Grassy Ridge Bald and Roan High Knob

It's been a busy past couple of months since my last outing. Not much has transpired since Grace and I got back from our cross-country extravaganza. Haven't really had the time to venture out into the local wilds to see what's up. But now things have settled down a bit, the pace has slowed, and I find myself with opportunities for escape. Last Friday, on the 24th, I had one such opportunity. 

My family and I had been up to this place called Carvers Gap a few times this year, mostly for the fun drive and to take pictures next to the "Welcome to North Carolina" sign. I still hardly know anything about the area, but I find that a good way to learn about a place is to get out there and experience it. There's plenty of fresh air and exercise, plus it's a lot more fun than spending hours scrubbing the net for articles and history and such. So, on a bright and clear Friday afternoon, I elected to drive back up to ol' Carvers Gap and check out some sights. 

The 2,197.4 mile long Appalachian Trail passes through Carvers Gap. I figured I'd follow it for a ways and see where it took me. I followed it east of the Gap, ascending a small hill called Round Bald. The trail was incredibly well maintained and super nice, slowly weaving its way up to the summit. People were coming and going at all times; it's a pretty dang popular area. And I soon found out why.

Near the summit of Round Bald

Round Bald is mostly devoid of tall trees, its surface instead covered with a mixture of grasses. I've since learned that this is a distinct characteristic of "balds," which are mountains in the Appalachians that are known for being open and grassy. And since they're mostly open, they usually offer tremendous views. Round Bald was no different. On the summit I could see clearly in all directions, the weather dry, the air crisp and chilly. Visibility was absolutely phenomenal; to the north I could see all the way into Virginia, Mt Rogers (Virginia's state highpoint) clearly visible. To the west I could see more of the Appalachian Mountains, Roan High Knob the closest summit in view. And to the south were crystal clear views into North Carolina, Mt. Mitchell (the highest mountain east of the Mississippi) visible in the distance. Turning east I saw the next highest mountain, Grassy Ridge Bald, looming not too far away. I decided that that would be the next objective. I set off down the trail, descending off the east side of Round Bald.

View northeast, Mt Rogers visible

View south, Mt Mitchell and Co. in the distance

Grassy Ridge Bald

More beautiful trail, more interesting people. People walking and running and hiking and backpacking. There was nary a moment I spent alone. Backpackers, trail runners, casual hikers, sightseers—they were there and everywhere. Young people, old people, tiny little kids, even saw some babies strapped up in a backpack carrier. Now that I think about it, this was probably the most amount of people I've ever seen on a trail...ever. It was super congested. But everyone was nice and polite, each person doing their own thing at their own pace, and I didn't see one scrap of litter anywhere on the trail. That was surprising. For a trail as popular as this, I was expecting Santa Paula Punchbowl levels of trash and graffiti. Thankfully, this was not the case. Perhaps the Appalachian cryptids pick it up. Who's to say.

Jane Bald

On my way over to Grassy Ridge Bald, I had to surmount a small little obstacle known as "Jane Bald." It looked unassuming from afar, in fact, I didn't even notice it until I had fully descended from Round Bald. It's a small little obstruction rising up out of the ridge that surprisingly ended up being the steepest part of the whole day. The trail abruptly went up, the ground becoming a mixture of rocks and slabs at one point. But I got to the top no problem and enjoyed much of the same views that I had seen over on Round Bald. 

Near the top of Jane Bald, view west

View south from Jane Bald

Onward to Grassy Ridge Bald. I followed the AT for a little bit, marveling at the views and beautiful fall colors shining bright in the lower elevations. I eventually reached a junction, leaving the AT for a spur trail that would take me the rest of the way to the summit. This spur trail was less crowded and not as wide as the AT, but it was amazingly maintained nonetheless. I slowly worked my way up the east side of the mountain, passing through a small patch of pine trees and a tunnel of rhododendrons. Eventually, the trees and rhododendrons disappeared, and I was back to the familiar open and grassy expanse indicative of an Appalachian bald.  I could see the summit by this point, a lone hiker standing on a boulder and striking a pose. I took a few more pictures on my way over to the summit, the wind chilly, the muddy ground crunchy with ice. I topped out in no time, sharing the surroundings with only a few other people. Though it's not much farther from Round Bald, this summit appeared to be far less popular. 

Rhododendron Tunnel

View east, on the way to the summit

Summit in sight!

There was a plaque on a boulder commemorating the life of a Mr. Cornelius Peake. Other than that, there wasn't much else of interest on the wide, flat summit. I walked a short ways to the east, following a use trail that led to what I assumed to be a view of some sort. Along the way, I saw a few tents set up beneath the sparse trees; apparently this mountain is a good place to camp. At one point, I saw a group of young men find a spot, drop their gear, and then immediately talk about how flippin' freezin' it was gonna get that night. Judging by the crunchy mud I had tread through on the way to the summit, the night was probably gonna be a cold one. 

I followed the use trail to its terminus, a little rocky outcropping with nice views of Mt Mitchell and Co to the south. There were three other people there who were just getting ready to leave. "Best view on the mountain" they said. And I gotta agree, it was pretty nice. I sat on the rocks for a little bit, gazing out upon unfamiliar territory. Once I had my fill, I returned to the summit proper, poked around here and there, took a few pictures, and then retraced my steps back to Carvers Gap. 

View from the summit, view south and west

Back at Carvers Gap, I still had a good amount of daylight left so I decided to truck on up to Roan High Knob. Grace and I had gone down the trail about a month prior, but we missed the turnoff for the high point, so I just had to go back. The little parking lot at the base of the mountain was completely full, so I was expecting another busy trail. This was not the case. For whatever reason, I only saw two groups on the entire stretch from the parking lot to the summit. I guess everyone else was heading up to Round Bald. 

Roan High Knob

On the way to Roan High Knob

Unlike Round Bald, Roan High Knob was densely forested, at least on its eastern flank. As such, there were no views on the way up to the summit, unless you count the view of the trees right in front of your face. High trees, tightly packed, blocked out most of the weak light of the afternoon sun, making everything look much darker than it actually was. Lotta trees, lotta of shade, lotta of cold. Even saw my breath a few times. But the steady, gentle incline warmed me up good enough, and before I knew it I was at the turnoff for the high point. It kinda snuck up on me, catching me unawares. What with it being so densely forested, I had basically no way to gauge my progress up the mountain. Kinda just turned my brain off until I saw the sign. 

I departed the AT at the sign and followed the spur trail the rest of the way to the summit. Just before the high point rested a shelter, one of many situated along the AT. It was closed, but still interesting. I've never seen an AT shelter in person before, so it was neat to finally get to observe one in its natural habitat. Just past the shelter was a smattering of boulders that marked the high point. Most of 'em were covered in downed trees, the handiwork of Hurricane Helen no doubt. I took a few pictures, touched the USGS marker, and then set off back the way I came. There wasn't much of a view on Roan High Knob, and, since it was pretty dang cold sittin' there in the shade, I figured it was best to not overstay my welcome. 

Headin' back...

Didn't see a single soul on the way back. It was just me, the chilly air, the trail and the trees. And of course, the millions of squirrels. Can't forget those buggers. Them's noisy. And the sun kept getting fainter, and the trail kept getting darker, and I gotta admit, I could definitely see how some can find these woods a bit spooky. I even heard a shriek of some kind, something faint and far away, carried to my ears by a ghostly gust of air. It was probably from the noisy folks over on Round Bald, but you can never be sure.

I got back to Carvers Gap in good time, back to noise, cars, and sunlight. I took a swig of water and started up the car, looking forward to the scenic drive back home. The car thermostat read 41℉, and brother, that's exactly what it felt like outside. I let my vehicle warm up, and then that was that—I coasted the whole rest of the way down, taken aback by the beautiful fall colors. Thems sure was purty, I tell yah!

It had been a fine day in the woods, brief and beautiful, offering but a taste as to what the area has to offer. I finally got my foot in the door, and I'm eager to see what's inside. 

Odds and Ends in the American West

Spanish Fork, 6:00am. An early start to a long day, a long day followed by a series of other long days, one after another after another. The days of slow enjoyment were over. Time was running out. No more days spent moseying around a single area, no, no no. That was done. No more of that! Now was the time to hightail it across the west as fast as possible, hitting up spots on the map like dots on a bingo sheet. No time for slow absorption, no time to get to know a place, no time to crawl around in the dirt and smell the bugs and get a few cuts and scrapes and meet Bigfoot and maybe a few little green aliens and stuff like that. Nope! All that we had time for was to arrive, look, leave, repeat. Not a very enjoyable way of travel, but it does enable one to see a lot of things. And boy did we see a lot of things. 

Driving along Highway 6, the sun just barely cresting the horizon, the clouds smattered with the faintest dusting of pink, we made our way towards the first location on the list: Canyonlands. None of us had been there before, so we decided to give it a little look. Down through Colton, out past Price, we drove through one sleepy desert town after another with not a single thing of interest happening in between. The trees disappeared, the hardy flora emerged, the dirt and sand became more prominent, skinny valleys and blocky cliffs materialized on the horizon, the sun came up and everything was golden—at long last—morning in the desert. Nice and calm and warm. 80℉. Yep. it was gonna be a warm one.

And then we hit I-70 and drove through Green River and then made a hard right and zoomed down good ol' Highway 191, surprisingly busy for Thursday morning in late August. And we could see off in the distance the craziness of the desert, the disturbingly intricate layout of the land, the red rocks, the infinite canyons, the strange arches, and the high, hazy peaks looming over the whole scene, so tall and wide and grand they looked like a cluster of giants sitting down on their haunches observing their domain. 

And then we turned right again and drove straight to Canyonlands, a place that has both plenty of land and plenty of canyons. We stopped at the visitor center, I inhaled a granola bar, Grace used the squat pit toilets (a new design feature, perhaps?) and this group of bikers pulled up and every single one of them stopped and smoked a cigarette. They were all over 60, and they all looked hardcore, leather and chains and skin that looked like burnt chicharrones. And Grace and I walked into the Visitor Center, she got her coin, and we learned as much as we could from the various signs and displays and what have you about the place we'd be exploring for a small chunk of the day. So much to see, but no time to see it. Ah well. Sometimes it happens that way. We'd be tourists, so we were gonna live up to the role.

The only thing that I wanted to see, Grand View Point, was closed due to construction, so we settled for a smorgasbord of popular destinations: the Whale, Upheaval Dome, and Mesa Arch. Spent about 30 minutes at each location, hardly any time at all. It was like licking an ice cream cone and then immediately licking another; no time for enjoyment, no time for understanding, no time to gobble it up and digest it and then lay down with a full stomach and happy mind. We'd arrive, we'd look, and then we'd leave. That was the name of the game. And before we knew it, we'd spent all the time we could in Canyonlands and had to move on to the next attraction: Arches.

Mesa Arch

On our way to the extremely popular Arches National Park, we stopped along the side of the road to view some ancient graffiti. Within a wide canyon of high red walls and velvet soft sand, there exists a one "Intestine Man." What is "Intestine Man?" Frightening, that's all I can say. Whatever it was that inspired the ancient artist to draw "Intestine Man" high up on the cliff is of no interest to me. No thanks. I like my sleep, and I intend keep it. I don't need to stay up all night conjuring in my mind's eye the true image of the anthropomorphic entity with an insect-like head and a strange, intestine-like tubing moving through its body situated in between two other anthropomorphic entities of similar Lovecraftian appearance, all three of them standing next to a weird, flame-like structure that may or may not have people in it. I don't know what the artist saw, I don't know what the artist imagined in their mind, but whatever it was, their drawing is strange enough for me. "Intestine Man." One of the most interesting things I've ever seen. 

And then there are the "TV Sheep," which look like TV sets with little legs and little tails and little heads sticking out of them. I guarantee that the artist who painted those originally painted TV's but then the alien who gave them TV said, "Nope, gotta change that, the people in the future can't know that you guys had TV's" and the artist went, "well I already carved them into the rock" and then the alien said, "well change it, dang it!" and then the artist said, "fine, I'll turn them into sheep" and the alien said, "yep, that works, cool." 

"Intestine Man"

"TV Sheep"

And we gazed upon this art and we wondered about the lives of the artists and the people who inhabited the canyons all those years ago and then switched gears and drove into Disneyland. Lots of cars, lots of people. The visitor center was slammed, the rangers at the front desk answering a never ending stream of questions, everyone sweaty and walking around and living in the moment. Grace and I refilled our water at the visitor center, and then quickly spat it back out. The stuff tasted like metal and chlorine; not even a hint of "water flavor." We gave the water to the plants. At least they'd enjoy it. 

And we drove through the park for the very first time, gawking and gazing at all the sights and sounds like all the other tourists. The place really is something fantastic; one of the most unique and serene and beautiful landscapes I've ever seen. But there was no time to see it, to really see it—the sun was moving fast, we had to go, go go, see the spots, check 'em off the list, and then get out of there. 

We drove straight to Devil's Garden without stopping. Got out, put on the sunscreen. There was a sign at the trailhead warning the masses that it's dangerous to hike in the heat, especially if the temps are over 90℉. It was 107℉. And there were loads of people, walking in, walking out, walking this way and that, taking pictures of the formations, kids running around, everyone seemingly energized from some unknown source, everyone far too distracted to notice the heat. Grace and I hit the trail, observing the scene. Slow walkers, fast walkers. People in the shade, people soaking in the sun. Some people were completely covered from head to toe in sun-repellant clothing, others were practically naked. This one guy was walking down the trail in nothing but flip-flops and a pair of black shorts, but he had his shorts rolled all the way up to his crotch, like a speedo. It took everything to keep us from laughing; the guy just looked completely ridiculous. 

And then there were the influencers with their cameras and gadgets; this one guy had his own professional photographer with a tripod and everything. And there were the European tourists, mostly Germans, dressed in funky clothes and funny hats and talking about who knows what. And then there were those who walked quietly and touched the walls and took no pictures and didn't make a scene and respected the area and vanished into the background like ghosts. All of humanity was on display in this small section of 107℉ desert. It was quite interesting indeed.

Landscape Arch

We saw Landscape Arch, took some photos, and then turned around. We had a tight schedule, and we had to pack in as many sights as possible. Skyline Arch, Sand Dune Arch. These were briefly explored, followed by a distant view of Delicate Arch, the most famous arch in all of Disneyland. Didn't feel like hikin' 3 miles in 107℉ temps just to see a silly ol' arch, so we didn't. Plus, we simply didn't have the time. So we walked the half mile jaunt to an overlook and gazed upon this natural wonder from across a canyon, Grace rather perturbed by my tendency to gaze over sheer cliffs. And then it was off to the Windows area where we'd check off more boxes and see even more sights and sounds and people and hopefully no more guys with shorts rolled up to their crotches. 

And we saw the Windows, and we saw Turret Arch, and they were grand and they were cool. The breeze kicked up and Grace said I smelled bad which was stating the obvious. It seemed as if every ounce of water I consumed was immediately excreted through my skin, and this had been happening for the past couple of hours. I was a sweaty mess, a sweaty mess wandering amongst the arches. And we took more pictures and took pictures for people and we stood in the arches and raised our hands in the air and did all the things that the tourists do because we were tourists and that's what was expected. And then we drove to Double Arch and it was quiet there so we zipped our lips and reveled in the majesty of nature along with all the other people with zipped lips, laying on the ground, looking at the sky through the arches, covered in sweat and smelling of stink but happy nonetheless. 

The Windows

Turret Arch

Double Arch

A quick drive past Balanced Rock finished off the day and that was it—we'd seen all that was needed to see for a mere taste of the sublime. And we dove out of the park almost entirely alone, hardly any cars on the park road which was a rare sight for sure. And the sun was starting to go down and we drove toward Moab but never got there; we turned left onto Highway 128 and embarked on one of the most scenic drives of our entire lives. Hardly a word was spoken between the two of us for the duration of the drive, it was just us, our eyes, the Colorado River, the high red cliffs, the high red towers, and the distant mountains. And then the prettiness disappeared and we were back on I-70 and we drove straight into Colorado and off to Grand Junction where we got some "Gourmet Chinese Food," Grace falling asleep while eating her string bean chicken. And then it was a long drive to Montrose in the dark, and we got there, checked into the hotel and promptly passed out. It had been a stupidly long day filled to the brim with sights and sounds and activities and it was exhausting, and we were about to do it all over again in the morning.

Lo and behold, around 6:30am, we checked out of the hotel and drove the long drive to the north rim of Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park. Grace and I had been to the Gunnison wayy back in 2012 but had only explored the South Rim. Now it was time to see what was poppin' at the north rim. The answer: not a whole lot. We drove through bucolic town after bucolic town, the western Coloradan scenery legit, the Rockies visible in the distant east. We rolled into the north rim and drove through the campground, walking on a nice little loop that had great views of the canyon. It was just as insane as the last time I saw it 13 years ago, seemingly unchanged, the cliffs just as high, the water just as angry. I had an intense urge to throw a rock over the side but numerous signs advised against that, as did Grace, so I reluctantly obeyed. And then we walked on a short little trail out to Exclamation Point, a spot that offers what I believe is the best view in the entire park. I let out a small exclamation ("yep") and sat down and looked at the cliffs and the river, my mind unable to comprehend the sheer size and scope of what I was observing. We took some pictures, absorbed the scene, and then proceeded on the nearly two hour drive to the south rim, a place that rested just over a thousand feet as the crow flies from the north rim. 

View from Exclamation Point

There was a fire that had burned much of the south rim earlier this year. We could smell the smoldered remains of the dead flora from across the chasm while we were on the north rim. It was a foreboding smell, a smell of uncertainty. And we got to the south rim and found out that basically the entire thing was closed, save for one turnout and the visitor center. So Grace got her coin, we made a picnic lunch, and then sat in the shade of the visitor center and thought about what all there was left to do on our trip back to Tennessee, which was a lot. And we got back in the car, drove out of the park and then down to Ouray, a small tourist trap in the high mountains that Grace and I had also never seen since 2012. Like the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, Ouray hadn't changed much either. We walked the streets, went into a few shops. The wind was blowin' and a late afternoon storm was a brewin' and Grace was tired so we didn't stay out for too long. Back in the hotel, back to sleep, another night that would transition into another busy busy morning. 

The next day we got up, threw our crap in the car and hit the road, this time bound for Mesa Verde National Park. Ahh man. We had National Park fever. Just checkin' them off one after the other, rackin' 'em up in our inventory like they were Pokémon or something. It was stormy that day, teasing rain. The ranger at the visitor center said that it had rained buckets the day before, and that more rain was scheduled for the afternoon. But it never rained. Perhaps the weather gods recognized us as Southern Californians and refused to grant us the gift of rain. Who knows. Regardless, the clouds made for pretty skies and somewhat cool temps. 

We learned about the history of the area, learned how the inhabitants acquired water (the sky), how they constructed their houses and shelters and granaries and whatnot (brick!), and of the various theories as to why they inevitably abandoned everything (aliens, of course). Grace and I hadn't been to Mesa Verde since 2010 so it was cool to see the dwellings again. Now that we were much older, I feel like we gained a deeper appreciation of the area and the fascinating history that inhabits it. Spruce Tree House, Cliff Palace, Sun Temple; they were just as amazing as the last time I saw them 15 years ago. We didn't get to see any of these placed up close this time (curse you Rec.gov!) but that was ok; seeing them from afar was just as remarkable. 

Afterwards, we drove to Durango and had an early dinner and walked the streets and checked out a bookstore. Our hotel that night was the most expensive of the entire trip, and we soon found out why. A beer festival was taking place, the whole town blocked off, drunk people stumbling around everywhere. This one drunk gal walked up to a ceramics gallery and said to her friends, "Oh my God! I had a teacher that tttaught me how to pot!" And one of her friends went, "She taught you how to pot?" and the gal said, "Yeah! She taught me how to pot!" And then all three of them went inside and who knows what happened then. Drunk people in a ceramics gallery. What could go wrong?

And then we got up the next morning and high-tailed it to Alamosa Colorado, stopping at Chimney Rock National Monument along the way, because, why not? And there we learned about more ancient builders, much like those that constructed the structures at Mesa Verde, except these people liked building stuff in the most ridiculous spots possible. We saw the kivas, saw the rooms, saw the two natural rock spires that possibly served as a lunar calendar of some kind. And then we were done with that spot and drove across the Rockies and down into town and ate at the spookiest Mexican restaurant I've ever seen. Cobwebs, bats, spiders, pumpkins, werewolf and ghoul and skeleton figurines, halloween-based TV shows playing on every TV—the place was damn spooky. 

Chimney Rock

And then we checked into our hotel and them immediately drove to Great Sand Dunes National Park, the final park on the list. And we spent hardly any time at all there 'cause a storm rolled in and there was thunder and lighting and a sand dune is NOT the best place to be in a situation like that. But just before it got REALLY bad Grace and I joined the other idiots and clambered around the dunes for a bit, sand blowing everywhere, getting in our eyes and ears and hair. And it was here, walking on the largest sand dunes in North America, where we realized that Cinder Cone is in fact harder to climb! Yep. Cinder Cone in Lassen Volcanic National Park is harder to climb than a damned sand dune. Who woulda known?

We left the dunes, brushed off the sand as best we could, and then drove on out of there just as the sky began to throw a temper tantrum. We couldn't even see the dunes from the road anymore; the sky was just a sheet of dark grey angriness. And we drove back to the ol' hotel, had some ramen for dinner, and then called it a night. Nothing fun to do in the morning. Just driving. Endless, monotonous driving. Ooh boy. It was gonna be good.

And we got up the next morning and left the hotel at 6:00am, Blanca Peak's summit obscured in clouds. And we drove east on Highway 160 through the Sangre de Christo Range and met up with I-25 and drove through Trinidad and down through New Mexico and into the Texas Panhandle. And it was there in the panhandle where we entered the clouds and we stayed in the clouds all the way into Oklahoma City, 350 miles away. And we stayed in Oklahoma City and Kevin, the receptionist, needed a break...desperately. And then we slept and got up in the morning and drove nearly 700 miles to Nashville through torrential rain and wind and slick streets and crazy drivers. And the skies cleared in Memphis and it was sunny the whole rest of the way, and in the following morning we made it back to the Grandparent's residence and our trip had finally, finally come to an end. 

It was a long trip, full of everything expected from a long trip, full of highs and lows and everything in between. Got to see some splendid country, the two of us grateful to be able to see it at all. We're both very fortunate to be able to realize and execute a trip such as this, and we're thankful to all those who helped us along the way. It's one I won't be forgetting anytime soon; this was one to remember!

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.