Motorized vehicles and paragliding prohibited,” reads a sign at the Mill Fork trailhead in the Stansbury Mountains. The ban on the former was expected — this was, after all, the Deseret Peak Wilderness. The latter puzzled me until I stood on a thin ridge just below the 11,030-foot Deseret Peak. On my left, the slope fell sharply into a basin at the head of Antelope Canyon, leading down to Skull Valley’s arid floor.  

To my right, the peak’s sheer 1,500-foot cirque dropped precipitously toward South Willow Canyon, creating a deep, wide corridor straight through to Tooele Valley.

The U.S. Forest Service must have had this very spot in mind when they devised the paragliding prohibition.    

My friend, Chad, had just reached the summit. Another friend, Trevis, wasn’t far behind him. I paused before my final ascent to take a picture. Or at least that’s what I wanted the fast-approaching group of young climbers behind me to think I was doing.   

Really I was trying to catch my breath. Because after three hours, 3,613 feet, and over 3 miles of punishing switchbacks, this hiker was officially winded.      

We “old men” — as Chad, Trevis and I referred to ourselves — had already passed two slower, fitter-looking groups on the way up, and we were pretty stoked about it. The young group on my tail had obviously done the same, but I’ll be danged if I was going to let them beat me to the top.  So I trudged on, running on fumes but driven by sweet thoughts of victory and peanut butter sandwiches.    

“Can’t you just Google some pictures of it, maybe look at some aerial photos?” my wife, Meadow, kidded the night before our adventure. She appreciates a pretty view as much as anybody, but doesn’t necessarily consider it worth a grueling six-hour hike.

Once asked why he wanted to climb Mount Everest, famed British mountaineer George Mallory gave a simple reply: “Because it’s there.”    

I suppose such a simple motivation may not drive all mountain climbers. For me, it’s the camaraderie and the spirit of exploration. I’m not much of a “peak-bagger,” per se, in that simply attaining lists of summits is not my overriding goal. But every now and then some primordial impulse has me laser focused on a mountain, and dogs me until I conquer it. There is something uniquely fulfilling about being able to point to a peak and say, “See that summit up there? Yeah, I walked to it.”    

Both Chad and Trevis had hiked part of the trail network in the area before, but neither of them had ever climbed to the top. This summit attempt would be a first for all three of us.

Deseret Peak is the tallest summit in the Stansburys and highest point in Tooele County. It’s jagged ridges tower high above the desert floor, making it a dominating landmark — especially when viewed from the western valleys.

The peak has a 5,812-foot topographic prominence, or relative elevation, making it one of just 57 mountains in the lower 48 states that qualify as “ultra” peaks — the threshold for “ultras” being 4,921 feet of topographic prominence. This designation makes Deseret Peak a popular destination for die-hard peak-baggers the country over.

Beyond the technical specs, Deseret Peak further distinguishes itself from surrounding terrain as an alpine mountain — an island of lush, Wasatch-esque flora in a sea of barren desert. Pinyon-juniper forests rise from sagebrush benches and give way to grassy meadows, robust aspen communities, and old-growth Douglas fir. Some areas in South Willow Canyon remind me of the forests in “Return of the Jedi.”

Trevis parked at the top of Loop Campground in South Willow Canyon and followed the narrow Mill Fork Trail for 0.7 miles through a dense forest and across South Willow Creek to a sign-marked fork. Taking the left side, we continued south up Mill Canyon toward Deseret Peak.

This segment of the trail was well-shaded and picturesque, traversing several green meadows before climbing 2,200 feet via switchbacks to a saddle. The abrupt saddle approach is my least favorite part of any ascent. I’m usually grateful to switchbacks for sparing me a class-5 climb up a sheer slope. But on saddle approaches, they become maddening lanes of an endless alpine rat maze that only seem to widen the gap between me and the pass.  

My psychological aversion to saddle approaches has the physical effects of Tylenol PM. As my energy levels plummeted, I began to wonder whether the aerial photos that Meadow suggested might have been a better idea. Periodically glancing up at groups far above us didn’t help. Neither did the thinning air.

“The view from that saddle had better be worth it,” I thought.

It was. The ridge offered stunning views into Indian Hickman Canyon and the southern sections of the Stansbury Range. Behind us, canyon walls framed the southern shores of the Great Salt Lake.

“You’re about a mile away,” said an older man sitting at a trail junction. We paused there for a moment, but quickly resumed our trek. We stopped at a large snow bank to bury our heads and hurl a few snowballs, then continued north west along the ridge.

Another series of switchbacks led to the summit, a natural rock platform where several parties were swapping GPS readings and small talk. Chad climbed below the ledge to steal a glimpse of the platform’s underside. Trevis stood at the center taking in the staggering 360-degree view. The group that had been trailing me crested the summit and blended into the conversation — no longer rivals, but friends, bonded to the rest of us by a common triumph. It’s funny how mountains do that.

I inhaled my sandwich and sucked down a bottle of water. Stansbury Park was a tiny spot in the valley far below us. Surprisingly, my Blackberry had full service. I called Meadow at home.

“See that summit, up there?” I boasted, surely more impressed with myself than she was. “Yeah, I’m on it.”

Clint Thomsen is a Stansbury Park resident who grew up climbing mountains, wandering desert paths and exploring Utah’s wilds. He may be contacted via his Web site at www.bonnevillemariner.com.