The Ant Hill, South Ariel Butte, Progeny Peak

03/24/26 

It was a race against the sun. Not a moment to waste. No dilly-dallying, no sight seeing, no moseying along at a leisurely pace. Night was on its way. I did not want to be there when it arrived. And where is there exactly? Somewhere on a mountain, that's where. I had driven up to the East Rim of Zion National Park, hoping to nab a few summits before the day came to a close. Unfortunately, I'd gotten quite a late start, so if I was gonna do what I'd had in mind I'd have to kick it into maximum gear and climb up these things as fast as I could. Progeny Peak. South Ariel Butte. The Ant Hill. All of 'em relatively close to the road, none of them particularly easy. Especially the Ant Hill. Oh boy. The Ant Hill. What a peak. I'd climb that one first; best to get the hard stuff over with before moving on to the "easier" things. 

It was shaping up to be a ridiculous endeavor, perhaps the most ridiculous of my entire life. My arms were already shot from a day of rock climbing at Lambs Knoll. Went with a group of coworkers, tried out a few routes. Chicken Head. Cowboy Arête. Invagination. None of 'em real easy, none of 'em real hard. Except Cowboy Arête. That one was a wee bit tricky. But we each took turns trying it out and we all made it up the thing, one way or another. By the time our exciting excursion to the Knoll came to a close, I could barely make a fist, my arms pretty much done for the day. Couldn't say the same for my legs though, so I suppose that's the underlying reason I set out on this silly peak bagging endeavor in the first place. Had to even things out. Had to be sore all over. Otherwise my chi would be unbalanced or something kooky like that. 

Cowboy Arête

I drove up to the East Rim of Zion National Park, found an empty pullout and immediately began walking up to the Ant Hill. It was just before 5:30pm. Wow, what a late start. Most folks were heading up or down the road, enjoying the scenic evening, maybe pulling off to the side to walk to some cool slickrock formations and chill and watch the sunset or something. That would've been a lot more pleasant than what I was doing, but I was determined and I kept going, relaxation and mirth be damned. 

Heading up to the Ant Hill

I decided to take a stupid way to reach the base of the Ant Hill, heading up a very steep slope just to the west of the standard approach. Why I chose this route I do not know, but it definitely added a little spice to the mix. At the end of the slope were some class 3 slabs that I had to surmount, the scramble interesting and quite fun. I enjoyed it while I could; this would be the last "easy" section before the harrowing climb to the summit. 

Once past the class 3 section, I continued north, the intimidating Ant Hill finally coming into view. It didn't look as scary as it did from the road, but my oh man, what a mountain. I could already tell that it was gonna be an absolute pain to climb, but I carried on regardless, angling towards its southwest face.

The Ant Hill

I snaked my way up the southwest face, the going steep, slippery and loose. The gnarly slickrock terrain of the East Rim stretched out before me, the views more and more spectacular the higher I went. Up and up loose rock and slippery sandstone, I shimmied my way across a ledge, trying to gain the exposed south ridge. A few funky moves later and I was on my way to the ridge, something I was not looking forward to climbing in the slightest.

Ahh, the south ridge. I'd read about it in Stav's trip report of his route to the summit, and man, he wasn't kidding. Said the thing was "vertigo inducing" and brother, he was right. The ridge itself isn't too bad. The thing is slanted at a comfortable angle; it ain't terrifyingly steep, no worse than class 3. But it's mostly featureless, the rock quality is wayyyyyyyy worse than that on Tabernacle Dome, and the exposure is absolutely insane. If you were to slip or lose control...that would be it. 

I lingered at the base for a moment, debating whether or not I could comfortably climb down the thing on my way back. I never climb up something that I don't think I can climb back down, and this one was definitely treading the line. I figured that since I'd made the effort to get this far I might as well give it a try, so carefully, slowly, I moseyed my way up the thing, my brain firing on all cylinders, locked in and ready to turn around at a moment's notice. 

The south ridge. Good lord.

I got about halfway up the thing, making it past most of the featureless section. After that, I tried to climb up stuff that had some type of texture or holds, making sure to test each one since the rock quality was so bad. Finally, after spending many a careful moment on the south ridge, I finally made it to more agreeable terrain, climbing up loose ledges to a flat spot just beneath the final push to the summit.

The final push to the summit. I climbed up the shady, brushy gully

I wasn't too stoked by this point and strongly debated turning around. That electrifying ascent up the south ridge shivered my timbers right to the core, and I knew that going down would be a slow, tedious exercise in extreme caution. It all came down to time, and I figured that if I was gonna climb the other two peaks that evening I'd better turn around while I could. 

But alas, the summit was near and the thrill of adventure mixed with my endless curiosity propelled me forward. I could see the rest of the route to the summit, a shady gully leading up to near-vertical walls. I stared out at the views to the east and west, the sun falling from the sky and casting long shadows on the white cliffs and dark canyons. I'd made it this far, I'd done the work, I'd made it past the crux. Might as well keep going, you know? And so, after tightening my shoes, I traversed into the gully, beginning the final ascent to the summit.

Didn't take no pictures until I reached the summit; I was too focused on the route. The gully was steep and loose and sandy, and once I'd reached the near-vertical walls I had to focus up to find the path of least resistance. Fortunately, the rock quality was a little better up there, and the holds were nice and big and once I found the correct route I scampered on up to the top no problem.

Ant Hill summit, looking towards Nippletop and Co.

Ant Hill summit, looking towards East Temple

I probably spent three minutes on the summit. A picture here, a picture there, a moment or two to absorb the scene, and that was it. No register to be found, no sign of any recent human activity. The only evidence of anybody being up there at all was a small stack of rocks marking the spot to begin the descent. 

A slight breeze, long shadows, night on its way, the day coming to a close, the terrain rugged and steep and sharp and crazy and unfathomable. I could hear the road down below, hear the cars and the motorcycles, hear the plops of sweat falling from my face and the crunch of dirt underfoot. And the breeze rolled on through, gently caressing my shirt, and the lighting became stranger, weaker, painting the surrounding country in a whole new way, changing the tone, changing the vibe. I stood up there for a few more seconds, thinking of nothing in particular, my mind at ease and ready for the descent. One last look, one last sweep, one last realization that I'd never see this view again, never see it the same way, never see it with the same lighting, the same sounds, the same sensations. Goodbye, Ant Hill. You won't be missed.

Looking down...

Needless to say, the descent sucked. Absolutely sucked. I carefully made my way down the near-vertical section and dropped down into the gully, kicking down rocks and sand the whole flim-flammin' way. Ripped my shorts, scraped my legs. And then it was off to the south ridge, the one thing that I knew would be the worst of it, the one thing that I'd least been looking forward to, the one thing I knew would take at least three years to descend carefully, the one thing that would give me a taste of my mortality, the one thing that demanded perfection. No mistakes. No mess ups. Had to be perfect. One hundred percent. 

Woulda been easier with approach shoes, that's for sure. My trailrunners didn't have the greatest purchase, and I found myself slipping once every two minutes, my butt and hands gripping the slick sandstone like a lumberjack would his favorite axe. I recall taking a break just above the featureless section, my brain on fire, my lips dry, my arms and hands no longer sore from a day of rock climbing. I looked at the drop, absorbed the exposure, said, "Well, if I lose control I'll just aim for that tree." And so I began crab-walkin' down towards said tree, a small, scraggily pine that had decided to make its home in the most disgusting sandstone imaginable. With great skill and an ounce of adrenaline I made it to the tree without slipping once, totally in control, so focused on the task at hand I didn't even perceive the passage of time. I looked up, looked down, chuckled, and then continued on with the descent.

Holy Moly

Class 3 ledges

I traversed across some ledges, the going a lil' tricky but nothing compared to what I'd just done. I crab-walked down the southwest face, feelin' light as a feather, my arms and legs fresher than a baked loaf straight out of the oven. I hopped and skipped my way down, found those class 3 slabs, descended 'em, and then jogged the rest of the way back to the car. I hopped in, sweaty as can be, and immediately drove to a pullout at the base of South Ariel Butte. Shadows all around, the lighting orange, the summit bathed in golden light, fading fast. Had to make it up there before it disappeared. 

Heading up South Ariel Butte

I walked up the slickrock, my quads on fire, my face a waterfall of sweat and salt. The cars shrank, the road became a thin line, the occasional laugh or shout drifted through the air from far below, people out and about, walking along the road, sitting in their cars, sitting on the ground, watching the sky turn dark, watching the orange cliffs, the setting sun, the cooling temps, the transition of day into night. None paid any mind to the freak on the mountain, the one loony who was walking up from the south chasing the last dying rays of sunlight on the summit. 

Traversing west

The loony made it just beneath the summit and began traversing west so as to avoid cliffs and exposure and crumbly rock and ridiculous scrambling. The loony followed a social trail, weaving up and down through manzanita and pine, a cliff above, a cliff below, the Ant Hill looming to the west, the golden light fading fast. The loony scrambled up some stuff, started heading north, moved through loose talus and crumbly rock. The loony gained a ridge of sorts and scampered up class 3 stuff, reaching the summit just as the last rays of sunlight evaporated away from the rocks like an ephemeral pool of tepid water. And the loony sat down, took photos, watched as the colors on the cliffs turned from orange to red, watched the sun dip below the horizon, watched the shadow of the Earth rise from the east, twilight in full swing, dusk well on its way. 

Class 3 stuff to the summit

Nippletop and Co. from South Ariel Butte

Crazy Quilt Mesa

Aries Butte

West, the Ant Hill dominating most of the picture

I stayed up there for a minute or two, debating whether or not I could make it to Progeny before everything became completely dark. The longer I debated the less chance I'd have of success, so, with one last looksie around, I climbed back down the class 3 stuff, scampered on down to the west side of the mountain and followed the social trail back to the steep slickrock. I heard voices from down below, voices originating from the now popular "Many Pools" hike, voices echoing off the cliffs, laughs and shouts and drones and strange mumblings, all of 'em imperceptible. I stopped for a moment to try and find the originators of these noises, my eyes scanning the canyon down below. There were probably a few groups down there but I never saw 'em. Just heard 'em. Crazy how far sound can travel.

I made it to the car, my legs aching, my arms back to feelin' sore as ever. I was about done for the day and considered calling it, wanting nothing more than to just head on home and cook up some pasta and finally relax. But I'd saved the easiest peak for last, the route to the summit fairly quick and straightforward, the going no harder than class 2 (as long as I stayed on route). I started the car and left the choice up to fate, letting the wind guide my hand. And sure enough the wind guided my hand to a pullout at the base of Progeny Peak. The sun had set, everything now in shadow, the tallest peaks reflecting the light emanating from beneath the horizon. I grabbed a headlamp, sighed, and jogged up to the summit.

Headin' up to Progeny Peak

Progeny Peak summit

What ensued was a complete exercise in selfishness. I didn't climb it for the beauty, didn't climb it for the workout, didn't climb it to see the sights and smell the smells. I climbed it simply for the sake of climbing it, because I could climb it, because it was there and it was a challenge and it was all for me, me, me. I climbed it for the ego, my mind was set and I moved up the mountain with singular purpose and great efficiency. And I was completely soaked in sweat and huffing and puffing like workhorse about to die and my legs were numb and my lungs on fire and I was hackin' loogies left and right and I scurried past Two Pines Arch, not stopping once, no pictures, no enjoyment. And I angled east and scampered onward and upward, reaching the summit at dusk, out of breath, eyes wide and feelin' quite silly truth be told. And I lingered for less than a minute, snapped some quick photos, donned the headlamp and then immediately began the descent, retracing my steps through the growing darkness. 

The Ant Hill from Progeny Peak

Heading down, view west

Dusky hikin'

And I moved off the mountain fairly quickly, the route burned into my mind, only getting off track once or twice. I saw the headlights of vehicles moving up and down the road, the sounds of their engines growing louder with each passing step. I hopped down to the road, jumped in the car, rolled down the windows. Folks were making their way back from watching the sunset on the Canyon Overlook trail, all of ;em lumbering along the side of the road, some with headlamps, some with phone flashlights, most with nothing at all. It was just before 8:30pm. Holy moly. Three peaks, three hours. Felt much longer, I can tell you that much.

I drove off, coasting down through the tunnel, driving out of the park to pasta and peppers and a nice comfy bed. It had been a glorious day, one so glorious it almost felt like two. Rock climbin' in the morning and afternoon, peak baggin' in the evening. Yep. This was a good one, a genuine, bona fide shirt and tie adventure. One thing's for sure though: I'm never climbing the Ant Hill again without a rope. Sure, approach shoes would be fine and all, but that exposure was not to my liking. Like I mentioned in a previous post, it's all relative. I've done sketchier things, but for some reason, whatever reason, I simply didn't vibe with that south ridge. Some people will find it easy, some will find it hard. To each their own. 

As for me, it's no bueno. But everything else was sweet. I'll have to go back one day to pay South Ariel and Progeny a proper visit. No rushin' around. No ego scrambling. Just a relaxing day in the mountains, one where I can take my time and appreciate the beauty of the summit.