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.