In late August, 2018, I was looking for an excuse to get into the mountains immediately behind my house in the Salt Lake Valley. I was still living day to day life in a fog of realization, understanding I had inadvertently left behind something very important to me, without realizing I had done so. The trip I took with my groomsmen into the Wind Rivers brought forth many memories and a realization that I prioritized my time outside less as I was getting older. During that trip, I resolved to regress, as it were, and spend far more time outside, attempting to push myself in the woods, as I did in my younger days.
The ridge separating Millcreek and Parley’s Canyons rises out of my neighborhood, with the trailhead to Grandeur Peak being five minutes from my house by foot. A week prior to attempting the ridge from Mount Aire to Grandeur Peak, I had summited Grandeur from the West Ridge. I anticipated being able to complete the ridge on this first trip, if it felt right. However, I left the house a bit too late in the day, the temperature rose steadily, as did the trail, in full sun. When I reached the summit, with about fifteen other people milling about, I was out of water, had no food, and realized that dropping off the summit and continuing along the ridge was not a good idea.
From the summit of Grandeur, I spent a while analyzing the ridge running to the east. I had spent a few dedicated evenings examining maps and looking through various internet postings to gain a better understanding of this undertaking. As I viewed the route from the summit, I thought the drop off Grandeur Peak would be difficult, but completely doable. Based on my trail map, and the information I found online, I formed the opinion that the ridge would be long, with a fair amount of vertical gain and loss. The view from Grandeur seemed to confirm this opinion. I planned to return, and do the route opposite of the norm, as it appeared it would be easier to summit first Mount Aire, and move west along the ridge to Grandeur Peak. At the time it was logical.
The next week, I drove to the Elbow Fork (so named on my map) trailhead in Millcreek Canyon, which is called, by all signage while on the trail, the Mount Aire Trail. The trail to the summit was excellent. In short order, I was standing on the summit of Mount Aire, looking down the ridge in either direction. Mount Aire is not the eastern terminus of Millcreek Ridge, but I knew I would not have enough time to do the whole ridge from east to west. I also planned on an out and back ridge run, returning to my truck later in the day. A smaller portion of the ridge, rather than a complete navigation, seemed to have higher probability of success. I ate some granola, drank some electrolyte fizzy drink, and started running down the switchbacks from the summit.
From the vantage point of Mount Aire’s switchbacks, a good trail led westward, and it appeared the difficulty of the ridge would be the vertical loss and gain of the multiple summits navigated. After some quick pleasantries with a gentleman resting before the start of the Mount Aire switchbacks, I began heading up the ridge, toward the next high point. Not much higher than the saddle, its summit was quickly gained. I was feeling good, cocky, and strong, confident in my ability to complete my undertaking.
I dropped off the summit of this knob as soon as I gained it. I had miles to cover, I knew, and I had imposed a timeline of being off the mountain at around 3:00. I needed to hustle if I was going to complete my objective. There was a lot of country between me and Grandeur, hidden behind the ridge line.
I lost the trail.
This caused little concern. I am comfortable forging my own path. Trails are merely a convenience. One of my favorite forms of exploring is bushwacking into an area I have never visited, usually for no grander purpose than viewing the other side of the next ridge. I call it bear-went-over-the-mountain syndrome. Only to see the country laid out before me.
The scrub oak and underbrush was deceptive for the first quarter mile. Occasionally, I pushed branches out of my face, or slid my short-clad legs through a particularly dense tangle. Progress manageable, although slowed down enough that I was conscious of the limitations this might impose. I expected I would regain the main trail in short order, as I anticipated a fairly well-defined route along the ridge, given the amount of travel I was sure it received, based on my map and online research.
Climbing up the next knob on the ridge was a challenge. Its difficulty lay not in the elevation gain required to get there, technical skills required, or exposure. Those challenges can be surmounted far easier than the hell of scrub oak thickets encountered on the southern exposure of the ridge. The trees, as that seems the correct word, given the height encountered, were generally around one and a half or two inches in diameter, and packed so tight that there was no path through them. Thrashing through, shoulder width by shoulder width, handful by handful was the only means of progress. At ankle level, horizontal stobs lashed out, grabbing my ankles and tangling around my shins, blood oozing in small, angry, welts.
What took five minutes for the comparable previous summit took much, much longer on this third summit of the trip. I had high hope I would regain the trail on its summit, and that I had simply forged my own path, rather than follow convention for a short while. There was still a chance, in my mind, to make this a relatively easy trip.
Sure enough, at the top of this summit, I found a "trail”. I held it for thirty feet or so, before it faded into the undergrowth. It pointed toward the north side of the ridge, so I continued along, once again expecting to regain it after this particular thicket of undergrowth. One mile down of nine.
At some point, flailing through the underbrush, cursing whoever decided this would be an easy trip, I realized that I had made a horrible mistake, and the research I had done beforehand was either useless or horribly naive. Frankly, I did not expect the level of thrashing required to make minor gains. The elevation, the mileage, these were not the primary difficulties. This was full-on Class IV bushwacking. There was no trail after the first summit. I had been utilizing game trails, which were not continuous, spidering through the timber until they faded again into thickets of undergrowth and scrub oak thick enough to block the sun.
I wish my memory went black at that point…
My consciousness was retained. I counted at least seven summits along the ridge, including Grandeur, in the planning stages of this trip. By number three, I was hours into the hike, and realized that I was so committed the only option was to continue along, or turn back and fight through the hell of the scrub oak I had already suffered. I sallied forth, bravely into the abyss, resolute in my stubbornness. The sun rose higher in the sky, and sweat dripped into my eyes.
I had started two hours later than I wanted, due to sleeping in a bit, and seeing my partner off to work. I knew that it would have been far better to do a majority of the hike in the early hours, before the temperature rose. 8000 feet in Montana is not the same as 8000 feet in Utah. In August the mountains don’t chill as much as their northern counterparts. I knew I was going to get hot, but I had a liter and a half of water… I knew I would be fine, because surely the passing had to get easier at some point, the brush would let up, a trail would be found… something.
I passed above an enormous fin of rock sprouting from the ridge line, which had every appearance of an arch in the making, eons in the future. As I walked along the ridge toward the top of this escarpment, the brush appeared to taper off and the going slightly easier, as long as I remembered to drop to the north of the ridge to pass any thickets of brush. I knew my legs were getting cut up, but I wasn’t realizing how badly. Now my ankles were starting to hurt as well. Walking through scrub, anything from the knee down slides to the ankles, grabs them, slaps them, stabs them. It was like walking in deep sand, but my grandmother was rapping my ankles with a switch.
Passing through an easier section of brush, I came to a rock outcropping. I didn’t see this on the map, nor did I remember seeing it from my trip up Grandeur. From my vantage, the best route seemed to the south, however I knew that the scrub oak generally got thicker on that side of the ridge. I dropped along the cliff band for a bit, and realized it ran southwest for a long distance, and it needed to be passed to the north, if nothing more than to stay on the best course for the ridge, as it bent to the north and west.
The scrub oak was an annoyance. The cliff band scared me. If I was willing to backtrack and thrash through a stand of pine trees, I could have avoided the exposure and difficulty of passing the cliff band as I did; however, I was burned out on bushwacking. I slipped through a crack in the cliff, dropped a few feet to a ledge, rounded to another chute leading down the face, gained another ledge, found a debris slide, and slid to the bottom of the cliff. It couldn’t have been more than fifty feet tall, but the risk of falling is always close to the front of my thoughts when moving through country like that. Rose bushes populated the debris chute, grabbing at my mangled legs and driving thorns into my hands as I grabbed them to slow my descent.
Aside from this somewhat tricky terrain, for the most part there was little to differentiate one part of the ridge from another. It was all the same bushwacking, some areas with lower density, some with higher, until I summited Church Fork Peak, where I found a cairn marking its red rock summit. At that point I dropped off toward the saddle at the base of Grandeur Peak, keenly aware that I was only at my halfway point as I planned my trip, and my water was concerningly low. I needed to make a decision at the top of Grandeur.
The last summit of the trip came as the day finally reached furnace temperature. I had been conserving water for the last couple of miles, knowing that I was about to run out, but not sure when, given my use of a hydration bladder. I ate a crunchy granola bar with dry mouth, barely able to swallow. I examined my water supply and knew I was going to be uncomfortable very soon, and there was no way I could go back the way I came without stretching the margins too far. I decided to bail, and walk off the same route I had taken up Grandeur the week before.
I texted my partner, letting her know my change of plan. I walked off the mountain, and through the neighborhood, arriving home after close to six hours on the move. I downed a full Nalgene bottle out of the fridge, let the dogs out, and sat under my air conditioner, waiting for the heat to dissipate from my body. My partner arrived shortly after me, and shuttled me back up to my pickup.
My stubbornness got me through this trip. I was simply not willing to give up on the ridge, because I never wanted to go there again. I knew if I left a portion incomplete, it would fester in the back of my mind, until I completed it. With that said, never again! It is a beautiful view, and the leaves were starting to change, making it a beautiful ridge from a distance. The suffer to enjoyment ratio is only skewed positive after a period of time, and I’m still not sure I’m to that point. The scars on my legs are still too fresh. I can’t say I would recommend the ridge, but I can definitely say I won’t be going back to this particular area any time soon. Maybe from Mount Aire to the east???
Stats
Mileage - 9.56
Time - 5 Hours 44 Minutes
Elevation Gain - 4311.9 feet
Elevation loss - 6017.5 feet
Starting Trailhead - Elbow Fork
Ending Trailhead - Parley’s Canyon Trail at the North end of Wasatch Avenue.
JFL