I sat on the edge of the platform eating a peanut butter sandwich and watching the crowd. A 50-something man regaled members of his hiking club with stories of his past exploits, while a long goateed backpacker from Ogden gazed mournfully over the edge, lamenting the expensive GPS unit he had accidentally dropped down the peak’s sheer eastern face.
When it comes to hiking, Trevis, Chad, and I refer to ourselves as “old men.” What we mean is that, compared to the Boy Scouts we lead on hikes, we feel slightly aged and a bit rusty.
Trevis, a landlocked surf bum disguised as a 42-year-old communications billing rep, had been looking up at the peak for years, determined to climb it someday. Chad, a 41-year-old human resources manager, hikes less for sport and more as a means of locating hunting spots. But he’s always up for a good adventure, and his competitive nature usually puts him at the top first. Both of them have me by about a decade, and I joke that they’re living out their mid-life crises and I’m trying to head mine off.
We handed our cameras to the guy who had dropped his GPS (brilliant, I know) and posed for a victory portrait against the distant Oquirrh and Wasatch ranges. I glanced at my Blackberry and noticed that I had a full data connection. As I Googled options for our return route, I couldn’t help but think about the communications operations that took place on the same spot more than a century prior.
I ran my fingers over a copper reference marker bolted into the surface near the remains of an old rock wall. The words “U.S. Coast & Geodetic Survey” were engraved into it. The ring wall was the remains of a heliograph station built in 1892 by C&GS geodesist William Eimbeck. The term “geodetics” refers to the science of the measurement and representation of Earth.
Geodesists were also known as “sun talkers” for their use of the heliograph. Something of a solar telegraph, the tripod-mounted mirror instrument was a means of instantaneous optical communication. Using it, sun talkers relayed Morse code by directing flashes of sunlight to distant stations. William Eimbeck and his party occupied Deseret Peak for several weeks to conduct their operation. Most hikers notice the copper markers but are unfamiliar with the history, or the fact that Eimbeck and crew constructed the Mill Fork Trail before hauling their gear and supplies to the top.
“Has anybody ever taken the loop back down?” asked a woman who’s neatly tucked moisture wick T-shirt and convertible nylon pants made her look like a walking REI ad.
None of us had, but most chose to give it a whirl. The trail runs north along the summit crest to Big Canyon Pass, then down Pockets Fork. William Eimbeck blazed the Mill Fork Trail, but the sloppiness of the Pockets Fork loop casts serious doubt on any involvement he might have had on this alternate route.
From the peak down to the junction with the South Willow Lake Trail, the path winds steeply through scree fields, skips down over rock faces, and in some places seems to disappear completely.
But the trail more than makes up for its flaws in its picturesque views of rarely visited canyons on the Skull Valley side of the range. The route skirts the head of beautiful Big Creek Canyon with its wildflower-salted green slopes. The canyon is home to a small herd of wild horses and is part of the Deseret Peak Wilderness. Despite its breadth, it’s practically inaccessible from Skull Valley.
By the time we reached Big Creek Canyon Pass, the groups we started with were nowhere to be seen. Chad and I walked around a large glacier head below the ridge. Trevis walked out onto it and paused.
“He’s not really thinking about sliding down, is he?” I asked. “I’m pretty sure he is,” Chad replied. From our vantage point it was clear that he’d slide right off the bank and into a boulder field. Trevis quickly reached the same conclusion, but admitted later that he was “absolutely tempted.”
Near the bottom of Pockets Fork we met a cowboy riding up on horseback. “Tex,” as Trevis called him, held his reins in one hand and a beer in the other. I made the mistake of petting his horse, who returned the favor by knocking me over with his head.
“He’s like a dog,” said a woman on another horse behind Tex. “He just wants affection.”
The horse pestered me for several minutes while Tex rattled off the names of every peak and canyon in the range. He said we were nearly to the trailhead, which was good, because my ankles had turned to rubber.
“The best way to tell what kind of shape you’re in isn’t necessarily how you do on the trail,” Chad surmised. “It’s how you do the next day.”
By the time we reached the trailhead, the three of us were beat. The 6-hour, 8.4-mile trek had proven to be quite a workout. I was sure I’d spend the next day crippled.
Surprisingly, I took not one ache or strain from the hike, just memories of high places, mysterious canyons, and good friends.
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.
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