June 30th, 2017

I moved to Utah and thought "Great, I'll just climb every mountain here." Sounds like a logical plan, but in practice has a few flaws. The big one of course being what if I don't want to climb a particular mountain? Sounds like crazy talk, right? But I've explained before how my attraction to a particular mountain is something that I just feel deep inside drawing me to it. So there's a big stretch of the Wasatch that does almost nothing for me. My original plan was explore around my home in North Ogden and move my way south. I got down to Mt. Ogden last summer, but then there is the rest of the northern Wasatch area before you get to the central Wasatch that frankly made me go 'meh.' But the catch is because I was not really compelled to climb these mountains it made me think of them even more as I tried to process within myself why I climb mountains (or perhaps because I work right at the foot of these hills and see them almost every day). In the end we must face our realities, even if there are uncomfortable. Like the girl at the church dance you don't really want to dance with but you do so anyway because you feel like it is the right thing to do I thought I would have a go at Thurston Peak, the tallest point for Davis and Morgan counties.

While the peaks themselves did not attract my interest I can always get excited about a nice ridge traverse. Going all the way back to the almost successful Devil's Backbone, the doomed before it started Mt Sneffels traverse of the San Juans, the disastrous Hilgard to Imp Peak of the Madisons, the life shattering Mountain Marathon, the ill-conceived Beartooth traverse, and finally the failed Northern Bear River Mountains 50-miler. All good times.

Ideally I would have done a car drop on one side of this chain and traversed the whole thing, but that requires logistics, possibly another person, and time. I'm not really into any of that right now, so I opt to drive to the top of Francis Peak and do a trail run along the ridge to Thurston and back. And this time I am really committed to a trail run. Not really crazy like wearing shorts, but I go with no poles and only a camelback to carry water. My research showed it was fairly straightforward and about three miles one way. So easy, I figure I'll just get up early and knock that one out before work. So that was the plan.

Driving up Farmington Canyon took a good bit longer than expected, but I'm still on my way by 0630. After clearing Francis Peak I was almost immediately met with large snow fields. This was to be the norm. Actually pretty good running conditions if flat, but traversing steeper slopes was difficult as this early in the day the snow was still pretty icy. This forced me to go up and over some peaks that the trail might have traversed. One peak where the trail did do a nice traverse around was Thurston. I guess I was supposed to leave the trail and follow the ridge (always follow the ridge! Unless you should follow the trail!). Once I got to the other side and the trail took a sharp descent I knew it was time to go solo. I worked tight traverses up the side ridge to a rocky outcropping. Nice rock work got me back up the main ridge (but the trail running shoes do not have the grip I would hope for, I'll need to remember that for future hikes where I expect to be on the rocks). From there a peak to the north and a peak to the south look pretty similar in height. I need to head back south so I pick that one and got lucky. The view from the top was swell, but the journey was more noteworthy.

The return trip went much smoother. The snow was softer and I had a better feel of where I could use it to my advantage. I ran down the ridge from Thurston on the leeward cornice in less than a third the time it would have taken me otherwise. Sensing that I may have underestimated the trip (it was a ridge traverse after all) I made a greater effort to run the whole way and shoe skied good portions keeping pace at around 5 mph. As I came down the final stretch to my car there was several 4 seat ATV's parked with a large group taking in the view and the snow. They asked if I had come from Francis Peak (1/4 mile away), and I told them I went to Thurston Peak a bit further on. I looked at my watch and saw that it was just over 9.3 miles, which marked the second time that week I accidently ran over 9 miles.

I drive back down the canyon and head to work, and on the way I contemplate how I felt tackling something that I wasn't particularly drawn to. It was a ridge traverse which is always fun, but strangely I think I could count this as successful. Even though it was much further and harder than planned (over 5000' elevation covered) by all accounts I did it, and that never happens. Did I enjoy myself? Yes. Was it a worthy adventure? Yes. So just like that girl at the dance, you often have a lot more fun than you thought you would.

June 24th 2017

PART I

I can't touch my toes. Never have. In my elementary gym classes this meant that I wasn't "fit." I might have resented it a little at the time, but for the most part I have spent my life blissfully inflexible. As far as I could tell it had never inhibited me in any athletic endeavor, so I wrote it off as one of many quirks. But now I am trying to make good time up the trail to Lewis Peak (where else?), and I'm a little bothered by it. Not that this particular excursion requires toe touching, but now my understanding of fitness has evolved, and that new understanding requires touching my toes.

I am starting this hiking season in the best shape I have been in years. For five months I have been exercising five times a week, and given my flirtations with it last summer it has included a fair bit of running. But much more than that. The program I've been following was designed with a holistic approach to be able to do the activities we love, not just look good. This requires making time for endurance, strength, balance, power, agility, speed, and of course flexibility. On the other end of it I can see how balancing all these elements can be key to an active and healthy life. But balancing all these elements is tricky. Any particular focus or favoritism of one will be at the sacrifice of another. I would love to just start running up the steep switchbacks at the start of the trail to Lewis Peak, to really earn my trail running badge, but I know that quest for speed will leave me panting by the same tree I collapsed under on my first attempt with no endurance left. I walk purposefully up the steep hills, knowing I can run when we level out on the ridge. Similarly, I purposefully woke up at 0500 to do this hike before the day started for the rest of my family. To enjoy all the beauty that life has to offer, we must strive for balance.

I don't want to lose the thread of the hike though, as it was quite enjoyable. I did run when I could, but I am far from being a trail runner. For one thing, I am wearing a pack, pants (ain't nobody got time for itchy legs), and using hiking poles. I have my knee brace on to be safe, although it has not been needed in all the miles I have been running the last few months. That knee brace is a legacy from the first intervention by a higher power to help me gain balance in my life. Shortly after my mission I made my first attempt at Crazy Peak. I probably thought about Crazy Peak on my mission as much as I thought about my girlfriend (so, like, almost never). I won't get into the tale of Crazy Peak now, but no other mountain has required so much from me. At the end of that first failed attempt I sat in my backyard looking at the mountains I loved. My knee hurt so bad. I could barely walk by the time I gotten to the trailhead. This was all new, my knee had never hurt before in my life. I rubbed my knee and thought to myself "What would I do if I couldn't climb mountains?" Immediately the answer whispered in my ear "You will be responsible." That was a lot to unpack in my head, but I knew it was true.

Crazy Peak showing her teeth.
Credit: Summit Post

So how did I get from there to finally standing on the summit of Lewis Peak fifteen years later? It has taken a lot of patience. For a time I didn't really climb mountains. That may have been more due to geographic limitations, but I think it was an important step in the process of trying to balance my life between the mountains, family, career, and spirituality. I'm not perfect in any of these areas, but I am more aware of it now, more mindful. As these thoughts swirl in my head I realize I need to be more mindful of the trail I am running down from the summit. The low, early morning sun is cutting through the trees leaving the trail in shadow but flashing my face with its bright light. I can follow the trail easy enough but cannot see any hazards that may be- MOOSE!!

Two moose startle in the bushes about ten feet in front of me. One goes up the ridge a short distance, the other heads down the trail. I brace for a charge and quickly access my options for evasive maneuvers. The moose on the ridge, now about fifteen feet away holds its ground, which is good so I can get out my camera and get pictures in case I do get charged. No charge, so I figure we have an understanding and I can move on. I proceed down the trail slowly with my poles in the air and camera ready as I now have to contend with the other moose. We proceed tit for tat down the trail twenty to thirty feet at a time, while I am also scanning my rear in case the other moose gets upset with our game. After several minutes some hikers approach from the other direction and force the moose up the ridge and off the trail.

Mindfulness. Balance. Breath. Run.

PART II

I should be clear. I climbed many mountains after that first revelation of where a responsible life should lead. While it may have stifled any wishful thinking of a life as a professional mountaineer, and thus miss out on dying young, I was still all but consumed by the mountains. Just like the trail off Lewis Peak I charged recklessly for two more years through the mountains, blind to much that was around me. I was happy, but I was not balanced. When a pedestal gets that high, it must fall. And fall I did. A hike that I refer to as my mountain marathon would be notable for just the mountaineering achievement that it was, but its real importance was the way it changed my relationship with the mountains.

This was not a planned hike. On this day the only thing I had scheduled was a date in the evening. Not just any dinner and a movie date, but a girl who held my affections had asked me out on a printed invitation, multiple couple, multiple destination date extravaganza. That's cool, but might as well get a good hike in beforehand, right? So when I woke in the morning (not as early as I do now) I checked out Topozone and Hyalite Ridge catches my eye. It seems ambitious, but so am I. The plan is to cover over twenty miles and at least five ranked summits over 10k feet. Mount Blackmore and Elephant Mountain, then the ridge to Mount Bole. I execute it beautifully, tackling class V terrain like I'm strolling (quickly) down the sidewalk. I now read that a similar feat was first done in 1943 over three days, yet I planned for under seven hours. Backtracking is for wimps so I bail off the ridge to exit via Hyalite canyon. This is where it gets not so beautiful. My bushwhack off the ridge gets cliffed out and I have to go up canyon to find a viable route down. This is not planned on. The bushwhacking is brutal. I lose my sunglasses. I sense my schedule slipping. I fight my way to the trail and stop to refuel and check the time- I have half an hour and at least three miles to the trailhead, but then my car is at a different trailhead, about ten more miles away. The world dropped out from under me. I sank down and I knew -without any voices from heaven- that if I missed that date this magnificent achievement would not be worth it.

Ridge from Elephant Mountain to Mount Bole. I never turned to left or the right, but stayed true throughout the traverse.
Credit: Summit Post

And so I ran. As I approach the trailhead I see a car leaving; I shout and wave my arms around but they are gone. There are no other cars in the parking lot. My gut drops even further and, almost frantic now, I keep running. Several miles later I finally come across a car which I convince/commandeer to give me a ride back to my car. I was late, but I made my date. The next day I was making another doomed attempt on Crazy Peak (where else?) with a buddy. I sat on the side of the trail and I knew things weren’t the same. They would never be the same. Rome had fallen.

The trick of all this is that true balance is a false idea. There is no way to keep all aspects of your life in perfect balance, as that would require you to do everything simultaneously, and as a result poorly. We must make decisions in our life as to what things are important, and then be really present and mindful when we do them. We have to be willing to set other things, no matter how important, aside to keep ourselves balanced. My family was in a wonderful place in Maryland. We had a great ward and I had the best job available to humankind. But there were no mountains. There was no extended family. In an effort to bring better balance in our family we decided to move. Not that my ward and work are no longer important, but I now balance them with other important things.

Mount Ogden with a tempting ridge approach. and deer.

As these ideas are still solidifying in my mind I go for a run Monday morning. I planned on doing a shorter loop through North Ogden, but I ended up going down the wrong trail and accidentally ran over nine miles. This made me late to work, however that wrong trail led me up Coldwater Canyon which was the most peaceful, meditative experience of my whole week. So balance is a slippery idea that I still have much to work on. That and flexibility, because dang it, I still can’t touch my toes.

No one ever stops with their heart racing for a deer. Poor deer.

Promontory Mountains enjoying the early morning sun.