It’s been almost a month and a half since I made the climb, I almost forgot to write about it entirely. With everything going on in the world today it can be easy to lose track of the little things, like keeping up on your outdoors blog. Regardless, here we are, and I hope you’re still willing to come with me on a little adventure to the top of a mountain.
It all started at roughly 3:30am. My alarm let loose the smooth tunes of the middle of David Bowie’s ‘Changes’, playing from a local radio station, but I didn’t let Ziggy get more than 2 words out; I couldn’t, otherwise I’d be waking up my girlfriend next to me, and lord knows there’d be hell to pay if I interrupt the beauty sleep. I threw some clothes on and shambled to the kitchen, heated up the kettle and poured myself a cup of MTNOPS “Hot Ignite”, starting the day off with some edge. As I packed my gear into a 25L backpack, I pondered if it would be enough, or if I was taking too much. 2 jackets, a base layer, thin glove liners and 3L of water, along with some almonds and electrolyte compounds. I moved back and forth between taking the two jackets and not; I couldn’t decide, so I left one on my shoulder as I made my way to the car, thinking that if it’s cold enough at the trailhead, I’ll pack it with me.
I had downloaded several podcasts for the journey, and started off with Dan Carlin’s first ‘Common Sense’ episode in nearly 5 months, "Show 320: Steering Into the Iceberg”, a bit of a diatribe on the current political situation of the world before the Election of 2020. Winding up the canyon roads in pure darkness is always a bit of an adventure in itself, especially when it’s on a road I’ve never been up. The turns and curves gave an eerie sense of a labyrinth traversal, as if upon on of the swerves I’d be met with a minotaur glaring down my headlights. Finally arriving at my destination, I felt a bit of irritation sweep over me as I parked in front of roughly 20 headlamps glowing and darting around the trailhead in a giant group. “Ah, is this really how crowded this trail is?” I pondered. A quick fee payment left me just a few minutes behind the large group, seeming to be a bible group making their way to the top. I decided to start the trail off with a trail run, switching my headlamp to high and making my way up the mountain to pass my fellow climbers in the starry morning. Gazing further up to the dark mountain, I can see smalelr groups of 1-3 headlamps, scattered all throughout, making their way to the top as well. I can’t even see Mt. Timpanogos anymore, just the shade of the mountains around me and the glowing sky above.
I’d say I was making good progress but if felt like every time I would stop running, I’d be passed by another trail runner, far more athletic than myself, just cruising up the mountain. I’d like to learn from these fantastic people some day, and maybe run a mountain of my own all the way; But for now, a walk with myself is apt enough, having passed the large group of people some time ago and now finally being alone. My favorite time of day to hike is right in the pre-dawn darkness of 4:30-6am. Something about being able to take the headlamp off and barely make out what is in front of you gets me invigorated and excited, listening to the forest come alive and being apart of that cacophony of life. It’s an impeccable feeling, and the time came as I crested the first little basin on the trail, about the first long stretch.
When I look back on the hike, I think of it having 3 or 4 distinct “areas” of interest. There’s the thick, verdant trail that starts at the parking lot and moves up to an outlook of the area you just went through, then a two “layered” valley or basin that gives a glorious view of TImpanogos and the surrounding Wasatch mountains to the South. The first basin is covered in Aspen and pine, but the second is mostly alpine, above the treeline with only a few ancient pines standing among the barren waste. This is where I was able to find my first bit of wildlife in the trip, nearly past the halfway mark on the way up; A small herd of White Tail Deer grazing on the hillside. The wind was blowing against us, and they must have been somewhat acclimated to human presence as the really didn’t care too much for us on the trail some 50yrds away.
Moving further up, the next podcast in the list, JRE episode 1543 with Brian Muraresku and Graham Hancock was and enlightening journey into human history and the use of psychedelic substances throughout our culture to meet gods and ascend to higher planes of consciousness. The podcast continued with me up the winding paths or rock, bleached and smoothened by the constant hammering of human tread, until I reached the saddle of Timpanogos. The view from this point alone was gorgeous and invigorating, as an icy cool wind blasted over the rocky mountainside. You can see the entire Utah valley from this point, reaching out towards the West Desert and even pieces of the Salt Lake Valley, athough mostly obscured by Timp’s Northern summit. The only way to see beyond this stone behemoth is to ascend Timpanogos Proper, the true “summit” of the mountain range and the most prominent peak.
So begins the tight scramble up towards the highest point, and as a first-timer going up, this little section gave me a bit more anxiety than I’ve ever felt on a mountain before. Perhaps it was the tight cliffs and seemingly deathly void of drops all around, or maybe it was the lack of a truly clear path - of which I often ventured off by accident - but the climb certainly got my hands to perspire a bit. It wasn’t more than 30 minutes to the top of the mountain, however, and just as I reached the summit, the podcast ended, convincing me to buy Muraresku’s book ‘The Immortality Key’ from the excellent adventure they’d just accompanied me on. The top of the mountain has a small hut for climbers to take shelter from the harsh winds, and I was surprised to find many more people here at the top than I had seen coming up. The view at this point was remarkable, and worth the hike in its entirety; Views of Heber and Jordanelle Reservoir, The Salt Lake Valley, Utah County, and the Southern stretch of the Wasatch.
This was my first ever ultra-prominent climb, and I can easily see why so many people are addicted to climbing these colossal structures; the old adage of “climbing the mountain” being an irrefutable point of difficulty and achievement stands to testament here. Photos can give a kind of description, and words can help fill the imagination with ideas and empathetic emotions to what one sees and feels at the top of these peaks, but you really don’t know what it’s like until you get all the way to the top. You’re apart of something at that point that for some reason, many people won’t ever make the commitment to achieve. There’s a sense of wholeness here, like the “Hivemind switch” in our normally apeish brain is flipped, and I feel in the moment that I am no longer me, but apart of something greater than me. There’s a sense of universal insignificance every time I get to the top of a sharp mountain, when I look up it feels like I can almost scrape away the blue and thrust my hand into the black inky void that lies beyond my comfortable layer of ozone. It’s an incredible place to be, not just physically, but mentally; perhaps more so the latter.
Coming down the mountain felt even more strenuous than going up. After getting to the top, I felt extra fresh and began trail running some miles down, but I had to constantly take stops to admire the now true beauty of the landscape coming to life in the warm afternoon sun. Yellow leaves and gradients of green, crimson, orange and purple exploded in saturation along the trails and hills to astonishing levels I feel I have never seen. Although the life of this place was on it’s way out for the season, it was surely giving one great last bang in it’s presentation to us that can admire it.
Running down the mountain felt almost longer than going up, and after finally making it all the way down the trail of lovely foliage, I was able to gaze back upon my journey and see what I was unable to at the start of the day: Mt. Timpanogos, covered in a navy shade, almost obscured, smiling back on the little parking lot some 8 miles away.
