In fact, I’ll rewind past the near-vertical rubble fields, past the views from the mountainside and the cheatgrass stickers and the moment I stopped making column-relevant observations. I’ll go past all that and focus exclusively on not sliding to my bloody demise.
The beginning is winter 2003, when I sat on my porch as a new resident of Tooele County gazing up at the lofty Oquirrh Range. For me, the shorter, less-imposing row of mountains always played second fiddle to their towering Wasatch brothers to the east.
I spent the following months fixated on the western slopes of the Oquirrhs, admiring the varied geology and flora of what previously for me had been just “that other range” — the mostly off-limits row of mountains past Magna that Kennecott seemed to own every square inch of, and whose name many Salt Lake Valley residents didn’t even know.
But despite being spellbound by these mountains for over four years, I shamefully admit that my activity in the Oquirrhs has been minimal. The reasons for this neglect are chiefly that I’ve had no idea what’s publicly accessible, and I’ve really had no idea what’s up there.
My friend Chad has often talked about exploring the Oquirrhs. So has another friend, Trevis, who frequently regales me with tales of his forays into the range’s enigmatic canyons. So recently, as the northern Oquirrhs made their annual transition from snowy to downright lush, I decided it was time to take the guys up on their offers to show me around the “Big O’s.”
If the canyon we chose to hike has a name, it’s nowhere to be found on Google Earth or any topographical map I’ve seen. But a well-worn dirt road leads directly to it and relatively new signage at its mouth marks it as off-limits to motorized vehicles. Trevis had hiked it before and was excited to be back.
The deeply incised canyon wound along a dry stream bed through thick groves of scrub oak. Small lizards scurried under rocks as we walked along an overgrown double track. High canyon walls offered much welcomed shade from the already hot morning sun, and random bits of half-exposed piping along the trail were evidence of some past water-pumping operation. I had never heard anything like the unique cicada song in that canyon. It was a slow, discordant tick that sounded like beads falling in slow motion through a gift shop rain stick.
Adding to the canyon’s mystical aura was a collection of strange rock formations on the lower north wall. Some were conical while others resembled tall tiki heads. Trevis pointed out a large natural arch perched high on the southern ridge. It looked like it was straight out of Moab, but carved from limestone.
Our shade was short-lived once we rose above the scrub oak into a small meadow. Judging the rest of the canyon to be impassable, we cut up the north ridge toward several rock towers. I spotted a long striped whip snake in the brush and tried taking a picture.
“Want me to catch that?” Trevis asked, a youthful confidence revealing his inner surf dude.
I won’t get near anything reptilian, but I’ll gladly watch while somebody else picks one up. Trevis reached down and snagged the tail, lifting the non-venomous serpent toward my camera. His confidence, however, quickly melted into an amusing unease.
“OK, maybe hold it closer to your face,” I kidded my spooked friend. He was happy to set the snake down as soon as he heard the picture snap.
The trail had faded, but we wanted to hike over the north ridge and possibly find a trail into Flood Canyon. We climbed the face of the ridge through thick cheatgrass, stopping periodically to pick the stickers out of our shoes and socks.
The terrain was steep, which would have concerned me less if a minor back injury several weeks prior hadn’t pinched my sciatic nerve, making my left leg feel as if somebody injected Tabasco sauce into it with a basting syringe. I had hoped that a nice hike might relieve the pain. I was wrong.
But the view from the ridge was well worth the pain. The Oquirrhs curved toward Rush Valley with Tooele sprawling in the distance. From our angle, every contour of the valley floor was unmistakably clear. We continued to a second ridge, which afforded amazing views of the northern Stansburys and the Great Salt Lake.
We opted to climb down the ridge rather than backtrack, which made for a grueling 600-foot descent back into the canyon.
“Look at it this way,” Chad joked as we crept down the mountainside, warily calculating each step. “We’re probably the first to take this particular route.”
The thought of pioneering a mountainside was more appealing once we bushwhacked through the scrub oak jungle back onto the trail. These canyons are not unexplored, but they’re rarely visited. The range remains an almost-untouched explorer’s paradise. Our small trip to the no-name canyon was a small taste of what these mountains have to offer.
As we drove back toward the city, we looked back at the mountains and wondered which canyon would be next.
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.
Post a Comment
