The window of my Torrey, Utah, office looks out on a hedgerow. It’s thick and impenetrably green, another one of those ridiculously effective barriers of suburban chlorophyll. Somewhere behind it is the red uplift of Capitol Reef National Park, but in the months before I hit the SHR I’d been too boxed in–by shrubbery and deadlines–to get out into it. By summer’s end, thick around the middle from too little activity and too many nachos, I needed to escape.
I picked the SHR because I’d heard it was long and solitary, a perfect filter for civilization’s toxins. A few calls turned up a reputation for brutal topography, but the warning barely registered. I’d hiked the hardest trails in America’s wildest parks, and–humility be damned–I didn’t find much challenge in them anymore. Sure, pockets of tough terrain exist, especially if you like bushwhacking, but I subscribed to the notion that the Sierra was a thousand miles too far south for true adventure. Need your ass kicked and your soul cleansed? Better go to Alaska.
Or so I thought. A day past Marion Lake, the view from atop Frozen Lake Pass brims with unsettling menace. Below me, a steep pile of refrigerator-size blocks perches atop downsloping slabs and ball-bearing gravel, all set in a corkscrewing 60-degree gully. Even a rope wouldn’t help; there’s nothing solid to anchor it.
Reluctant to retreat so soon into the journey, I test the terrain by downclimbing the top section without my pack. Minutes later, I claw back to ridgeline, my mind made up: I’m going around. Not only is the descent deadly, but the location is appallingly remote. I haven’t seen another person since Kings Canyon, and my satellite phone is getting spotty signals. Even if
I survived a fall intact enough to make a call, it could take searchers days to find me.
So I back down the col, chastened and awakened. These days, 200 miles might not sound like much–not in an era of transcontinental yo-yo’s and thru-hiking speed freaks. But this route is the real deal. Curtains up. Lights on. This is some big, bad wilderness. It’s showtime.