Category Archives: Nevada

As the most prominent non-ultra-prominence peak in the Lower 48, Mount Moriah had been on my to-do list for awhile, but its position deep in Greater Nevada kept it there. When Sam proposed doing it as a loop with some of its neighbors, I realized it could be part of a larger plan to satisfy several objectives, together justifying the costly and time-consuming drive. I had actually tried to do Moriah on a previous drive, camping at the base only to be stormed off the next morning. The day would have the added bonus of meeting Luke, an elite trail runner, and Stav, a prolific peak-bagger whom I had “known” online for some time.

Coming over from Notch, I drove slowly up the good dirt road, eventually finding the others already camped on a spur just short of the trailhead. It was an ideal car-camping spot, next to the creek, with a huge fire ring, trees for shade, and even a stack of ready firewood. Sam had a good fire going, and after greeting everyone, I pulled up my seldom-used camp chair to cook dinner. It being redneck season, the last Walmart had been out of propane, so I was trying to cook with my frying pan on my tiny backpacking stove. Stav was kind enough to offer me his much less precarious Coleman. It felt good to be among my tribe — peak-baggers all, with an encyclopedic knowledge of the West’s mountains, and Luke a former Cat 2 cyclist as well — so it was a later evening than is normal for me.

We were all ready to go at the appointed time the next morning; Stav noticed one of his tires was flat, but that was a problem for later. The trail up Hendry’s Creek is surprisingly good and well-maintained, so we quickly gained miles and elevation, passing by rugged cliffs and through Fall aspens. The creek had a disturbing tendency to disappear from time to time, but it was flowing strongly for so late in the season, fed by several springs along the way. We filled water at the last place we thought it would be above ground, then continued to a sagebrush meadow in a bowl east of Moriah, where the rugged (false) summit came into view. The trail continued climbing up the other side to the ridge, where it faded somewhat on its way to a prominent sign on the peak’s northeast shoulder.

Having no more use for official trails for awhile, we continued cross-country up the bare ridge on use- or sheep-trails. The “kids,” Stav and Luke, opted to follow the trails around left, while Sam and I preferred the more solid and scenic rock along the crest. Sam had been here before, so he was not surprised like I was by the false summit. Still, we handily beat the others to the true one. Though not as high as nearby Wheeler, Moriah is a similarly impressive “sky island,” with forests of pine and aspen below, a bare top, and expansive views of its neighbors. Also like Wheeler, its summit ridge is usually windy, so after hiding in the lee for a snack, we wasted little time layering up and descending south toward Silver Creek Baldy.

There were several minor bumps interrupting the long descent, and we eventually re-entered the trees. I had dreaded a desert thrash through woody brush and deadfall, but the bristlecone forest was pleasantly open, with soft ground making for quick plunge-stepping. We mostly stuck together on the climb, taking the ridge left before turning right to the summit. Stav had, for some reason, bought a large, heavy, and uncomfortable Osprey pack, which he loaded with a gallon of water, so he dropped off the pace toward the top. Our last peak, Old Man Mountain, still looked far away, so we wasted little time before taking another steep, fast descent.

The climb to Second Fork Peak was much steeper, and Luke and I soon gapped Sam and Stav. I was worried about getting dropped myself, but managed to hang on, and even to hide from Luke how hard I was breathing. The final ridge to the summit was a fun, narrow limestone scramble, with steep drops to the northwest. We waited out of the wind for Sam and then Stav to arrive, signed the register, and continued to Old Man.

This descent was a bit less straightforward than the previous one, with a few minor cliff bands higher up, and a confusing topography of shallow ridges and gullies lower down. We were surprised by a group of four hunters higher up, sitting still and glassing the terrain below for sheep, of which we had seen none. It was fun to watch excitable, talkative Stav interact with these taciturn locals, who were probably some combination of annoyed that we were scaring their quarry, and overwhelmed by so many words. Lower down, I happily let the “kids” lead, moving surprisingly quickly while looking at their phones, keeping up a steady banter I thought of as the Stav and Luke Show.

I think we were all feeling the long day on the steep climb to Old Man, which even turned scrambly near the top. I found some fourth class climbing on the back side of one bump, but it seemed to be avoidable, and no major deviations from the ridge were necessary. This section had some of the most impressively-gnarled bristlecones of the day, which Luke stopped frequently to admire and photograph. We enjoyed the final summit for awhile, then debated how to descend. The cliffs we had seen on the south side of Hendry’s Creek that morning were concerning, but it seemed like ridges to the north would get us back down to the trail without cliffing out.

We followed the ridge north to a bump, then contoured around to its left, finding pleasant sand-skiing through the sparse trees. The skiing was so good that I got carried away, dropping west toward the valley before side-hilling obnoxiously back to the crest. The ridge gradually got worse from there, with the addition of first dinner-plate talus, then nasty desert brush. We debated our options, with me (wrongly) suggesting dropping down a talus field west to the creek, before bashing more or less straight north. While we never cliffed out, we finally found the miserable desert thrashing I had feared, with steep, loose ground and dense, woody plants. Sam managed to roll a large rock onto his calf, but thankfully escaped with just a bruise and some scrapes.

Finally stumbling out onto the trail, we set off at a brisk walk toward the cars. Luke and Sam are both serious runners, and Stav will run at need, so we soon picked up to a jog for a few miles. Stav’s knee began bothering him, though, so we slowed again to a walk a couple miles from the trailhead. I was fine with that pace, but when Luke took off, Sam and I had to keep pace, covering the final mile or so at a respectable speed. Stav arrived a few minutes later, and after he changed his tire, they all took off for long drives to Las Vegas and Salt Lake City. I had no one to see and nowhere to be, so I just drove a couple miles down the road to cell service to spend the night before continuing west.

Grapevine and Wahguyhe are two peaks near the Nevada-California border toward the northern end of Death Valley. Bordered by barren Death Valley at 1,000 feet to the west, and the piñon and sage Nevada high desert at 5-6,000 feet to the east, the summit views provide a striking contrast. Grapevine is a frequently-climbed, unremarkable DPS peak with a radio antenna on its summit. Wahguyhe is its less-visited, non-DPS neighbor to the south; the name is an Paiute word, of possibly onomatopoetic origins, meaning “to slide backwards unpredictably in loose talus.”

Getting a leisurely start from where it seemed unwise to drive farther up the old dirt road, I followed it the rest of the way to a saddle north of Wahguyhe, and a short distance down the opposite canyon toward Death Valley. Where the road started dropping too much, I turned northwest and up through the sparse piñon forest to regain a ridge. Suspecting that the peak would be non-obvious, I had programmed its rough coordinates into my GPS, and essentially navigated by “IFR” until I started seeing occasional cairns leading toward what seemed likely to be Grapevine. The route continued along the broad undulating ridge, occasionally dodging small cliffs and rotten rock outcrops.

Nearing one saddle, I saw some animal crossing open terrain below, and jogged a bit to see what it was. It turned out to be a young fawn, apparently incapable of either running or hiding, whose “survival” strategy consisted of walking over to the nearest piñon and crouching beneath it. Not seeing an angry mother nearby, I crouched down a few feet away to take some pictures before continuing on my way. It would have made an easy meal or pet, but I had plenty of tuna and little extra room in my car.

Reaching Grapevine’s summit, I hung out near the ugly radio equipment for awhile, taking in Ubehebe Crater to the west, Death Valley proper to the southwest, and scattered rain showers over Nevada to the east. Then, with less-than-impressive aim, I headed back to the saddle at the end of the road, continuing along the ridge in the other direction toward what I thought/hoped was Palmer, the area’s other DPS peak. This was, in fact, Wahguyhe; Palmer is southwest of the saddle, along another, longer ridge.

Nearing the final saddle, I was confronted by a disgusting face of loose-looking dinner-plate talus. It was mostly more stable than it looked, but still quite unpleasant in places. Reaching the summit, I turned over the can to discover than I was on Wahguyhe; tagging Palmer would require retracing my route most of the way to the road saddle, then following another long-looking ridge. I should have continued, but the weather was vaguely threatening, and I was running out of patience for desert peaks. It would have been better than the rain, snow, and general wretchedness I found to the northeast…

Not wanting to descend the talus-field, I headed east on the ridge for awhile, then bombed down through the woods, finding mostly dirt and pine duff that made for excellent boot-skiing. Minor bushwhacking led back to the road, and a short jog later I was back at my car, pleased to find that my patched tire was still behaving itself.

This was the first of two “snow, drive, four-wheel drive, desert” days, turning pairs of easy peaks into full days.

Hole in the Rock, named for the obvious feature, is the highpoint of the East Humboldt Range, which is really just a northern extension of the Rubies. After camping as high up the dirt road as I could reasonably drive, I hiked the remainder to the Snotel station, near a marsh at the base of a broad cirque. Both the hole and the route to the summit — up a couloir to its north — were obvious from here, but it was less clear how best to deal with the mixture of slush and brush between me and the couloir. I ended up doing the worst thing possible on the way up (high and south, with high-angle slush), then finding the right thing to do on the way down (low and north, with moderate brush).

A recent wet avalanche in the couloir had scoured off the top layer of slush, but it was still slow going, so I climbed the rock to its left where possible, occasionally kicking steps across or wading through bits of snow. Reaching the ridge, I was surprised to see two high-altitude coyotes exiting the couloir. Even on the ridge the snow was a slushy mess, so I stuck to the rock near the sheer south side where possible. I had hoped to traverse south over the hole, then tag the next named peak south, but I was almost immediately stymied by a large gap in the ridge, vertical-to-overhanging on the other side. Passing this gap would require descending several hundred feet to one side or the other, and I was not sure I could easily regain the ridge after that, or that I would not run into similar problems farther on. Instead, I returned the way I had come, reaching the car around mid-day, and moved on to the next thing.

Pilot is an ultra-prominence peak rising over 5,000 feet from the western edge of the Great Salt Desert. After a brief stop in the depressing town of Wendover, I drove into Utah, then back into Nevada on the dirt road leading to Pilot’s east side. I forgave my car its poor mileage, as I was able to follow the increasingly rough dirt road up Miner’s Creek all the way to its end, saving me 1000 feet of desert-hiking.

Pilot is a giant, brushy rubble-pile, and the climb is a matter of finding the path of least resistance for about 4000 feet. While I saw a few cairns, I never found a real trail, despite a survey crew having built a pack trail in the 19th century. I followed the south (shady) side of Miner’s Creek for awhile, then crossed into the sun where a solid rock rib climbed the north side. I followed this rib, more solid and open than the surrounding slopes, to the main north-south ridge, then continued along that to the summit, crossing several intermediate humps. I found my rhythm on the climb, and was pleased to reach the summit in 1h40, a good early-season ascent rate given the terrain.

I found the usual desert register mailbox on the summit, as well as a half-dozen or so rock structures, some of which were supposedly built by the survey crew. The snowy Rubies are visible to the southwest, Ibapah to the southeast, and to the east, the white wasteland of the Salt Desert, with its black, desolate “island” peaks. After some loitering, I made a leisurely descent, then made the trippy drive across the Salt Desert at dusk before finding a place to sleep.

For my last day in the Rubies, I had planned to do Gilbert and Sullivan Silliman (and had even contemplated the obvious joke). Unfortunately, yet another warm night made almost everything slush, and I can only tolerate so much of that. The traverse over “Mazamas” to Sullivan looks interesting, though, as do several other nearby ridges in this area of intersecting glacial valleys.

I got started at 6 AM, hoping to reach the northeast-facing snowfield that is the obvious route up Gilbert before things got too grim. Bob mentions taking a trail on the east side of the stream and fording back higher up, but fortunately the ad-hoc wooden bridge system near the trailhead was partly submerged, so I tried an apparent trail staying on the west side of the raging river. This trail seems unofficial but well-traveled, with frequent cairns and well-established tunnels through some of the dense vegetation, finally ending at a snowfield below an avalanche chute. Bushwhacking up this canyon would be a nightmare.

The avalanche runout was soft but firm enough to walk across in running shoes, but other snowfields were slush. I put on snowshoes near a large cascade, then put in 2,000 feet of wretched slogging. Though I occasionally managed a few steps on the surface of the snow, I spent most of the climb either punching through soft crust, sinking a few inches into slush, or backsliding when the surface cut loose. At the first opportunity, I crossed to Gilbert’s northeast ridge, where I wrung out my socks and considered the rock ahead.

From below, the ridge seems to have two large gendarmes, and I was afraid that I would be cliffed out on the uphill side of the first. However, both turned out to be well-behaved, and the climbing — steep, exposed, easy third class — soon cheered me up after the endless slog. Reaching the summit with a final 100 yards of snowshoeing, I looked southwest to Silliman and felt a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Dry or with good snow, the scramble over Mazama would probably be fun. However, it looked like much of the climb on Sullivan would be on east-facing snow, and the tricky traverse off Gilbert (the connecting ridge has a big vertical-to-overhanging step) would be wet and slushy. Not today.

Instead, after a nap, I wallowed, slid, and glissaded back down the northeast side. I was surprised to see a boot-pack joining my snowshoe-tracks partway up. Though I never saw the person making it, I suspect he was a local skier, as he seemed to know where to go, and did not just follow me to the ridge. I met two other groups lower down — the only humans I have seen on the trail in four days in the Rubies, or indeed since Elwell last week, and probably the last I will see for awhile.

The friendly man who gave me a ride back to the car suggested Verdi’s south ridge, across Lemoille Canyon from Thomas and directly above the current end-of-road, as another good scramble. To make more of a day of it, I hiked up to the head of the canyon, climbed up a chute to the crest, and followed it all the way north to Verdi, about 5 miles in a straight line. This added a bit of sight-seeing, a lot of walking along a ridge, and a bit of sketchy scrambling over Point 10,810′, the only peak where I found a register. I don’t know a good way to reach the ridge, but I would recommend scrambling between Verdi and the saddle south of 10,810′; the rest is forgettable.

Waking up again in Lamoille Canyon, I hiked the same road, continuing to the normal parking lot at the head of the canyon. From there, I followed a maze of snowmobile tracks more or less south, aiming for a notch at that end of the valley. Even at 7:00 AM, snow catching the morning sun was becoming soft, and the tracks were a bit harder. I put on crampons and picked the shadiest, most snowmobile-trafficked line I could find, and eventually reached my target.

Not having a good map of the area, I checked if the summit to the west was anything. It wasn’t, but the higher thing to the east has a “Favre” benchmark, which shows up on the USGS 7.5′ topos. Almost all east-facing snow was wretched slush by now, so I stayed almost entirely on rock for the traverse north to Verdi, which may have made some parts considerably harder.

From Favre, I dropped down some 3rd-class rock to where the ridge leveled out, then began the long, not especially exciting, but usually-pleasant walk I had expected based on my view of the ridge the day before. A couple of the lower sections were a bit brushy, and sticking to the rocks led me into difficulties on occasion, but it was a fast walk until near Point 10,645′. I probably could have avoided it, or found a walk-up, but seeing it was made of knobby, golden “hero rock,” I had some fun taking the direct, 3rd-class way to the summit. For once, there was no cairn, but there were once again creepy swarms of ladybugs.

The ridge north starts off broad, but the crest itself narrows to fun “exposed sidewalk” sections and a bit of easy scrambling, becoming slightly more difficult near 10,811’s summit. The unexpected register held signatures from three parties over the past 24 years, an indication of the peak’s popularity.

To my surprise and dismay, things quickly got sketchy on the knife-edge ridge north of 10,811′. After some experimenting, I found a magic foot-ledge on the east side of a “beak” on the ridge, making it possible to follow the crest itself. Shortly thereafter, there was a dicey step-down-and-around onto a sloping slab, followed by an undercling and various careful adjustments to get down the slab and regain stability. Both could probably be avoided by dropping down the east side, but that was steep, hellish slush.

After these difficulties, the scramble to the saddle with Verdi was more normal 3rd class. Verdi starts with a vertical step that must be bypassed on one side to regain the ridge crest. I chose east, and found a steep sketchy mix of good golden rock, okay black, and unnervingly crumbly white. It worked, but I saw that going west would probably be easier. Once past the step, the rock improves, and the best path usually lies along the crest or to its west.

I was physically and mentally a bit worn by the time I reached Verdi, and so did not consider the additional 2-mile trek to Smith Peak. The first part of the ridge looked interesting, though. Instead, I soaked in the view for awhile, then headed down what I hoped would be a quick boot-ski to the car. Not so much: the snow was intermittent, often too soft, and broken by melted-through cascades. Getting around these was often a battle through steep tick-habitat, but I have become fairly tolerant of such things. Finally reaching the road, I was cheered to see a garter snake apparently drinking from the stream.

The Ruby Range’s best-known feature is Lamoille Canyon, a huge U-shaped glacial valley with several tributaries. Rather than immediately exiting the range, the Lamoille glacier carved its way north along its spine for several miles before turning west. I wanted to spend at least one day exploring this area, and picked out some peaks at random, based on my road atlas’s low-resolution topo and knowledge of the class 2 route up the first peak, Thomas (named for a man who died rescuing students on an ill-advised winter trip).

A paved road leads most of the way to the valley’s head, though I found it blocked by snow at the “Terraces,” a few miles from the end. I hiked the road until I was across from the stream leading down from Island Lake, then took off straight up the brushy hill, eventually reaching snow near a bridge over the outlet stream. As the slope steepened and the chute leading up Thomas’s east ridge became visible, I put on crampons — no snowshoes today — and cranked out the elevation to the ridge. Crossing the ridge, more of a broad plateau, I tagged both of Thomas’s summits, finding the survey marker on the north one.

Then things got tricky. Glacier-carved ranges tend to have U-shaped valleys, and these valleys can be separated by sharply-carved fins, knife-edges, and horns; the rest of my day consisted mainly of dealing with these features. Dropping down Thomas’s south ridge, I opted for the steep snow-slope to its east rather than dealing with the partly snow-covered knobs on the ridge itself. This worked for awhile, but the snow eventually turned to wretched slush, so I returned to the ridge crest, where I found easier going than I had expected.

This ended at a large step I had noticed on the way up. I bypassed the first overhanging drop by descending on the snowy, shaded west side and following a ledge back to the ridge. At the next overhanging step I downclimbed the dry rock on the east, then crossed a bit of snow before regaining the ridge-top. Full House itself was a simple class 2-3 affair, with none of the impassable steps found on the way down Thomas. Its south ridge was a bit trickier, but not too hard.

All I knew about Snow Lake Peak was that it existed, and perhaps, subconsciously, I thought that a peak named after a nearby lake would be easy. It sure didn’t look that way from the north, with a steep, knife-edge ridge with a couple steps leading to the summit, and a sheer north face. I thought it would probably be a walk-up on the other side, but decided to try the ridge before going around to the south.

The peak appears to be made of steep, terrible rock, but other than loose stuff lying around on flat surfaces, the rock is surprisingly solid, with abundant features making some near-vertical sections no harder than 4th class. It was, however, relentlessly exposed, and between the loose rock on ledges and the occasional snow wetting my soles, I found it a worthy climb with my current atrophied scrambling ability.

Reaching the summit, I realized that I was standing on a perfect glacial horn at the intersection of Lamoille, Thomas, and Stoddard Creeks; there was no easy way down. With good weather and plenty of daylight, I decided to continue to Fitzgerald, the next peak west around Thomas Creek. Snow Lake’s west ridge was slightly easier than the northeast, but still involved lots of exposure and a few steep 4th class downclimbs.

Glad to be back on snow, I picked and post-holed my way along the ridge to Fitzgerald, visiting the cairns at each end of its summit cat-walk. I even took a bit of a summit nap in the sunny calm. I thought about finishing the traverse by tagging the apparently-unnamed peak between Thomas Creek and the Right Fork of Lamoille Creek, but decided to simply drop to Thomas Creek, take its trail back to the road, and walk the road up to my car. This would hopefully involve less post-holing than returning east to the road’s end.

The return was hugely unpleasant, with endless ankle- to knee-deep slush sometimes combined with shrubbery. However, when the obnoxious afternoon thunderstorms returned, I was glad to be in the bottom of the valley. The road-walk was longer than expected, but a friendly local offered me a ride for the last bit. He had spent most of his life in the area mountains (heli-skiing!), and had some suggestions for more to do in the Rubies. Some other locals I met mentioned some rock climbing in the area, and I see a dozen or so route on Mountain Project. There is probably much more scrambling and climbing to be found; too bad it’s on the back side of nowhere.

Ruby Dome is the highpoint of the Ruby Mountains, southeast of Elko. Nevada’s most alpine range, they are said to somewhat resemble the Sierra Nevada. The highest, northern part has been thoroughly carved by ancient glaciers. Unlike most Nevada ranges, which look like someone dumped a pile of rocks in a flat wasteland, the Rubies are split by an impressive network of deep, U-shaped valleys, with little subsequent V-shaped stream erosion. With their glacial valleys and horns, they remind me of Glacier National Park, but with better rock and desert brush.

After camping a few miles away, I drove to the locked gate that is Ruby Dome’s inconspicuous “trailhead.” Dawn revealed ominous clouds above the mountains, and the forecast promised more bad weather, but I hopped the fence, walked through the private campground, and found a well-signed trail leading along the creek toward Griswold Lake and Ruby Dome. I had chosen to bring snowshoes, and was glad that I did; the snow started below the lake, and the previous day’s rain and a warm night had created a top layer of unconsolidated sludge.

Circling the lake, I fought my way to the saddle to its east, then crossed the bowl toward Ruby Pyramid, thinking to keep my peak-bagging options open. The clouds had fortunately failed to materialize, and I was able to get a view of the terrain from Gilbert to the east, to Ruby Dome immediately west. Finding the traverse to Gilbert unappetizing, I headed back west to Ruby Dome, where I found a massive summit cairn.

The clouds had obscured Ruby Pyramid, but did not appear threatening, so I decided to continue west to Lee Peak before heading down. Passing a couloir I had seen from the approach, I noted that it would work for the descent, then continued on to Lee’s summit, awkwardly climbing a couple of rock steps in snowshoes.

Descending, I was dismayed to find clouds rapidly rising from the valley, engulfing my just as I reached my couloir; visibility was instantly reduced to “useless.” Unlike elsewhere, the snow in the couloir was too hard to kick steps with my snowshoes, so I slid into the void in self-arrest position, then glissaded until things flattened out more. I spent awhile heading generally downward in uniform whiteness, occasionally glancing down at myself to give my eyes some variety.

Still well above the lake, I emerged below the clouds, and the rest of the return was straightforward. The mid-day thunderstorms formed behind me amazingly quickly, though, and I jogged the road back to my car as the thunder-hail started.