UHT 2022

Day 1: 4.1 miles

With the limited knowledge that I had coming into this, there were a few preconceptions that dominated:

1. It would be difficult to get a hitch from Vernal up to the trailhead.

2. The trailhead was extremely remote.

3. The first 25 miles of trail would be virtually waterless except for a couple lakes and ponds a little ways off trail.

All three of these turned out to be incorrect.

It took me a mere twenty minutes to get a hitch with a family camping up in the forest. They had reached the limit of consecutive days that you’re allowed to camp in one spot and needed to move that afternoon, so they offered to drive me around as they scouted for a new site and ended up giving me a tour of the area. We visited Flaming Gorge Reservoir and dam, we visited with their friends who were camped at an old homestead site, we even spent a few minutes tracking elk hoof-prints down an old abandoned road.

Once I finally reached the trailhead, I realized that compared to some trailheads I have found myself at in the past, it could not have been less remote. Maybe it was because it was the day before opening day for bow season, but there were campers everywhere. Traffic streamed down the main road. Side by sides roared through the forest on every dirt road. I even had a little bit of barely-usable cell service. There were so many people around, it almost felt like I was in downtown LA again. After warning me several times about how dry the first 25 miles of the trail was, the family finally returned to move their camper and I was finally free to do what I came there to do. It was time to hike. Preferably away from all the hustle and bustle of this incredibly remote area of National Forest.

Within fifty feet, my feet were wet. The trail passed through an open field before reaching the tree line and then climbing up and over the forested ridge, and that open field was a muddy bog. Thick, brown, shoe-sucking mud. I know it’s weird to be impressed with the visual and textural qualities of mud, but it was honestly the cleanest, purest looking mud I have ever seen. A thick, sticky paste that clung to my shoes in a heavy coating. And the mud didn’t stop after I left the field and began to climb. All the way to camp, there was mud. There was mud on washed-out sections of trail on the hillside. There was mud in stagnant pits on the ridge top. There was so much mud in some of the meadows that I was convinced I had lost the trail.

Everything was green. Water trickled beside and on and around the trail. I passed through idyllic meadows and through herds of free-range cattle. I moo—ed at them as I passed and they eyed me suspiciously. The young calves watched me curiously, bright eyed and a little playful. The older cows, however, slowly and deliberately maneuvered the herd away from me.

I made my camp that night in a wet, green meadow, beside the flow of a meandering creek, carved into the soft earth of the clearing. If the entire trail was like this, I was going to be ok.

And then thunder cracked overhead. Dark clouds covered the blue evening sky. Rain began to fall. I crawled into my tent and battened down the hatches. It didn’t stop until early morning.

Day 2: 20 Miles

By morning the rain had stopped, but the sky still held an ominous layer of clouds. Maybe ominous isn’t quite the right word. In Tennessee, I would just call it a cloudy day, but I had heard stories of storms in the Uintas that made me highly suspicious of the layer of gray overhead.

Today, I would be passing through the driest section of trail. According to everything I had read, which consisted of two trip reports from over five years ago and a few trail summaries that seemed more akin to Utah wilderness tourism advertisements written by someone who had never actually set foot on the trail, there would be no water from my campsite (which also wasn’t supposed to have water) all the way to a small lake near Leidy Peak trailhead, just over twenty miles west. So, I filled up three liters and set out across a boggy meadow through ankle-deep mud.

With every step, the weight of my body sprayed water up out of the earth onto my legs. Ground that wasn’t covered in mud was spongy, almost like a trampoline, and I took great joy in bouncing my way through those areas. I sidestepped my way around puddle after puddle, hopped across creek after creek, and, by early afternoon, had been de-shoed at least four times. Herds of cows watched contently as I cursed every drainage and every pond that seemed to always be placed right where I needed to walk. I swear they were laughing at me.

The primary challenge of the day was route-finding. This trail, especially from the eastern trailhead at McKee Draw to Leidy Peak is not well travelled, and I have no doubt that those who travel along this path regularly know it like the back of the hand. For me, though? I spent much of the day walking a hundred yards forward and fifty yards back. In the forest areas, use-trails and game-trails and other unmarked-but-official-trails all formed a maze. At times, the path would just randomly dead-end and I would do my best to backtrack to find an even less obvious path that continued forward. At dirt road crossings, I would check my map only to learn that there was no such road noted.

Meadows were more fun but no easier. The trail would emerge from the trees, and the tread would instantly split into a dozen different directions. That was if it didn’t disappear altogether. Sometimes there would be an old marker on the far side of the clearing, maybe a quarter or half mile away, that read “025” in faded numbers on a brown post – not exactly visible from such a distance that would have been helpful, but that was my trail. Usually, I would roam straight through the middle of the meadow, visit with the herd if any cows were present, and then strain my eyes and pace up and down the far tree line as I tried to relocate the trail.

The route-finding and mud may sound bad, but honestly, I was loving it. I have spent so many days and so many miles feeling trapped in a narrow corridor of well-traveled, well-maintained footpath that the adventure of this new style of hiking was thrilling. Anybody watching could have mistaken me as a drunkard as I weaved my way through the meadows and wove my way through the forest, often singing along loudly to whatever song was stuck in my head at the time. The truth was, I couldn’t have been any happier. With the exception of my soggy feet, this trail seemed to epitomize the open-ended, choose-your-own-adventure style of western wilderness hiking that I think, deep down, I have always been searching for.

The clouds hung around, but the rain held off. There was water throughout the day. Maybe not always the best or cleanest water, but it was there. I set up camp about a mile before the Leidy Peak trailhead, just up the hill from a creek. The sky finally decided to drop about ten minutes worth of rain as I set up camp, but then stopped long enough for dinner. This trail was incredible already, and from what I had read, I had only seen the boring part.

Day 3: 18.4 miles

I awoke to footsteps. Something big was getting close. In situations like this, I’m never sure whether to remain completely still and quiet and hope whatever it is moves along on its own or to attempt to defend my territory and scare it off. I chose the former and listened. Multiple footsteps were now getting closer. Suddenly, the loudest moo I have ever heard bellowed from right outside my tent. Cows. I pulled back my rain fly and peered out. Staring back at me were multiple sets of big, brown eyes that held a sense of contentment that seems to be unique to cattle. Over the next half hour, as I packed up, the entire herd passed through, toward the meadow.

It was a brisk morning, and I moved quickly up a section of gravel road to Leidy Peak Trailhead. The slight discomfort in my head told me that I was above ten thousand feet now. I generally manage elevation pretty well, but I had essentially just come from the beach. Experience told me that I would probably feel fine after one more night at elevation. Climbing past the trailhead, the forest was reduced to small patches of twisted growth in the hollows of the mountainside. Another mile, and I was above the tree line entirely. This was it. This was what had brought me to Utah, to this trail.

Everything changes above the tree line. The sun grows harsher. The sky gets bluer. The clouds become more three dimensional, as if you can reach out and touch them. You can also see things approaching from a very long distance. As I climbed up the first pass, the sky was perfectly clear, the sun shined brilliantly, and the ground was mostly mud-free.

The trail followed the ridge for a while, and clouds began to form out of nothing at an alarming rate. First, there were big, white, fluffy clouds that drifted near the peaks. A few minutes later, those clouds that had been pure white before, now contained a dark, bluish-gray center. This was the beginning of the high-altitude afternoon storms that I had read about. It was still early, but I needed to be back below the tree line before the sky decided to open up.

Walking from cairn to cairn across the open landscape, I began to pick up the pace. I descended quickly to Deadman Lake, visited with a herd of cows, and then began to ascend toward Deadman Pass. Soon, however, my path was blocked by a boulder field coated with a layer of scree. I stared upward toward the pass for a moment, and contemplated the 60 degree slope of unstable rock in front of me. I checked my map. Yep, I was off trail again (saying there’s a trail to begin with is being generous), having missed the beginning of the gradual climb that would have ended with me up above the rocks I was staring at. I considered my options, and decided to go for it. Each step felt like it was at risk of dislodging the entire slope, but inch by inch, I worked my way up. Avoiding the scree and utilizing the sharp, upward points of the boulders for traction was a trick I had learned in the Sierra. It’s hard on your feet, but if you can keep your balance it’s the quickest, safest and most efficient path upward. Eventually, huffing and puffing, I met the trail, about five hundred feet above where I had began. From there it was essentially an easy jog to the top of the pass.

By now, the sky had turned fully ominous, and I raced down toward the tree line. A few minutes later, the sky opened up. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed around the peaks. For me, it was back to muddy forest walking interspersed with boggy meadow wading. Just past Whiterock Lake, I spotted a dark shape about 200 yards to my right in the meadow. It was a moose. Looking closer, I spotted a small, lighter colored calf by her side. I watched for a moment and then trudged on. By the time I reached the Chepeta Lake Trailhead, I was thoroughly damp. I allowed myself a few moments of peaceful dryness in the glorious refuge of the pit toilet enclosure before moving on.

Later that afternoon, I began climbing toward North Pole Pass. My plan was to camp in one of the meadows or near the lake on the ascent. That plan was adjusted, however, when I spotted a bull moose eating contently between the meadow and the lake. Wanting to keep him content, I decided to collect water and continue further up. It stopped raining that evening just long enough for me to eat dinner. That night, I kept hearing footsteps. I know it wasn’t cows this time, but it was some kind of large, hoofed animal. I stayed quiet, as long as it didn’t like the smell of ramen noodles and summer sausage, I knew I’d be ok.

Day 4: 17.9 miles

At sunrise, dampness greeted me with a harsh, biting chill. My fingers ached as I rolled up my tent – twice its normal weight with condensation. Unlike the previous mornings, clouds still hung low over the ridges, and it looked like rain. As I began to walk, however, the sky slowly began to brighten. By the time I broke the tree line, the cloud cover had diminished to a thin layer of wispiness. I was hopeful that it would be a dry day. Besides the scenery, one of the best things about hiking out west is that, generally, it’s easy to stay at least moderately dry, but this trail was already challenging that concept.

As I continued climbing up North Pole Pass, the land and the slope of the mountainside seemed to stretch on forever. This was no Sierra Pass. Those rise sharply and abruptly from the valley floor in between towering spires. There, several thousand feet may be gained in just a couple miles to get up and over a pass so narrow that only a few people can perch at the top at a time. This was different. The elevation was comparable, but the grade was gradual and the land was vast. I watched as the trail rolled out in front of me, meandering over gentle rises and through wide but shallow depressions in the mountainside. Cairns marked the way, and most of the time, I simply picked my own path, watching the general direction indicated by the stacks of rock and picking the path of least resistance in that direction. Even at the top of the pass, there was no obvious crest. Instead, there was a plateau almost a mile wide, covered in short grasses and stone. It was there, at the top of North Pole Pass, that I formally entered the High Uintas Wilderness, the heart and soul of the Uinta Highline Trail.

Heading back down toward the forested valley, clouds began to gather and it wasn’t even 10am. Great. Knowing that I would need to get as close to Anderson Pass as possible in preparation for tomorrow, I decided to kick it into high gear. Now, when I say high gear, I mean the type of high gear that I am only capable after I have hiked almost 1000 miles. I passed other hikers like they were standing still as I slalomed my way down the switchbacks toward the lakes below. Reaching the first lake, I didn’t even slow down. I was determined to beat the rain to camp, but I was too engrossed in that singular goal that it never occurred to me how fruitless my efforts would be. It wasn’t even noon yet, and the clouds were closing in. I was going to get wet even if I tried to close out the day at world record marathon pace.

Right as the rain began to fall, I approached a cabin tucked into the forest beside the trail. Normally, an old cabin or hut of some kind would be a welcome refuge from the rain, but on this day, there was no such luck. The roof was completely gone, rotted out, and there was no more shelter from the weather that this cabin could offer. I contemplated who must have come all the way up here to live, and when that must have been. The thought crossed my mind regarding their demise as well. Did the harsh weather drive them out? Did they learn to thrive here and live out their days in this pristine wilderness? Did they find somewhere they liked better and decide to move along? I was conflicted. On one hand, I couldn’t imagine why anyone would ever want to live in such an inhospitable environment. On the other hand, I felt a deep attraction to this land. It was unpredictably wild and yet peaceful. Unforgiving and yet thriving. It was a rugged land, full of paradox, and despite these things (and quite possibly as a result of some of them) it was one of the most sublime, most stunningly beautiful lands I had ever seen. If I had passed through here 150 years ago, it’s not difficult for me to believe that there is a good chance that I would have built a cabin somewhere near there as well.

Later in the evening, after several hours of intermittent rain, I reached the tree line below Anderson Pass and took a chance. I kept walking. Finding a wide open plain below the towering crest of King’s Peak, I sat down on a rock and looked around. The sky was clearing. This would be my camp for the night. I had just gotten everything spread out to dry in the newfound sunlight and was in the middle of dinner when a lone cloud drifted over the mountain to my north and dumped exactly fifteen minutes of heavy rain on me before disappearing just as quickly as it had formed. Everything was wet again, but that was quickly cured by the sun. The golden light of late afternoon filled the valley and a double rainbow stretched across the land to the East. In that moment, I didn’t feel like a visitor in this land. I felt as though I belonged in it, possibly to it. I felt as though I had always known it, and at the same time, I sensed an impossibility of ever fully knowing or understanding even a fraction of what my eyes were seeing.

Day 5: 23.2 miles

Today was the big day. Today I would Summit King’s Peak, the highest point in Utah. It would also be a three-pass day, taking me over Anderson, Tungsten, and Porcupine Passes. Even on the PCT, the most I had ever done was two passes in a day, and that was without a major peak. My alarm was originally set for 5am. I wanted to make it most of the way up Anderson Pass to the base of King’s Peak by sunrise. I ended up emerging from my tent sometime around 6am. I don’t use an alarm often on the trail, and I never did hear it go off. Instead, it was the first light of dawn breaking over the eastern ridge that brought me to my feet. On the slope above me, I could make out a couple small, dark shapes and several dim headlights. I wasn’t the first, but I wasn’t too far behind yet.

The chill of the alpine air hung thick over the pass as I began to climb. Soon, the peaks above me were illuminated by a brilliant golden alpenglow. I reached an intermediate ridge on the eastern edge of a basin just as the sunlight was making its way down the slope and I noticed my shadow that was cast on the far side of the basin was slightly above me – a phenomenon that I have only experienced once before: on Mt Whitney. Circling the basin and ascending a series of switchbacks, I soaked up every ounce of the radiant morning warmth, and soon, I was stripping off layers of clothing as I crossed the final plateau to Anderson Pass.

At the pass, a faint trail led to the south, up along the spine. That was the way to King’s Peak. Technically speaking, it was not a trail, but rather a rock scramble that had been scrambled enough times that parts of it were beginning to resemble a faint path. As I turned toward the south and began to climb, however, all signs of a path soon disappeared. Now, I was making my way across the steep slopes of rock and scree. To my right, the slope rose to a razor-sharp edge before dropping down a shear cliff of several thousand feet. To my left, the slope was more gradual, but a fall would still take me a couple thousand feet into the valley below and the further left I wandered, the less stable the slope became. Finally, I settled into a general path of keeping within about ten feet of the cliff on my right. That seemed to keep me on somewhat stable ground, far enough away from the cliff that I wasn’t in danger of falling or triggering a rockslide, and far enough from the loose scree that on my right that I was able to walk without every step being a fight for traction.

Climbing higher and higher, I finally stopped and collapsed my trekking poles and stowed them away. They were of no use up here. Instead, every step required four points of contact just to stay upright. Finally, I spotted the summit and scrambled up the final slope. I was the only one there, having apparently taken a different route and having made better time than the people I had spotted ascending earlier. For the next half-hour or so, I took in the views from 13,528 feet, and tried not to think about the impending descent. Inevitably, though, I needed to get back down if I were to have a chance at making it over two more passes before the afternoon storms settled in. Going down is always more difficult than going up, and about all I can say is that I made it back down to Anderson Pass physically in one piece. My nerves, however, were completely shattered. My knees shook and my hands trembled. I have rarely been happier to stand on solid, stabile, almost-level ground.

Between Anderson Pass and Tungsten Pass, I passed through a valley filled with hundreds of sheep. I lost count somewhere north of four hundred, and that was just the herd closest to me. On the far side of Tungsten Pass, I stopped for lunch and to dry out my rainfly from the overnight condensation and frost, but clouds were beginning to build over the high peaks and passes, so I made it a quick stop. Between Tungsten Pass, and Porcupine Pass, the trail never descended below the tree line and I passed lake after lake tucked into the hollows of the grassy plains. At the crest of Porcupine Pass, I was greeted with one of the most magnificent views I have ever seen: The valley that spread out before me was almost perfectly flat, with a meandering creek and a couple of lakes scattered about. The southern edge of the valley was guarded by a line of crumbling cliff-faces that stretched out nearly as straight as a wall. The northern edge of the valley was protected by rolling mountains. The contrast of the scene in front of me: the cliffs and the flat, green valley, somehow perfectly described this wilderness and the perfect, paradoxical coexistence of the wild and the docile, the rugged and the pastoral, the isolation and the accessibility.

Making my way through that valley, I was convinced that this was the most beautiful area that I had ever walked through, but in the course of the journey, I finally dropped below the tree line and entered a deeper valley swarming with mosquitoes. At that point, every sense of peace that I had felt just a few minutes before flew straight out of that valley as the annoying little bloodsuckers streamed in. That night, I made my camp on the banks of a creek in the valley below Red Knob Pass. I thought that this would be the first day of this trail that it didn’t rain, but as I climbed into my tent, the sky opened up again for about ten minutes, just long enough to get everything damp.

Day 6: 18.7 miles

Despite having another three-pass day on my hands, today was supposed to be relatively easy. After Red Knob Pass, Dead Horse Pass and Rocky Sea Pass appeared easy on my map – lower elevation, shorter approaches, and closer together. I was convinced it would be an easy day. I was convinced that I would simply coast through my last full day on the trail and arrive at camp by mid-afternoon with time to enjoy this beautiful wilderness at my leisure. I was convinced of all these things. And I was wrong.

The approach to Red Knob Pass was not exactly short, but it went quickly. Along the way, I passed two different groups that had started the day before me, and although it’s not a competition, it felt good to be moving up through the pack rather than slipping behind as typically occurs to me on the PCT. Finally above the tree line again, I kept hearing a distant commotion to my left, over in a shallow depression that was obscured from view by the shape of the ground. Climbing higher, I could see what was happening. A herd of several hundred sheep were making their way around a small lake and across the valley with several cowboys on horseback and herding dogs hot on their heels. I watched as the herd was pushed across the valley to a new grazing ground, and then as the cowboys and dogs returned to their camp, a small, white tent beside a pond at the base of the pass far below. I was amazed and a little shocked to see that out here, in this pocket of untamed wilderness, that the cowboy profession is still alive and well. Horses hitched to an old, twisted branch. A lone canvas tent in the middle of a vast, open plain. The herd wandering free across the land. I could have crossed a portal into the 19th century west, but no, this was 2022.

Cresting the pass, I was able to look down into the next valley and see the approach to Dead Horse Pass. Tracing the trail through the small, wooded patch several thousand feet below and then back up past Dead Horse Lake and then up toward the small notch in the rocky ridge, I realized that I had been wrong. A short approach does not mean a shorter or lower pass. It simply means that the pass is too steep for the elevation to be visually evident on a piece of paper. I made good time through the green valley, and then began the ascent. In that next hour, it became abundantly clear why this pass was named Dead Horse. Let’s just say that I am certain the cowboys, with their herd and dogs and gear, did not reach the Red Knob Valley over Dead Horse Pass. It would have been simply impossible. The switchbacks zigged and zagged straight up, routed over loose scree with a footpath that was only a couple inches wide. Intentional footing was required; one slip could mean a tumble down 2000 feet of loose rock terminating into massive boulders just above the lake. Reaching the top, the trail followed along the crest of the narrow ridge, with a cliff on each side, for a short distance before dropping off the other side on a path that was nearly just as steep.

Crossing through the valley as the clouds began to darken, I could see Rocky Sea Pass in the distance, straight across the valley. It really didn’t look that far away. Between me and it, however, was a vast burn scar from several years ago. I had been hearing about this burn scar for days now. One group in particularly, had been urging me to take the Jack and Jill Alternate – a more circuitous route that looped up around Jack and Jill Lakes, keeping closer to the edge of the valley and, according to that group, further out of the burn zone. They claimed that the Highline Trail was nearly impassible through the middle of the valley. When pressed, however, they admitted that they had only heard this from some internet forum. Not exactly a reliable source of information if you ask me. Needless to say, I intended to stick with the Highline Trail route. I had a good map, I had a GPS unit, and I had a GPX route on my phone for this trail. If I were to take the alternate, I would be relying solely on my paper map and natural landmarks on my GPS for orienteering.

About fifteen minutes later, I looked down and realized that I had missed a turn for the Highline Trail and had inadvertently ended up on the alternate. I considered doubling back, but then had a thought: “How bad could it be?”

Well, that’s a good question.

Three and a half miles is not a long way to walk, but when the entire landscape is blackened, most trail signs are gone, and the footpath has eroded into the ash, it feels more like 100 miles. It seemed like every fifty yards, the path would completely disappear, and I would wander in circles, going back and forth between my map and GPS. I could still see the pass that I was trying to get to, and normally I wouldn’t have been as concerned about staying on the trail as long as my heading was generally correct, but down here in the valley, progress was slowed to a halt. Dead trees lay in tangles of ash ten feet high. Bogs and ponds and lakes hid in the hollows and their muddy plains extended out further than ever into the ashy soil. I wove this way and that, trying not to lose sight of the goal. I regretted ever considering this route. Why had I placed so much stock in internet hearsay knowledge that was secondhand to those who were passing it to me? That question, of course, was of no use in that moment. I just needed to keep moving forward. I passed another man who had been influenced by the same group and had intended to come this way. His only source of navigation was his phone, and he was even more frustrated than I was. At least now he would have my footprints to follow. Finally reaching a set of shockingly unhelpful trail signs, I was done. I studied my map and GPS for a moment before pulling out my knife and carving an arrow and “R.S. Pass” into one of the signs. I didn’t care if it was considered vandalism. I just wanted to make things a little easier for the people behind me.

Eventually, I reconnected with the Highline Trail. The alternate had not been any less burned. It had not had any less elevation change. Most importantly, it had taken me almost three hours to go 3.5 miles. If I had stayed on the Highline Trail and kept the same, abysmal pace, I would have travelled less than two miles in less than two hours in a much more direct approach to the pass. Nearing Rocky Sea Pass, I slowly cooled off. This pass was shorter and easier (but still steep), but I had wasted too much time and effort down in the valley for this to be an easy day. On the far side of the pass, I began to pass runners and day hikers and weekend backpackers. Taking a short side trail to Carolyn Lake, where I intended to camp, I was only a couple hours from the trailhead. As a result, all the good lake-side campsites were already taken so I settled for an isolated spot up on the ridge. I couldn’t see the lake from there, but I was entertained throughout the evening by a squirrel that continuously screamed at me as he rained down shredded pinecones on my head. It was a particularly unremarkable campsite compared to previous nights, but it was my final night in this incredible wilderness, which was good enough for me.

Day 7: 6.4 miles

And basically, that’s that. There’s simply not a whole lot to say about my final day in the wilderness.

I must have camped on a squirrel’s turf, because he woke me up at sunrise screaming from his perch in the tree above my tent and raining down shredded pinecones on top of me as I packed up. The trail was generally rolling as I approached the trailhead at Hayden Pass, and along the way I made my way through some beautiful areas and many unremarkable areas. Reaching the trailhead, I made my way through a few groups just starting out, and headed out to the highway to hitch-hike back to civilization.

Leaving the trail often leaves me in a bit of a daze. The sudden, sharp contrast between the silence, the calmness, the unpredictable orderliness of the wilderness and all the loud and selfish urgencies of society collide at the trailhead. Because of this, I have come to enjoy hitch-hiking. It maintains a sense of leisure and unknown in a world that, with rare exception, never takes its foot off the accelerator. With my chosen means of transportation, it would take me nearly 96 hours from that moment to arrive back home. That was 96 hours to readjust to this world that we call “normal life.” 96 hours to slowly let go of everything that is learned in the wilderness because those things are considered too inefficient and incompatible with this modern world.

It is not an easy transition, but it gets a little easier every time I make it, because every time I make it, I am even more motivated to return. Maybe not to that same place, but to somewhere peaceful. Somewhere beautiful. Somewhere wild. Somewhere where I can live, for a little while, in the rawest and purest way I know how. Somewhere where I can live in harmony with this world, flowing with patterns of nature and not always fighting against them. That is the type of intentional living that I deeply wish everyone in this world could experience and understand, but many never will. So, I will continue to return to these places when I can, and when I do, I will do my best to share the experience with y’all.

Until next time…