Cascade Mountain, Spanish Fork Peak

 09/15/26

It was a silent morning. Evidence of last night's bonfire jamboree was nowhere to be seen. No trash, no graffiti. Just footprints and tire tracks. Those college kids sure cleaned up nice. Gotta respect that. And so I sat up and continued to gaze out the window and munched on a Pop-Tart and stretched a bit and hopped out the car and watered the dirt with some golden urine and my mind was not in it to win it. Not one bit. I was still pretty sore from yesterday's hike up to Lone Peak and such, and the cramped confines of my vehicle provided hardly any chance for sufficient recovery. Still sore, still woozy. But I was on the brink of completing a task that had absolutely no meaning. And by golly, I was gonna do it.

I unknowingly began this task last year when Grace and I went up Mt. Nebo on our trip across the country. Little did I know that this peak is part of something called the "Wasatch Seven," which is basically a list of seven peaks in Utah's Wasatch range that, for whatever reason, are worth visiting. 

Maybe it's because they're pretty. Or maybe it's 'cause they're prominent. Or maybe they have secret underground cities in them full of untold riches just waiting to be plundered by those who are brave enough to explore their depths. Whatever the case, someone put these peaks on a list and I guess it's sort of a challenge or something to make the trek to each of their summits. As is stood that morning, I had checked off Mt. Nebo, Timpanogos, Santaquin, Lone Peak and Provo Peak, leaving only Cascade Mountain and Spanish Fork Peak on the table. Cascade Mountain was the only thing on the agenda for the day, but, if by some miracle it didn't entirely wreck my mind and soul, I'd probably make an attempt of Spanish Fork. If I did in fact complete those two peaks in one day I would certainly be in for it. I'd be sore for days and days. And to top it off, I already wasn't feelin' my best and brightest. But like I mentioned earlier, I was on the cusp of completing this wonderful task that had absolutely no meaning, and I like me a good task so I gathered all the optimism I could muster, grabbed my pack, and set off towards Cascade Mountain, my body running on Pop-Tarts and positive thoughts. 

Fall colors on the way to Cascade Mountain

Heading up the chute...

Steep going up the chute...

The first bit of the "trail" to Cascade Mtn weaved through a beautiful mixture of evergreen and deciduous foliage. And it was up. All up. And that's about it. I've hiked a lot of mountains this year. And I've written a fair amount about them as well. And you know what? There really ain't a whole lot to say about climbing a mountain. You go up the thing, reach the top, jump for joy, and then you climb back down. Up. Down. Real simple. There ain't nothin' to it!

And so I continued in an upward direction, wandering through the beautiful mixture of green and red and orange, until finally reaching a prominent chute. This chute would take me most of the way to the top, so I hopped right in and began a long slog up loose, steep terrain. 

Pretty obvious where to go. There was a trace of a use trail and some cairns to aid with navigation, but they weren't really needed in my opinion. Just had to keep going up. That was the name of the game. And eventually I saw the use trail snake to the left so I followed it as it steeply made its way out of the chute, heading up and up through yet another mixture of beautiful deciduous forest. Dusty dirt, fresh pines, pretty leaves, cool morning, sore legs. Yep. Doesn't get any better than that.

Where I exited the chute; head left

Following the use trail...

And I kept on following the use trail, the thing offering little relief from the punishing grade. Kinda just went straight up this prominent slope/ridge that rose to a small saddle. Soon the trees began to disappear and it was back to the familiar alpine scenery of which I'd grown acquainted with on my hikes in the mountains this last month. Hardy plants, dry grass, lots of rocks. Not a whole lot going on in the alpine zone. To live up there full-time requires grit. And very few living things possess said grit. 

At one point, while taking a little breather, I saw this big ol' group of mountain goats wayyy off to the side, all of 'em just chillin' on the steep slopes, performing their morning routines, not a care in the world. I channeled their zen-like energy and lackadaisical aura to propel me up the slope, the Pop-Tarts and positive thoughts proving to be insufficient fuel. With a hop and a skip and a whole lotta heavy breathing I finally made it to the saddle, the summit of Cascade Mtn just a little ways off to the north. 

Heading up the steep ridge

Summit ridge, Cascade Mtn ahead

I continued to follow the use trail as it took me along the summit ridge, the wind slightly angry. Maybe it didn't get it's morning caffeine boost. Got turned away from the coffee shop for being too aggressive or something. I don't know. All I knew was that it was mighty cold blowin' on my sweaty clothes, so I donned the trusty windbreaker and fleece and hiked the rest of the way to the summit with my hands in my pockets, whistling to the tune of a song that didn't exist. 

Cascade Mountain summit

Slightly northeast; north peak on the left

East

South

Southwest

And when I got there, I noticed a pile of rocks and a fancy lookin' register. And I stood around and took in the views and then decided to hop on over to the north peak before settlin' down and relaxin' and enjoyin' the fruits of my labor and what not. So I continued along, hikin' down to yet another small saddle and then up again to the summit of the north peak. Found me a small tower-thingy up there and that was about it; no register, no sign of any recent human visitation. The view of Mt. Timpanogos was especially nice, but I had limited time and I wasn't gonna waste it on a silly ol' view. So I lingered for maybe 2 minutes up there, just enough for a taste, and then turned around and hiked back up Cascade Mountain where I sat down and signed the register and, to my dismay, ate the very last Pop-Tart of my Pop-Tart arsenal. 

North Peak summit

Timpanogos from the North Peak

I signed a booklet placed in 2025, the most recent entry from August of this year. Hmmm. How odd. To my understanding, this peak seemed to be a pretty popular summit. Seemed weird that I was the first person to sign the register in over a month. And then I realized that the pen didn't have no ink in it and I was like "Ahh, that's why" and searched my pack and realized that I didn't have any kind of writing utensil whatsoever and so I closed up the booklet and stared off into space for a while, pondering and scheming about the future. Six peaks down, one to go. Should I do it? Could I do it? I wasn't sure. Figured I'd make the decision when I made it off this gargantuan, windy mound of earth and stone. 

So I took one last look around and then set off down the summit ridge back to that small saddle. At the saddle, I decided to hike up to one more little bump on the ridge, the unassuming Peak 10725, because, why not? And I got to the top of this little bump and took one last photo of Cascade Mountain and then that was it—I was out of there. Nothing but a knee-killin', quad-destroying descent to look forward to...

The unassuming Peak 10725

Cascade Mtn from Peak 10725

Heading back down...

Back in the chute...

I made it back to the car through the simple act of retracing my steps off the mountain. Didn't see a single person the whole time. Just rocks and sticks and trees and that big ol' group of mountain goats. When I finally sat down and started the engine, I already knew what it was that I was gonna do next. I had a lot of time to ponder on my way down. And even though I was as sore as ever, I knew that I'd be kicking myself for years if I didn't at least try to hike Spanish Fork Peak. And so it was settled. I drove on down the dirt road to the highway, windows open and free, the cool morning breeze zipping through the car, the sun nice and bright, everything brilliant and calm and beautiful. 

Cascade Mountain

Drove through civilization, saw the college, saw all the local businesses, saw Spanish Fork Peak off yonder, tall and foreboding. Well, it really didn't look that bad, but in my fatigued state, it looked like it would put up quite the challenge. And I drove straight to the trailhead up Maple Canyon and parked next to the gate and there were a bunch of vehicles there as well as a horse trailer and the creek was trickling away off to the side and the whole area reminded me of the Sespe Wilderness for some reason, filling me with a sense of wistful nostalgia.

The start of the hike to Spanish Fork Peak

Ahh, alright. Time to get to walkin'. I knew this wouldn't be enjoyable in the slightest, so I got it in my head that I had to treat this like a workout instead of a nice saunter through the hills. And that seemed to do the trick, at least, for a while. I put my head down and just started truckin', no thoughts, no hopes or dreams; just focused on my pace and my breathing. 

Crossed a creek at one point, saw a bunch of mountain bikers zippin' on by. The trail just kept going up; no switchbacks or anything. It was built at a grade where switchbacks weren't really necessary but woulda been nice at least every now and then, you know? Just a never ending, steep, straight incline up the canyon through the woods. 

And I passed by these two older guys dragging up a wagon with a bunch of hunting gear in it. They looked absolutely miserable. So miserable, in fact, that the sight of their twisted, sweat-drenched faces broke my focused concentration to the point where I felt obliged to comment on their pitiful condition. "That looks like fun" I said. And they didn't respond. Too out of breath, I suppose. 

And it wasn't long after that when I passed a lady on a horse who was also making her way up the trail. She was leading another horse along, this one loaded down with a bunch of gear. She had dropped the lead rope and kindly asked if I could fetch it. I did, and we got to chatting for a bit. Learned that those two miserable wretches farther down the trail were with her and that they were all gonna set up camp somewhere up the canyon and do some hunting. How far up the canyon was to be determined. I wished her good luck and kept on going, falling back into a state of extreme concentration, the miles passing underfoot one step at a time. 

And then, not too long after encountering the horse lady, I met two young mormon dudes hikin' down the trail. Didn't say much; we just nodded and moved along on our separate journeys. About half an hour later I encountered two more mormon dudes, one of them wearing a name tag. These two looked a little worse for wear and asked me if I'd seen "two young guys that look just like us." I said yeah and they were all like "how far down the trail are they" and I was like "ehh, kinda far" and they were like "oh" and then the one with the name tag said "you got any food to spare? Like a granola bar or something?" And I said "Unfortunately, I do not." And that was the truth. I'd ran out of Pop-Tarts that morning. I was functioning on focus and willpower. That and a little tiny bag of sunflower seeds, but those were for me and I ain't sharin' damnit!

Spanish Fork Peak comes into view

I parted with the mormon dudes and kept on heading up and up, Spanish Fork Peak finally coming into view. It was at this point, on a fairly flat spot next to a dried-up lake, where everything caught up the me and I was hit with a wave of nausea. So I stopped and drank some water and it passed and I felt better and I went, "Whelp, this is gonna be fun" and did the smart thing and kept on pushin' up to the peak, finally encountering some blessed, albeit steep, switchbacks. 

Sticking to the ridge

Spanish Fork Peak

The switchbacks took me to a saddle of sorts, and when I got there, I felt like a million bucks. Or, more accurately, I felt like I'd just lost a million bucks and got punched in the gut and thrown out back in the dumpster. I felt terrible; dizzy, exhausted, legs all cramped up, chest all achy-feelin'. But I was determined and I kept moving forward, angling left at a fork in the trail and taking the ridge-direct instead of wrapping around to the side. Both routes went to the summit; one was just a little shorter than the other.

There was one other guy making his way down; I payed him no mind. I was completely focused on making it to the peak. Didn't have any other thoughts in my mind. Just had to get there, just had to get there...

And wouldn't you know it? I made it. Whoopee, big surprise. I collapsed on the side of the massive summit cairn that was out of the wind and just laid there for a while, feelin' a sense of accomplishment that I haven't felt in like...probably...ever. 

I opened up my small bag of sunflower seeds, the only food I had left. I downed them in an instant and started to feel slightly better. Didn't get up at all for a good half hour. Just laid there, my back against the summit cairn, out of the wind, staring at the gorgeous views. I could see every summit of the Wasatch Seven; Mt. Nebo and Santaquin Peak off to my left, Provo, Cascade, Timpanogos, and Lone Peak off to my right. Bing, bang, bim, boop, bop. I pointed out each one with my finger and nodded in acknowledgment. I'd been to those summits, seen what they had to offer. And what they offered really wasn't much different that what Spanish Fork Peak offered in that moment. But that was of no surprise. Mountains are predictable. Up, down, views, no views, suffering, a mild sense of accomplishment. That's what they're known for. They humble you. Remind you just how small you are in comparison to everything else. And that's about it!

Southwest; Santaquin and Nebo out there

Southeast

West(ish)

North, the rest of the Wasatch Range in full view

I groaned and hobbled over to the register; thing was chock full of booklets. The one I signed was brand-new; placed only just four days ago on the 11th. The last entry was from that guy I'd seen makin' his way down, and before that, the two mormon dudes that looked a little worse for wear. One of 'em even left his name tag in the register. The other two mormon dudes didn't make it, I suppose. That's probably why they looked a lot happier when I saw them, hahahaha...

Looking down Right Fork of Maple Canyon

Still riding the high of actually completing the seven, I didn't wait a moment longer and set off down the trail after leaving my marks in the register, knowing full well that I'd crash at some point. But the high lasted a long, long, time, propelling me down the trail a lot farther than expected. Met up with the horse lady again; she had almost made it to the dried-up lake. Said, "I don't know if this is the spot they told me to stop but I'm gonna stop here anyways." And I was like "Yeah, this is probably it, unless you wanna climb the mountain or something," and she was like "Oh! Definitely not that!" and that about covers the extent of our scintillating conversation.

Still heading down the right fork...

Met up with the hunter dudes again. They looked less miserable this time, probably because they'd given up their effort of hauling that wagon up the trail. They only carried their guns and their packs with them, and they asked me how far the horse lady was. Told them she was at the flat spot, and one of the guys sighed and said, "alright." And that was the extent of my conversation with the miserable hunters. 

After that, had the whole trail to myself. Didn't see a single soul the whole rest of the way down. As predicted, the high ran out and I crashed and hit a wall, propelling myself forward on nothin' but hopes and dreams. I was so beat, in fact, that when I saw a big ol' cinnamon bear about 40ft away from me I didn't even care. I just went "oh" and stood there and watched it. The bear looked at me and immediately started running away, desperately crashing through the brush to get as far away as possible from my alien presence. When I couldn't hear the brush anymore I began to move yet again, still as tired as ever.

Made it back to the parking lot, threw my stuff in the car, changed clothes, and stretched and stretched like my life depended on it. Felt a lot better after the stretching. Really did me some good. And then I hopped in the car, started 'er up, and began the long, long drive back to the casa. It had been a crazy couple of days. As of this writing, this weekend stands as the most challenging couple of days of hiking I've ever done in my life. Two-day total of forty miles, 19,400ft of elevation gain. Good gravy. Don't think I'll ever do something like that again. It's fun to look back on, but in the moment, it absolutely sucked!