xjblue
Member
- Joined
- Sep 6, 2012
- Messages
- 370
A sunny late summer afternoon hike to Lake Blanche wasn't enough. It had been years since the last time I stood on the airy dizzying summit of the Sun Dial and it beckoned in the afternoon light invitingly. Stopping to smell (photograph) the wildflowers along the way up to the lake proved a good excuse to catch up on breath and conserve energy. With said reserves in store and having decided to go for it, climbing up past the lake I began all too quickly to regret that beckoning but I was powerless to deny it after another rest with wild flora. Thoughts of "Besides, those guys climbing the north ridge will probably be good company on top, though they will probably beat me to it" justified continued effort. I followed my favorite route to the edge of the hanging valley at the precipice of a trickling waterfall and a short while later it was time to tackle the ridge. I remembered a steep scramble with good hand holds. What I got was a steep scramble with loose gravel. It was a sarcastically "Yay sketchy!" moment, very much so, because going up, huffing and puffing, out of breath, was going to be the easy part of this leg. Again I thought, "Surely they are going to beat me to the summit."
A purple aster and Engleman Aster trailside.
Red Elderberries under the Quaking Aspen
Buckwheat in bloom and hikers along glacially polished rock, pre-cambrian Big Cottonwood formation.
Fire Chalice behind the remains of a taller Lake Blanche dam.
Though not a true summit, Sundial is striking from the approach.
Spot the Rock Climbers? ; )
How about now? (hint: at the base of the dark band)
Out of breath, palms sweaty, and stunned by the views from the ridge, not quite as narrow but just as intimidating as I remembered. What memory had forgotten was that big first step to surmount on the way toward the summit. Once on it the route came flooding back, "Oh yeah", as i threaded up through a slab of rock on the vertigo inducing East side. What memory will never forget, the crux, loomed ahead. The light and shadow was intense, with steeper than snot terrain now below to the left , and sinister in hiding from the Sun was the near vertical feeling drop on the right, and I made it to within sight of the crux. Memory told me of hugging a rock between voids and shakily climbing a ledge to access slightly more comfortable terrain and the summit beyond, inducing uncomfortable thoughts of, "Would it have changed since last time?" "Will I freeze trying to cross it?" "Will I be able to get down the sketchy part before darkness falls?" And, "where are those rock climbers? They must have rappelled off and be down already!" Standing on the high point above the crux, my nerves took a vacation, so I forced myself to take some photos, enjoy the view, and promise to return again soon and summit properly next time.
The step.
The crux as I recall, the saddle beyond the near high point.
Kessler Peak across the void to the east.
Turn around
One of the sister lakes.
Shortly after dropping from the ridge the climbing party appeared from the summit above, I might have met them there after all but too late by then. After carefully, slowly, slipping and sliding back down to the gentle hanging valley below I spent a few minutes in the pleasant last rays of sun watching the climbers take an unusual roped traverse below the ridge on it's sunlit western side then made my way back to regular trail before sundown. A flashlight always in the pack for emergencies helped me make it back to the trail head in refreshing cool evening air to finish off a great hike.
Who wants to go this year?
For the album click here.
Featured image for home page:
A purple aster and Engleman Aster trailside.
Red Elderberries under the Quaking Aspen
Buckwheat in bloom and hikers along glacially polished rock, pre-cambrian Big Cottonwood formation.
Fire Chalice behind the remains of a taller Lake Blanche dam.
Though not a true summit, Sundial is striking from the approach.
Spot the Rock Climbers? ; )
How about now? (hint: at the base of the dark band)
Out of breath, palms sweaty, and stunned by the views from the ridge, not quite as narrow but just as intimidating as I remembered. What memory had forgotten was that big first step to surmount on the way toward the summit. Once on it the route came flooding back, "Oh yeah", as i threaded up through a slab of rock on the vertigo inducing East side. What memory will never forget, the crux, loomed ahead. The light and shadow was intense, with steeper than snot terrain now below to the left , and sinister in hiding from the Sun was the near vertical feeling drop on the right, and I made it to within sight of the crux. Memory told me of hugging a rock between voids and shakily climbing a ledge to access slightly more comfortable terrain and the summit beyond, inducing uncomfortable thoughts of, "Would it have changed since last time?" "Will I freeze trying to cross it?" "Will I be able to get down the sketchy part before darkness falls?" And, "where are those rock climbers? They must have rappelled off and be down already!" Standing on the high point above the crux, my nerves took a vacation, so I forced myself to take some photos, enjoy the view, and promise to return again soon and summit properly next time.
The step.
The crux as I recall, the saddle beyond the near high point.
Kessler Peak across the void to the east.
Turn around
One of the sister lakes.
Shortly after dropping from the ridge the climbing party appeared from the summit above, I might have met them there after all but too late by then. After carefully, slowly, slipping and sliding back down to the gentle hanging valley below I spent a few minutes in the pleasant last rays of sun watching the climbers take an unusual roped traverse below the ridge on it's sunlit western side then made my way back to regular trail before sundown. A flashlight always in the pack for emergencies helped me make it back to the trail head in refreshing cool evening air to finish off a great hike.
Who wants to go this year?
For the album click here.
Featured image for home page:
