Cedar & Sand

Zion Run: LaVerkin Creek and Bear Trap Falls

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Tue, 21 May 2013 01:59:00 +0000

Bear Trap Falls in Zion National Park.

Photos from a nice little 18-mile run in the Kolob section of Zion National Park back in March. Highlights include La Verkin Creek Canyon, The Kolob Fingers, and the Bear Trap narrows and falls. The trail head is a 20-minute drive from my doorstep.

The Kolob "Fingers" in western Zion National Park.

Descending the La Verkin Creek Trail from the Lee Pass trail head.

La Verkin Creek just above the confluence with Timber Creek.

Crossing La Verkin Creek farther along the trail where the canyon starts to narrow.

Entrance to Bear Trap Canyon--an upper tributary to La Verkin Creek.

Bear Trap narrows.

The deeper I got into Bear Trap Canyon, the colder it got. All the icicles were a pleasant surprise.

First look at Bear Trap Falls.

A hanging canyon north of Timber Top Mountain.

Lee Pass trail head. Topping out at 8,726 feet, Horse Ranch Mountain (forming skyline) is the high point in Zion National Park.

Havasupai - Grand Canyon - Days 3 & 4 - Bench Trail, Mines, and Exit

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Wed, 15 May 2013 04:51:00 +0000

View of Mooney Falls from the Bench Trail.

The Bench Trail is another must-do hike for Havasu visitors that want to do more than just soak in the pools. A bit hard to find (there is no official trail head or signage), the Bench Trail begins by the cemetery above Havasu Falls with a short scramble to the top of a wide bench cut into the Redwall Limestone. Once on top, simply follow the well-defined trail downcanyon along the edge of the bench.

The views are much more expansive on the bench and you can get a better sense of the enormity of this major tributary of the Grand Canyon. Looking down on the falls of Havasu Creek offers a unique perspective and great photo opportunities. It's about 2 miles to an overlook above Mooney Falls, which is as far as we went. The trail continues however, probably at least to an overlook of Beaver Falls and the confluence with Beaver Canyon.

The rarely hiked Bench Trail provides a fresh perspective on the wonders of Havasu Canyon.

Balancing on the edge above Havasupai Campground. According to legend, the campground used to be an Indian burial ground. Hector photo.

A closer look at Havasu Falls from the Bench Trail.

From the Bench Trail, one has a fine view of a well-exposed breccia pipe in upper Carbonate Canyon. These likely formed when large caverns in the Redwall Limestone collapsed and thousands of feet of overlying rock above fell into the void. Hundreds of breccia pipes have been found in the Grand Canyon region. Some of them are hosts for uranium or copper. According to the USGS 7.5-minute topo map, this pipe has an mine near its base--I'll have to confirm this on my next trip.

Havasu Creek and Mooney Falls. Note the steep trail to the right of the falls that must be negotiated to continue downcanyon. The cottonwood groves along Havasu Creek are thick and healthy. Cottonwoods need to be periodically flooded to sweep out debris and dead trees and to spur the growth of new trees. Unfortunately what is good for the trees is not so good for campers that can be stranded in the flood waters, or for the Supai people who have to rebuild the campground after floods. On the flip side, if flood control measures such as dikes or channelization are added to protect the campground, the cottonwoods would eventually all mature and die off, with little new growth.

Bird's eye view of Mooney Falls from the Bench Trail.

This small natural bridge is just off the trail and is about 300 feet above the campground. Hector photo.

Mooney Falls.

A small, easy-to-miss side trail leads to a couple of old and lonely Supai grave sites.

After burning a couple of hours up on the Bench Trail, we decided to take advantage of the warmer temps (if you recall, we started this adventure in the snow!) and play around in the pools below Havasu Falls.

Hector gets his feet wet.

Playtime at Havasu Falls.

Hector takes the full plunge at Havasu Falls.

Once the sun dipped below the canyon wall and the air cooled off, we headed up Carbonate Canyon (a main side canyon heading east from the base of Havasu Falls) to explore an old lead-silver mine.

Hector stands at the entrance to Bridal Veil Mine, the largest and most accessible mine in the Havasu area.

While the mine is relatively safe to explore, be aware of vertical shafts to lower levels and signs of minor cave-ins.

Lead mine in Carbonate Canyon. Note the narrow gauge rails still in place in the foreground.

Zone of mineralization on the ceiling of the Bridal Veil Mine. Visible minerals include calcite (larger white crystals), galena, and sphalerite (gray and metallic minerals).

It appears the miners intersected a few small natural caverns which are very common in the Redwall Limestone throughout the Grand Canyon. These mammillary coatings (calcium carbonate) likely formed at the water table which is a good proxy for the elevation of whatever river carved the drainage the cave resides in (here, probably an early version of Havasu Creek). By dating dozens of cave mammillaries across the inner Grand Canyon, scientists have been able to better estimate the position of an earlier version of the Colorado River, thus revealing the timing of the evolution of the Grand Canyon. The most recent research of the coatings shows the western end of the Grand Canyon began to be cut nearly 17 million years ago.

Looking out the main entrance to the Bridal Veil Mine. A lack of roads meant expensive shipping costs and the mines in the Havasu area were destined to fail. The Bridal Veil Mine closed for good in about 1942 after producing over 150 tons of lead ore.

A relic of the old mining days in the Grand Canyon.

After fully exploring the main level of the mine, we returned to Havasu Falls for more late-evening photos.

Before climbing into our tents for the night, we attempted to photograph star trails with Hector's camera. Right when we figured out how to do it, his last battery pack died. Bummer.

Our only goal for day four was to get to our car at a decent time so we didn't get back home too late. We set a pretty stiff pace and made the hike from the campground to Hualapai Hilltop in about 4.5 hours. For the final steep grind (1,100 vertical feet in about 1.4 miles) from the Esplanade Bench to the hilltop, I decided to push myself a bit and vowed to catch up to the pack train carrying tourists that had passed us in Hualapai Canyon. I caught the mules about halfway up, but there was no reasonable way to get around them, so I just followed on the heels of the last one to the top.

Havasu is a great place for a family adventure. I spent a lot of time thinking about how much fun my kids and Susie would have here. My youngest should be ready to go in a few years--can't wait!

Final shot of New Navajo and Fifty Foot Falls on the hike out.

Church in Supai Village.

Hector climbs the final switchback to Hualapai Hilltop.

View into Hualapai Canyon from the trail head. While the trail to Supai Village, the campground, and the Colorado River are often described as a tough hike, truth is, it's one of the easiest and most gradual trails leading into the heart of the Grand Canyon.

Havasupai - Grand Canyon - Day 2 - On to the Colorado!

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Sun, 28 Apr 2013 01:16:00 +0000

Mooney Falls.

Few visitors to Havasu make the scenic 8-mile hike (16 mi round trip) from the campground to the Colorado River. I can't imagine why. As you proceed downstream, the canyon deepens and you see fewer and fewer tourists. All the while, Havasu Creek maintains its Caribbean-blue waters as it swirls through interlocked tubs and tumbles over grand staircases. And at the end of the trail, you find yourself at the very bottom of one of the greatest natural wonders of the world.

A creek crossing at Havasupai Campground.

Several mines (sliver-lead, and later probably vanadium) can be found in the cliffs above Havasu Creek, particularly near the campground. Close to one of these mines, stood an old miner's cabin where author Edward Abbey stayed for 5 weeks sometime in the 1950s. His time spent at Havasu is chronicled in his book Desert Solitaire.

The Havasupai Campground terminates to the south where the bottom of the canyon and Havasu Creek make a dramatic 200-foot drop at Mooney Falls. A precarious trail twists down a series of ledges and tunnels toward the base of the falls where heavy chains and a wooden ladder assist with the final near-vertical drop to the canyon floor.

According to the Supai, only spirits and birds traveled beyond Mooney Falls prior to the 1880s when adventurous miners began penetrating every nook and cranny of the Grand Canyon in search of precious metals.

The history of the waterfall's namesake is a bit murky. All accounts seem to agree that a prospector by the name of Mooney (some claim his first name was James, but apparently, mining records list a D.W. Mooney) fell to his death at these falls in 1882. All also agree that he was part of a larger mining exploration party consisting of several other prospectors. There is less agreement on the details about how exactly he died and where his remains were buried. Some claim he was being lowered down on a rope by his companions when the rope frayed on a sharp travertine curtain and broke, sending Mooney to his death. Another variation is that the rope jammed in a crevice, stranding him in a dangling position for three days before the rope suddenly snapped. Other accounts say Mooney died scaling up the falls while trying to help an injured companion. Still others say Mooney was alone and the fall was not witnessed at all.

Regardless of how the accident occurred the story continues with the fact that at the time of the accident, Mooney's companions had no way of retrieving his body for proper burial. It was decided they'd return several months later with better equipment to try and access the body. Upon their return nearly a year later an Indian showed the miners a couple of slender caves in the travertine that could be used as a route to the bottom of the falls. The miners blasted and widened the caves, and drove steel spikes to make the descent safer (this is the same route used today - no doubt the Supai have made further improvements since 1883).

Reaching the bottom, the miners discovered a rind of travertine already encasing Mooney's body. Some claim his body was left where he died, allowing the creek to slowly entomb his corpse in solid rock. Others say we was buried nearby on a small island that divides the stream below the falls. Another account explains that a flood had uncovered Mooney's remains and that members of the Supai Tribe moved the remains to a grave on a high bench overlooking the canyon to the west.

Mooney Falls made the news more recently (June 2012) when a young Boy Scout from St. George, Utah, was swimming in the plunge pool with friends and got trapped by the falls' powerful current and drowned.

The spectacular Mooney Falls. At about 200 feet tall, Mooney Falls are slightly taller than Niagara Falls.

With the help of chains, Hector negotiates the final descent to the bottom of Mooney Falls. Constant spray from the waterfall keeps this lower part pretty slick.

View of Mooney Falls out of one of the small tunnels that lead to the plunge pool.

Additional mines are found below Mooney Falls. Let's just say these ones are a little bit tricky to get to.

Brave miners in the late 1800s to early 1900s went to great lengths to find their precious metals hidden in the high walls above Havasu Creek. Photo courtesy of the National Park Service.

The trail below Mooney Falls is used much less frequently, but we found it pretty easy to follow. We jogged the better portions of the trail, but took our time to take photos whenever we felt inspired to do so. We soon reached Beaver Falls where we passed a small group that had already seen the falls and were heading back. There is a bit of easy scrambling to get around and then down below the falls. After spending some time snapping photos we continued downcanyon.

In hotter weather, you could easily spend an entire day playing and soaking at Beaver Falls.

The trail leading around Beaver Falls.

Beaver Falls.

Below Beaver Falls, I thought we'd have the canyon to ourselves. However, I noticed a pair of fresh tracks heading downstream suggesting otherwise. We were moving at a good rate so I figured we'd catch whoever was ahead.

Sure enough, as we reached a place where the trail crosses the creek we came upon a large backpack and two pairs of trekking poles. We didn't immediately see the owners of the gear, so we forded the creek and continued on our way. Maybe 50 yards farther, we looked across the creek and saw a guy and a girl down on hands and knees carefully crawling along a narrow ledge above the creek. The guy's surprised eyes met mine. Without saying a word, he pointed to me and Hector and glanced back at his companion crouched right behind him.

"How the hell did you guys get over there?" he yelled with a big smile.

I yelled back that we had waded across the creek back near his backpack and that the water was only mid-thigh deep.

They had lost the trail and were route-finding through the cliffs in an attempt to keep their leather hiking boots dry. I had a feeling that if they were planning to make it all the way to the Colorado, it was going to be long day for them.

I thought Havasu Creek would begin to lose its blue color farther down the canyon. I was wrong. It looks like this all the way to the Colorado.

Closer to the confluence, the trail drops down to the creek through a short natural tunnel. From here, we had to route find a bit to figure out how to get around a final narrows section. I was leading us up a somewhat exposed route on the east side of the canyon when Hector spotted a well-used trail on the opposite side. A quick creek crossing and short scramble later and we were looking directly down into the watery narrows. From here it was an easy walk to the bank of the Colorado River.

Havasu Creek funnels into a dramatic slot just before the confluence with the Colorado River. Just before it narrows, you'll need to cross over to this ledge on the west side of the Creek. From here it's an easy walk to the Colorado.

Looking through the final narrows to the Colorado-Havasu confluence.

We spent a good hour hanging out at the confluence. Being such a large river for desert country, the Colorado always impresses. We ate snacks and took photos. Hector tried to get some closeup underwater footage of the large sucker fish that seemed largely unafraid of us.

Looking upstream in the main gorge of the Grand Canyon.

Green water of the Colorado River mixes with turquoise water of Havasu Creek. Note all of the large sucker fish relaxing in the eddie to the left. This is a popular stop for boaters on the Colorado. Some will make the quick half-day-hike up to Beaver Falls and back. Judging from the freshly-speared sucker fish we found, I think we had barely missed a boating party beached here.

A freshly speared sucker fish near the confluence of the Colorado River and Havasu Creek.

Looking up into the final Havasu narrows from the confluence.

As we began backtracking and we reached the natural rock tunnel, we noticed some fresh footprints wandering about that weren't ours. I asked Hector: How much you want to bet that those hikers we passed earlier made it here while we were down at the confluence, couldn't figure out a way around the narrows, gave up, and headed back toward camp? I added: Imagine how mad they'll be if they find out they were only 100 yards away from the Colorado!

Typical scenery along lower Havasu Creek.

We upped the pace. Fresh mud spatter covering the ground at the exit of each stream crossing indicated we were quickly closing in the hiking couple.

We caught up to them right where you start the steep scramble around Beaver Falls. I knew what the guy was going to ask before the words left his mouth: "Did you guys make it all the way to the river?"

"Yeah." we replied.

He described how far they'd gotten. He mentioned the rock tunnel. He asked how close they were to the Colorado.

"A hundred yards maybe."

He shook his head and swore.

We described how to bypass the narrows and we continued on with other small talk as we collectively followed the cairned route to the top of the bench above the falls. They had come from the Midwest, Ohio maybe. They explained that Havasu was only part one of their backpacking vacation. I was really surprised about what they had planned for part two: a multi-day backpack on the Rainbow Trail that circumnavigates Navajo Mountain and passes by Rainbow Bridge on the shore of Lake Powell. My surprise came from the fact that this is not a very popular route (nearly all visitors to Rainbow Bridge get there by boat now days), and also because it happens to be on my own high-priority list.

After a little more chit chat, Hector and I climbed down below Beaver Falls for more photos in the evening light, while our new hiking friends continued up the trail. I thought that was the last we'd see of them.

Beaver Falls.

After spending about 45 minutes photographing the falls, we continued upcanyon. We again noticed the still-wet mud at the stream crossings and suspected we were getting close to overtaking the hiking couple (we could easily pick out their tracks because one of them had a serious heel strike that resembled a divot from a nine iron).

Then the tracks with the deep divot disappeared The sandy banks at the stream crossing were dry. Had the couple kicked it into gear and already reached camp?

We arrived at Mooney Falls right as the golden hour before sunset began. Gone was the harsh light we had earlier. We pulled out our cameras and tripods and started tinkering with ISO, f-stops, shutter speeds, and other nonsense.

As we moved about shooting the falls from different angles we heard voices approaching from downstream. Guess who. This time they seemed a bit embarrassed to see us again, but we all got a good laugh about about it. Apparently they continued to struggle to find the stream crossings and when they'd find them, they were taking their boots off, crossing barefoot, and them lacing them back on. At some point, they completely lost the trail and just splashed right up the stream bed.

I just hope they fared better on the much more remote and more difficult Rainbow Trail...

Mooney Falls at dusk. Note the top of a bright green tent just above the rim to the left of the falls. These campsites right on the rim might be the best in the entire campground, as long as you don't sleep walk!

Mooney Falls.

Havasupai - Grand Canyon - Day 1 - The Hike In

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 22:43:00 +0000

Havasu Falls at dusk.

Me and my nephew Hector had a fantastic trip to Havasu Canyon back in early March.

I have long been intrigued with the Havasu area of the Grand Canyon. Photos of the vibrant turquoise waterfalls along Havasu Creek seemed too good to be true. But negative reports of starving animals, smelly outhouses, mule-urine-soaked trails, and even a brutal murder kept Havasu several rungs below the very top of the to-do list (I now believe most of these reports are way over-blown).

But my recent fascination with and desire to see more of the Grand Canyon and its tributaries quickly escalated Havasu to the top of the list. And when Hector expressed interest in a camping trip during the University of Utah's (where he is finishing up an electrical engineering degree) spring break, I knew it was time to finally visit the "people of the blue-green waters" at Supai Village.

Our plan was to spend a fairly leisurely 4 days and three nights in Supai Campground.

Day one was for backpacking the 7.5 miles to Supai Village, paying our fees (about $100 each [$17/night + $35 entrance fee + environmental fee and tax], hiking the remaining 2 miles to the campground, and photographing all the falls between Supai and the campground. Day two would be a hike to the Colorado River and inner gorge of the Grand Canyon. Day three was for hiking a seldom-visited upper bench trail, exploring a gold mine, and swimming. Day four would be for packing up and hiking back to Hector's car at Hualapai Hilltop.

As the time for our trip approached, it became clear that a large storm sweeping over the Southwest would make our first two days at Havasu a soggy affair. We decided to push the trip back by one day so that the storm would be breaking during our hike in, leaving sunny conditions for the remaining three days.

Here are pics and commentary for day one:

After sleeping in Hector's car at the Hualapai Hilltop trail head, we woke up to near-blizzard conditions. Snow continued to fall as we prepared to make the plunge into Hualapai Canyon. Hector Photo.

Snow falls as Hector descends through the clouds near the top of the Havasupai Trail.

With no roads leading to Supai, the tiny Indian village remains the only town in America that still receives daily mail via pony (mule) express.

A supply pack train enters the narrows of Hualapai Canyon.

Typical scene in Supai Village.

Another reason I looked forward to our Havasu trip was to see the effects of powerful flash floods that changed the canyon bottom in 2008. The best place to see these effects is about a mile below town where the first waterfalls appear.

Flash floods are perhaps the most important process for canyon development in the arid Southwest, and they have greatly affected Havasu Creek and its waterfalls on a regular basis. The August 2008 flood is just the latest (apparently a major flood also occurred in October 2010 causing additional evacuations) of about a dozen major floods since the late 1800s that have caused significant changes to the canyon. For an exciting narrative on what happened during the flood, check this blog post out by Tyler D'Hulst who was at the campground during the flood. About 500 villagers and tourists had to be evacuated via helicopter. A few were clinging above the torrent on trees for several hours before being rescued.

The first falls encountered hiking to the campground from Supai are Fifty-Foot Falls (in the distance) and New Navajo Falls (foreground; also known as Little Navajo or Rock Falls?). The entire gorge below Fifty-Foot Falls in the lower half of the photo was carved within hours during the 2008 flood when the river abandoned its old course (the river used to run due north, or to the right, atop the tree-covered bench in the middle of the photo toward the now-extinct Navajo Falls). The surreal greenish-blue color of Havasu Creek comes from sunlight reflecting off of the cream-colored travertine (calcium carbonate) that coats the creek bed.

A closer look at New Navajo Falls. Although only a few years old, Havasu Creek's mineral-rich waters have already deposited a thick coating of travertine producing the signature terraced look and rich blue color that make water falls along this creek special.

Fifty Foot Falls. I have seen these falls described as one of the newer waterfalls created by the 2008 flood, but I doubt that's true. There is substantial travertine ornamentation as well as well-established vegetation atop the falls indicating the falls have been around for at least several decades. The location of the falls also perfectly matches the Fifty-Foot Falls marked on the USGS 7.5-minute topographic map.

Another view of New Navajo Falls.

Map summarizing the changes to Havasu Creek and water falls due to the August 2008 flood. The aerial photography was was acquired in 2012. A fairly recent fire burned much of the vegetation adjacent to the old river course, exposing many of the old travertine terraces (the thin dark lines that look like cracks).

Death of a waterfall. Just five years ago Navajo Falls shown here (now dry) was one of the better attractions along Havasu Creek (flowing left to right at bottom of photo), which now completely bypasses the falls.

Havasu Falls, arguably the most photogenic of all falls in the area, presents itself a short distance down the trail from Navajo Falls. If you're not afraid of heights, the view from the top is amazing.

Havasu Falls fared better than Navajo Falls during the '08 flood. The main effects were that many of the travertine pools were knocked out, and the water now falls with a slightly different trajectory. Prior to the '08 flood, the waterfall was split into two streams at the fall's crest. Now there is a single stream that shoots out to the left side (looking down canyon). Several decades ago, the stream fanned out and fell over a wide area creating a broad curtain of water. In fact, due to the broad curtain or "vail," the falls were originally known as Bridal Veil Falls. Subsequent floods have blown out the low notch now confining the stream to a narrow chute.

Taking in the view above the 100-foot Havasu Falls. Hector Photo.

On the edge above Havasu Falls. A sight I'll never forget. Not sure what's up with the goat-lip smile. Hector Photo.

Havasu Falls with Prospect Canyon in the background.

Early photo of Bridal Veil Falls which was later renamed Havasu Falls after floods gouged a deep notch in the cliff, restricting the stream to a narrow pour off. Photo from the Grand Canyon National Park's Museum Collection.

Havasu falls during the destructive August 2008 flood. Photo Credit: Jonathan Fairbanks.

Just below Havasu Falls lies Supai Campground. We selected a nice sight near Fern Spring and set up camp. Having seen so many close calls with rock falls in recent years I couldn't bring myself to set up my tent adjacent to the canyon wall. Hector poked fun at my paranoia, but I'm telling you, next to flooding, rock fall is a real hazard at this campground.

Before dinner, we walked back to Havasu Falls for more picks at sunset.

Havasu Falls.

Check Flat Top Off the List, Finally

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Fri, 22 Mar 2013 17:45:00 +0000

Fourth time was the charm for the elusive Flat Top Peak. Before viewing photos proving I actually made it to the top of the Oquirrhs' 10,347-foot summit, let's have a quick review of my previous three failed attempts to conquer Flat Top:

(1) Summer 2006-ish. I mountain biked up from Ophir and toward Halls Basin following a route described in Michael Kelsey's Utah Mountaineering guidebook. I foolishly ignored a couple of NO TRESPASSING signs (the guidebook is outdated--don't go this way) and ended up diving into the bushes when I heard a woman coming up the road on a 4-wheeler. I got to within about a 1/4 mile of the cabin at Halls Basin when the woman on the 4-wheeler flew around a blind corner before I could take evasive maneuvers. After being scorned and sternly told hikers are not welcome on their property, I coasted back down. Feeling detested, I gave up on the peak and ended up checking out a few old mines.

(2) December 2009. Attempted summit with brothers Eros and Matt via the normal South Fork route a day or two after a heavy snowstorm. Even with snowshoes, the fresh deep powder slowed us down and we were not prepared to finish in the dark. We threw in the towel about 2 miles from the top.

(3) December 2011. Tried to climb the ridge extending northwest from Flat Top. This time, thick snow and oak brush bogged me down considerably, and I gave up after just a few miles. I vowed to never try a winter climb of Flat Top again.

Flat Top is not an extraordinarily difficult peak. In fact, hiking in summer and taking the usual route up South Fork, Flat Top would be an easy half-day hike. Even late winter or early spring with consolidated snow should be enjoyable as well. If there is fresh powder, be prepared for a long and slow all-day slog to top. In deep snow conditions, skis might be the ticket.

I guess I just like to suffer. On the 20th of January, I once again found myself trudging up the ridge in alternating patches of deep powder and slush. I was behind schedule and questioning my own sanity. But I couldn't fail again.

Once I got on the ridge between Lewiston Peak and Flat Top, conditions improved and it was pretty smooth sailing from there.

The last 2 hours of the descent were in the dark and I navigated solely by GPS and headlamp. That last bit of hiking in the dark was very peaceful and probably my favorite part of the hike.

Final numbers:
Distance: 11 miles roundtrip
Elevation gain: 4,300 feet
Time: let's just say all day...and then some

11,031-foot Deseret Peak tops the skyline above Lion Hill near Ophir, Utah.

Wind-swept ridge between Lewiston Peak and Flat Top.

Looking back to Lewiston Peak which is only about 200 feet lower than Flat Top.

The Ault family owns a large chunk of land near Flat Top and they like to make their presence known. While the route up Halls Basin is now clearly marked off-limits, the ownership status along other routes is not marked and can be quite confusing.

Checking the summit log on Flat Top.

A closer look at the old communication equipment on top.

View from summit ridge into smog-filled Utah Valley. Timpanogos Peak in upper right.

View to north into Ophir Canyon. The highest treeless peak (upper center part of photo) is Bald Mountain at 10,006'.

View to northeast into Salt Lake Valley and to the Wasatch Range.

The sun sets on Lowe Peak (10,589'), another peak I'd like to conquer some day.

Grand Canyon, Thunder Spring, Tapeats Creek, and the Surprise Valley Landslide

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Fri, 11 Jan 2013 02:35:00 +0000

Mighty Thunder Spring in Grand Canyon National Park.

"You're in luck," the ranger explained. "All three campsites are available tomorrow--you can have your pick."

This isn't what I wanted to hear. I wasn't prepared to make a decision.

I was at the Interagency Office in Saint George, Utah, with one ear on the phone with a Grand Canyon backcountry ranger, and one eye on my 2-year-old son yanking books off of a shelf in the adjacent bookstore.

My in-laws had recently offered to watch the kids for a couple of days so Susie and I could celebrate our belated 13-year wedding anniversary. We had so much fun on our hiking anniversary last year, Susie gave me the green light to plan another memorable adventure. Ever since my rim-to-rim-to-rim hike, I'd dreamed of backpacking with my wife into the Grand Canyon (she had never been before), and this was my chance.

I knew it takes several months to reserve a camping site at Phantom Ranch, Bright Angel, or Indian Garden camps along the main corridor trails, so they were out. With limited time to research alternatives, I discovered three easily accessible (from southwestern Utah) 2- to 3-day backpack trips from the North Rim that are far less crowded, but still require easy-to-get camping permits from the NPS.

So, there I was, trying to decide between South Canyon (a tributary to Marble Canyon in eastern Grand Canyon), or Tapeats or Deer Creeks in western Grand Canyon. A smarter man would have asked the ranger which would be a better introductory backpack into the Grand Canyon. Instead, a fantastic image I'd seen a couple of hours earlier of an entire river bursting out of a massive desert cliff entered my mind. I probed the Ranger, "Which route passes that huge spring?"

"You're talking about Thunder Spring. That's on the way to Tapeats. It's an incredible hike."

Decision made.

With an Upper Tapeats permit in hand, I returned home with about 5 hours to study the route and to pack our gear.

The hiking distance to the campsite didn't seem to be a problem--a modest 9.2 miles. But the elevation change from the trailhead (Monument Point) to Upper Tapeats camp had me worried at 5,000 vertical feet! Susie's legs were going to be tested for sure.

Temps dipped well below freezing that night as we camped at the 7200-foot trailhead on the edge of the hulking Kaibab Plateau. We waited until we had full sun before slipping out of our sleeping bag and making final preparations.

From Monument Point, the Bill Hall Trail (named after an NPS ranger killed on duty in 1979) heads north along the rim, then drops over some Kaibab limestone ledges that usher in a twisty 1,800-foot descent to the Esplanade bench. This is the first of three large descents or "steps" into this part of the Grand Canyon (a 1,600-foot drop into Surprise Valley, and another 1,500 feet into Tapeats being the other two).

Under a clear but hazy November sky, temperatures quickly rose to near perfection (~upper 60s) and I was soon stripped down to t-shirt and shorts.

Susie climbs down the rim of the Grand Canyon along the Bill Hall Trail.

Susie enjoys the slickrock wonderland of the Esplanade bench.

Once down onto the Esplanade, we stashed a bottle of Gatorade as a pick-me-up for the final climb out of the canyon the next afternoon. Here, the Bill Hall Trail intersects the Thunder River Trail. Time and mileage passed effortlessly as we traversed the scenic, smooth red rock of the Esplanade.

Just before reaching the steep drop into Surprise Valley, we met two NPS rangers with very large packs that looked like they'd been out for several days. The lead ranger asked to see our permit. Her eyebrows raised as she looked it over. "Only one night at Upper Tapeats, eh?" she said as more of a statement than a question. "Very ambitious," she continued. "Most people take two days to get back out, camping an extra night on the Esplanade." She looked us up and down. Her eyes lingered on my worn-out running shoes.

"We know what we're getting into," I lied. "I've survived the rim-to-rim-to-rim hike, and I'm sure we can handle this."

I neglected to mention that it was really just me that knew what we were getting into. I was frank with Susie about what I'd signed her up to do, spouting off elevation gained/lost and distances, but until you hike in the Grand Canyon, it's difficult to grasp what those numbers mean. I also failed to mention that I barely survived the R2R2R hike, literally crawling/limping out of the canyon in the dark.

"Everyone does that, Tyler," she said flatly. "People are now hiking from rim-to-rim and then back to the first rim these days."

I stood quiet for a moment, first in amazement that she remembered my name after glancing at our permit for 2 seconds, and second, a bit bewildered because I was pretty sure I had just told her that I had in fact, completed a double--not a single--crossing of the canyon. Before I could speak, Susie quickly clarified, and not wanting to waste anymore time, we wished the rangers happy trails and we continued on our way.

Just as we descended the first rocky switchback off the Esplanade, we met two backpackers that were on their tenth day of a long loop hike from Sowats Point. Their route followed Jumpup, Kanab Creek, the Colorado River, and finally up Deer Creek. They looked pretty beat up (most likely from bushwhacking along the banks of the Colorado) but they were wearing ear-to-ear grins that come with wandering through the desert canyons for an extended period.

We stopped for a lunch break halfway down the grade into Surprise Valley. It was there that I first noticed something was amuck. Even though we were 100s of feet below the red sandstone and mudstone of the Supai Group that we'd already traversed a ways back, I could see this same sequence of rocks straight across from our lunch spot at the level of the Redwall Limestone. I then examined the house-size boulder providing shade as we ate. It certainly looked like Supai Sandstone rather than limestone. It quickly dawned on me that we were hiking on a massive rotational landslide (I didn't realize just how massive until later) and these rocks had slid down a considerable distance. Most of the rock strata in the Grand Canyon rarely waver from near-perfectly flat for miles on end. The bit of chaos here was exciting.

Part of the Surprise Valley landslide as seen from our lunch spot on the Thunder River Trail..

The temperatures continued to climb--perhaps into the 70s as we strolled across Surprise to the head of the Thunder River drainage. We had one more big drop to our campsite, and Susie wasn't showing any signs of fatigue.

We heard Thunder Spring echoing through the maze of canyons below us well before reaching the drainage edge and enjoying our first view of the spring. A short side trail leads to the base of the spring. Being way too loud to have a conversation, we simply soaked our feet and cooled off in the mist for a spell.

Thunder Spring spews 21 million gallons of water every 24 hours from a joint system in the Muav Limestone. It's hard to believe that the nearby, but rarely visited Tapeats Spring is more than twice as big, ejecting an incredible 48 million gallons per day.

A juvenile red-spotted toad at Thunder Spring.

Thunder Spring supports a rare verdant oasis in the inner Grand Canyon.

As we continued our descent toward Tapeats Creek, I was amazed to find the exposed basal slip plane of the Surprise Valley landslide running parallel to the trail. The other landslide features I'd seen back in Surprise Valley were nearly 1.5 miles away! This thing is huge. Above the slide plane lay brecciated (broken and munched up) limestone most likely of either the Muav or Redwall limestones. Below the slide plane lay relatively undeformed mudstone of the Bright Angel Shale.

Discordant and brecciated limestone involved in the Surprise Valley landside overlie well-bedded mudstone of the Bright Angel Shale.

Another great exposure of the basal landslide surface from the trail. Black arrows point out the basal slip surface.

I would later learn after reviewing some published work by researchers at the University of Missouri that the Surprise Valley landslide is the largest in the Grand Canyon, at close to 1 cubic mile in volume. The researchers believe that Thunder Spring may have played a role in triggering the slide. The slide initially dammed the Colorado River until the river reestablished its course farther south around the slide's margin. Many other large landslides have been mapped in the region. It appears landsliding has played a significant role (in addition to river down-cutting) to the deepening and widening of the Grand Canyon.

Map view of the Surprise Valley landslide. At it's widest, the slide is nearly 2.5 miles wide.

From the spring, the trail traverses the western ridge of the Thunder River drainage before dropping abruptly toward the Thunder/Tapeats confluence. We couldn't resist taking an additional break to shatter thin sheets of 500-million-year-old shale along the trail. We also noticed several petrified burrows left by Cambrian-age worms.

From the confluence, it's a very short stroll along the west side of Tapeats Creek to the campsite.

Hiking at a steady pace but with plenty of breaks (lunch, Thunder Spring, and several other viewpoints), we made it from trailhead to camp in just over 6 hours. This left us 2-3 hours of daylight to relax, cook dinner, and watch the sunset. After dinner, I strung our food up from a tree (little buggers still managed to get into a package of peanut butter crackers) and we crawled into our bags. We talked for a while as we gazed at the narrow strip of stars above the canyon walls, but the soothing sound of the nearby river had us both knocked out by 9 pm.

Susie makes her way down the trail above the confluence of Thunder River and Tapeats Creek.

Ancient worm burrows preserved in a sandstone horizon of the Bright Angel Shale.

It's amazing how just a few steps can take you from a tropical-like paradise along the river to sun-parched desert. The beaver tail cacti are comically large in this country.

Collecting water for dinner from Tapeats Creek.

Upper Tapeats Creek camp at sunset.

An adult red-spotted toad joins us for dinner.

Being a little anxious about the big climb back to the rim, we packed up and hit the trail at first light. Taking far fewer breaks, we were back at Monument Point in 7.5 hours.

Susie surpassed mine, and I think her expectations. I thought the exit would be much more difficult for someone not accustomed to such a persistent climb. She does run regularly, and it really paid off.

I highly recommend this route as a reasonable alternative to the crowded main-corridor hikes. I look forward to spending a few more days in this area, perhaps making a loop with Deer Creek and the Colorado River.

Susie insists she had a great time, but I have a feeling she'll be doing all of the planning for next year's anniversary.

One last look at the tall cascade beneath Thunder Spring on our hike back out.

Calf Creek, Phipps Arch, plus Zebra & Tunnel Slots

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Thu, 29 Nov 2012 23:05:00 +0000

Zebra Slot, Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument.

October may be one of the best times to camp on the Colorado Plateau. Temperatures are mild, it rarely rains, and the tourist season is over, making the more popular hikes less crowded. Yes, the days are short, but if camping with kids, this allows plenty of time for roasting hot dogs/marshmallows and telling stories around the fire.

Despite the decrease in visitation at Utah parks and monuments this time of year, it still can be difficult to find a camping spot in some of the smaller, popular campgrounds. We found this to be true recently as we tried to nab a coveted site in the scenic and pleasant (but tiny) Calf Creek Campground in the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument.

I thought we would have a decent chance at success being a Thursday, but we got packed and out of the house too late. By the time we arrived at the campground at 3:30 pm, all of the sites were gone.

Plan 'B' was to backtrack 5-6 miles south on Highway 12 to the Old Sheffield Road and look for a primitive site there. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the BLM had designated several nice sites that have great views and plenty of soft sandy soil to set your tent on. There are no improvements whatsoever (no toilets, tables, water, fire pits, etc.), but camping is free. With plenty of available sites to choose from, we ended up at a secluded site perched on a high ledge overlooking Spencer Flat. I would have been happy to spend the next 2 nights there, but we were not prepared equipment-wise, or mentally for an extended backcountry campout.

We packed up early the next morning and headed back over to Calf Creek. A couple were leaving just as we pulled in, and we were finally able to score a large site adjacent to the day-use area.

Sunrise at our campsite on Old Sheffield Road.

Ren fuels up for a fun day outdoors.

View of Escalante canyon country from our camp on Old Sheffield Road.

With the shorter days we planned to complete just a single hike each day, with plenty of playtime around camp. Since we had already hiked up to the lower Calf Creek Falls a number of times, we decided to hike up the trail a ways and search for a somewhat hard-to-find pictograph panel. Although faded and partially vandalized, it is still a nice little diversion off the main trail.

Faint human figures painted in red and yellow overlook a minor tributary of Calf Creek.

Bighorn sheep migrate across sandstone near Calf Creek.

Zoe investigates a beaver dam built across Calf Creek.

Our big hike for the next day was to Phipps Arch. This is a six-mile (round trip) hike down the Escalante River and up Phipps Canyon. We had a kaleidoscope of colors and pleasant temperatures (although the river crossing were a bit chilly), making this a memorable hike.

Susie gives Zoe a lift over the cold waters of the Escalante.

Ava and Zoe hike beneath a golden canopy of cottonwoods in Phipps Canyon.

The aperture of Phipps Arch doesn't hold any size records, but the thickness of the arch itself is impressive.

Susie takes a break in the shadow of Phipps Arch.

Phipps Canyon.

By carefully scanning the cliffs above the Escalante River near the Highway 12 bridge, you can spot a couple of these Anasazi granaries.

Cottonwoods of the Escalante.

While everyone rested at camp after the hike, I slipped out just before sunset for a quick bird's-eye view of the lower falls.

Lower Calf Creek Falls as seen from the east rim of the canyon.

Looking south down Calf Creek Canyon from the rim near the lower falls.

On our way home on the final day, we veered south down the Hole in the Rock Rock to check out the Zebra and Tunnel slots. After a few miles down the trail, it became clear that the kids weren't going to complete the entire 7-mile hike. They and Susie were content to play around in the sand in Halfway Hollow, while I ran the rest of the route.

The trail into Halfway Hollow.

It's a good thing I didn't drag the kids all the way because it turned out that both slots were flooded with cold, chest-deep water. Although these slots are only about 100 yards long, plan on taking plenty of time for pictures. I snapped away with my point and shoot as I ran through, but a serious photographer could spend hours here. Zebra is an especially fascinating place that should be on everyone's must-do list.

The flooded entrance to Zebra Slot.

flood-sculpted walls of the Zebra slot.

Zebra gets its name from the unique alternating light and dark layered cross-beds of the Navajo Sandstone that the slot is carved into.

A unique combination of color and texture make Zebra slot a photographer's dream.

Entering the flooded Tunnel slot. Tunnel lacks the colorful stripes, but it is still an exciting walk.

Tunnel slot.

Calf Creek Campground makes a convenient base camp for a number of excellent hikes and adventures in this area. There's much more to see and do, and I suspect we will spend many more nights at Calf Creek -- as long as we can get a spot.

Red Slot, the Paria River, and Asay and Deer Creek Canyons

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Tue, 13 Nov 2012 04:03:00 +0000

Flood debris 20 feet above the floor of Red Slot.

Some of the best hikes in guidebook author Michael Kelsey's books are long, meandering routes that string together many interesting gems that otherwise may not be worth a long hike. One of these routes that I recently completed is titled Johnson Hole Canyon & Trail, Asay Bench Trail & Canyon, the Red Slot, and Middle Deer Creek Canyon, in Kelsey's book covering the Paria River region. That's a mouthful of places most Colorado Plateau enthusiasts have never heard of (Deer Creek Canyon is the only place officially named on topographic maps--the others are either local or Kesley names), and the title doesn't even include all of the attractions along this approximately 20-mile jaunt into the heart of the Paria River canyon country.

Knowing this would take nearly every bit of daylight a mid-October day has, I decided to drive to and camp at the trailhead so I could get a crack-of-dawn start. Although Kelsey describes the maze of dirt roads leading from near Kodachrome Basin to the Johnson Hole trailhead as passable by a 2WD car in good conditions, with all of the big thunderstorms southern Utah had seen in previous weeks, I threw a shovel in the back of my Montero just in case.

Good choice. I ended up filling in three deep gashes cut across the road by heavy rains several days earlier.

A new moon and clear skies ensured I'd see every possible star on a clear and calm night.

As soon as it was light enough to see the berries on a nearby juniper, I started down the old Johnson Hole Canyon stock trail--a steep, sandy, and at times, ill-defined trail leading from Rock Springs Bench on top of the White Cliffs, 1000-vertical feet and about 4 miles down to the Paria River. Fresh scuffs from clambering hooves searching for traction on the steeply-tilted slabs of slickrock on the upper part of the trail made it obvious that this old trail is still used by brave stockmen today.

This hike explores the Paria River and tributaries just downstream from where the Paria cuts through the White Cliffs.

The trail drops into the dry wash flooring Johnson Hole Canyon (again, a local name), skirts around a couple of dryfalls, leaves the drainage, and descends an elevated sandy ridge that provides good views of the surrounding White Cliffs and, to the south, across the Deer Trails bench, and onto the distant but still dominant Mollies Nipple.

Just before reaching the Paria, a couple of short diversions off the trail were well worth the effort. First there is Balanced Rock just a few 100 yards off the trail to the south on a bench overlooking the river. There is no shortage of hoodoos and balanced boulders in this country, but this one really stands out. From some angles, the physics here really do seem impossible.

The amazing Balanced Rock on a bench east of the Paria River.

Another somewhat longer diversion off the trail to the north leads to what Kelsey calls the Red Slot, where the Johnson Hole Canyon wash cuts through red Navajo Sandstone. Although it only takes about 5 minutes to walk through the slot, its tall, sculpted crimson walls and snow-white sandy floor demand extra time for photography. The slot ends in a large, interesting grotto where you have a nice cross-section view of faults that have shattered and offset the sandstone.

A shot of the Red Slot (dark crack in photo center) from Asay Bench. The lower red part of the Navajo Sandstone likely represents the original color of the formation caused by the oxidation or "rust"of iron minerals (hematite) coating sand grains. The upper part of the Navajo here has been "bleached", meaning reducing fluids (probably hydrocarbons that are now long gone) moving through this portion of the rock column removed most of the oxidized iron "pigment", leaving the stone white.

Red Slot portal.

This signature of old-time cowboy Wallace Ott of Tropic can't be missed just inside the Red Slot entrance. Born in 1911, he had run cattle in the Paria country for more than 85 years making him as knowledgeable of this area as anyone. Ott is among a number of folks in Garfield County that claimed to have met Butch Cassidy in the mid 1930s well after the reported 1908 death of the outlaw in Bolivia.

Wallace Ott stands in front of the childhood home of Butch Cassidy in Circleville, Utah. Wallace was said to be the last living person to know Cassidy. Ott passed away February 11, 2010 at the age of 99. Photo credit: John Telford and the US Route 89 Appreciation Society.

White sand, washed down from the white Navajo higher upstream, adds stark contrast in the Red Slot.

Ducking under driftwood wedged tight in the Red Slot.

Dry fall and grotto impede progress up the Red Slot.

Lone Rock is one of the more prominent landmarks along the Paria River. The base of this rock is covered with old cowboy inscriptions.

The trail intersects the Paria River near a distinct stone monolith known simply as Lone Rock. From there, I made my way upstream, crossing the clear waters of the Paria several times toward Asay Canyon. Not shown in Kelsey's Book, I was lucky to spot a nice petroglyph panel partially obscured by tall willows on the east side of the river near its confluence with Johnson Hole Canyon.

Desert varnish-streaked walls along the Paria River gorge.

Unusual petroglyphs near the Paria River.

The Great Blue Heron of the Paria.

Following Kelsey's recommended route, I turned left (west) up Asay Creek which immediately started to slot up. The lower Asay Creek slot is not very tall, but its walls are beautifully sculpted, and if you're there at the right time (about 11 AM on this particular day) you get reflected sunlight that imparts an unearthly glow to the red sandstone. Just before the canyon gets super skinny, I stepped in a patch of quicksand that took me a bit by surprise. I've found the dangers of quicksand on the Colorado Plateau to be somewhat overblown, but this was the real deal. Mid-thigh in mud, it took a good 10 minutes to dig myself out. I then carefully crawled on all fours until I could see further passage through a very tight section ahead was questionable. Chimneying through the slot looked doable (at the cost of some skin no doubt), but being alone, I didn't want to risk getting stuck, so I carefully backed out of the canyon and climbed the sloped slickrock to the north to bypass the lower slot.

The lower slot in Asay Canyon. Beware of hidden patches of quicksand.

A watery passage in the lower slot of Asay Canyon.

Just above the lower slot in Asay Canyon.

The middle part of Asay Canyon is wide open with the White Cliffs looming to the north. Shortly after taking the right fork, I made my way through the upper Asay narrows which are carved into the upper white Navajo Sandstone. As Kelsey puts it: another short and sweet slot.

Bits of iron concretion and white sand in Asay Canyon.

Upper Asay narrows.

Weaving through the upper narrows of Asay Canyon.

Near the head of Asay Canyon, Kelsey's route heads south up a minor tributary, passes through a small grove of low-altitude aspen, and climbs up to a narrow bench (locally known as Asay Bench) separating the Asay and Deer Creek drainages. The traverse between the two drainages passes another petroglyph panel and a number hoodoos.

A unique petroglyph panel near the upper reaches of Asay Canyon.

Hoodoo near the rim of Deer Creek Canyon.

With a little route finding and trial-and-error, I climbed down off Asay Bench and into the deep middle part of Deer Creek Canyon. About 1 mile upstream from this entry-point the canyon splits into the Northwest and Main Forks of Deer Creek. A short distance up each of these forks are photogenic slots that can only be fully explored by descending them with ropes and technical gear.

Typical scene in the middle part of Deer Creek Canyon.

A modern dune encroaches on Jurassic dunes in Deer Creek Canyon.

Making my way up the extremely narrow slot in the Northwest Fork of Deer Creek Canyon.

From the bottom, you can't get very far into the narrows of the Main Fork of Deer Creek, but what little can be seen makes an impression.

Main Fork of Deer Creek Canyon.

After checking out the slots in upper Deer Creek, I regressed to the entry/exit leading back to the top of Asay Bench and headed east across the pinion/juniper-studded bench toward the Paria. At the rim of the Paria, yet another constructed stock trail leads down near-vertical cliffs to the river. Just downstream was Lone Rock and the long, sandy slog up the Johnson Hole Canyon trail to my car.

The White Cliffs rise above Asay Bench.

Sandstone glowing in afternoon sun is reflected off the rippled waters of the Paria.

Mount Olympus

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Thu, 18 Oct 2012 03:41:00 +0000

Mount Olympus dominates Salt Lake's eastern skyline.

It was 2:30 on a Friday afternoon in a downtown Salt Lake City hotel and I'd (almost) endured the entire week of listening to countless talks about how geology and humans don't always get along. I glanced at the remaining lineup. Slim pickings.

I had gone for several runs from my hotel room through downtown and up into City Creek Canyon, but I longed to climb and conquer. I wanted to feel the pain and fatigue from pushing too hard, and I wanted to finally sleep soundly my last night at the Metropolitan despite the unpredictable air conditioner and those True Value Hardware trade show attendees in the hotel parking lot having loud discussions about paints, adhesives, and women late into the night.

The decision was made. I patiently waited for the speaker's conclusion and high-tailed it to my hotel room, filled my Camelbak and headed for East Mill Creek.

My heart sank after pulling into the Mount Olympus trail head parking lot and seeing several piles of shattered glass glistening in the afternoon sun. Smash and grab jobs by local teens with nothing better to do.

There were two other cars in the lot--all windows intact. A youth group was repelling off a cliff adjacent to the parking lot. Feeling a little better about the situation, I decided to take the risk. More motivation to get up and down the mountain in a timely manner.

Shattered glass in the trail head parking lot is never a good sign. This is the price you sometimes have to pay for an easy-access, urban trail head.

After a 2 to 3 minute warm up of steady hiking, I broke out into a jog winding my way up the wide, well-used path. Within minutes, I was high above Knudsen's Corner with nice views south along the rugged Wasatch Front. Details of Lone Peak's sculpted summit were somewhat lost through the smoke delivered via jet stream from Idaho and California. The glacial moraines at the mouth of Bell's Canyon, sliced like salami by the Wasatch fault, were likewise reduced to mere silhouettes. The Oquirrh range, just 15 miles across the valley, was completely absent.

Smoke from regional wildfires limit views from the Mount Olympus Trail.

Having already pounded out a 6-mile run in the morning hours, I wasn't quite sure how to pace myself. It's only 3.5 miles to the top, but you gain an incredible 4100 feet. I decided to push a fast pace as long as trail conditions were good (not too loose or bouldery) since I had a feeling conditions would worsen toward the end.

A shirtless runner coming down warned me about two rattlesnakes he'd seen on the trail so far.

The unrelenting grade slackens briefly where it drops into Tolcats Canyon. From there it gets steeper and a lot rockier. Not wanting to risk a face-plant on the unforgiving quartzite, I reverted back to a brisk power hike.

Stubborn Gambel oak, still building its energy reserves for winter, clung to it's chlorophyll. Higher up, maple burned its familiar intense red glow.

Typical trail conditions on the upper portion of the Mount Olympus Trail.

High in the southern fork of Tolcats, I passed a woman stopped at the trail side, arranging things in her pack. I asked if I was getting close to the summit. She guessed maybe 15 or 20 minutes, but couldn't be sure. This was her second shot at Olympus. She had gotten off course during her first attempt, barely made it to a sub-peak, and had to descend the trail by moonlight.

I wished her luck and kept hammering up the trail, trying to sort out which paths were the official trail and which were cheater lines cutting switchbacks.

At a saddle overlooking upper Heughs Canyon, I passed two teenagers that had just come off the summit. They kindly gave pointers to help stay on the right route.

The trail becomes a bit obscure where it scales the south-facing, bare-rock upper slope of Olympus. Using my hands as much as my feet, I hoisted myself on the summit ridge, and then boulder-hopped the last 100 feet to the top.

I sat for the first time and checked my watch: 1 hour, 46 minutes. Not a bad time I figured, and it allowed me plenty of daylight to relax and take more photos on the return trip. A snail's pace, however, compared to the great Joe Bullough, the god of this particular Mt. Olympus: over 400 ascents and counting with an incredible personal best round-trip time of 2 hours.

I snacked on peanut butter and Ritz cracker sandwiches (good only on a grueling hike) and soaked in the hazy views of the valley and surrounding peaks.

I checked the mailbox: the usual assortment of pencils and water-logged notebooks. And a bottle of Gatorade, left for the unprepared. Or maybe it was a can of Bud, I can't recall exactly.

Rusty quartzite of the 900 million-year old Big Cottonwood Formation form the bulk of Mount Olympus.

View north along the southern Wasatch.

After resting and snapping photos for 10 minutes or so, I started the free-fall.

Near the base of the south face, I again passed the woman on her 2nd summit attempt. I paused to describe the route I took to the top. She said her knees were filling it and that she may have to drop out of an lengthy adventure race she had registered for early the next morning. She is either super hard-core, had no clue how to prepare for a race, or, most likely I think, just didn't care about the race and perhaps wanted an excuse to get out of it.

Golden maple line the trail to Mount Olympus.

Beyond the boulder fields, below the Tolcats crossing, I was able stretch my legs and glide down the final meandering switchbacks.

Where the trail bisects a grove of waist-high oak brush, as I was warned, a short and fat rattler was sprawled out across the trail, warming the blood. In no particular hurry, it finally slithered off the trail, its warning rattle fading in and out like a poorly tuned AM station.

The worst part about a rattlesnake encounter? Now every root, felled branch, and linear shadow was suspect. I continued to attack the trail, concentrating on turning my feet over smoothly with light dabs to the trail. Occasional high-arcing hurdles over roots were required, just to be safe.

A Great Basin rattlesnake stares me down from the side of the trail.

Rounding a switchback high above Tolcats Canyon.

I was relieved to find my vehicle with with no broken windows back at the parking lot.

Total round-trip time was just under 3 hours.

Later I'd I finally get that good night's sleep. The old Metropolitan felt more like the five-star Grand America that night.

Canaan Mountain, Water Canyon, and the Secret Slot

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Sat, 29 Sep 2012 00:47:00 +0000

Don't let the lack of content on the ol' blog make you think I've been lazy this summer. Thanks to a geologic-mapping project I'm involved with at work, I've probably hiked more this summer than any other in recent memory. I'll report on that later.

Still, I hadn't completed a trademark, long solo adventure all summer, so I reserved Labor Day to fill the void.

I had daydreamed of traversing Canaan Mountain ever since my first drive through that magical stretch of blacktop through Virgin and Rockville en route to Zion National Park. There, south of Rockville, rise towering red-rock mesas with craggy edges, dotted with majestic pines.

I thought they surely must be part of the park. A quick look at the map revealed they weren't. In fact the map showed the area was simply good old BLM public land, and a wilderness area. Interesting.

The south face of Canaan Mountain as seen from Highway 59. Canaan Mountain is part of the larger Vermilion Cliffs.

Canaan Mountain is even more impressive as seen from Highway 59 to the south, between Apple Valley and the twin cities Hildale, Utah, and Colorado City, Arizona. During each drive to Lake Powell or Kanab, I imagined what sort of terrain this isolated wilderness held atop the great stone fortress. Access to the mesa top didn't just look difficult, it seemed impossible. One thousand-plus foot cliffs all the way around as far as I could tell.

There is not a lot of info out there on hiking in the Canaan Mountain Wilderness. I did learn that there are three main entry points: either Water or Squirrel Canyons near Hildale, an old stock trail from near Rockville, or a long sandy track originating near the Coral Pink Sands Dunes far to the east.

Since I'd be using a mountain bike to shuttle back to my car after the hike, I decided to hike up the stock trail and then down Water Canyon. This would result in a mostly downhill 24-mile bike ride at the end of a 15-mile hike.

The Eagle Crags and trailhead above Rockville.

My challenge that Sunday evening was to hide my bike near the Water Canyon trailhead without any of the dozen or so recreating polygamist-sect members noticing. Both Water Canyon and the small reservoir by the trailhead are apparently very popular with the locals even on the Lord's day.

Camping at the Eagle Crags trailhead assured an easy, early start. The first few miles of trail are well defined and easy to follow, even with a weak headlamp. The trail fades quickly however, after skirting around the crooked Eagle Crag spires. The sun crested just in time to help me follow the fleeting route marked by an occasional cairn or faded flagging.

Dawn breaks on the Eagle Crags. Zion's signature monoliths rise in the background.

Varicolored crossbeds of Navajo Sandstone are peppered with tiny iron concretions.

Looking northeast from near the top of the stock trail toward the mouth of Parunuweap Canyon. Tree's Ranch Reservoir in the mid-distance made the news a couple a years ago when small leaks in its dam prompted fears of catastrophic failure. Failure of this dam, which is built on top of landslides and abundant weak, clay-rich material, would be very bad news for Rockville, Virgin, and St. George.

Ultimately, I simply bush-whacked my way through thick manzanita, pinyon, and juniper toward the only possible break in the cliffs. I soon managed to intersect the old stock trail, badly eroded, but fairly well defined, leading through the narrow cleft and on up to the rim-top.

On top is a surprisingly well-forested (ponderosa and p-j) and verdent cliff-locked island of stone beehives and shallow, mysterious canyons.

With no sign of a trail, I followed my GPS toward Sawmill Spring, scrambling down a series of ledges and into a wide, sandy wash. While climbing out of the wash toward a larger grass-lined drainage, I came across a very unexpected sight. Here I was, in the middle of a wilderness area with no road in sight, in fact, no sign that any human had ever been through this country before, and I looked up to see a truck tire suspended from a broken ponderosa limb, a good 20 feet off the ground.

I'm still scratching my head.

Typical scene from a high vantage on Canaan Mountain.

Where from? How?

Rain the week before meant running water, tall grass, clear potholes, and tadpoles in the drainage below Sawmill Spring.

Near the spring, I first noticed an unusual horizon of iron concretions (a.k.a. moqui marbles) within the Navajo Sandstone. These particular concretions were welded together into clumps rather than weathering out to individual "marbles". They reminded me of clustered flower bulbs, with only a select few that were "flowering" or revealing their internal concentric bands.

Iron concretion "flower bulbs" -- just starting to bloom.

In operation from 1915-1928, and employing up to 25 men, the old sawmill operation at Sawmill Spring removed millions of board feet of lumber. There's very little left to see at the sight today.

Reaching the old Sawmill site, I took advantage of the shady, fluttering canopy of aspen leaves and munched on my sandwich. I had a decision to make. From here, the usual route is to follow an old road or path from the sawmill site to the windlass structure (a cable- and pulley-operated cable car) used to transport logs, equipment, and people(!) up and down the 1,400-foot escarpment to the south. A nice, straightforward, worry-free path.

But, I couldn't stop thinking about those anomalously piled up contours on the topo map south and east of the spring that I noticed during planning. It sure looked like a slot -- but you don't often find slot canyons on high plateau tops with no higher drainages. I checked the aerial imagery on Google Earth. It was definitely a slot of some sort, but was it passable?

Thus, my quandary. Play it safe and take the well-trodden path? Or, explore and risk wasting precious time descending a potentially dead-end slot, and end up on the well-trodden path anyway 2 hours later?

It was a no-brainer.

The upper part of the secret slot on Canaan Mountain.

As I cautiously entered the canyon top, I fully expected to be stopped by a dryfall, chokstone, or a number of other insurmountable obstacles at any moment. It didn't happen. There were a couple of 20 to 40-foot dryfalls that, at first glance, looked impassable. But a little searching always revealed a safe bypass with some minor scrambling.

The canyon is a hidden gem. The canyon's walls are taller than expected and finely sculpted. Fir and ponderosa pine stretch hopelessly toward the sunlit rim from the sandy canyon bottom. As a bonus, the top part of the slot envelops a beautiful natural arch.

The slot is only about 1 mile long, but going in without any grand expectations, I exited the slot very impressed and excited with what I'd seen in such a short span.

This short but spectacular canyon deserves a name. I propose Windlass Canyon. Although long forgotten nowadays, I suspect the loggers back in the 1920s knew of it and used it as a shady alternate route between the mill and windlass.

Windlass Arch near the head of the canyon. Okay, technically it's a natural bridge as water occasionally flows beneath, but arch has a better ring to it.

In the heart of Windlass Canyon.

Exiting the canyon.

Bearing southwest from the mouth of Windlass Canyon, I soon intersected the old roadway or path and the windlass ruins. I followed the rusted cables through a man-made notch at mesa edge and was smacked with staggering views of desolate Arizona Strip country sprawling toward the Grand Canyon.

Windlass remains dating back to the 1910s and 1920s. Note the deep notch blasted out of the sandstone in the background.

According to the BLM wilderness proposal for Canaan Mountain, this windlass not only transported logs and equipment, but people routinely took the nearly 1,500 foot ride between valley bottom and mesa top. Yikes.

Westward view from the Windlass along the south front of Canaan Mountain.

The Vermilion Cliffs east of the Windlass are particularly craggy and wild.

Desert bighorns are always a welcome site in the high desert.

A thin iron-rich concretion zone (the dark capping layer) has formed some interesting hoodoos near "the Notch".

View to the south down through the Notch.

It's a relatively short stroll from the Windlass to the Notch--a natural break in the mesa rim offering an inspiring framed view to the desert below.

Although the air was perfectly still at the Windlass, the narrow confines of the Notch were creating all sorts of atmospheric turbulence. Every raven from Pipe Springs to Gooseberry Mesa had come to ride the thermal. If you believe such animal behavior is strictly instinctive, well, you haven't seen a hundred ravens playfully tumble through a summer thermal.

Ravens enjoy the ride above the Notch.

Sometimes following the sandy path, other times not (I'm easily distracted), I soon found myself in the midst of smooth, bleached sandstone known as the "White Wave". This is where I encountered a couple of hiking groups day hiking out of Water or Squirrel Canyon.

The White Wave of Canaan Mountain.

The White Wave.

From the White Wave, I dropped into a drainage that eventually led to the head of Water Canyon. From Top Rock--a huge sandstone slab at canyon rim--a trail provides a safe descent down impossible terrain into the bowels of the canyon.

View from Top Rock into the impressively deep Water Canyon.

The trail parallels a technical slot for a short stretch and then leads to the canyon bottom where a cool, clear stream slips down a series of cascades and small pools. Hanging gardens adorn water-weeping stone walls.

After having the mountain to myself all day, I was somewhat annoyed by the loud teenagers playing in the area and their assortment of trash left in the stream.

Below the narrows, I chose to stay on a trail that clung high to the western edge of the canyon. I could occasionally hear and see polygamist families hiking and swimming in their typical prairie dresses and long-sleeved shirts in the stream below. The few locals that I did meet on the trail near the trailhead were very polite and courteous.

The verdant narrows of Water Canyon.

Wow. These sure look like small dinosaur tracks. I couldn't find anything online about them. I'll float this picture around to some colleagues to find out if they are known in the scientific community.

Water Canyon Arch is easy to miss high on the east rim of the canyon.

I was relieved to find my bike where I'd left it. I changed shoes, strapped on my helmet, and began the ride back to the Eagle Crags trailhead.

Three or four challenges still laid ahead. First, I had to negotiate the narrow Hildale streets without getting nailed by one of the many 12-year-old boys that always seemed to be chauffeuring their numerous siblings around in massive SUVs. The second challenge was the wind. It was sort of a cross-headwind, making it both hard to pedal and hard to hold a straight line. That brings me to challenge #3: the 3-4 inch sorry excuse of a shoulder along Highway 59 that left little wiggle room (and in the wind, I was a wigglin') between me and the boat-toting monster trucks returning from Lake Powell at the end of the Holiday weekend.

After meeting those challenges, the last seemed pretty insignificant. It certainly wasn't going to kill me. But I knew it would be painful--the final short but steep climb from Rockville to the trailhead.

This was a fantastic trip. I really enjoyed getting back into this wilderness where few have been, and I felt like I made some exciting discoveries, or at least, rediscoveries.

The temples of Zion provide a dramatic backdrop along the Smithsonian Butte Back Country Byway.

The last push to the end. The beautiful town of Rockville lay below.

White Pocket Confounds

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Fri, 13 Jul 2012 03:50:00 +0000

The Wave....on crack....a.k.a. White Pocket.

The wonders of White Pocket on the Paria Plateau just south of the Utah border remain somewhat of a mystery. This colorful slickrock fantasyland--formerly known only by local ranchers and later by a handful of adventurous photographers--has officially come out of obscurity. National Geographic recently published an article on the Vermilion Cliffs National Monument which included some excellent photos of White Pocket. I've heard there's already been a serge of visitation since the magazine's release. Surprisingly, there is very little published by the scientific community that tries to explain the odd geology found there.

I remember when the much more famous and oft-visited Wave, just 6 miles to the west, made a big splash several years ago. The striped and smooth, water-worn surfaces of The Wave make for incredible photography, but a geologist could rather mundanely explain the phenomenon in terms of groundwater geochemistry, permeability, and oxidation states of iron.

White Pocket, on the other hand, is not nearly as easily explained. Yes, white Pocket shares many of the same components that makes the Wave so special: both areas are carved from Jurassic-age Navajo Sandstone and both exhibit drastic color changes due to differing oxidation states of iron. But at White Pocket, you need to take the geology displayed at the Wave and literally shake it all up. The striped Navajo Sandstone is there, but it is contorted to impossible angles (way beyond the angle of repose), swirled, and even folded over on itself. Much of this contorted rock is covered by a thick mass of featureless bleached-white sandstone that weathers into rounded polygons or "cauliflower". Locally, slices of the laminated sandstone are intermixed with the bleached sandstone. It is a sort of beautiful chaos.

A geologist will quickly proclaim soft sediment deformation, meaning the contortions and jumbling at White Pocket occurred back in Jurassic time while the sand was saturated and before the sand was completely lithified (turned into rock). Soft-sediment deformation is not that uncommon in the Navajo. Although the Navajo erg (sand sea) stretched from present-day southern California to Wyoming, and is often compared to the modern Sahara Desert, we now know that while arid, the Navajo desert had a relatively high water table and that sizable oases and small lakes occupied low areas between the massive dunes. Therefore, small sand slumps (saturated sand slumping into the steep lake margins) and even fresh-water limestone beds are not that uncommon. But I've never seen anything in the Navajo Sandstone on the Colorado Plateau at the grand scale of the soft-sediment features at White Pocket.

Retired petroleum geologist Marc Deshowitz has poked around White Pocket as much as anyone I know. He envisions a huge sand-slide mass, triggered by an earthquake, detaching from a tall dune and traveling rapidly downslope. As the mass slid and tumbled downslope, it ripped up chunks of laminated sand beneath that intermixed with the basal part of the slide. The sand mass eventually filled a large pond or oasis. This large sand mass is the featureless bleached-white sandstone or "cauliflower rock" seen today. The instantaneous loading from the sand mass caused pressure adjustments within the underlying saturated sand resulting in contortions and fluid escape structures such as sand volcanoes. Marc has identified at least 25 of these features.

Questions remain. The fine laminae and cross-beds beneath the slide mass are remarkably well-preserved. This may indicate all of the sand involved was buried under a fairly thick column of additional sediment. In other words, the slide plane may have been several 100 feet below the surface. This overburden pressure would have allowed the plastic-like contortions but still keep things somewhat in order.

Also, we may never know what exactly triggered the deformation. I like the earthquake idea, but other possibilities include a bolide (meteorite) impact, a prolonged precipitation event, or unusually rapid burial.

There's much to contemplate out at White Pocket, and I'm sure I'll be back. Hopefully its remoteness and difficulty in getting there will keep visitation numbers reasonable, so we can avoid the whole permit nightmare that now plagues The Wave.

Featureless white sandstone or "cauliflower rock" lies over red, contorted, and laminated sandstone at White Pocket.

Zoe, Ava, Kandi, and Susie Knudsen follow contorted laminated sandstone beds. Note chunks of laminated sandstone intermixed with the white sandstone in the upper left part of photo.

Overturned laminated sandstone beneath bleached sandstone.

The basal portion of the white sandstone intermixed with underlying laminated sandstone.


Investigating near-vertical beds of the laminated facies. Hector Knudsen photo.

The white sandstone or "cauliflour rock" exhibits an interesting polygonal pattern.

Convoluted beds of Navajo Sandstone at White Pocket.

Iron concretions or "Moqui marbles" litter laminated sandstone at White Pocket.

Hector Knudsen photo.

Frozen in geologic time. Zoe and Ava get a closer look at where the white sand mass had plowed up the underlying laminated sands.


Large-amplitude folds within the laminated sandstone.


A rollover structure formed when the white sand mass was transported over the laminated sand.

Looking closer at the rollover structure beneath the white sandstone. Amazing.

Yosemite National Park

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Thu, 21 Jun 2012 03:40:00 +0000

I didn't look into Yosemite campground reservations until about a week before our trip. Big mistake. This park is ridiculously busy, and so of course everything was booked solid. I started to look at private campgrounds outside the park and even considered just bagging Yosemite all together. On a whim, I rechecked the campground reservations website a couple of days later, and thankfully there had been a cancellation and I was able to get a spot at North Pines campground in the main valley.

Aside from all of the great scenery, I was excited to check out Yosemite's 3000-foot granite cliffs that have produced some impressive rock falls in recent years. The Utah Geological Survey produced a study on rock-fall hazard in Zion National Park and we employed some of the same methods pioneered in Yosemite. You don't need a geology degree to see that many Yosemite structures, campgrounds, and crowded hiking trails are in high-hazard zones. Yosemite rock falls have killed several people in the past, and more injuries and fatalities are a certainty in the future. The high risk has prompted a new, comprehensive cooperative study between the National Park Service and the U.S. Geological Survey that has resulted in set-backs, and plans to permanently close or move some park facilities.

Lower Yosemite Falls.

Rafters on the Merced River below Yosemite Falls.

Bridge over the Merced River near North Pines campground.

Small pond near North Side Drive.

Tenaya Creek and the lower slopes of North Dome.

Glacier-carved Tenaya Canyon and Half Dome. The massive 2009 Ahwiya Point rock-fall scar and debris field can be seen downslope and slightly upcanyon from Half Dome.

One advantage of going to Yosemite early in the season is all of the waterfalls. My guess is that many of these thinner falls dry up by midsummer.

Nevada Falls from Glacier Point.


Bridalveil Falls.

Mirror Lake lives up to its name.

Yosemite Falls from Glacier Point. A 1980 rock fall struck hikers on the Upper Yosemite Falls Trail killing three and injuring 19.

Classic Yosemite scenery as seen from the Tunnel View overlook.

Sequoia National Park

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Fri, 15 Jun 2012 15:22:00 +0000

A felled sequoia along the Congress Trail in Sequoia National Park.

I knocked a couple of National Parks off the old bucket list last month. No huge climbs or anything. It was nice to just relax and do the usual tourist stuff. We enjoyed having our friends Millie and Casey along. Good times.

We camped at the Potwisha Campground and spent one day in Sequoia. We camped the next night in Yosemite Valley--those photos are coming in a separate post.

Millie and Casey on top of Moro Rock. The high Sierras fill in the background.

Moro Rock. Susie photo.

Group of giant sequoias along the Congress Trail.

Congress Trail.

The General Sherman tree.

Susie and Millie mingle with roots of the Buttress sequoia. This tree was estimated to be about 2,300 years old before it fell without warning in 1959.

Crescent Meadow Road, Sequoia National Park. Casey photo.

Congress Trail.

Kaweah River, Sequoia National Park.

Congress Trail.

Getting close to the Tokopah Falls of the Kaweah River. Susie Photo.

Tokopah Valley, Sequoia National Park.

Tokopah Falls.

Day 3 in the San Rafael Swell

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Thu, 07 Jun 2012 04:11:00 +0000

We were all pretty tired from our hike down Muddy Creek the day before, so there was nothing too strenuous on the schedule for our last day in the San Rafael Swell.

From our camp at Tomsich Butte, we could see the ore chutes and dark tunnels of the Dirty Devil uranium mine complex just begging to be explored. State and federal government have been reclaiming many historical mining sites around the state including tearing down mining-era structures and sealing off mines. For whatever reason they haven't reached this area yet, and you're free to poke through the remains and peak inside the tunnels which date back to the 1950s.

Great views of Hondu Arch can be found from the Dirty Devil mines.

On the way out of the Swell, we stopped at the pictograph panel in Temple Wash. The graffiti there has gotten out of control and I didn't feel like I could get a decent photo.

The disappointing Temple Wash pictographs meant we had to find the much more elusive, and thankfully nearly pristine pictograph panel in Wild Horse Canyon.

A shallow slot with moderately good striped crossbeds makes the sand slog up Wild Horse Canyon bearable.

The Wild Horse panel will not wow you with its size or color. What makes this site so special is the incredibly fine detail that is so exquisitely preserved. You can see tiny drops of blood dripping from a snake-like creature's mouth. Locks of hair and a flying serpent's feathers are all clearly visible.

To properly end the adventure, we enjoyed burgers at Ray's Tavern in Green River and then said our goodbyes.

San Rafael Swell -- Day 2

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 03:44:00 +0000

I have no idea what time it was when I first heard a strange ruckus approaching my tent. All I know is that it was very early in the morning, and that it had to be pretty loud to wake me up from my deep slumber. I'd been driving long dusty miles around the northern and central parts of the San Rafael Swell the day before and I was bushed.

The rude interruption was not welcome.

As curious as I was to find out what could be making such a bizarre noise (it sounded like someone was slowly tumbling a bag full of empty aluminum cans), I was just too tired. Anyone who has camped alone for significant amounts of time in the backcountry learns how to ignore strange things that go bump in the night.

By 6:30, light filled my tent and I started to think about our impending hike down The Chute of Muddy Creek. Then I remembered the odd disturbance. Was it a dream?

It was no dream. Again, I heard the sound, this time right overhead. An inexplicable metallic clawing, louder than ever. Now everyone was awake and peeking outside their tents. I couldn't take it anymore. I unzipped my tent, shoved my sandals on and looked skyward. It was a huge porcupine, and it had roosted high on a cottonwood tree limb directly above my tent.

He didn't seem to mind all of the commotion we caused below. He had chosen his bed for the day (porcupines are nocturnal) and much like I hadn't budged earlier in morning, he likewise was not letting anything disturb his beauty rest.

A porcupine sleeps above my tent near Tomsich Butte.

We headed down the Muddy not quite knowing what to expect. I had been closely monitoring online stream gauges so I knew the spring runoff had not yet began. During peak runoff, let's just say a kayak or canoe would be necessary to safely descend The Chute. Even though stream levels were fairly low, I'd heard of some possible deep swimming holes. For example, Michael Kelsey reported in his latest guidebook three deep holes including a short swim as recently as 2010. Ready for anything, we brought along drybags.

Hector, Matt, and Eros hike along the dry banks of the Muddy River.

The canyon starts out wide open with vertical Wingate walls towering overhead. Abandoned uranium mines are easily spotted along the cream Mossback ledge below the Wingate cliffs.

We were just warming up and getting into a good pace when we hit our first deep hole. But how? We weren't even close to the narrows of The Chute. Why were we hitting chest-deep water where the canyon is so wide open?

Looking downstream, the answer was obvious. A tall column of the Moody Canyon Member of the Moenkopi Formation had collapsed across the river creating a natural dam. It was really a cool thing to see, and it's something that won't last long. It'll take just a single good flood to wash the dam out.

A rock-fall dam backs up Muddy Creek.

Heading downcanyon, the Muddy cuts deeper into the core of the broad anticline known as the San Rafael Swell. Thus, older rock layers are exposed as you near The Chute. Within a few miles of the trailhead, the stream begins to cut deeply into the Permian-age Cedar Mesa Sandstone. Similar to the much more common slot-former--the Jurassic Navajo Sandstone--Cedar Mesa strata weathers into similar patterns and also exhibits large-scale cross beds. In contrast to the red and white hues of the Navajo, Cedar Mesa sandstone is a soft yellow.

Aaron leads the way through the initial narrows section.

Morning sun manages to reach the bottom of a narrows section along The Chute of Muddy Creek.

Once in The Chute, we anticipated a deep hole around just about every corner. We had amped ourselves up so much for a "swimmer", we actually began to be disappointed when we turned a corner and saw more of the same calf-deep water. While the water never did get higher than our knees (not including the rock-fall dam which we could have easily avoided), the beauty of the canyon still captivated.

The Chute Gang stops for lunch; from left to right: Eros, Aaron, Hector, Matt, and myself. Hector Photo.

Aaron looks on as Hector works his way up a dry fall near the mouth of Music Canyon.

Near the deepest part of The Chute, a narrow tributary known as Music Canyon joins from the north. To add a little excitement to the hike, we headed up Music to see how far we could get. Music is a true slot that has been delicately sculpted by countless floods. After helping each other up and over several obstacles, we reached a tall sloping dry fall that looked doable but was just beyond our comfort level. Music is a fairly popular canyon to descend with rappelling gear, and after seeing just a bit of the bottom end, I can understand why.

Matt pauses in one of the wider sections of the Music Canyon slot.

Matt descends an obstacle in Music Canyon.

Below Music Canyon, The Chute reaches its deepest point near where a large log jam looms a good 40 feet overhead. From there, the height of the canyon walls gradually decreases as you approach the Hidden Splendor trailhead.

The famous log jam of Muddy Creek has been there for several decades. It's amazing how long wood can be preserved in the arid desert. It will likely take another once-in-a-lifetime flood to dislodge the mess.

I never paid too much attention to the time but I figure it took us about 8 hours to complete the 15-mile hike including a good lunch break and about 45 minutes goofing around in Music Canyon. A good hike. Not on par with the Zion Narrows or Death Hollow, for example, but a good and easy stroll through a deep watery canyon.

That afternoon in camp my Dad had dozed off in his chair beneath the shady cottonwood. A sharp whack to the head had him jumping to his feet and swiping at the air to fend off the attacking porcupine. When the dust settled, it was apparent that the feisty beast was actually a rogue lid blown off a storage tote by a strong gust of wind.

Turns out, the porcupine didn't budge all day other than to relieve himself on my tent! As we cooked dinner that evening around the fire, our quilled friend decided it was time to wake up and we watched him climb down the tree and waddle into the sunset.

Spring trip to The Swell--Day 1

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Fri, 18 May 2012 19:37:00 +0000

Somehow, one of Utah's greatest geological oddities and most scenic areas--the San Rafael Swell--has managed to escape becoming part of the U.S. National and Utah State Parks systems. While its beauty and recreational opportunities rival those of nearby National Parks, you don't have to deal with the over-regulation that plagues the popular parks. High admission fees? How about no entry fees whatsoever. Camping fees? Nope, just find one of countless previously used campsites throughout the Swell and you're good. Standing in line at 6 am to get a limited hiking permit? No hoops to jump through here.

I was joined by my Dad, brothers Matt and Eros, Eros's son Aaron, and nephew Hector for my latest excursion into the Swell. Our short 3-day trip was centered around a 15-mile hike through The Chute of Muddy Creek. There was also one mountain bike ride, with most of the remaining time devoted to rock art.

Realizing that I'd beat the rest of my family (coming from the Salt Lake City area) to the predetermined meeting spot at Castle Dale, I figured I had just enough time to stop and photograph the Rochester panel east of Emery.

There's lots to take in at the Rochester panel.

Some common elements we noticed in San Rafael area rock art are snakes, winged figures, and figures with wide-set E.T.-like eyes.

Even though everyone on the trip are not bikers, I convinced everyone to bring whatever bike they could find so they didn't miss the opportunity to ride one of Utah's newest and most scenic singletracks--the Good Water Rim. The trail starts near The Wedge overlook and follows the rim along the "Little Grand Canyon" gorge of the San Rafael River before continuing on along the rim of Good Water.

Man, I'm loosing my nerve in my old age. Here, I'm completely freaking out about a foot from the rim. I used to be able to tight rope cliffs like this without blinking. Don't worry, the real trail never gets this close to the edge, it's just me being stupid. Matt Photo.

The San Rafael's Little Grand Canyon.

Eros goofing around at the Little Grand Canyon overlook.

Aaron and Eros cruise along the Good Water Rim. Despite all of the Navajo Sandstone exposed in the canyon walls, don't expect Moab-like smooth slickrock. A thin layer of Carmel limestone capping the Navajo makes the trail surface fairly choppy.

Looking down Good Water Canyon.

Hector got this sweet sequence shot with his fancy new camera. I'm well overdue for a camera upgrade myself.

After the bike ride, we hit several points of interest down the Buckhorn Wash Road as we made our way toward our camp at Tomsich Butte.

I purposely left out the details when I mentioned to everyone prior to the trip that we'd be visiting the Morrison-Knudsen tunnels. You see, my brother Matt Knudsen married a Morrison, and I knew everybody would be scratching their heads as to what I could possibly be talking about out here in the middle of nowhere. There's not as much to see these days now that they have sealed off the tunnels. Still a bit of interesting history though (try and read the print in this photo of an information kiosk in Buckhorn Draw). Rumor has it that if the Navajo Sandstone would have passed the "explosives test," NORAD and other military facilities very well could have ended up here in the San Rafael Swell instead of deep within a granite mountain in Colorado.

Known as the "cattle guard" rock art site, these petroglyphs are rather unusual because they are not pecked into a dark desert varnish like most other carvings I've seen in the southwest. The lack of contrast makes them a little hard to see and even harder to photograph.

This single huge dinosaur track in the Navajo Sandstone can be found a few feet off of the the Buckhorn Wash Road.

Outlaw-turned-Peace Officer Matt Warner first met then-19-year-old Butch Cassidy in Telluride Colorado in 1885. Together they raced horses with some rustling on the side until successfully robbing a Telluride bank in 1889. They later went their separate ways with Butch eventually forming the Wild Bunch Gang. After a string of robberies and nearly 4 years in prison, Warner gave up the outlaw life. By the time he crawled up this ledge in Buckhorn Draw to write his name in 1920, he had been elected Justice of the Peace in nearby Price. Warner died in 1938.

Although heavily vandalized in the past, the Buckhorn Draw pictographs are still an amazing sight. The Barrier Canyon style of art seen here is at least 2,000 years old.

One interpretation of the bizarre Buckhorn panel is that the scene depicts Shamans transforming into supernatural or animal-like beings.

Buckhorn Wash pictographs.

Buckhorn Wash.

The red angels of Buckhorn Wash.

Despite being in hurry to get to our campsite at Tomsich Butte in the southern part of the Swell, I insisted we make the short detour to view the exquisite Head of Sinbad pictographs.

More Barrier Canyon style art at Head of Sinbad.

Although several thousand years old, the Head of Sinbad pictographs are extremely well preserved and have yet to be vandalized.

Look into the hollow eyes of this ancient E.T. and you may be caught in a hypnotic trance.

We arrived at Tomsich just before sundown, through up our tents, had dinner, and fell asleep anxiously awaiting our big hike in the morning through "The Chute."

Camp along Muddy Creek in the shadows of Tomsich Butte.

Kodachrome Basin State Park

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Fri, 11 May 2012 02:26:00 +0000

In the shadows of Bryce Canyon National Park lies a little-known Utah State Park that makes a convenient base camp for exploring Bryce and the upper Paria portion of the Grand Staircase National Monument. Kodachrome Basin offers unique red-rock scenery, famous for its intriguing "sand pipes," and it has among the best and cleanest amenities in a state park I've seen. The park has a number of short and interesting hikes, but more adventurous families will certainly want to venture outside the park to a number of nearby must-see attractions. For younger kids, the Upper Cottonwood Wash Narrows, Willis Creek, and Grosvenor Arch are an easy drive away. Serious hikers will want to hit Round Valley Draw and Bull Valley Gorge. Fishing at either Pine Lake or Tropic Reservoir will provide some relaxing down time between hikes. History buffs will want to visit the Widtsoe ghost town and cemetery, the Georgetown cemetery, and the Elijah Averret grave site in Averret Canyon.

Here are a few highlights of our trips to Kodachrome over the years:

View of Kodachrome State Park's campground from the Angel's Palace Trail. Flush toilets, hot showers, and very very clean.

View to the west from Angel's Palace Trail. A number of sand pipe monoliths are visible in the mid-distance.

One of the larger sand pipes along the Grand Parade Trail. Rather unusual for a Utah State Park, there are two trails within Kodachrome Basin that are open to mountain bikes (the other being the Panorama Trail).

Coasting by the Ballerina sand pipe on the Panorama Trail. Many theories exist to explain Kodachrome's sand pipes. Personally, I like the idea of them being petrified liquefaction features. Imagine a large magnitude earthquake rocking layered sand deposits near the shore of a Jurassic age sea (~150 million years ago). The intense ground motion thrusts saturated sand (white) up through drier, more dense sand above (red), finally reaching the surface to create a "sand volcano." Although the volcanoes at the surface are now long gone, the inner plumbing of the volcanoes have since turned to stone and are what form the pipes seen today.

The biking at Kodachrome Basin is far from epic, but challenging sand traps and fantastic scenery keep things interesting.

The "Cool Cave" found along the Big Bear portion of the ever-expanding Panorama Trail. It is legal to ride through this short slot, which makes for some interesting photos.

Cool Cave.

Chukars are common at Kodachrome. Try the short paved Nature Trail at dusk for a good chance to see them. This guy let us walk right up to him.

Mighty Grosvenor Arch -- a short drive from Kodachrome Basin.

The Upper Cottonwood Wash Narrows are a favorite with kids.

The full Bull Valley Gorge/Willis Creek loop is a must for experienced hikers looking for adventure. The first few miles of Willis Creek down from the Skutumpah Road is the ticket if kids are in tow.

Willis Creek narrows.

The fam in Willis Creek.

A clear, cool stream almost always flows in Willis Creek, raising the fun factor a couple of notches.

A description for the colorful "Cannonville slots" can be found in Michael Kelsey's guidebook for the Paria River. While there are a few photogenic spots in the area, your time is probably best spent elsewhere. Access update to Kelsey's book: Bob Ott and his wife no longer run the cabins & concessionaire at Kodachrome S.P., you must call them for permission to access the slots (435.679.8787). Very nice folks.

Playing around in the Cannonville slots.

As you hike between the two main slots at Cannonville, keep an eye out for this nifty toadstool. It wont be around much longer!

Red Reef Loop

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 20:36:00 +0000

The White (cliffs in foreground) and Red (mid-distance) reefs, and the Pine Valley Mountains (far background) make an interesting scene along along the Prospector Trail. The couple of miles along the well-constructed Prospector trail are the easiest along the mostly cross-country Red Reef route.

The Red Cliffs Recreation Area near Leeds in southwestern Utah has exploded in popularity the last few years. There is a quaint campground with nice amenities, but it is the short walk into the Quail Creek Narrows that attracts tremendous day use, especially in the Spring. On some of the busier Spring weekends, BLM rangers have had to turn people away because there just aren't enough parking places near the trailhead.

The vast majority of folks flocking to Red Cliffs splash up the creek, perhaps take a dip in some of the larger pools near the "Moki steps," and then head back down. Few venture into the more difficult slot section of the narrows above, and even fewer penetrate into the upper reaches of Quail Creek Canyon or its tributaries.

For those looking to see more of this area and escape the crowds, try the Red Reef Trail, which is really more of a route than it is a trail. The Red Reef Trail allows you to enjoy Quail Creek's watery narrows, but for most of the hike, you'll definitely be on your own--but in a good way.

I led a small Scout group through the approximately 10-mile hike last March. While it is a moderately challenging hike for most (sections of deep sand, confusing route finding, exposed downclimbing), the 12- to 15-year-old boys in my group had no trouble completing the hike. The general route is shown on the Red Cliffs Reserve Map and other maps covering the reserve. The loop can be completed in either direction, and there are advantages to both. Clockwise from near the Orson Adams house (just east of the campground) allows you to wade through the snow-melt water in the narrows during the heat of the afternoon. This is the direction I went with the Scouts. I've done it counter-clockwise as well, which allows you to hike downhill through the sandy wash sections.

It's a fantastic hike, and I'm surprised very few people have completed the entire loop.

Typical scene of the Red Reef route where is follows a sandy wash along a tributary of Cottonwood Creek.

Near the pass between the Cottonwood and Quail Creek drainages. Sweeping views of bluffs and bowls carved in the Navajo Sandstone are a highlight of this section.

Petrified sand foresets frozen at the angle of repose.

Majestic Desert Bighorns? Nah, looks like someone's pet goats got out and are a long way from home.

An interesting and rare constructed part of the mostly back-country Red Reef route. Someone put in a lot of work to cut this bench into the slickrock.

The descent down an unnamed tributary of Quail Creek is as exciting as it is scenic. There are several cliffs and potholes to negotiate. The hardest part seen here has a fixed rope.

The slot section of the Quail Creek narrows is a good introduction to basic canyoneering techniques: stemming, downclimbing waterfalls, and wading in ice-cold water.

Near the bottom of the slot is where you'll start to meet the throngs of people coming up from the bottom.

The famous "Moki steps" of Quail Creek. Rumor has it that back in the late 1800s, the early settlers of Harrisburg discovered much-smaller steps carved here by the Anasazi. They were later enlarged (and a rope has been permanently attached) to help out the less-nimble modern explorer.

Below the narrows on the north side of the canyon, a large cave makes a nice lunch spot on a sunny day. The Anasazi once called the cave a home, but vandalism has pretty much erased any signs of occupation.

There's no better way to end a long hike than with a little cliff jumping. We had quite the audience judging our dives.

Canaan Gap & Yellow Man Pictograph

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 02:23:00 +0000

Ledgy Shinarump slickrock made it slow going up the gentle grade. The constant mid-amplitude bumps lulled my son Ren, age 2, to sleep about an hour earlier. After negotiating each rough spot, Zoe, 7, and Ava, 5, demanded, "Did the Montero like that Dad?"

I had explained to my kids earlier how our midsized chunk of Japanese engineering wasn't happy unless it got off-road and tasted dirt every once in a while--the rougher, the better.

We finally reached the top of the mesa, where it breaks away steeply to the south into red and white striped Moenkopi badlands.

We were looking for a cluster of petroglyphs in the Canaan Gap area near the Utah-Arizona border outside of Colorado City. I stopped the truck and surveyed the skyline. Several prominent landmarks lined up--this looked like the right mesa. We just needed to climb down to the foot of the mesa to find out for sure.

With Ren still dozing, we quietly sneaked out to have a look around.

The air was crisp and calm. From our mesa-top vantage we observed a procession of low, broken mesas stretching into that No-Man's land of the Arizona Strip.

Within a few steps of the truck, we found colorful chunks of petrified wood. Right on the rim, there was an entire log that someone had attempted to dig out, but they apparently gave up after accidentally breaking the log into smaller pieces.

We explored an area at mesa's edge with numerous small holes and caves carved by wind and water. Potsherds littered the ground.

At first Zoe and Ava were skeptical about the angular earth-tone pieces not being just thin plates of siltstone that were likewise scattered about. Ava declared, "C'mon Dad, that's just a rock." It took a carefully crafted piece of rounded bowl rim with what appeared to be a finger print to convince them that there truly was 1000-year-old Tupperware laying around.

They quickly developed an eye for it. Zoe found a nice piece with a fish scale texture. Ava found a piece with dots painted on it--both the texture and paint are indicative of later, more advanced stages of pottery making.

Zoe and Ava display intriguing relics of the past.

Ren woke up happy, legs kicking, ready to hike.

While it appeared possible to climb down through the broken cliffs to the petroglyph site, I wanted to play it safe, as well as extend the hike, by walking down the lower east side of the mesa.

Once off of the mesa and onto the flats flooring Canaan Gap, we encountered a well used trail contouring around the mesa.

Besides the presence of a single ranch in the distance, I figured the area looked pretty much the same as it did for the Anasazi.

Faded archaic glyphs at Canaan Gap.

With Zoe and Ava taking turns leading the way down the path, we arrived at the largest petroglyph panel.

The panel depicts mostly sheep and human figures. The most interesting figure is an upside down human, which likely signifies death. I asked Ava if she thought maybe someone had fallen from the cliffs and died there. "Yeah, and that," pointing to a chipped geometric shape near the falling person's right ear, "looks like a snail."

"You think falling on a snail killed this person?"

"If the slime and pieces of shell get in his mouth, then yes." she insisted.

Dead man falling--death by snail?

Just to the west is what is locally known as the "Cookie Cutter" panel. Depicted are a snake, a few humanoids, a wolf or coyote, perhaps a bear, and a mutant double-torsoed sheep. What makes this panel so fascinating is the depth into the rock they are carved. Some are nearly a 1/2 inch deep, appearing as if the rock was punched out with a cookie cutter.

After taking a closer look at the glyphs, I'm convinced they weren't originally carved that deep, but that differential erosion has simply weathered out the soft Shinarump sandstone beneath the tough coating of desert varnish.

Ava and the "Cookie Cutter" glyphs at Canaan Gap.

Still farther west is a unique glyph that appears to be a map of some sort, perhaps indicating the location of a spring. I asked Zoe what she made of it.

"Treasure map."

"Nah," Ava interjected, "it probably shows how to get to a secret Indian clubhouse."

Worthy guesses from my young archeologists.

The Canaan Gap mystery map. Where does it lead ?

We continued to search the bottom of the cliffs. I was surprised to find a couple of distinct boxy stick figures – indicating natives from the Cave Valley region of Zion National Park had visited this site.

Looking over the talus-covered cliffs from below, I could see multiple routes back to the top of the mesa. I placed Ren in his backpack and strapped him on. Zoe blazed up the slope, enjoying the challenge of finding good foot and hand holds. Ava needed a little coaxing as we started up the bouldery slope, but her confidence built quickly, and she was scouting out her own route toward the top.

The girls wanted to search for more pottery and petrified wood, but with the mention of a cave and an Indian painting, I coaxed them back into the truck.

Ava stands below a pair of Cave Valley Style figures (upper right part of photo).

The dirt road to the Yellow Man pictograph site is playfully curvy and bumpy. Zoe whooped and giggled as we sped around corners and bobbed over "rocking-horse" bumps. Ava was unusually quiet. "Ava, aren't you having fun on this road?"

"No Dad, I hate this road."

I looked over my shoulder. No wonder she was miserable. Ren's car seat had tilted so severely due to the truck's side-to-side rocking, that he and his seat were in Ava's lap, pinning her against the door. Ren seemed amused by the predicament. Ava, not so much.

The appearance of an unusual stone cabin next to the road offered the perfect place to stop and fix the car seat, while checking out the ruins.

Stone cabin on the way to the Yellow Man pictograph.

With everybody comfortable again, we continued to where the road dead ends within a recessed cleft in the Vermilion Cliffs. A pretty place. It had all the makings of a great Indian campsite: a spring, abundant pinion and juniper trees, and sizable overhangs for protection from the elements. A well-used fire ring indicated that the same qualities that attracted natives so long ago also make this a great campsite today. The girls discovered a rope swing in the adjacent wash.

Ren gets up close and personal with a colorful outcrop of Springdale Sandstone.

Behind the campsite, and across the spring-fed creek, a steep path leads to a hidden overhang where I'm guessing a family or a couple of families lived. There are a number of petroglyphs adorning the sandstone walls, but the highlight is a 3-foot-tall, triangle-headed figured painted yellow and highlighted with red earrings.

The Yellow Man Pictograph near Dutton Pass in the Vermilion Cliffs.

We had a lively discussion about whether our family could survive living in the cave. Ava's main concern was not being able to keep her head warm enough to avoid "brain freeze". Zoe had serious issues with not have a flushing toilet. I had my doubts about being able to keep food on the table (rock slab).

With renewed respect for the Ancient Ones, we headed back to the comforts of modern society.

Shorty's to Telescope Peak, Death Valley N.P.

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 23:00:00 +0000

Death Valley is well known as having the lowest point in North America in Badwater Basin at nearly 300 feet below sea level. Much less well known are the impressive Panamint Mountains that rise abruptly from Badwater's western margin. Although the Panamint range isn't at the top of every peak-bagger's list, it probably should be as they are noteworthy for many things.

At 11,049 feet, Telescope Peak is the highest point in the Panamints as well as in the entire Death Valley National Park. Telescope's height and geographic position provide a very unique opportunity to gaze down on the lowest point in North America (Badwater), turn 180 degrees and then look up to the highest point in the contiguous U.S. at Mt. Whitney (14,505 feet) topping the distant Sierras.

The Panamints also have a rich human history. With several reliable water sources, an abundant supply of pine nuts, and cooler high-altitude temperatures, the Panamints were a favorite summer camp for the Timbisha (Shoshone) Indians that have inhabited Death Valley for more than 1,000 years. The Timbisha struggled for recognition after their lands were subsumed by the National Park (originally declared a National Monument by Hoover in 1938), but still today, many of the Timbisha Tribe reside at a small reservation at Furnace Creek.

Next came the prospectors and miners. Over several decades, many millions of dollars in gold were extracted from Panamint Mountain mines near the now-abandoned towns of Harrisburg, Skidoo, Panamint City, and Ballarat.

The sheer isolation of the Panamints have also harbored its fair share of outlaws, bandits, and other recluses. None are more famous than Charles Manson himself who hid out with his "family" of murderous misfits at Barker Ranch in the southern part of the range. This is where in a series of raids in 1969-70, law enforcement captured Manson and much of the family for arson and theft. Only later did authorities realize they had captured a mass murderer. As recently as 2008, authorities searched the Panamints' foothills near Barker Ranch for additional Manson Family victims. Sadly, the Barker Ranch burned down in 2009.

1968 photo of Barker Ranch. Manson payed "rent" by giving the owner a Beach Boys gold record--a gift to Charlie from drummer Dennis Wilson. Source: L.A. Public Library.

The most alluring thing about the Panamints to the hard-core hiker, however, is the staggering vertical relief from Badwater to Telescope Peak. Do the simple math and you are looking at well over 11,000 feet of relief in only about 15 miles! That's tough to beat anywhere in North America, especially if you're talking about tackling that kind of terrain in a single day.

For example, the trail to Mt. Whitney can be hiked in a day, but it amounts to only 8,500 feet of vertical gain.

Badwater to Telescope easily beats out the much more famous single-day grinder "Cactus to Clouds" near Palm Springs which racks up 10,400 feet in 17 miles.

Nothing in Utah comes close. The trail from Henry's Fork to Kings Peak (Utah's highpoint) rises a paltry 5,252 feet in 12 miles. Even if you climbed Utah's most popular thigh-burning climb--Mt. Timpanogos--from the very bottom of the mountain at American Fork, you're looking at a gain of only about 6,700 feet.

What about all of Colorado's mighty 14ers? The Colorado Rockies are huge but they sit on a pretty lofty base. The trail to Pikes Peak has the biggest vertical gain of all of Colorado's 14er climbs, but it amounts to only 7,400 feet.

The most popular route up the Cascade's Mt. Rainier racks up an impressive 9,000 feet, but that is spread out over multiple days.

The West Buttress route to the top of Mt. McKinley (Denali), the highest point in all of North America, involves a whopping 13,500 feet of climbing, but again, that is spread out over multiple days.

Heck, the vertical gain from Everest's base camp to the highest point on Earth is about 11,330 feet--nearly identical to Telescope's vertical rise. That's pretty good company.

Adding to the degree of difficulty is the fact that there is no trail up the east side of the Panamints. This has not deterred masochistic hikers looking for the rare chance to bag more than 11k of continuous climbing in one day. An unofficial route taking advantage of an old mining road at the beginning, and a short section of trail near the very top (there's still a long and grueling cross-country scramble in the middle) has emerged over the years.

The route begins at Shorty's Well (elevation -262 feet) on the western edge of the Badwater flats and follows the old mining road up a massive alluvial fan into Hanaupah Canyon. The well was located by prospector Alexander "Shorty" Borden who also built the road which eventually leads to his mine workings in the South Fork of Hanaupah. At Shorty's mine, the route begins climbing in earnest as it makes its way to the Panamints' summit ridge. From there, a well-maintained trail leads the final 1.5 miles to Telescope.

Before making final preparations for my own attempt at Telescope, I called Death Valley's visitor center to inquire about snow conditions. I wasn't expecting good news. After all, we're talking about an elevation of 11,000 feet in mid January. So I was ecstatic when a ranger explained that Telescope had just a skiff of snow and that conditions on Telescope could hardly be better for this time of year.

My plans for Telescope would differ from most trip reports I'd found online in two ways. First, I planned to bike up the old mining track up Hanaupah Canyon as far as I could rather than walking. Second, since I wouldn't have a shuttle vehicle, I'd have to do the hike as an out-and-back. Most hikers, after bagging the peak, make the short and easy stroll to Mahogany Campground (elevation 8,133 ft) and then shuttle back to Shorty's Well, cutting out most of the knee-pounding descent.

With gear packed, GPS programmed, and a note left detailing my route, I embarked on the 6-hour drive to Death Valley.

Arriving at Shorty's Well at 8 pm, I set my alarm for 3:30 am and crawled into my sleeping bag. Unfortunately, due to the fact my kids had recently watched Little Mermaid, and that I was well aware that I was 200 feet below sea level, the mental soundtrack for the evening was Sebastian's "Under the Sea." I drifted off to sleep with thoughts of a perfectly executed plan to the summit, occasionally interrupted by Sebastian's baritone, Under the sea, under the sea, darling it's better down where it's wetter, under the sea! Annoying.

It's no surprise that I woke up 5 minutes before my alarm went off. I had my game face on all I could think about was execution and efficiency. The only times I was allowing myself to stop was to get food/clothing in and out of my pack or to go the bathroom. And I absolutely had to control myself from wasting precious time taking pictures.

I started pedaling and gained my first of over 11,000 feet at 4 am sharp. A fairly bright half moon provided just enough light to negate the need for bike lights.

The road climbs about 2,000 feet in 4.5 miles up the moderately sloping fan to the mouth of Hanaupah Canyon. The road was a little bumpier than I anticipated, but I was still able to cruise along easily in the middle ring.

As I rolled along on Shorty's road under the lonely moonlight, I reflected on some the things I'd read about this hardy miner. Arriving in Death Valley in the 1920s, this WWI vet prospected vast areas of the park until discovering a silver-rich vein in Hanaupah Canyon in the early 30s. Reportedly, it took ol' Shorty only about 6 months to build the 9-mile road over rugged terrain to his mine. He accomplished this alone at the ripe age of 65 using only hand tools and a mule! Now that's toughness.

Source: Pomona Public Library.

At the crest of the fan, the road drops quickly into the active alluvial valley flooring Hanaupah Canyon. From there, the road continues at a similar grade, although the road surface deteriorates significantly as you begin to encounter boulder fields and sections of deep, loose gravel. More than once I accidentally diverged up branching stream channels since they were essentially indistinguishable from the road. I was forced to dismount a couple of times when my tires bogged down in deep pea-sized gravel.

After 7.5 miles and more than 3,200 feet of climbing, conditions were bad enough that I figured I'd be better off walking. After stashing my bike behind an SUV-sized boulder, I noticed the sun getting ready to crest. I looked down at my watch--it was nearly 7:30! I'd been biking for 3.5 hours but I swear it felt more like 1 or 2 hours tops. Weird Twilight Zone-type stuff. Regardless, I was hoping to be at Shorty's mine at sun up, so I was already officially behind schedule.

After about a mile of jogging through Hanaupah's narrows, I found the road completely obliterated by flash floods of years past. Continuing up the boulder-strewn stream bed, I soon heard the gurgle of the small stream issuing from Hanaupah Spring and I knew Shorty's mine was around the corner.

It was now nearly 8:30 am and the sun was brushing the top of the Panamints with its golden tone. Four and half hours in, I had gained nearly 4,000 feet in 9 miles. Only 7,000 feet to go!

The small but reliable stream flowing from Hanaupah Spring near Shorty's mine.

Daybreak in Hanaupah Canyon.

Bird's-eye view of Shorty's mine from the steep ridge on the opposite side of the canyon.

Opposite of Shorty's mine, a broad, treeless ridge climbs to the top of a massive east-west-trending ridge dividing the North and South Forks of Hanaupah Canyon. This is the beginning of the most difficult stretch where there is no trail (a fleeting hiker-made path is encountered occasionally) as you climb 6,400 vertical feet in less than 4.5 miles.

I kept a deliberate and steady pace, but was careful not to push too hard. I've never used trekking poles for climbing a mountain before, but I figured any stress I could transfer from my legs to my arms would be a big plus in this situation.

Once on the intervening ridge top, the grade slackens a bit and a sparsely populated pinyon and juniper forest is encountered. The hiking on this ridge is not too steep, is easy to follow (simply stay on the highest ridge), and is quite enjoyable. Still, with tiring legs, and a whole lot of mountain still above me, about midway up the dividing ridge, I had that am-I-really-going-to-be-able-to-finish-this? moment. I sat down for the first time, snacked on potato chips, and reasoned that since I had no soreness or tendonitis issues, I could afford to push the pace a little to get back on schedule.

I pulled some rocks up to prop up my trekking pole as a tripod, when I was greeted by this little guy.

A white secondary quartz vein cuts across dark metamorphic rocks. Similar outcrops are what would have grabbed the attention of prospectors like Shorty Borden.

At about elevation 6,700 feet, my route brought me to a very steep and fairly vast talus slope. My choices were to continue on the most direct route up the scree or to detour around. I really wish I had detoured. The bottom of the scree field consists of stable, cooler-sized angular blocks that appeared to make a decent climbing surface. This proved true for a while, but the scree material got progressively smaller and looser and I ended up wasting substantial energy as I struggled to find solid footing without sliding back downhill.

The upper slopes of Telescope Peak as they appeared from about halfway up the E-W ridge. Note the unusually small amount of snow for mid January.

Above the talus, there's one last push up a mostly treeless slope to the top of the main summit ridge and junction with the official Telescope Peak Trail. A dead, twisted, and very prominent Limber or possibly Bristlecone pine marks this junction.

I arrived at this point (just under 10,000 feet in elevation ) at noon--exactly 8 hours into the climb. My goal was to summit between noon and 1 pm. With a comparatively easy 1.5-mile and 1,100-vertical-foot trail walk left, I knew I had it in the bag and that I was pretty much back on schedule.

After a very calm day thus far, the wind really picked up on the summit ridge. With cooler temperatures at high altitude and the steady wind, I'd guess the windchill got down into the 30s. But being so close to my goal, I refused to stop and waste any time fishing out my windbreaker and overgloves. As long as I kept moving, I knew I'd stay warm enough.

Large gnarled tree found where the route joins the official Telescope Peak Trail.

Limber and Bristlecone pines are common on the summit ridge above 10,000 feet.

There were just a few inches of snow on the north-facing slopes which were not a problem. There were occasional icy patches on the trail where previous hikers had really packed the snow down, but these slick patches were easily avoided. The wind was strong enough to knock me off course a couple of times along the last 100 yards of trail which are directly on the ridge line.

Looking east toward Badwater and the Black Mountains. My car is a tiny dot down there somewhere.

Stepping on top was one of the sweetest victories I can remember. With just a few scattered high-level clouds, views stretched forever (never-ending views are how Telescope got its name).

It was 1 pm. It took me exactly 9 hours to reach the top. In good position time-wise and only downhill left, I lounged around for a good half hour, snacked, looked over the hiker log books, and took plenty of photos. There was just enough of a depression amongst the rocks on top to block the relentless wind.

View to the south along the Panamints' summit ridge.

A USGS reference cap that points to the actual Telescope Peak benchmark, which I never did find.

View north along summit ridge.

My legs felt worn and tired--although no major muscle soreness--so I felt comfortable jogging down the trail at a good pace. If there ever was an ultimate test for my recovery from a serious IT band injury I suffered more than a year ago, this nearly 8,000-foot descent back to my bike was it.

My legs felt somewhat rejuvenated with the downhill range of motion and I felt like I was flying down the mountain. I sought out the same loose scree fields that I had avoided hiking uphill, as they allowed me to glide down the mountain with less impact on my knees.

Reaching Shorty's mine just before 5 pm, I decided I had just enough daylight to check out his workings.

Shorty Borden's mine never was much of a success. His road up the bottom of the canyon was prone to destructive flash floods, plus, the ore shipping costs proved to be higher than his mine's assay values. Still, as I sat near his mine enjoying views of this deep and peaceful canyon, I couldn't help but think that Shorty was perfectly content here anyway.

Taking a closer look at Shorty Borden's silver mine in Hanaupah Canyon.

Shorty's mine is in great condition considering the fractured nature of the bedrock in the area. Still, several fresh expansion cracks along the adit walls indicate rock fall and partial collapse could occur anytime.

I reached my bike at 5:45 pm and started the fast and bumpy ride back to Shorty's Well. It was nice to give my legs a rest and just coast, but I still had to stop a couple of times to rest my arms which were cramping from the constant jarring from the bumpy road and constant squeezing of brake levers.

I pulled up to my car at 6:30 pm. After 30 miles and 23,000 feet of elevation change, my adventure clocked in at 14.5 hours.

One lucky SOB. I noticed this tube aneurysm as I loaded my bike.

It felt great to be back on flat ground, and I immediately started to think about where to camp. The easiest thing to do would have been to stay put and spend another night at the well, but all I had to eat was Gu and granola bars. That wasn't going to cut it. I craved some serious protein! I knew I had to get to Furnace Creek to pork out, but there was one last thing I had to do before leaving Badwater.

Buried 250 feet below sea level are the remains of one of Death Valley's most colorful characters, Frank "Shorty" Harris. Described as the last of the Old Timers, Harris made several prominent gold discoveries in the early 1900s, chief among them the Rhyolite/Bullfrog district and the Harrisburg district which bears his name. He lived for the thrill of the hunt, and never really profited from his discoveries. He had a really bad habit of celebrating his finds a little too much at the nearest saloon and not sobering up until after the best claims had been staked. Next to Shorty lies his dear friend and fellow prospector Jim Dayton, buried exactly where he died of exposure in 1898.

It was a surreal experience to wander the desert in the dark, alone, amongst the greasewood, and clumps of up-heaved salt for those nearly forgotten graves.

The headstone's epitaph, written by Shorty himself, reads:

Here lies Shorty Harris, a single blanket jackass prospector 1856-1934

The grave site of Shorty Harris and Jim Dayton at the bottom of Death Valley.

Shorty Harris, self-proclaimed "single-blanket jackass prospector," roams Death Valley's hostile deserts in search for gold. NPS photo.

I was in luck. The 49er Cafe at Furnace Creek had exactly what I was looking for: a half-pound burger with bacon piled high and topped with a fried egg. I could have ate two or three, but I didn't want to risk shocking my still-somewhat-fragile digestive system.

After calling my wife and telling her about my successful climb, I drove a few miles up the nearby Hole-in-the-Wall Road, pulled over, opened the sun roof, reclined the seats, and gazed at the stars until I promptly fell asleep.

First thing in the morning, I took the short drive through scenic 20 Mule Team Canyon. Star Wars fans may recognize this as the setting for Jabba the Hutt's Palace in Return of the Jedi (click here for a very cool site about Star Wars in Death Valley).

Road to Jabba's Palace.

I ended my Death Valley trip with a short drive to Dante's View, high in the Black Mountains across the valley from the Panamints. From here, you get a great perspective on just how massive Telescope Peak is.

View from Dante's View (elevation 5,475 feet).

Telescope has got to rank up there with the Grand Canyon's Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim and the Trans-Zion as possibly the hardest and most memorable single-day suffer-fests in the West.

New Year's in Zion

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 18:52:00 +0000

We made an impromptu weekend trip to the Springdale/Zion area for the New Year's holiday. We had a great time doing our usual gamut of outdoor activities: hiking, picnicking, geocaching, and checking out local historical landmarks.

Ava and Zoe taste the waters of Weeping Rock during a hike in Zion National Park.

Lunchtime on the lawn at Zion Lodge.

Ava finds A geocache in Black's Canyon.

I thought the old Springdale Cemetery was so interesting the first time I visited it, I had to take the family back to enjoy it.

It's been several years since I've been back to old Grafton. All of the buildings have been repaired and stabilized--something necessary in order for future generations to enjoy--but it has lost some of its original run-down charm.

The Grafton Cemetery.

We were delighted to learn that Springdale puts on a fireworks show on New Year's Eve. We weren't expecting much, but it turned out to be a great show. Plus, I finally got to try out the "Fireworks" setting on my little point and shoot.

I figured Angel's Landing would be just as good as anywhere else to watch the first sunrise of '12. Although I've hiked the entire West Rim Trail, I had never hiked the spine out to Angel's Landing before.

Parking at The Grotto, I hit the trail when there was just enough light to see without a flashlight. I ran to Scout Landing in good time passing a couple on Walter's Wiggles. To make the hike more interesting, I decided to hike the spine without touching any of the chains or railing. I did slip once, though not physically, just mentally as I forgot my goal for a second and put my hand on one of the rails for a moment.

There was one other guy on top that had come up with lights with a very early start. I should have known others would have had the same idea. We didn't talk much other than a happy New Year! greeting, and we took each others photos.

The first rays of sunlight for 2012 look great from Angel's Landing. As for the deal with my hair? Don't ask.

After snapping a few more photos as the sun began to fall on the tips of the western canyon wall, I headed back down the trail. I again passed the same couple that were now about 1/3 of the way up the spine. The girl was not doing well with the exposure and heights, and the guy was literally telling her where to place every step. They pointed out a huge California Condor roosting in a tree overhead that I had missed during my hasty ascent.

Looking down on The Organ from Angel's Landing.

Looking upcanyon toward the Temple of Sinawava and the Zion Narrows.

Looking down onto "the spine" you must climb to get to Angel's Landing. It's about a 700-foot drop to the left into Refrigerator Canyon and a good 1100-foot drop into Zion Canyon to the right--definitely not for the timid. More than one person has plummeted to their death here (including a woman that was allegedly pushed by their significant other some years ago).

Looking up the spine. Note the vertical posts and chains to help balance.

The legs felt light and limber so I laid off the brakes on the downhill and really flew. I was on track to get back to the hotel room just as Susie and the kids would be waking up.

Then suddenly my perfectly executed plan went awry. As I approached my car in the parking lot, I fished in my pockets for the key. Nothing. I couldn't believe it. My key could have been anywhere up on that trail. No point in going back and looking, it could have easily fallen off a number of cliffs.

Suddenly my 4.5-mile run turned into an 11-mile run as I had no choice but to run all the way back to the hotel in Springdale.

Angel's Landing towers over the Virgin River near The Grotto trailhead.

Lower Zion Canyon from the Pa'rus Trail bridge.

Thankfully, by the time I got back, Susie was dressed and ready to go for her run and she was more than happy to head back to The Grotto with her spare key and retrieve the car. When she got there, she found the car unlocked with the key sitting on the front seat! It turns out someone found the key on the trail and was able to find which car it belonged to and was nice enough to fist of all, not steal it, and then to leave the key with a nice note.

I can only hope my luck continues well into the new year!

Looking west toward The Towers of the Virgin from the Pa'rus Trail.

Getting Above the Gunk on Deseret Peak

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 03:13:00 +0000

We spent a few days in Erda visiting family prior to Christmas. With the well-below-normal snowpack thus far in Utah, I figured it was a great time to get a winter climb in with minimal avalanche danger. Another advantage of going to the mountains was to get out of the gunky valley inversion that had besieged much of the Wasatch Front and West Desert.

I ultra-climbed Deseret Peak a couple of summers ago for the first time and had a blast. It turns out that Deseret Peak is a somewhat popular winter climb, especially for backcountry skiers who enjoy skiing down Deseret's Twin Couloirs on its southeast flank.

With my sights set on Deseret, I arranged to have my dad drop me and my road bike off near the mouth of South Willow Canyon at the crack of dawn. My plan was to stash my bike, walk up the road and to the normal summer-time trailhead, hike up to the summit, return to my bike and coast back to Erda some 12 miles away.

The South Willow Guard Station is in the process of getting a new roof.

It's an easy 4-mile walk up the canyon road to the Deseret Peak trailhead from where the road is gated in winter time. The winter gate is just past a couple of private cabins near the canyon mouth.

Within 5 minutes of walking, the air cleared up, my eye's contact lenses stopped itching, and I could breath easy. Before long, I got my first glimpse of my destination lit up with the day's first light.

The Upper Narrows of South Willow Canyon. These sturdy limestone walls are popular in the summer time amongst local rock climbers.

The canyon road was plowed all the way up to the Lower Narrows where crews had been working on repairs to the road. For the last couple of years, a washout at the Lower Narrows forced the Forest Service to close the road at Medina Flat even in the summer time. With the new repairs the road should be good to go this spring.

Near the Upper Narrows, the snow deepened and I strapped on my snowshoes. I followed tracks from a x-country skier that, from the looks of his/her tracks, had passed though about a week earlier.

Just as in summer, the hike gets really exciting once the trail gains some serious altitude in Mill Fork and you can see some of the higher peaks to the north.

About halfway up Mill Fork, the ski tracks disappeared and I was breaking virgin trail in the deepening snow. Throughout most of the hike up this north-facing slope, the snow was about mid-calf to knee deep even with snowshoes on. At Mill Fork's steep head wall, things suddenly got icy and I was forced to put on crampons. The crampons stayed on for only about 10 minutes because as soon as I reached the saddle on top, I had exposed rock.

At the top pf Mill Fork.

From the saddle it's a moderately steep climb up a broad and treeless slope to reach the summit ridge. The snow was soft enough here to require snowshoes, but once on the summit ridge it was all either exposed rock or packed snow. From there, it's a straightforward climb up the ridge and past a few false summits to the top.

The southeast flank of Deseret Peak.

Almost to the top. Note the wide cornices riding the lee side of the ridge top behind me. These are unstable and should be avoided--walk on the adjacent rock instead.

Looking west toward Skull Valley.

View to the southeast toward the Oquirrh Mountains (mid distance) and the Wasatch (far distance) Range. Mount Timpanogos is the high peak in the upper right of the photo.

Looking south toward the Onaqui (mid distance) and Sheeprock (far distance) Mountains. Black Crook Peak (elev-9274 ft.) is the high point of the Sheeprocks and it's been on my to-do list for some time.

I made it to the summit at about 1:30 pm, had lunch, snapped photos, and then retraced my steps. With an 8:00 am start, it took 5.5 hours to summit.

The return trip was of course much quicker and I was back at my bike and changing into biking shoes by 5 pm.

This is where I fubbed a bit and was not wholly prepared. The sun had set, temps were dropping, and it is a long and fast downhill out of the canyon and on to Grantsville. All I packed for light was a wimpy 3-LED headlamp that is not sufficient for illuminating a pot-holed road at speed. Plus, I couldn't get it positioned right on my helmet in order to throw the light where I wanted it.

The windchill was off the charts. Within minutes, I lost feeling in my fingers. The highway into Grantsville doesn't get a lot of traffic but when cars do come, they're typically going 60-65 mph and there's not much of a shoulder. Also, oncoming cars either didn't see me at all, or they didn't think a cyclist would mind bright lights, because no one was using their dimmers. It was a little scary to say the least.

By the time I got to Grantsville, I'd had enough and called my dad for a ride.

It sure was great to get out of the muck for a day and enjoy the fresh air and sunshine--just like we have pretty much every day down here in southern Utah.

Found!! Stansbury Island Petroglyphs Site #2

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 18:57:00 +0000

I have a very vague memory of a family exploratory trip out to Stansbury Island as a kid. I was maybe 7 or 8 years old. I can't recall much--there was a particularly rocky and steep road that seemed too rough for our truck to climb, and there was a stop at a little sandy beach to soak in the Great Salt Lake and build sand castles.

But what impressed me the most on that trip were the petroglyphs we found scattered on several boulders near the lake's shores. It's the first time I can remember being really mesmerized by these cryptic messages from the distant past.

As time wore on, the memory faded, and the rock-art site's location was completely forgotten.

Once again, my brother Eros was able to expertly sleuth out the lost location.

After he told me where they are, I realized they are near the end of one of my favorite bike rides, so I figured I could kill two birds with one stone.

The Stansbury Island Mountain Bike Trail is a very underrated little trail. It starts out with a protracted and challenging climb with a couple of tricky switchbacks as it work its way up to a saddle above the Provo level shoreline of old Lake Bonneville. The trail then drops back down to the shoreline and follows the ancient shore's well-developed platform for a few miles. The views of the lake and nearby ranges never disappoint. At the end of the singletrack, most trail guides recommend dropping down to a graded dirt road and winding around on the flatlands back to the trailhead. An out-and-back on the singletrack has always made more sense to me.

Snow doesn't stick for long on the island so the trail is typically rideable year round.

Just leaving the trailhead.

View from where the singletrack ends.

Originally flat-lying layers of limestone (blue) and siltstone (yellow), the layers here have been churned up into irregular blebs. This was most likely caused by bioturbation (disturbed by burrowing animals) or by overburden pressure (the silt and lime have different strengths and therefore behave differently when under pressure).

The petroglyphs are on the southeast side of the island. They are very old and the elements have taken their toll. I was in a hurry, so I didn't get to all of them, but here is a sample:

The site is called Stansbury Site #2 in Petroglyphs and Pictographs of Utah. According to the book there is another site on the west side of the island [Eros, I'll be disappointed if you don't find these too]. The book also claims the best petroglyphs are on a large boulder that was removed from the island and is now on display at BYU's Archeological Museum in Provo.

Found!! The Red Man Pictograph of Timpie Valley

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 00:22:00 +0000

I've seen only obscure references to the Timpie Valley "Red Man" pictograph. All I could surmise from a couple of pictures was that the pictograph was painted on the wall of small cave somewhere in this broad valley at the northern end of the Stansbury Range. Several searches of the valley over the last few years have yielded many small caves, but absolutely zilch in terms of Indian art.

My brother Eros has also independently been looking for the site for some time now. And once again, I got beat to the prize.

Eros told me he got just enough information out of a volunteer working at the Donner-Reed Museum in Grantsville to solve the puzzle. He also told me that he had walked all around, and right on top of the Red Man cave on a previous outing and even spotted the opening, but disregarded it because it looked too small. My dad said he could here Eros's victory yell as he sat on his porch in Erda some 18 miles away.

With directions from Eros, I visited the site with my dad on Thanksgiving day.

There is nothing like this pictograph in northwestern Utah that I'm aware of.

The entrance to the Red Man cave. The cave walls are Paleozoic limestone. The unusual roof is a very coarse limestone breccia cemented into place by Lake Bonneville. It's a little unnerving to be in the cave and looking up at large boulders hanging overhead--but the cement is very strong.

The Red Man pictograph in all her glory. Weapon, shield, head dress, and standing at over three feet high, it's a bit startling the first time you see it. The site has been documented, and an article written by Mark Stuart appears in a 1985 publication of the Utah Rock Art Association.

As an added bonus, there are a variety of solitary coral and crinoid fossils poking out of the limestone in the area.

While hiking up the hillside toward the cave, we noticed several unusual man-made features. At the base of a few slanted cliffs are large piles of rock that are leveled off on top. A few appear to have short walls. These are not natural scree or talus piles. I'm convinced someone hand-placed the stones. But why? And how old are they? Were the rock piles built by Indians and are they related to the pictograph? Or were they built by prospectors for some unknown reason (there is a sizable mining district at the head of the valley)?

An unusual stone pile at the foot of a cliff. From a distance they appear like artificial fill for a roadway, but there is no sign of a road or rail line in the area.

Found!! The Naming Cave

noreply@blogger.com (TK421) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 01:55:00 +0000

I've had a good luck streak these last couple of months. I've finally found a few things that have been driving me crazy for years. I have to admit I had a lot of help from others that beat me to the punch.

First to check off the list is the Naming Cave. I first became aware of this fascinating little place while scouting out the Gunlock area on Google Earth a few years back. Photographer Don Manion placed an incredible 360-degree panorama of what he calls the Naming Cave smack dab in the middle of Gunlock Reservoir. Obviously the cave isn't under water, but based on what can be seen in the photos, I figured it had to be in the area. However, I could never quite pinpoint its exact location.

I should have known others would have noticed this and would be looking for it also. Still, I was shocked when I checked fellow adventure blogger El Scorcho's site a couple months ago and saw that he had found it! Dang it. Pretty much his first try too.

Anyway he provided the final clue that I needed to figure it out. Instead of biking out to it as El Scorcho did however, I thought it would be fun to pack the family in the Montero and hit some geocaches on the way. We had a lot of fun, but just so you know, it's not easy or safe for little kids to get into the cave itself.

View of the cave's entrance. The petroglyphs are carved on top of the sandstone slab partially blocking the entrance.

Kenneth Castleton first visited the site in 1978 and he briefly described it in his book Petroglyphs and Pictographs of Utah where he refers to the cave simply as the Red Sands site. The art style is believed to be Archaic and therefore could be several thousands of years old. However, since the writings are completely protected from rain and wind, they appear as if they could have been carved yesterday. Truly an amazing site.

There are more glyphs (probably Anasazi) on the north side of the little sandstone mountain as reported in Kenneth's book and confirmed by Sam Hunt who was with us and did a little extra exploring.

Below is Don's 360-degree photo. Cool stuff.

Naming Cave in Utah

A couple of other mysteries have been solved and I'll share them soon!