly in front of us. Felt good dippin' the dogs in the frigid water. An excellent way to end the day. 

Lake Helen and Lassen Peak

Our last full day in Lassen began with a lazy morning sitting around camp eating the last of the Pop-Tarts. Didn't have to be in the park until 10am, so we got to sleep in a bit and enjoy a carefree, easy morning. Afterwards, we drove to Manzanita Lake where Grace spent nearly $20 to paddle board around and around for an hour. I elected to stay on the shore and read. The lake was crystal clear and the underwater vegetation distinctly visible, but I didn't feel like gettin' wet. 

After her hour was up, Grace pulled into shore as dry as could be, impressing the paddle board renter. Then we had a simple lunch of sandwiches and potato chips on the lakeside, fueling up for the three hikes we had planned for the day.

After stopping along the side of the road to check out "Hot Rock," we set off for the first hike, Kings Creek Falls. We found a spot along the side of the road and then began the walk downhill through the burn scar of the Dixie Fire, an out-of-control inferno that burned almost 70% of the entire park. We kept our eyes busy looking at the snags, watching for the slightest movement. This trail, like the one to Bumpass Hell, was also very popular, with people of all ages walking along and doing their own thing. 

We eventually made it to the namesake falls, 30ft high, water tumbling off a cliff in torrents, pounding and grinding away at massive, rectangular black rocks. They were loud falls, requiring those observing them to shout in order to be heard above the roar. We stayed for a few minutes, enjoying the cascade, and then headed back up the trail, back to the car.

Kings Creek Falls

The next hike was to Cold Boiling Lake, a small geothermal feature just up the road. This was the shortest hike of the day and thank goodness for that. Grace and I both agreed that Cold Boiling Lake was not worth the effort. After walking through a dead forest of burned and twisted trees, the trail veered to the right towards a small meadow and even smaller lake. Occasional bubbles reached the surface of the lake, which was almost black in color. Interesting and pretty for sure, but there were definitely better things to see. In a park full of wonder and whimsy, this was the one thing that had the least of the two. We hardly spent any time at all at Cold Boiling Lake. On to the next attraction!

The last hike was the longest, a moderate trek to three alpine lakes, all downhill on the way in, all uphill on the way back. It was now mid afternoon, and many of the people who had spent the day at the lakes were making their way back. The first lake, Terrace Lake, was completely devoid of any people. We kept going, wanting to see what each lake looked like before deciding at which one we'd be spending most of our time. 

Terrace Lake

The next lake, Shadow Lake, was much larger and a whole lot more blue. Lassen Peak rose in the distance above its northwestern shore, still dormant, still sleeping. I had a feeling that this was probably the best lake that we'd see all day but we kept going, walking an additional mile or so to the final lake of the day: Cliff Lake.

This final lake was a little green thing situated beneath these streaked, gray cliffs. A couple other groups were there, all of them drying off, soaking in the rays of the sun. Little floating pieces of greenery could be seen in the water, as well as these teeny-tiny little bugs. We decided to turn around and head back to Shadow Lake. Unlike Cliff Lake, it had no floaters or bugs, at least those visible to the naked eye. 

Back at Shadow Lake, we jumped in, swam around, got cold, got out. The water was a deep cobalt blue, so clear it was like looking through glass. I swam out a fair distance and could see several large fish swimming beneath me, paying me no mind. It was a good swim at a good lake, and we had the whole thing to ourselves. We spent most of our time there, enjoying the scenery, watching the sun slowly sink closer and closer to the horizon.

We ended the day at the "Devastated Area," a short, easy walk full of informative signs that describe the events of the most recent Lassen eruption. After that, and we were done, driving out of the park, our exploration complete. All that was left was to stop at Old Station, praying that they would have some block ice this time.

As fate would have it, Old Station had four pieces of block ice left. Hallelujah. Little did we know that this would be the last block ice we'd see for the remainder of the trip, but we didn't care. For three dollars, we had guaranteed coolness for three days. Ahh, block ice. What a wonderful thing! 

And that was about it with our stay in Lassen. Cooked up some quesadillas for our last meal, had some Milano cookies, and then called it a night. Had a long drive in the morning. We'd need our sleep.