Inyo double crossing

Saline Valley

The Inyo Range parallels the Sierra Nevada across the Owens Valley between highways 168 and 190. Along with the Panamint and Sierra Nevada, it is one of three neighboring ranges rising about 10,000 feet from the valley to its east. Unlike the other ranges, the Inyos do not have a paved road or civilization on their east side. The Saline Valley contains only a dirt road and some hot springs, now closed due to the Coronavirus; the miners that once lived on that side of the range built their cabins several thousand feet above the valley floor, near the springs in nearly every canyon. Since many of the canyons narrow to slots near the valley floor, these cabins were difficult to access, sometimes even requiring sketchy hand-built ladders.

Crossing from the Owens Valley to the Inyo and back again was not my idea: it involves too few peaks and too much desert suffering. However Kim is drawn to such things, and as I age, I find fewer ridiculous projects in the western States that motivate me. There are several ways to cross the Inyos on “trails,” one of them being via Forgotten Pass and Beveridge Canyon. We had attempted this from the Saline side this spring, but were too late in the year, and gave up after reaching Forgotten Pass, tagging Voon Meng Leow Peak as a consolation prize before returning to the roasting desert. This time we came from the Owens side. The sun would be against us, as we would reach the Saline Valley around mid-day, but the Owens side of Forgotten Pass is easier to negotiate by headlamp, a necessity so late in the year.

Sunrise in Beveridge
I met Kim at the 2WD trailhead along the graded Owenyo Road, where we slept until 2:00 AM before taking Kim’s 4Runner up the “road” — some faint tire tracks dodging boulders and creosote up an alluvial fan — to the “trailhead” — the place where the 10-foot-deep main gully has made vehicular travel utterly impossible. From there we followed the “trail” — occasional footprints and cairns leading up and along the wash — to a trail register and some built-up switchbacks. Welcome to the Inyos! Fortunately Kim had both familiarity and a GPX track from previous forays, and it was close to the full moon, so we had no trouble following the path to the pass, or descending the other side to Frenchy’s Cabin, our water source for the crossing. Temperatures stayed more or less in the upper 20s or 30s, though the air was somewhat colder in the vicious Owens Valley inversion at the 2WD trailhead, and at the pass itself.

I had anticipated a 20-hour day, and was therefore surprised to reach Frenchy’s at the end of headlamp time. Someone had clipped back the bush and repaired the waterspout since we had visited in the spring, but there was a noticeable pool of cold air at the cabin, so we did not linger. Whoever had worked on the cabin had also done sporadic work on the trail down to Beveridge, so the previous brush-fest went quickly and painfully by Inyo standards.

Joyous sidehilling
The mental crux of the route is a long, rolling traverse out of Beveridge Canyon. The bottom is brush-choked and possibly steep and narrow below the “town” of Beveridge, so the trail traverses up and out to the ridge to its north before descending to the Saline Valley. This section, through scrub, decaying granite, and sand, has mostly collapsed over the years, and is frequently nearly useless or invisible. While it is easier than going cross-country over the surrounding terrain, it would hardly be called a trail anywhere other than the Inyos, and is a prime example of how I have badly underestimated travel times on previous trips to the range.

Beveridge Ridge to the valley
The trail improves once it reaches the ridge north of Beveridge, then gets even worse as the ridge narrows and it leaves the crest. It perhaps used to switchback down this slope, but there is no longer anything resembling a trail for much of the route between the crest and some washed-out mine roads far below. Though it must have once been passable by the mules that dragged the heavy materials up to Beveridge, the route now includes short sections easy class 3 rock and dirt. Struggling to get at my Pop-Tarts on the way down the easy part, I managed to superman onto the trail’s sharp limestone, though I got away with only a couple of cuts and blood blisters on my palms. I was therefore more cautious than usual on the steeper part. We jogged the badly-eroded mine road down to its junction with the Keynot Ridge “trail,” then deemed that we had reached the valley floor.

Now we have to go back?!
Though it is only 14 straight-line miles from Lone Pine, the mouth of Beveridge Canyon is a much longer drive around via the Saline Valley Road. The horizons in both directions are completely different from those in the Owens Valley, with the Inyos’ larger and more dramatic east side to one side, and the similarly hostile desert ranges of Death Valley to the other. I therefore felt more remote than I would have on the Sierra Crest, a similar distance in the opposite direction from town, or on summits deeper into the Sierra Nevada. It is not even such a long way by trail — 32 miles and 16,000 feet of climbing round-trip — but it felt like a day trip between two disconnected lands.

The midday climb back out of the Saline Valley could be crushing, with brutal heat, no shade, and a parody of a trail climbing thousands of feet. However it was much cooler than when we had visited in May, with mostly comfortable t-shirt conditions on our hike back up the road. The trail was no easier to find going up than down, following sporadic cairns and footprints. Because this section of “trail” would be nearly impossible to follow at night, late fall seems like the only reasonable time to do the Inyo crossing, despite the short days and cold temperatures up high. Like similar desert routes with ten thousand feet or so of elevation change, like White Mountain’s west ridge and the L2H route from Badwater to Whitney, this route has a narrow window of opportunity.

Moonrise over Last Chance Range
The long grind from the valley back to Frenchy’s is more tolerable when broken up into four stages: the headwall out of the valley, the climb up Beveridge Ridge, the sidehill traverse, and the bushwhack from Beveridge to the cabin. The whole thing is overwhelmingly grim, but each part by itself is small enough to be tolerable. We reached Frenchy’s by late afternoon, feeling more positive than I had expected, and on track to finish much earlier than the 10:00 PM or so that I had feared. However it was already unpleasantly cold: cold air pools in the canyon and the sun apparently does not reach the cabin this time of year, so there was still ice on the ground next to the spring. We filled our water, Kim stepped in the stream, I froze my hands, and we started off again as quickly as possible to warm up.

Sierra silhouette
We reached the pass right at dusk, watching the moon rise over the Last Chance Range as the sun silhouetted the Sierra. We checked our phones (pathetic online creatures that we all now are), put on our headlamps, and took off jogging toward the car. I still felt surprisingly good, but the fact that I had more trouble following the trail than I had on the way out suggested that fatigue was catching up. As always when returning from the Inyo crest, the descent dragged on longer than it seemed it should. I was feeling impatient toward the bottom, where the route crosses the wash and climbs around a constriction, and apparently so was Kim, who began jogging the downhills and even flats. I probably would have walked, as conditions were pleasant and I had plenty of food and water, but I gamely picked up my pace, and was glad to have someone younger and more motivated to push me a bit.

We returned to the car in about 15.5 hours, much better than the 20 I had feared, and I felt that we could have done more. After losing the road in the wash, we eventually followed the correct set of tire tracks, returning to my car in time for dinner and a full night’s sleep. I am not driven to additional super-long days in the Inyos, but there are many more potential routes, including other crossings and loops from either side. I look forward to seeing what others do.

Capitol Butte and the Sedona Kitsch Vortex

Town from Capitol

Climbing with Renee was one of the fixed points in my evolving winter plan, so I rallied down from southeast Utah to the kitschy little town of Sedona, south of Flagstaff. Despite countless trips through Flagstaff, I had never taken the thirty-mile side-trip south off the Kaibab Plateau, and while I was impressed by the abrupt drop from ponderosa forest to sandstone desert, the “no camping next N miles” sign hinted that I was entering a place incompatible with my dirtbag essence. According to Wikipedia,

In the mid-1950s, the first telephone directory listed 155 names. Some parts of the Sedona area were not electrified until the 1960s. Sedona began to develop as a tourist destination, vacation-home and retirement center in the 1950s. Most of the development seen today was constructed in the 1980s and 1990s. As of 2007, there are no large tracts of undeveloped land remaining.

In other words, the place has almost no history, what little history it does have is bad, and it has been overpopulated for the last decade. Be that as it may, I drove through the tourist schlock emporia among the pink jeeps, and found a place to park along the road below the overflowing trailhead for Capitol Butte.

Capitol Butte
Whatever its flaws, Sedona is surrounded by interesting sandstone buttes, and Capitol, being one of the most prominent, seemed likely to have a good sunset view. It is also reachable by a short, steep trail, so I could get a quick workout after my long drive and make it back to the car without headlamp time. Being used to the cold Utah desert, I was surprised at how warm Sedona was, given that it is at the same elevation as Grand Gulch and Mexican Hat. Even standing still in the shade, I was comfortable in shorts and a t-shirt. I found the correct trail and the unsigned but well-used turnoff to Capitol, and had little trouble following the route on the way up. There are several braided paths, and while I may not have chosen the best, I did not lose much time. The route had a few runnable sections, but was mostly either too steep, or involved brush and rock steps, with several third class sections. If for some reason I ended up living in Sedona, it would make a fun workout peak. I reached the summit in time to enjoy the evening light on the sandstone north and east of town, then made it back to the car around dusk. The correct trail was harder to follow on the descent, and I wandered off-route several times before using my Strava track to correct my error.

Sunset from Capitol
Once back at the car, I panned around the map for awhile looking for likely sleeping spots, and eventually settled on Boynton Pass Road. I have been doing this for awhile, so I was not surprised to have chosen correctly. However, I was surprised at both how far out I had to drive, and how crowded it was, hosting a mixture of the ubiquitous Sprinters with California plates, rental camper-vans, RVs, and trailers. I was tired and it was dark, so I settled into the first spot with a faint cell signal and a bit of privacy, ate my usual dinner glop, and turned in.

I woke well before dawn, then met Renee at a more civilized hour to climb a multi-pitch sport route I had found on Mountain Project, Motorboating. Given the distances and parking difficulties, it seemed easiest to approach by bike, so we rode the “moderate” trail to the base. Renee, being a competent mountain biker on a capable bike, probably enjoyed the rocky trail more than I did, but it was still an interesting challenge to negotiate as much as I could on my gravel bike with a heavy pack. We locked our bikes together off the trail, then scrambled toward a likely-looking starting point, getting ready to climb, and walking our gear along a ledge when we realized we were at the wrong place.

Motorboating goes up that
The route was somewhat disappointing in a couple of ways. Have the pitches were easy enough to barely require a rope, and it was necessary to walk the rope between belays. Worse, the sport route did not top out on the formation, so I did not get points for a summit. I was glad to be climbing with Renee, who both knows me and is patient, because I was a bumbling and incompetent partner after two or more years without climbing on a rope. On top of that, I managed to drop my long-suffering phone while leading the last pitch. Fortunately the case absorbed the first blow, and it landed through a bush onto sloping dirt. It has been a tough year for the poor little thing, which needs to last until Apple’s new “mini” (i.e. “normal-sized”) phones are available for cheap.

Renee following for a change
Renee was on child care duty for the afternoon, but we had just enough time to toprope the first two pitches of the route, which we had skipped with our mistaken approach. Lowering in from the top, I failed to bring any gear to redirect the rope, and was forced to climb the 5.10a variation. I flailed and fell and hung on the thin feet and crimps, but struggled through rather than giving up and untying at the bottom. Renee did a much better job, climbing it patiently and cleanly. We packed up, then rode back to town, finding the trail much more rideable in the slightly downhill direction. I killed some time internetting, then drove back out toward Boynton Pass to camp. It was even more crowded than the last time, so after a fruitless foray farther, I settled into my previous spot with a few more neighbors. It was almost like “camping” in an RV park, and soured me further on Sedona.

Still a bit too young
Renee was on Tyler duty on our final day, so we found a crag with some moderates and a very short approach, curious whether he would have the agility and motivation to play on a 5.7. I thought he might do well, since climbing the slabby routes we had found the previous day would be a bit like crawling. Unfortunately this area was steeper, so the 5.7s were relatively steep with big steps and handholds, too far apart to be doable for a three-year-old. The first route we climbed was dirty, with lots of rubble perched on ledges and ready to bombard the belayer while lowering. The second was at least clean and fun, and a little more kid-friendly, but by that time he had exhausted his motivation, and preferred to snack and play with dirt. He helpfully brushed off some of the lower holds, which Renee and I hoped would lead to actual climbing, but it was not to be. I doubt I would enjoy being a parent, but I do enjoy observing my friends’ kids’ development. My brother and I were both capable of a variety of outdoor activities by the age of five, but two years makes an enormous difference around that age. Even a four-year-old we saw on the way back to the car was quite a bit more capable, though apparently not enough so be motivated to climb.

Fortunately Renee had some more time later in the day to climb, so we were able to get on some more challenging routes. We both cleanly led a 5.8 and 5.9, with the latter feeling close to my limit these days. This was a pleasant surprise, since even when I was eight years younger and climbing more regularly, I never led more than about 5.9-5.10a. I suppose years of scrambling experience and my current leanness make up for my lack of practice and approaching decrepitude. In any case, it was a pleasant way to end the day. We toproped a couple of made-up and chossier routes nearby while talking to another pair of climbers, then went our separate ways. I was anxious to escape Sedona before being sucked into a vortex of yuppitude.

East Temple, Checkerboard Mesa

East Temple from overlook

East Temple is a large, sheer-sided butte just north of Zion’s east entrance road, on the edge of the main valley. Though it looks inaccessible to scramblers like Yours Truly, bighorn sheep have been climbing it for millenia, via an improbable route that corkscrews around from the southeast corner near the popular valley overlook. Though sheep-friendly, the route is rated 5.7, and the crux is a slab traverse, making it the most difficult and intimidating route I meant to climb on this visit. It was still cold, but I had given it a few days to dry, and had plans elsewhere, so it was now or never.

I once again drove into the park early, both to skip the entry fee and to get one of the few spots near the popular east tunnel overlook. Unfortunately it is a popular place to photograph the sunrise, so it was already a zoo when I arrived around 7:00. I rudely turned around in the road, drove a quarter mile back east to park, then sat in my car for awhile waiting for it to become less frigid. The route seemed short enough that I would not have to worry about running out of daylight, and I was getting tired of cold hands.

Hoodoos along the way
I slogged through tourist hordes on the narrow trail to the overlook, with its carved steps and nice, safe railings, thinking that it might actually be possible to transmit a coronavirus outdoors in such a throng. I stopped at the overlook to look at East Temple for a bit, then left the official trail to climb toward its base, giving the trio of rangers who had arrived a wide berth. Since I wasn’t carrying ropes and such, I looked like what I am — more a homeless guy than a Real Climber — and worried they would yell at me for wandering off-trail. The first part of the route is a rising traverse across the peak’s lower-angle apron toward the north end of its upper white cliffs. I had a route description, but it is not really helpful. There are a couple gullies that can be brushy and annoying, but the goal is to reach a point around 6000 feet on East Temple’s southwest side via a game of “slab chicken,” generally heading up and left while staying on the lower-angle slabs via micro-route-finding. None of it is harder than class 3, but there is no single best path.

The route description finally became useful at the southwest ridge, where the “notch with a tree” proved much more distinctive than I had expected. The view from the notch was disconcerting, though: I saw no feasible line up out of the next gully, and nothing that looked like a friendly side-gully leading on around lower down. There were no cairns or signs of human passage, it was shaded and cold on the west slope, and the thought of turning back entered my mind. Only partly shaking off that weakness, I traversed some snowy ledges into the gully and began descending.

Second gully
A few hundred feet down, the route’s likely continuation became clear: a brushy slot with moderate-angle slabs to its left, leading up and around toward the peak’s west shoulder. A small cairn confirmed my hypothesis, and a return to the sun lightened my mood. I scrambled up the slot a bit, then took to the slabs, where I found some more serious climbing and tricky route-finding. The crux was near the top, where one follows a series of outward-sloping white ledges to get around a headwall. I grabbed at a bush, focused on smooth movement, and tried not to think about how far I would bounce if I fell, or how this would feel on the way down. At the top, I passed an old sling around a tree, then traversed left to easier terrain on the ridge.

Brushy chimney I bypassed
After climbing easier terrain, the described route became obvious: a brush-choked chimney leading to a slung pine tree. The moves became harder as I ascended, and the climbing was unpleasant throughout, stemming and stepping on dirty ledges, and alternately grabbing, pushing through, and stepping on various brush. At the top, I encountered a large step guarded by a downward-growing shrub. I might have been able to climb it by yarding on the bush, but it did not feel solidly attached, and I backed off. The oaks below would have caught my fall, but I did not want to risk it.

A comment on Mountain Project suggested climbing one of the shallow gullies to the left, so I tried each in turn. They looked feasible from below, but I could not find a way up either that felt comfortable. Slab climbing, especially on sandstone, is a mental game, and my confidence and judgment were fading. I tried the first slot for some reason, reaching the same high point and trundling the crux plant, which had only been held in by a thin root. I found the now-shrubless step too difficult, and once again thought of giving up.

What’s over there?
After a snack — sugar makes everything seem better — I decided to check around the corner to the left. I had a good feeling about the terrain there, and I knew that sheep climbed this. Since they cannot stem, there had to be an easier way. My persistence was rewarded, as I found slabs and ledges leading around the difficulty which were mostly class 3-4. Once again, my persistence and alpine tricksiness let me cheat my way around difficulties that others seem to take head-on. But these qualities only took me so far, and once I reached the upper slung tree, I was faced with the inevitable crux: a long, rising slab traverse around to the north side.

Slabbing it up
This traverse used to be an unprotectable friction-fest, following flatter stripes and knobby dikes up and left to the pre-summit plateau, but someone (NPS? climbers?) has installed a lot of hardware. Now there are a dozen giant eye-bolts and three ladder rungs for belays, placed along either the best path or the one that someone with a drill happened to take. This was dicey climbing at the best of times, especially in trail runners, but my head was back in the right place. However, as the route wrapped around the northwest side of the Temple, the rock became wetter, and patches of snow lingered on some ledges. This was not going to be easy.

Time to get sketchy
I started along one stripe, retreated, then tried a slightly different attack, eventually reaching the first bolt. I debated for a minute, then put two fingers through and grabbed it. This was “cheating,” but I justified it to myself on account of the wet rock; if the route were dry, I would have the skill and confidence to climb it in its original condition. I worked my way up and left from there, sometimes staying near the bolted line, sometimes wandering left on ledges, grabbing or stepping on hardware when it helped. As the route wrapped around, the snow, ice, and wet rock became more problematic, and I frequently knocked snow and grit off my soles at the transitions back to dry rock. In such conditions, the tough little desert bushes were more reliable than the rock in which they grew. The final section, climbing a trough to the plateau, would have been an easy romp when dry, but it was sheltered and shaded, making it a snowy, icy sketch-fest.

Summit from above crux
I emerged on the sandy, brushy fore-summit with a shudder of relief, then hiked as quickly as I could around the peak’s north side, mindful of the slow, careful descent to come. The snow was never more than six inches deep, but it hid some treacherous cactus. I made it around to the east side with only one minor spiny incident, wrapping almost to the southeast corner before finding the obvious route to the summit plateau. From there, I trudged back to the highpoint on its west end. I took a few quick photos and had a snack, but could not bring myself to linger while the downclimb remained.

Kinesava and West Temple
Descending the slab crux was as sketchy as I had anticipated, but patience and caution prevailed. From there, the rest was mostly comfortable, though the steps below the first slung tree gave me pause. I descended the slot, reclimbed the main gully, and passed through the notch with the tree. I was either better at, or numb to, sandstone slabs at this point, so the traverse back to the overlook felt much more casual. I pulled up my buff and flowed slowly with the tourist crowds, occasionally passing when the opportunity arose and my patience gave out.

I still had a few hours of daylight, and did not expect to return to Zion for some time, so I stopped on my way out of the park to tag Checkerboard Mesa. Though it is probably more photographed than the East Temple, it is a much easier climb. Unlike neighboring Crazy Quilt, where one climbs straight up the checkered face, the route up Checkerboard thrashes up a gully to its left, then slogs along endless summit plateau before thrashing through oak and pines to the highpoint. I took a few photos, then hurried back to the car before sunset, driving back east past Kanab to find a place to camp with service. It was an anticlimactic end to a satisfying and successful Zion visit. I have badly underrated Zion’s scrambling potential, and want to return to explore it further.

Nippletop, Separation, Lonely, The Triplets, Lost

Nippletop and Triplets from NW

I had one more big thing to do before leaving Zion, but the rock still needed more time to dry, so I decided to tag a few more easy peaks south of the entrance road. Nippletop had aroused my interest from both the Ares (Aires? Ariel?) Buttes and Progeny, so when I learned that it had a class 3 route, it seemed an obvious choice. Separation and Lonely are two minor satellite peaks recommended as side-trips in Joe’s Guide, and the others happened to be nearby, and to turn the day into a nice loop.

Frozen sand is easier
I parked at a pullout near the drainage east of Nippletop, crossed the main wash, then headed south, grateful that the slickrock here was free of snow. The sun was out, but it was a cold morning, and my feet ached despite another late start. From a distance, Nippletop looks a bit like a cupcake, with vertical sandstone sides, a sloping frosting of trees, and a decorative rock blob on top. The key to reaching the frosting is a ridge extending north, with a lower-angle bowl to its east. The bowl is partly shaded by the main peak, so much of the rock was still wet or snow-covered, but it was mostly low-angle, and broken up by solid trees and bushes higher up. As I hiked, I found myself listening to an interview with a guy who had fallen in a crevasse on the Teton Glacier this past summer while descending the Koven route. Everything about his account, from his near-death experience to his description of the climbing process, was strange to me, but I easily pictured one of my favorite routes, which I have done a half-dozen times without incident.

Valley from Nippletop
After climbing the bowl, the route traverses the ridge to the main peak, then climbs a short step to the summit plateau. This is north-facing, and was all covered in snow; I briefly followed some sheep tracks, then put my down jacket back on once I passed into the shade. There was a bit of brushy third class here, but fortunately no treacherous slabs, so I quickly reached the plateau and returned to the warming sun. After a hike and another couple third class moves, I was standing on the tip of the nipple. Familiar peaks surrounded me to the east, north, and west, from Crazy Quilt around to Bridge and G2. East Temple dominated the view to the northwest, its south face drying out nicely.

Lonely from Separation
Returning down the bowl, I headed east a bit to Separation Peak, finding the final slab moves onto its summit surprisingly delicate when covered in ice and snow. It seemed arbitrary to me that, of the various bumps surrounding Nippletop, this and Lonely Peak have received unofficial names, while the one between it and the Triplets has not, but that was reason enough for me to choose which to climb or not. Lonely is another short hike from Separation, an easy peak without a steep summit cap.

Triplets and unnamed bump
I could have returned the way I had come from here, but I noticed that the Triplets and Lost were not far west and looked doable, and I could return via a loop through the next drainage. This seemed more interesting to me, so I headed west for the first and highest Triplet. All three are made of soft white rock with layers rising toward the northeast, so I found myself climbing steep, snowy, but positive terrain, then descending more gradual but still somewhat sketchy outward-sloping slabs. They are probably class 3 by their easiest routes, but felt a bit harder in the snow. I stopped for awhile on the first, where I had cell reception, to make post-Zion plans, then continued over the other two.

I dropped north off the final Triplet, then circled around west through the saddle to reach the base of Lost’s southeast side. The initial slabs climbing out of the scrubby plateau were a bit steep, but it soon mellowed out to an easy walk, leading to a summit with a close-up view of the familiar Roof, Hepworth, and Gifford to the west. The north ridge looked similar to the south slope on the topo, but was slightly trickier thanks to snow and a couple of steep steps — conditions were not ideal. Once on flatter ground, I made my way northeast into the wash, where I found some footprints and eventually a use trail leading back toward the road. It would have been fastest to walk the shoulder, but I had time to spare, and walking along a narrow road next to tourists gawking from their rented RVs and trying to parallel park sounded unpleasant. I chose instead to follow the wash south of the road, which is easy and surprisingly scenic, with bits of slot canyon and little brush. Back at the car, I thought briefly of climbing the snowy, north-facing gully to Checkerboard Mesa, then decided it could wait for a warmer day.

Mountain of the Sun, Progeny

Shadow of Progeny

With the rock wet and/or covered with snow, difficult scrambling was out of the question. Joe from the Climbers’ Ranch had sent me a link to Joe’s (no relation) Guide to Zion, a mix of hikes, scrambles, and technical canyons. I picked out a couple at random that shared a trailhead and looked no harder than class 3, then headed into the park, looking for striking views of snow-covered sandstone. However it remained stubbornly cloudy and unpleasantly cold, so I sat in the car and enjoyed my coffee, in no hurry to start.

Deertrap Mesa from trailhead
I finally got out at Upper Pine Creek, the start of the route to Mountain of the Sun, which would have a good view of the main valley peaks. The sand in the wash was pleasantly firm from its cold soaking, and even a bit too soaked in places, as I had to thrash through the snowy brush to get around some standing water. I could see enough of the surrounding terrain to navigate, but distant features were mostly obscured by clouds, and it continued to snow intermittently. My feet were soaked by the snow on the ground, my hands by that on the rocks and branches, and both were on the edge of unpleasant cold.

Progeny
The climb over the saddle from Pine Creek over to the next creek west would have been little more than a hike when dry, but proved somewhat more thought-provoking in the snow. Slabs in general are treacherous when wet, and Zion’s sandstone ones are worse in several ways. First, the wet stone sheds sand, which lubricates its surface. Second, the black lichen on some slabs turns incredibly slick. Third, edges and protrusions become brittle, making them unreliable. But this is why I had chosen a hiking peak; the snow made it challenging rather than impassable.

North canyon toward MotS
Coming down the other saddle, I heard a sound and turned to see a herd of bighorns. They were timid as usual for the desert variety, with the herd taking off down the wash between the Twin Brothers and East Temple, one standing watch before following the rest. I turned the other way, heading north to a narrow saddle next to the Twin Brothers before descending toward Mountain of the Sun. This unusual feature of drainages flowing north and south from a narrow connecting saddle seems common in Zion; I had noticed a similar saddle in Hepworth Wash, and it seems like many of the valleys south of the east entrance road have such saddles. My guess is that they occur because erosion has taken place more by wind than by flowing water, where one direction or the other would receive more flow and capture the other.

The ramp
Thanks to my excellent route description, I had no trouble finding the ramp leading back to the saddle between Twin Brothers and Mountain of the Sun. True to the description, it was exposed o both sides, sloping down into the main drainage on the east, and a minor one on the west. Here once again I would have had an easy walk in dry conditions, and thought nothing of the exposure. Wet and covered in snow, it required some caution, carefully avoiding the lichen when possible, and kicking my soles clean when transitioning from snow to bare rock.

Deertrap Mesa
The direct traverse over to the saddle was too slick, forcing me to detour well south, then thrash through snowy manzanita, which offered better footing. By this point my hands and feet were unpleasantly cold, and the snow seemed about to turn to drizzle. I did what I normally do when cold and unhappy, eating most of my food, standing around with my hand in my pockets, and contemplating turning around. Fortunately I continued, and found the rest of the route no harder than what I had done so far. The “class 4” crux was fortunately a steep, brushy gully instead of bare slabs, meaning it was little harder to climb in snow.

Valley from summit
From the summit, I had intermittent views down to the Zion Lodge to one side, and the main visitor center and mouth of the valley to the other. Occasionally I could see the Twin Brothers to the south, or the lower portions of the valley’s west side, but they remained mostly hidden. Some careful slabbing got me back to the wash, after which it was just a hike to the car. No more than a quarter mile from the road, I once again met a herd of bighorns, two adults leading about eight juveniles of various ages. Perhaps because they were uphill of me, they were less timid than the others, and we stood around observing each other for awhile. I had planned to combine Mountain of the Sun with Progeny, but reading the description more carefully, I realized that they shared a trailhead rather than an approach. I returned to the car, had some hot chocolate, then set out anew with just my camera in my pocket.

East Rim view
Progeny turned out to be an easy, rewarding, and stimulating afternoon hike. I quickly left the tourists behind, and had no trouble finding the small arch. I mostly ignored the route description, simply taking what looked like the obvious line toward the summit. I was reassured of being on-route by the sight of the “two breasts,” sitting perkily to my left, though any of a number of lines would have worked as well. From the summit, the late November afternoon light gave the East Rim Formations a warm glow, from the Ares (Aires? Ariel?) Buttes, to Crazy Quilt, to… Nippletop, continuing the afternoon’s anatomical theme. It was still cold, but mostly clear and pleasant in the sun with a down parka. I absorbed the scene for awhile, then scampered back to the car to find a place to spend the long, cold night.

Pine Valley Peak, Northgate West

Pne Valley Peak from Northgate

With only half a day before rain and snow would make the sandstone slick and fragile, I headed up Kolob Terrace Road to climb some short domes. I had been this way on my first scrambling trip to Zion, in 2013, to climb the Guardian Angels and Tabernacle Dome. This time I chose Pine Valley Peak, a short yet challenging scramble near the upper Subway trailhead, which I had skipped last time from a lack of confidence and/or motivation. I added Northgate West, an easier and more distant peak, because it had not yet started raining.

Sketching along some slabs
From the trailhead, I bushwhacked down a short basalt slope, crossed another trail from somewhere, and was almost immediately at the base of the climb. I spent awhile looking for the best line, which in retrospect was obvious: follow the big left-trending ramp until it ends, go up a crack, then… do sketchy stuff to get to the top. Mountain Project commenters mention going both left and right from where the crack ends; I chose the delicate traverse right, over to a broad, lower-angle depression leading to the summit plateau.

The crack
The ramp is easy. The crack, while steeper, at least feels secure, offering hand- and foot-jams, and the occasional bush, to help on steeper sections. I looked at various cracks left of the headwall above the main crack, but none looked particularly secure, particularly in the extremely soft white sandstone. The traverse right was airy, but careful route-finding and a good eye for subtle ledges kept it reasonable, and the slope beyond was lower-angle and offered a wandering series of ramps in most places. I watched the gathering clouds as I perused the summit register, then retraced my steps to the lower trail.

I followed this trail for awhile, then took off cross-country toward the Northgate Peaks where it turns to join the upper trail from the parking lot. My line crossed a couple of shallow canyons, made annoying by brush and loose rock; I suspect following the trail would have been faster had I been in a running mood. Northgate West, the higher of the two peaks, was a straightforward class 3 scramble. I eyed South Guardian Angel and the lower east peak from the summit, debating whether to climb the latter. It looked like I had enough time before the rain started, but I was not sufficiently motivated to tag the minor bump, so I returned to the trail and headed for the car. I passed several groups on the way, a mix of those out to look at the view and those headed for the Subway. I doubt the latter would be fun in the cold and rain, but it seemed unlikely there would be enough precipitation for it to flood. The parking lot was nearly full, with one commercial van and a number of “family-sized” SUVs. I drove down to a more solitary pullout, then made lunch as the storm arrived.

Kinesava (Cowboy Ridge), West Temple

Entire traverse from approach

With only one full day of good weather left, it was time to tackle one of the longest and most technically difficult routes that had caught my attention in Zion: Cowboy Ridge to Mount Kinesava (5.7), followed by a traverse to West Temple (5.6). Going by the numbers, these are at the outer limit of what I will scramble, but the fact that the previous day’s outings had felt easy for their grades gave me confidence. However, I learned that while Zion’s slab routes feel easy to me, the 5.7 crack on Cowboy Ridge felt serious enough to merit its grade. Perhaps this is because slab climbing is more about confidence and careful foot placement, both exercised on easier terrain, while crack requires a specific technique that I rarely employ.

Cowboy Ridge from below
I woke up in the dark, giving myself plenty of time to stress about the news, catch up on writing, and chat with a friend who also could not sleep. Mike and I had used the Chinle Trailhead to climb Kinesava in 2017, so I knew where to find it at the base of an aggressively-signed Private Drive outside the park. I dithered a bit more, then hiked the trail through scattered mansionettes, following it a few hundred yards too far before reading the route description and bushwhacking back to the well-cairned wash. There is a trail up through the Wingate cliff-band, but it is not clear where it leaves the wash, so I just thrashed uphill at the obvious break near where the wash crosses under the power lines. From there, I meandered through sparse desert brush, finding sparse footprints on my way to the toe of the ridge.

Upper Cowboy
I started up near the superfluous cairn, probing and backtracking a bit as I accustomed myself to the terrain. The east-facing approach had been hot, but the changing weather was creating a stiff breeze across the ridge, making for comfortable scrambling temperatures. Having skimmed a few trip reports online, I knew to look right of the crest rather than staying religiously on top, so I moved quickly through the lower ridge by alternately traversing and climbing moderate corners. The route-finding became a bit less obvious as I neared the crux steps; a couple of times I started up something that felt “too hard,” backed off, and found another way with a bit of searching. By the easiest path, the climbing was no harder than class 3-4, and I was feeling confident as I approached the headwall.

Kind of exposed
The first step clearly visible in profile is split by a wide sort of double-chimney, surmounted by some easy low fifth class climbing. The ridge remains slightly steeper above, but not difficult. The crux hand-crack is obvious and unavoidable: a uniform slot splitting the left side of a horizontally-ribbed headwall. Not having done any “real climbing” in awhile, I looked around a bit for an alternative, then reluctantly steeled myself to the inevitable. Done correctly, crack climbing is moderately painful and involves no loss of skin: you shove your hands into suitable parts of the slot, then squeeze them so they expand against the sides tightly enough to take your body weight without moving. Done my way, there will (usually) be blood: either I desperately shove a hand into a wrongly-shaped place, or I allow it to move around and remove skin. I did better than I had any right to expect given my lack of recent practice, but still flailed a bit pulling over a slight bulge. This forty feet felt 5.7 to me, considerably harder than anything else on the route.

Kinesava and West Temple from summit plateau
Above the hand crack, more easy scrambling led to the summit plateau, from which a bit more class 3-4 slab climbing got me to the top. Since Kinesava has an easier route, it is relatively popular, and the register did not go back far enough to include our 2016 summit. I sat around until the wind chilled me, then headed toward the standard descent before continuing past to begin the traverse to West Temple. I thought this would be easy, but it proved to require the day’s trickiest route-finding to keep the climbing low fifth class. I first tried the left-hand side of the ridge, finding nothing I liked, then tried a couple of lines on the right. I eventually dropped down a sandy gully, traversed, then climbed back up through a notch to reach the lower left side, from which I was finally able to reach the saddle.

West Temple from beyond notch
From there, the route wanders to either side of the ridge, generally staying close to the crest, with unhelpful cairns scattered at random points. Parts are narrow, but none of it felt particularly exposed. Near the striking white headwall, a step with a finger-crack stymied me, just a bit too high, with feet a bit to thin. With the aid of a tree, I made some sketchy moves onto outward-sloping gritty slabs on the left, then cautiously returned to the top, only to spot an easier gully a bit farther on, which I noted for the descent. The crux is the last short pitch leading to the sub-summit plateau, the rightmost line among several corners through splitting the white headwall. Several bolts, and a two-bolt anchor, clearly indicated where I was supposed to climb. Above some scrappiness involving a bush, the hardest move involved working one’s hands and feet up the corner of a dihedral, then getting high enough to transition to some combination of hand- and foot-holds above and to the sides. After a couple of tentative tries, I figured out the correct sequence and position, passed the anchor, and bashed through yet another bush to reach the top.

Meh… close enough
The actual summit is a blob of red sandstone sitting above the Temple’s white bulk, with a wide, easy break on its left side. Unlike on Ares Butte, there are no sheep to mow the brush — who knew they couldn’t stem? — but the manzanita and oak on this part were manageable. I hiked the plateau, slogged a faint trail up the break in the red cliffs, and was immediately confronted by manzanita hell. Some other part of the plateau might be slightly higher, but I decided to consider this the summit. I thrashed over toward the antennas, crossing a blank spot where helicopters may land, hoping to get a view down to the east. This quickly stopped feeling worth the effort, so I thrashed back the way I had come, accidentally finding the register only a few feet from where I had topped out. West Temple is quite a bit more work than Kinesava, so the entries went back a couple of decades, a mixture of fellow scramblers (hi, Buzz and Jared!) and Real Climbers doing Hard Things.

Fortunately nothing on the ridge felt any harder going down than up, and there were even helpful and frequent cairns showing the way from the notch to lower-angle terrain below Kinesava. I picked up the moderately well-used trail through the Wingate this time, lost it again farther down, then continued haphazardly toward the wash, using a particularly gaudy mansionette as my lodestar. Once in the sandy bottom, I turned on a podcast, tuned out, and had an easy hike back to the car. The forecast called for only another half-day of good weather, so I headed toward Kolob Terrace Road in search of shorter peaks.

Ares Butte, South Ares Butte, Crazy Quilt, Lady Mountain

Ares from Ares South

[Apologies for the focus problems. They are now fixed.]

With more comfort on Zion sandstone and bad weather approaching, it was time I stepped up my game to try some more legitimate scrambles. The four I chose are rated 5.6, beneath-real-climbers’-notice, 5.5, and 5.5; I would call them sustained 5.5, 3, 5.0, and one move of 5.5. I climbed up and down all of them in trail runners, and found only the first (Led by Sheep on Ares Butte) and one move on the last (the awkward corner on Lady) to demand concentration.

Ares face/route
I started with Ares Butte, the hardest of the lot, because this southeast-facing route on white rock would be unbearably hot later in the morning. I parked at a pullout with a wooden fence just west of the Ares Buttes, then dropped into the wash west of the two buttes. After only a few minutes, I zig-zagged up red, then white sandstone to the saddle between the two buttes. Ares’ left skyline looked like it might be climbable, but the route description said to continue around to the other side, past the much more vertical south face. I found some cairns here, and eventually the eye-bolt at the start of the route. It was go time.

Typical angle
The broad southeast side of Ares Butte has horizontal stripes offering some traction, and various ledges and vertical features providing stances and holds. The “route” is fairly well-bolted, but I had no particular reason to faithfully follow the bolts, and found my own wandering way to either side of them. The route is named “Led by Sheep” because the party who bolted the route supposedly followed a herd of bighorns up the face. While there are indeed bighorn tracks on the summit, I also noticed some carved steps lower down. Sheep are not known for their carving ability, and anyone climbing with a bolt kit would have no need to chip steps, so I suspect local natives may have pioneered this route.

The route ends to the left, with the usual Zion sketchiness of “surprise surfboard” blocks lying treacherously on sandy slabs. A short and cautious hike led to the summit plateau, where I continued north to the highpoint and claimed my Peakbagger Points. The trees were sparse enough to afford views of mostly-higher peaks in all directions, looking more or less climbable for someone like me. Nippletop to the south looked intriguing and, since it lacks a page on Mountain Project, is likely either very hard or very easy.

Starting downclimb
Now I had to get off my plateau. The only option is to retrace the route, and most people seem to rappel, but as I no longer even own a rope, I would be downclimbing. As expected, the descent was probably slower than the ascent, but it never felt tenuous, and I eventually made it back to walking terrain with no near-mishaps. South Ares Butte is not steep enough to attract Real Climbers’ attention, but its north ridge is a fun and quick scramble from the saddle. Its summit lies only a short distance from the road, which was already noisy with traffic and construction. Rather than trying to find a more direct way down, I returned to the saddle and hiked the western wash to my car.

With the day heating up, I headed back east for the partially-shaded north side of Crazy Quilt Mesa. The approach here was even shorter, a mere couple hundred yards of sand-slogging across the road from a parking pullout. I found slings around a couple trees on the broad face, but most of the climbing was just hiking with thoughtful foot placement. Only near the top did I find a bit of trickiness, where the route narrows, steepens, and turns sandy near the plateau.

View west from Crazy Quilt
Unfortunately Crazy Quilt’s summit is almost a mile back from the top of its face, too far for most climbers. Curiously, the highpoint also seems to be ignored by peak-baggers: I found no cairn, register, or footprints, and only the lower west summit is noted online. The route is mostly a hike through moderate brush, with one class 4-5 step getting to the final plateau and the two equally-high and mostly treeless dirt knobs of the summit. I had cell service for the first time in awhile, so I burned too much daylight summit-texting before returning to the car.

It was early afternoon by now, so while it would be unpleasantly hot 2000 feet lower in the valley, the Mountaineers Route up Lady Mountain would be entering the shade. This improbable route, constructed in 1924, winds up the west side of the canyon just south of Lady’s summit. Back when fun was allowed to be dangerous, tourists staying at the Zion Lodge could cross the river and climb the face they saw from the lawn via a series of carved steps and a few ladders, protected by bolted cables. No guides, ropes, or waivers were required. Such activities are frowned upon today, and the cables and ladders have all been removed. However the carved steps remain, along with some bolts and fading painted arrows. The route is now mostly class 3-4, with 2-3 short class 5 steps, and feels like it might have been low fifth class even without the carved holds.

I parked at a pullout just uphill of the Scenic Drive junction, then rode my bike the few miles to the Emerald Pools trailhead. Zion Canyon has been immeasurably improved by being closed to cars — Yosemite would benefit from a similar arrangement — and visiting by bike offers both more freedom and less coronavirus than the shuttle system. Weirdly, the shuttles have been instructed not to pass cyclists even when they are riding on the shoulder, and I got yelled at by a park cop in a truck for not pulling over into the dirt to let one by. I locked my bike next to a handful of other normal and electric ones at the empty but not yet decayed trailhead lot, then headed up the popular trail.

Start of Lady route
The start of the old route is neither marked nor obvious, though it is clear where it should go. I went too far toward Emerald Pools on the way up, then thrashed up the hillside, following faint game trails until I encountered the old trail just below the first rock band. I was momentarily perplexed, then saw a line of chipped steps higher up, above a start helpfully protected by a large cactus. The recent rains had smoothed the footsteps from the sand, but the route was still mostly easy to follow, and it sees enough traffic to keep the manzanita and oak-brush from completely taking over. The bits of old hardware and occasional painted arrows are also helpful where the route is unclear.

Hidden slot
In general, if anything feels harder than about class 3, and there are no chipped steps, you are off-route. The first tricky part is a right-facing corner where the lower steps have eroded. Others have piled up rocks to ease the first move, but I found it more secure to climb up to the right, then make an awkward step/mantle left. The second is a non-obvious slot leading through a red cliff band. I first continued up and right, eventually running into a steep dihedral with some varnish holds that looked far harder than a gentleman of the 1920s would be expected to climb. I almost gave up here, but eventually spotted the faint chipped steps in the slot to the left. After a somewhat tricky entry, easier moves led to another path.

Spot the head-spear
The final tricky bit is a corner with a wide crack and two big steps. Other than a large eye-bolt at its base, there are no chipped holds or other signs of how this was meant to be climbed, suggesting that there was once a staircase or ladder here. I tried it on the way up, backed off, and retreated around the corner to the left to climb a sandy gully, then thrash back to the trail through some horrible oaks. In retrospect, it is easier to figure out the chimney moves and stay on the path. There are more paint arrows and steps, and no further difficulties, above this final obstacle. The only real hazard is a broken-off tree positioned perfectly to spear you in the head if you are motoring happily up the route, watching your footing and listening to peppy music. The trail tops out on a narrow ridge between Lady and Mount Zion to its south, a ten-minute walk from the summit. Perched at the level of the surrounding plateau, the view is far better than that from the much lower Angels Landing. There is even a helpful metal disk cemented to a nearby flat rock, naming the surrounding summits.

The descent, sans oak thrash and avec correct trail, went easily. I enjoyed looking down upon the tourists going to and from the Emerald Pools, oblivious to my presence and the route above. Less than a century before, they would have been clambering up and down this much more strenuous and rewarding route. While I was glad to have Lady Mountain to myself, I was slightly sad to be reminded how mankind had regressed. Back on my bike, I pedaled hard to pass a couple coasting along on e-bikes, then drove out of the park to find a camp spot before my next, more ambitious outing.

Bridge, G2, Roof, Hepworth, Gifford

Kinesava, West Temple, etc.

[Too late, I realized I had left my camera in “star photography mode,” so the photos are messed up.]

I had been to Zion several times, though only once to scramble, tagging the Guardian Angels on a brief visit in 2013. After Buzz expressed surprise in our interview that I had not spent more time there, I asked for some recommendations, and made plans to spend more time there. Further poking around on Mountain Project showed that there are a wealth of low-fifth-class routes in the area. The sandstone is not as pleasant as that in nearby Red Rocks, being more fragile and grittier, and normally lacking Red Rocks’ amazing black varnish. However, as an experienced chossineer, I took this as just another type of bad rock to be understood.

Storming on Zion
I ran into some distractions along the way. After hiking Buckskin Gulch, I learned that it had a well-established FKT, going back years and originall held by Buzz Burrell and Peter Bakwin. The current record, held by a local female athlete, seemed intimidatingly fast, but I thought I might still be able to beat it. If not, at least I could take advantage of my gender to claim the slower men’s FKT. As it turned out, I was able to best her time by all of two minutes, thanks to the canyon being so dry this late in the season. Buckskin turned out to be fun to run, with long stretches of smooth sand and a gentle, consistent downhill grade, but it is not possible to do so while taking in the scenery. I also visited the White Canyon Slot, covered in solidified mud drips, foolishly tried to ride on the Paria Plateau, where all the roads are tire-sucking sand, and met some interesting people, at least one of whom I will probably see again. There is clearly more to do in the area and, since it is BLM land, few crowds or rules.

Sunset rainbow
But on to Zion… I had not done any hard scrambling in awhile, and it had rained the previous afternoon, so I began with one of the easier routes on my list, the 5.easy southeast face of Bridge Mountain. I camped outside the park, then drove in early to put off buying my annual pass. This proved fortunate, since “construction” (actually a fence with no work going on behind it) had limited the downhill parking for Gifford Wash to three spots. These are normally used by tourists taking a short walk to a viewpoint, but I gloatingly occupied one for the entire day.

After a bit of trickiness getting into the wash, I spent some time slogging up deep sand, made only slightly firmer by the previous day’s rain. Most horizontal surfaces in Zion are covered with evil oakbrush, so routes tend to involve either scrambling or following watercourses. The terrain can be confusing, with lots of similar domes and washes, and spiteful, with surprise cliffs and dryfalls blocking otherwise-easy routes. Also, routes are mostly on slickrock or sand, where use trails do not form; elsewhere, they can often be tough to distinguish from game trails. Fortunately I had both a good approach description from Mountain Project, and the topos on my phone.

I left the wash a bit too early, then regained the path at some cairns below a crucial slot leading into the bowl below Gifford. From there, I dropped into the wash to its north, which was easy going after a long detour around a dryfall near the top. The east-west wash to the south, which eventually plummets over the long tunnel, was mostly open sand, and I was soon rounding the corner toward Bridge and G2. This wash was slightly more annoying, occasionally choked with brush, but I was close to my peak, and the ramp up Bridge was obvious.

This was a good introduction to Zion scrambling, as I learned to identify the angle at which my shoes would stick, and to avoid surface grit and things that would crumble. There were a couple of class 4-5 moves, but it was mostly a slab-walk, requiring only trust in friction. The ramp fades away as it turns the corner and climbs into the upper mountain’s white rock. I thrashed through some pine and manzanita in a corner, then reached the ledge that cuts back left to the apparent crux. The traverse to the slung tree required a bit of confidence and caerful foot-placement. Beyond, there were several options; I took a more direct line on the way up, then found an easier, wander-y path on the way down. I was getting better at cleverly linking ledges and seams to avoid attacking the sandstone slabs directly.

Above the short crux section, a lot of wandering hiking and scrambling eventually leads to the top, with no single best path most of the time. The summit, being on the edge of the main canyon, has a striking view of Kinesava and West Temple across the way, and Angel’s Landing and the other features of the upper canyon to their right. I could also see the crowded visitor center parking below, and a line of cars backed up above the tunnel so an RV could pass through, and hear the traffic noise. All too soon, I would have to face that madness.

Like many Zion scrambles, Bridge does not have an easier walkoff, so one must either downclimb or rappel the route. I (of course) chose the former, and mostly found it low-stress; the part above the slung tree can be made easier by following features a bit farther south. With plenty of day left, I continued to neighboring G2, wondering all the while about its name. I doubt it looks like Gasherbrum II, and it is not along Gifford (Cathy Lee? Mr. Pinchot?) Wash. In any case, it is an easy scramble from the head of the gully south of Bridge: although both are supposedly rated 5.easy, G2 is definitely 5.easier. It also had a register, with a few familiar names from Colorado.

Rather than trying my luck with shortcuts, I retraced my route to the main north-south drainage, continuing up to the ravine north of Gifford. I was low on food, but long on daylight, so I decided to extend the day by looping over Roof, Hepworth, and Gifford Peaks. This would involve some unknown terrain, but all the peaks were short, and the terrain looked okay according to my cursory glance at the topo. I continued up the wash to a divide west of Hepworth, staying in the streambed and only occasionally having to fight through oakbrush. Unfortunately, my relaxing afternoon stroll ended there: the wash between Gifford and Hepworth ends in a dryfall, Hepworth’s west side is rather cliffy, and the drainage south of the divide appears to turn into a slot canyon.

I wasn’t ready to admit defeat. Instead, I sat in the shade and dithered for awhile, eventually spying a line that might take me up the base of Hepworth, then around a corner into the bowl between it an Roof. It looked steep, but things always look steeper than they are when viewed head-on. My line eventually worked, but it involved some backtracking, gritty traversing, vegetable holds, and one broken foothold. That unpleasantness out of the way, I continued up the bowl to Roof’s west ridge, then scrambled its summit “pancake stack.” Since all three peaks are topped by layered, soft sandstone, all feature such summit blocks.

Hepworth was an easy hike from Roof, retracing my steps a bit, then crossing the saddle and heading up its south side more or less straight for the summit. Though both sides look the same on the topo, its north side is too steep to easily downclimb. Fortunately I was able to follow its east ridge until I could traverse back onto the lower, less steep part. Gifford was not particularly hard, but all routes to the summit seem to be class 3-4 thanks to awkward bulges and steep sections. I went up the southeast side, then descended what seemed to be the standard route — it had cairns, but also involved a downclimb onto a rotting log. I was surprised and pleased to find Honnold and McCandless in the register from not too long ago. I suppose they are locals, but it seemed like both an odd peak and time of year to find famous people.

I hiked down Gifford to the plateau, then mostly retraced my route to the car, though I dropped to the wash higher up. The scene at the road was classic Zion: the ranger was talking to some people in a rented RV while waiting for the tunnel to clear, cars were stacking up behind the RV, drivers were jockeying for the handful of parking spots, and tourists in impractical clothes were milling around on the sidewalk, visiting the overlook, taking photos, or looking bored. Someone else was glad to take my parking spot, and I was glad to get out of there, leave the park, and camp on a quiet BLM road.

Buckskin Gulch

Despite making many trips between the Rockies and Sierra, and even a few to the north rim of the Grand Canyon, I have seldom traveled the route through Shiprock, Page, and Kanab, and have paid little attention to things along the way. While there are some peaks in the area, it is mostly a country of mesas, buttes, and canyons, which have never been my focus. However, when Ted mentioned Buckskin Gulch and the Wave on a recent peak-bagging hike, I decided to pay the area a brief visit. So I assembled a random collection of routes and goals and, after a side-trip for a social hike up Placer Peak near Santa Fe, took off for the Land of Polygamy.

Aside: I am not very familiar with online resources for information on non-peaks. Alltrails.com has a lot of information on everything from Jeep tours to cross-country hikes, wrapped up in a slickly, disgustingly commercial website, but I have no idea of the quality of its information or the nature of its contributors. Hikearizona.com is similar, and at least nominally more local. I suspect such hiking sites are all hopeless. While peak-baggers vary in skill, they all share a simple goal — getting to the top of piles of rocks — so sites like SummitPost, Peakbagger, and ListsofJohn can be focused and useful. The same is true for for climbers and MountainProject. Hikers, however, have too many unrelated goals, many of which they probably cannot articulate. I have sometimes found Strava helpful when looking for run-hikes in unfamiliar areas, probably because it selects for people interested in moving faster than a walk.

I locked my bike to the fence at White House trailhead, then drove around to Wire Pass, which adds several miles to the bike shuttle, but cuts off some hiking miles and possibly offers better scenery. Wire Pass is also the starting point for the Wave, a popular hike to a feature in North Coyote Buttes that requires reservations through a lottery in Kanab. Lottery winners seem to attach large green tags to their packs, making it hard to poach the trail. The trailhead has a large parking lot, regularly filled with day hikers’ cars, but there were only a handful of cars there overnight, so I had a quiet evening.

Utah is on Mountain Daylight Time, so the sun does not rise until after 8:00 this time of year. I could have started by headlamp, but I wanted to actually see things on this hike, so I waited until it was reasonably light, and threw my headlamp in my pack in case I ended up riding back after dark. Different sources listed the route as anywhere from 22 to 30 miles (the former is probably correct), and I did not know what sort of terrain to expect. The first part, descending a well-traveled and -packed wash, was quick and runnable, but most of the rest was slow for various reasons.

Once the canyon narrows, it is impossible to get lost. In the eleven or so miles between there and the Paria River, there is only one way to escape the canyon, a third class scramble leading to the Cobra Arch trailhead. As long as you turn right at Buckskin Gulch, then left at the Paria, you will get to Whitehouse. Though there are a few wider places, most of Buckskin Gulch is twisted and narrow, with only a narrow slit of sky visible, and no direct sunlight this time of year. The gulch appears to follow a natural fissure in the sandstone, between fifty and a few hundred feet deep, that has been widened by millenia of flash floods.

There are a couple of boulder-piles requiring a bit of scrambling, but the route is mostly an easy walk until reaching the Paria. However, both the scenery and the frequent rocky ground make it a poor run. Visiting after the summer rains and before winter’s freezing temperatures, I was lucky to find the wash relatively dry. However, I saw many signs of mud in the canyon, and the one section had to negotiate convinced me that I would not want to try this canyon wet. BLM signs warning that the area’s roads are “impassable when wet” are not exaggerating, and the same applies to slot canyons. I was worried that the viscous clay would steal my shoes, and spent a good half-hour throwing rocks into a short mud bog trying to create steps. Doing the canyon wet would probably require hip waders, or at least galoshes tied tightly to one’s feet.

I met no one before the halfway entrance, one group who had come in that way, and several parties entering via the Paria River. There were a handful of tents about a half-mile from the confluence, where there is dry ground and a small spring. Backpacking the Paria from Whitehouse, either as an out-and-back or a car shuttle to the Colorado, is apparently a popular group activity. However both require a reserved permit (versus a self-issued one for dayhikes), and the latter requires at least one partner. As usual, doing things solo in a day was much easier.

After the mostly-dry Buckskin Gulch, I was momentarily dismayed by the very much not-dry Paria River. But the years have beaten my dislike for wet feet into remission, so I only hesitated for a minute before beginning the slosh. There are probably fifty or more stream crossings between the confluence and the trailhead, the last only a mile from the end. Few were more than ankle-deep this time of year, and there were no extended stretches of walking in the river, but the water is muddy, so its depth is unpredictable. The banks are often either shoe-sucking mud or maddeningly deep sand, so travel is invariably slow. Still, I made it back to my bike by late afternoon, and returned to the car well before dark, for a full but not unreasonable day.