My legs are stiff. Instead of attending to my blog, yesterday I most irresponsibly took to the mountains to escape the heat and the crush of civilization in the city. I have missed the mountains. In spite of the beauty of the places I have visited in the last five weeks I have also missed standing atop a ridge and seeing perhaps 50 miles or more in all directions.
We could feel the air temperature dropping even as we drove up the canyon and it seemed easier to breathe. As a last reminder that even up the canyon the hothead yahoos are ever-present, we saw some poor soul trying just to turn her vehicle around on the shoulder of the road who was honked at and yelled at by two passing vehicles. But surprisingly, within a quarter mile up the trail, one could only hear the leaves rustling, insects buzzing and an occasional scurry or flapping from deeper in the brush.
Sadly, when hiking these days, one must choose one’s path partly on the basis of whether or not it is used by mountain bikers. This trail was not—in fact we passed only two hikers in approximately five hours. That was divine. The wildflowers were obviously in full summer bloom and the aspen groves lined the trail the entire way–opening up into glorious meadows in a few spots with a chorus of color. And even when we were not near the stream the aspen leaves wafting in the breeze imitated the sound of rushing water.
But lest it sound too idyllic, we were sweating like pigs, being eaten alive by deer flies, and walking through stinging nettle with shorts on—on the way up. The humidity yesterday was high for Salt Lake City and additionally, there had obviously been a lot of recent rainfall in the mountains. The heat of the day was sucking the moisture from the soil and plants–creating a kind of greenhouse feel. We quickly became sticky and hot from the steep rise in elevation. I was suffering, in particular, because I have been roaming Europe at sea level for weeks now and the elevation was taxing my lungs a bit more than usual. This particular hike starts at about 7,500 ft. and climbs to 9,760 ft. on the ridge above a small lake. I had to stop repeatedly to breathe in the stretch near the top, because it was so steep.
But the pay-off is the view from the ridge. We could see Antelope Island in one direction; Park City in another direction, and a cascade of peaks looking south down the range of the Wasatch mountains.
The stretch of the trail on the ridge and down to the lake is a bike trail and a few bikers whizzed by us. I took the opportunity to curse them after they had passed. I usually do this silently, but yesterday, I held up my fist and cursed them aloud! Just around the bend a few minutes hike away, there they were—one rider fixing a flat tire and the others giving visual support and trying to maintain their cool. I noted that perhaps the cursing actually worked. We hiked down to the lake and enjoyed the isolation—since during the time we were there no one else was at the lake. We ate our apples, cheese and crackers and watched a few bikers inching along the ridge from Guardsman Pass. On the way back up the slope another couple of bikers rode past us down the trail—these going somewhat more slowly. I noticed blood oozing from the corner of one of their mouths. We had seen them on the ridge from below lingering there for some time. From that distance we were not sure whether or not they were hikers or bikers. I then thought, “Perhaps I should be a little more careful with my curses. But then, well, the guy is still alive, so maybe it just slowed him down.”
The hike back was perhaps the most tranquil. The air had cooled and the light was fading quickly. The insects had stopped buzzing, humming, and biting and the woods seemed almost eerily—but soothingly—silent. On the downward slope I was all too aware of the nettle and managed only to brush my fingers across it.
And as we drove down the canyon, the sun–which was by now an enormous fireball in the evening sky–shot its glare sideways across the cliffs like a Maxfield Parrish painting come to life.
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