Return to South Willow Lake takes the measure of an underestimated trek

Boo and West are like child versions of TV naturalist Jeff Corwin and survivalist Les Stroud.  In many ways, my boys are complete opposites, but when it comes to adventuring theirs is the perfect alliance of wide-eyed idealism and practical grit.  Wilderness is one place their personalities converge.  And though they’ve only done it once before, they consider the 12 mile round-trip trek to South Willow Lake the ultimate wilderness adventure.

What a view! Boo and West stand atop a ridge above South Willow Lake in Tooele County last weekend

The following originally appeared in the September 23, 2010 edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

I didn’t want to jump into the lake. I really didn’t.  Not just because I find the idea of blindly submitting oneself to strange waters generally disturbing—or that my last encounter with this lake resulted in a bloody foot laceration.

No, it was much simpler than that.  Truth is, South Willow Lake is cold.  Freeze-your-tuckus-off cold.  No matter how long you’ve been hiking or how parched you are when you reach the lake, a dip in South Willow will always be several shrill notches past refreshing.

So what compelled this wary father to take the plunge?  Only the resolute declaration of his 7 year old son: “I’ll do it if you do, Dad.”

The internal debate ended there.  West and I waded out, counted to three, and dove in.

“I think you’re both nuts,” said 9 year old Boo as we climbed back to shore.  He was crouching intently over a puddle at the lake’s south end.   “Check this out,” he called, unwittingly stealing our thunder.  “This has got to be the weirdest bug I’ve ever seen!”

Boo and West are like child versions of TV naturalist Jeff Corwin and survivalist Les Stroud.  In many ways, my boys are complete opposites, but when it comes to adventuring theirs is the perfect alliance of wide-eyed idealism and practical grit.  Wilderness is one place their personalities converge.  And though they’ve only done it once before, they consider the 12 mile round-trip trek to South Willow Lake the ultimate wilderness adventure.

By strict geographical standards, the lake is small and rather unremarkable.  But like most alpine lakes, South Willow’s beauty is defined by its surroundings.  The lake is partially encircled by tall limber pines.  It lies at the foot of a sheer 10,685 foot glacial cirque in the heart of the Deseret Peak Wilderness.  Aesthetically, South Willow Lake is the crown jewel of the Stansbury Mountains.

The chameleon waters of South Willow Lake

Judging by various online trip reports, most people reach the lake by following the Mill Fork Trail from Loop Campground in South Willow Canyon.  Last year we took the more direct route from the Medina Flat Trail Head further down the canyon.  This route follows the Stansbury Front Trail to its junction with historic Mining Fork Road, which leads to the wilderness boundary and a final trail to the lake.  This is the steeper of the two options, but it covers more varied terrain and offers striking views.  We decided to take it again this year.

Most trail literature list a 6.8-7 mile round trip distance for the Mining Fork route.  I was skeptical of those numbers after last year’s hike, so I decided to measure it myself this time.  Using a GPS mapping app on my smartphone, I would record our entire track.

We began hiking late in the morning under clear skies and an uncommonly hot sun.  Boo took the lead and set the pace.  It’s his usual role, and he does it well.  The boys had resolved to carry their own gear the whole way.  A clear departure from the norm, it was yet another reminder to me that they’re growing up fast.  I hung behind and to listen to their trail banter.  Among other priceless tidbits, I learned that West is the best basketball player at recess and that Boo is now just as flexible in P.E. as his toddlerhood friend, McCall, who, amazingly enough, becomes less and less icky as time passes.

“Me and her are getting along a little better these days,” he said.

By the time we reached Mining Fork, I regretted packing our jackets.  This is my favorite section of the hike.  The narrow road is believed to have been built during World War II.  It traces the canyon bottom at a steady grade beneath a thick canopy of fir and spruce, passing the remains of collapsed mining cabins along the way.  At times, this road has certain aura that I’d describe as eerie, but that I’ve never been able to pin down.

The road eventually opens into a stand of aspens and a single track trail picks up at the wilderness boundary.  The cirque, which is unofficially referred to as South Willow Peak, looms constantly from this point.   At its foot, the lake is surrounded by a ridge; it isn’t visible until you’re standing on its shores.

The stretch from the wilderness boundary to the lake measured 2.4 miles with a 1,555 foot elevation gain.  It’s the steepest leg of the hike.  We rested often on this stretch, but stops were short—the boys were eager to reach the lake.  When we rounded the last ridge, they tossed their backpacks and waded in.  I checked my phone.  We had hiked 5.8 miles—nearly two miles further than the listed distance.

Our route to South Willow Lake. The push pins represent cool spots along the trail. Total one-way distance measured 5.8 miles (measured using My Tracks for Android)

West and I didn’t swim long.  There was no need to loiter in the frigid depths.  After a letting out the requisite victory howls, we moved onto the very important tasks of drinking warm Gatorade, eating smashed peanut butter sandwiches, and watching Boo’s weird bug drag lines in the mud.  Later, I taught them how to skip rocks.

With evening coming, Boo gazed up at South Willow Peak.  “We need to climb that sometime,” he said.  “I bet it’s cool up there.”

We reluctantly packed for the return trek.  Our legs were sore.  It was a sweet sore, the kind of sore you get from a good, long hike.  The boys were hesitant to leave, as they always are when it’s time.  Nothing’s better than hanging out lakeside after a hike, and nothing’s worse than the prospect of leaving.  In my mind, the end of this hike marked the end of summer.  Yellowing leaves on surrounding trees reinforced that notion.

I reset my GPS app.  When we arrived back at the trail head, the readings matched up—5.8 miles with a 3,364 foot cumulative elevation gain.

“How deep do you think that lake is?” West wondered on the way home.

“I don’t know, but I think I’ll try swimming next time,” Boo answered.

I think they’re both nuts.

 

Funny Tees: Stop Following Me, Freaks!

Stop following me, freaks! from BustedTees.com

 

Martin Fork hike makes ideal prep course for tougher challenges

I finally understood the purpose of Dad’s conditioning hikes the first time I climbed Hades Pass with him.  I was exhausted by the end of that ascent, but the view of Grandaddy Basin from the top was breathtaking.  Making the moment even more poignant was the later realization that not only was Dad packing his own gear—he had been carrying most of mine, too.

Happy trails!

The following originally appeared in the September 9, 2010 edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

For the analytically minded, there’s nothing more satisfying than being able to break down a complex circumstance into tidy causal chunks.  Of course, the impulse to dissect each and every condition can be maddening, especially when it comes to those that aren’t so cut and dry—such as love for the outdoors.

And yet I continue to try.  When I describe it here, I tend to illustrate those specific moments of actualization, like reeling in that big fish or watching that incredible sunset.  What’s sometimes overlooked—at least when pen hits paper—are the outwardly mundane, laborious processes that make such moments possible.

Nobody understands the principle of work before reward like my dad.  An avid backpacker, Dad lived for his summer treks to the High Uintas.  He’d begin preparing weeks before each trip—carefully organizing gear, transferring food items from their bulky retail packaging to Ziploc baggies, pitching his tent and taking it back down again.

Most curious to me were the walks he’d take around the neighborhood wearing his boots and fully loaded pack.  When I was about 10 years old, he gave me my own external frame pack and invited me along.  We’d tread for what seemed like miles, waving to amused neighbors as we passed.

I finally understood the purpose of these conditioning hikes the first time I climbed Hades Pass with him.  I was exhausted by the end of that ascent, but the view of Grandaddy Basin from the top was breathtaking.  Making the moment even more poignant was the later realization that not only was Dad packing his own gear—he had been carrying most of mine, too.  It was one of the more memorable adventures of my childhood.

My sons feel the same way about the climb to South Willow Lake in the Stansbury Mountains, which they’ve spoken of frequently since we made it late last summer.  Interestingly, their memories center on the few hours we spend at the lake itself, rather than the encompassing 6.8 mile round trip hike.  Yet were it not for those punishing miles, they wouldn’t recall the lake with such enthusiasm.

Since the two older boys and I will be returning to South Willow Lake in two weeks, I thought a short conditioning hike was in order.  A moderate climb in the Stansbury’s would reacquaint the boys both with the work and the reward that would ensue.  The 2 mile Martin Fork segment of the Stansbury Front Trail would be the perfect practice route.

The Stansbury Front Trail stretches 25 miles along the eastern face of the Stansbury Mountains between Clover Creek Campground and West Canyon, bordering the Deseret Peak Wilderness Area along most of its route.  The narrow single track dips into and climbs out of canyons like a roller coaster as it traverses rarely seen areas of range.  Though the more remote sections of the trail see mostly mountain bike and motorcycle traffic, day hikers frequent the mid-course trail heads at Big Hollow, South Willow Canyon, and North Willow Canyons.

We caught the trail at Boy Scout Campground in South Willow Canyon on Saturday evening.  The path rose sharply under a canopy of pines as we wound our way up to the canyon’s eastern ridge.  Boo, 9, and West, 7 scampered ahead while I nudged 4 year old Coulter along behind.

Coulter loves the mountains—he called the Stansbury’s “my mountains” when he was a baby—but he’s usually averse to hiking any further than about 20 yards.  The boy was kind to me that night; he walked a whole half mile before begging me to carry him.

“But I’m already carrying Deedle,” I told him, pointing to the 1 year old mini linebacker who was enjoying the ride from the comfort of his baby backpack.

Deedle’s presence served two purposes: conditioning weight and comic relief.  He squawked something unintelligible to his brother, which Coulter correctly interpreted to mean “back off, pal!”

From the ridge top, the trail bent southeast, offering a sweeping view that included Tooele Valley, Mining Fork Road, the glacial cirque that looms over South Willow Lake, and Deseret Peak.  Still visible below were The Narrows portion of the canyon road and the historic U.S. Forest Service cabin.  I had hiked this section of the trail before, but had never noticed that most of the canyon’s gems were viewable there in a single panoramic glance.

The glacial cirque above South Willow Lake, taken during last year's hike

When we caught up with Boo and West, they were chasing a snake through the brush.

“I got a good look at the tail,” Boo assured me.  “No rattle.  We’re good.”

A group of motorcyclists passed just before the trail dropped 400 feet to the bottom of Martin Fork.  By that point, the boys had managed to stow their sweaters and water bottles in the cargo pouch of Deedle’s pack.  Bring it on, I thought.  Conditioning.  I’ll end up with most of their gear on the big hike anyway.

The boys had mastered pacing by the time we headed back.  The lake hike will be longer and steeper, but they’d be ready to take it on.  Coulter, having finally realized that riding in my arms was not an option, made the return trip in good spirits and at decent speed.  We finished the evening off with snacks and a campfire at Boy Scout Campground. The cold front that had kindly waited to approach until we were done finally began to blow in.

“Man,” West said as he coaxed the a few last sparks from the dying embers.  “Nothing like a good hike, some pepperoni and a nice fire.”

Profound analysis from a young outdoorsman.

TRIP TIPS
Martin Fork segment of the Stansbury Front Trail is accessible via posted trail head at Boy Scout Campground in South Willow Canyon.  Distance to the fork and back is approximately 4 miles.  The trail is narrow, featuring sharp rises and drops over non-technical terrain.  Trail head parking is available at the adjacent Medina Flat trailhead 1.7 miles from the Forest Service gate.  No fee is required.

 

Best Sleepover Ever: Orcas, rays, and a comatose moonlight excursion

Morning view

This post continues my report on the SeaWorld Adventure Camps’ Fathers Day Sleepover that my 8 year old son and I attended at the San Diego park back in June. If you missed previous installments,  check them out here, here, here, and here.

When it came to getting the best sleeping spot in Wild Arctic, skipping the teeth brushing turned out to have been an excellent idea.  But skipping the bathroom part of that last bathroom break?  Eh, not so much.

It hit me at about 2:00 am.  Or at least that was the point when ignoring nature’s call was no longer an option.  Answering it wouldn’t be simple.  We’d have to get up, tip-toe to the exit, take a flight of stairs, wake our chaperone, and trek over to a building by the Penguin Encounter.  First, though, I’d have to wake Boo.

“Hey pal, do you need to go to the bathroom?”  (It would be slightly less embarrassing for me if Boo was the reason we were going.)

“Nope,” came his comatose response.  Wonderful.

He slowly came to as we trudged up the stairway to check out with the doorman.  The balmy air outside contrasted starkly with our virtual igloo.  I walked slowly in order to take in the SeaWorld that very few humans ever see–  middle-of-the-night SeaWorld—when the path lights have been dimmed and that infamous elevator music quieted.

Boo resumed his slumber immediately upon our return.  As I arranged his blanket I noticed that his clenched fist still held a stingray tooth he had found earlier in the evening.  I carefully pulled it away and secured it in a zipper pouch in my backpack.  If he lost it during the night I’d never hear the end of it.  After all, this was no ordinary stingray tooth.

I continued to replay the evening’s events in my head– picking up after the Shamu Rocks show.  After the crowds filtered out of the park, the education staff had gathered us to the orca habitat’s underwater viewing area for a little Whales 101. While a staffer named Erin demonstrated the insulating qualities of whale blubber using clay and ice water, I walked over to the massive viewing window.  Hovering on the other side was 12 year old Sumar.  Sumar seemed to enjoy interacting with me and the other parents.  Like the belugas, his song was audible through the acrylic.

“I heard you can use some of the moves the trainers use to make the whales interact with you,” one father asked.

“Well, we can ask them to interact with us,” James censured.  “Then if they want to, they might.”

SeaWorld campers get a close-up of Shamu and friends in this extraordinarily cheesy photo from SeaWorld Public Relations (copyright SeaWorld.com. All rights reserved.)

Despite his wiry figure and youthful gait, James carried a certain gravitas with the kids and amongst his fellow SeaWorld staffers.  He employed the same sarcastic finesse both to coax the bashful kids from their shells and repress Annoying Kid’s loud interjections.  And though his primary duty was to keep the larger flock together, he still found a way to make each kid feel important.  When Boo lost the polar bear claw keychain he had made, James ducked out of the Shamu show to make him a new one—with the same color beads arranged the same pattern.

The last activity of the night was a visit to the Forbidden Reef, where a few dozen stingrays and a sturgeon that thinks he’s a stingray solicit fish and rub-downs from visitors.  After feeding the rays, Boo spotted a stingray tooth at the bottom of the pool and James fished it out for him with a large net.

“I can’t lose this stingray tooth,” he said.  “It’s a special stingray tooth.”

Boo’s tooth now secure in my backpack and nature’s call finally answered, I finally bid good night to the belugas.

Here are a few clips I shot when I woke up in the morning.  Notice how quiet it is in there.  If you listen closely, you can hear whale song:

—–

The next (and last) installment in this series will feature a video summary of the sleepover.

*Sadly, Sumar passed away earlier this month of unknown causes.  I’m glad we got a few minutes with him that night.

 

Remembering the ghost town of Bauer

Bauer, Utah, circa 1923 (copyright Utah State Historical Society. All Rights Reserved.)

Bauer’s fate was sealed when its last viable operations were destroyed by fire. Rulon Aufdemorte’s final task was to dismantle and ship off any salvageable properties. When the last truckload finally pulled away, Aufdemorte gathered his belongings and drove to Salt Lake City, leaving Bauer’s crumbling ruins to the wind and ghosts.

The first ghost town I ever visited was officially Cortez, Nevada.  My first Utah ghost town, however, was Bauer.  I haven’t written anything about that trip because it ended up being a wild goose chase.  Tyler and I had no waypoints or directions to guide us to the townsite– nor did we know anything about the town’s history.  And it probably didn’t help that we were searching for this ghost town after dark.

To be sure, we got close that night– within at least 50 yards.  We may have seen a few outbuildings, none of which we logically attributed to the town itself.  Disappointed, we moved on to the next ghost.

Years later I realized that the odds had been stacked heavily against us.  Not much was left of Bauer by the time we tried to find it.  The few walls and foundations that remained were quite visible in daylight, but obscured by the adjacent Tooele County Landfill and were inaccessible to the public.  At present, most of Bauer has been bulldozed.  Oh, and it’s a Superfund site.

I don’t foresee being able to explore the remains of the town any time soon, but recently I was able to interview a few old miners who lived there back in 70’s.  For the interviews and a quick run down of Bauer’s history, check out my Hometown piece at the Tooele Transcript Bulletin:

Remembering Bauer: Former employees reflect on camaraderie, memories shared at historic mine

Miners at Bauer, date unknown (Copyright Utah State Historical Society. All Rights Reserved.)

 

Best Sleepover Ever: Snoring to Whale Song

Claim staked.

This post continues my report on the SeaWorld Adventure Camps’ Fathers Day Sleepover that my 8 year old son and I attended at the San Diego park back in June. If you missed previous installments,  check them out here, here, and here.

I don’t consider myself the over competitive type, at least not usually.  But when it comes to something big (like getting the best sleeping spot in Wild Arctic), look out.

It seemed like there was plenty of room in the exhibit’s lower level to ensure a satisfactory spot for all parties, but Boo and I weren’t about to take chances.  We had scoped out the area during polar bear class earlier and had set our minds on a fine patch of concrete next to the beluga whale tank.

I saw other families eying that spot too, and I wondered what their plans were.  Is it going to get hairy?  Would anybody try to crowd us out?  Was there some secret to securing the holy grail of all Wild Arctic spots?

“I’ll tell you what,” one staff member offered.  “When it’s time to brush teeth and change in to pajamas, whoever gets done first picks their spot first.”

We’d have to brush teeth and change quickly, then.

Or, as Boo and I thought simultaneously, we could skip that step altogether.

“I won’t say anything to Mom if you won’t,” the spirited 8 year old assured me.  In high stakes games, you do what you gotta do.

I should pause here to describe the anatomy of Wild Arctic.  Wild Arctic is a flight simulator/walkthru combo attraction that showcases Arctic wildlife.  Typically, visitors enter the attraction via the simulator ride—a “Star Tours” style helicopter flight to a research station deep in the Arctic.

After disembarking, visitors find themselves inside Base Station Wild Arctic, a double-level structure built around the remains of an old shipwreck.  The station is heavily themed with randomly placed crates (a must for all adventure-centric theme park attractions), electronic research equipment, and other 80’s-era stuff that one might see lying around a real Arctic base.

Here’s a short promo video from SeaWorld:

Central to the experience are the multilevel polar bear and beluga whale exhibits, which provide both above and underwater viewing of the pools.  Naturally, our group would set up camp in the underwater viewing area.  I don’t care what age you are—this was beyond cool.

By the time our freshly brushed and jammied friends returned to Wild Arctic, Boo and I had staked our claim and were sitting comfortably on our fleece throws, watching beluga whales dance 2 feet from our pillows.

Soon, the entire underwater viewing space hummed with the sound of battery-powered mattress pumps.  Beach blankets were spread and heavy sleeping bags unrolled on top.  We quietly mocked the mattress campers as we studied Allua and Ferdinand, the two belugas on the quiet side of the acrylic.

When the clamor died down, James gave a parting briefing and answered a few questions.  There was no bathroom in the exhibit.  And no, there was no A/C they could turn off, nor heating system to make things warmer.  It’s called Wild Arctic for a reason.  The constant cold, James explained, comes from the frigid water outside.  I glanced at our Wal-Mart fleece throws, which would double as mattresses and sleeping bags.  Suddenly the mattress campers didn’t seem so dumb.

James and crew bid us good night and the row of dim ceiling lights was extinguished.  It was about 1:00 am.  A good 30 seconds passed before we heard the first snorer.  He (I’m assuming it was a he) was loud and steady, and as the minutes passed he led a burgeoning chorus of a half-dozen more nocturnal lumberjacks.

Boo was determined to stay up all night to talk and watch the whales, but his voice faded as he chatted.  I don’t blame him—it had been a long day packed with enough excitement to drain any kid.  Allua and Ferdinand were mostly still, their white forms reflecting the moonlight above.  They appeared as streaks of blue in the darkened pool, and their whale song was audible through the paneling.  I’m not sure what made me happier: the situation itself or Boo’s delightful immersion in it.

Boo’s all-nighter lasted until about 1:45.  I pulled his hood over his head and straightened his covers, then tried to find a comfortable position on my concrete bed.  At some point I joined the snoring chorus myself, though it wouldn’t be for long.

—–

Coming up: Sting rays, Moray eels, and a moonlight excursion.  In the mean time, here’s a short clip from the next day showing where we slept: