Griffith Peak, Cathedral Rock, Echo Cliffs

 06/26/26

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the South Loop Trail

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

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

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

Mt. Charleston

Switchbacks

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

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

Griffith Peak comes into view...

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

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

Mummy, Coxcomb and Fletcher from Griffith

Charleston from Griffith

Mostly south

East

The Strip

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

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

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

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

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

Heading down, Harris Mtn right

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

Echo Cliffs (AKA "Prana Peak")

Cathedral Rock

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

Good views from Cathedral Rock

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

Harris Mtn (left) and Echo Cliffs (center)

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

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

Off trail 

Class 3, likely avoidable

Steep, loose class 2

Fossils!

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

Echo Cliffs Highpoint

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

Cathedral Rock down below

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

Heading back to the trail...

Back on trail...

"Prana Peak" from the trail

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

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

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