Table Scraps, Skiing Bountiful Ridge, May 7, 2020

But first things first . . .  the approach through Kara's Meadows, sans snow, and I'm headed for a hell of a bush-whack through the quickly re-growing scrub on Kara's Pot Farm.

Small Mule Deer taken down by a Mountain Lion, as evidenced by a nearby hind-quarter surrounded by scat.

The Three Nephites (three logs) have rotted and now collapsed allowing for easier passage. In years past this spot was a bottle-neck on the route, especially in a low snow year. These logs were surprising difficult to cross on the exit run due to a small uphill just before crossing over the logs. With some speed one could sometimes 'air' over the log bump, if the small drainage was filled with enough snow (a big 'if'). Carrying some speed and attitude down the drainage, one could cruise up the uphill side of the drainage and over the logs, but it's an abrupt, steep rise, so too much speed could be disastrous. If the snow pack in the trench was was thin it often left us to herringbone/side-step up the short, steep-walled drainage to get over those logs. 

The name? The Three Nephites have become mythical in the local culture. In short, they are three Prophets from the Book of Mormon who were given immortality to help mankind. With the human penchant for embellished story-telling, they now hold a legendary status due to numerous stories of their miraculous appearances and disappearances out of thin air, handed down by someone who is absolutely credible, but also someone you have never met, thus, the Three Nephites are now the classic urban legend passed from a freind of a freind of a freind. Worse, the stories are always associated with an ominous warning to get your ass in gear, like "get your food storage - NOW - before the great SLC earthquake, which is imminent. Good advice, I just don't buy fourth-telling of folklore from folks who provoke zero spiritual inspiration. 

In this case, the ominous message is simply the unexpected 'decleating-faceplant,' when skis go under the logs and your body goes cart-wheeling over the logs, yard-sale style, and you land in a heap in the snow, Tibia-Fibias throbbing with pain, and not knowing what the hell just took you out. You saw nothing in your way but a small bump in the snow, but it quickly becomes clear what happened when you see both your skis still under the logs 15 feet up the hill.

That is true story, but I still don't have any food storage, other than about 100 outdated freeze-dried meals, originally purchased for a long back-pack.

First encounter: patches of remnant snow, just up the drainage from the Three Nephites, about 6,800 feet elevation. A dry cool spring, but the snow went fast this year due to no winter-like storms and consistently mild temperatures.

Blood-letting before even starting the bushwhack in KPF.

Who cut these trees? The cuts are temporary - as you can see the trees are coming back.

View south from Bountiful Ridge, towards the Central Wasatch.

KPF is filling back in. Nature finds a way.

Does it count as breaking trail if there is no snow? Today was the first and only time this winter that I 'broke trail' up KPF, or North Canyon for that matter. Due to a huge increase in BC skier traffic, this is the first year in my lifetime that I never broke trail up to Rudy's Flat. Yes, above Rudy's Flat I did break, but only where I follow specific routes that are off the beaten track of the new generation of skiers. Plus my skinners are too low-angle (efficient - anything over 15 degrees is wasted energy as per Mr. Chuting Gallery/steep skiing guru Andrew nMcLean). Plus, I'm getting old and I've finally clued-in that lower-angled skin tracks really do preserve energy for longer ski days. That said, the lower accesses routes in North Canyon are now just another Grizzly Gulch. 

Moose beds with no moose. Haven't seen them here in two years now. They use to be part of the regular neighborhood.

Rocky switchback on the Mueller/North Canyon trail, just above the Moose-beds.

Snowstake rock.

Very little snow left on Rudy's Flat.

Another dead tree near the crest of Bountiful Ridge.

View NE up Bountiful Ridge from Dead Tree Peak. Rectangle Peak is the bare, high point straight ahead. 

Central Wasatch from Bountiful Ridge. The timbered slope in the foreground is the south side of City Creek Canyon, the high point is Black Mountain.

(Central Wasatch l-r: Mt. Raymond, Monte Cristo, LCC Ridgeline, Dromedary, Sunrise/O'Sulivan's, Broad's Fork Twins, North and South Thunder Mountains, Bighorn Peak, Lone Peak. And that might be the Pfeiferhorn peaking out around the eastern summit of Broads Twins.) 

From Dead Tree Peak, view SW down City Creek Canyon towards Salt Lake City and the Oquirh Mountains beyond.

Wild flowers at the Keyhole at the top of Scott Cutler's Yellow Coat (ski run). 

Yellow: Glacier/Avalanche Lilly.  Purple: known by many names, Western Spring Beauty, Lanceleaf Spring Beauty, Indian Potato, or  Claytonia Lanceolata.

Wild flowers at the Keyhole at the top of Scott Cutler's Yellow Coat (ski run). 

Yellow: Glacier/Avalanche Lilly.  Purple: known by many names, Western Spring Beauty, Lanceleaf Spring Beauty, Indian Potato, or  Claytonia Lanceolata.

Rectangle Peak with the last of the snow in upper Crescent Bowl.

Session's Mountain (l) and Black's Peak, rounded point mid-right.

View NW looking down the Crescent/Mark's Ghost Divide. This is the line I skied on April 4, 2020. The snow goes fast when the sun comes out, and we get no new April snow. Typically there are several winter-like storms in the spring which not only give us a few powder days but those storms help prolong the snow pack through cooler temperatures and adding a foot or two of new snow, but that never happened this year. 

That's my happy face.

I carry way too much crap, and use about a fourth of it. I never used the skins, ski crampons, the sun shirt, gloves and buffs, didn't eat the extra Cliff Bar, pepperoni and cheese sticks (I ate one Cliff Bar), and I didn't drink most of the 1.5 quarts of water I lugged all that way. I did use the drone but that is a habit I need to break, it wastes more time than it's worth, plus it weighs three pounds (including two batteries). 

Utah Murder Wasp, aka Horse Fly. If it bites, I itch for the next two weeks. 

View SW towards the Oquirhs, the Great Slat Lake and Antelope Island, from the top of Crescent Bowl.

View NW from the top of Crescent Bowl, Antelope Island and the Promontory Mountains just above my ski tips.

Dumb-asses take selfies. This one was accidental while trying to catch the drone, but still a dumbass.

Skiing the drift on the Crescent Rim, headed to Crescent Bowl, seen on the left.

Skiing Crescent Bowl, Rectangle Ridge to my left.

Mid-Crescent Bowl.

Hand-landing because I've crashed the drone too many times and it gets expensive to repair.

The bare ground is the ski run I call Crescent, which I skied on April 4, 2020, just 32 days ago.

Douglas Fir spreading its seed. Douglas Fir cones easily identified by those cockroach tails

Hiking back up for run number two, this deadfall is on the Rectangle/Crescent divide, and last December 27, 2019, when lost in a total fog-out/whiteout, I had no idea where I was until I recognized this deadfall poking through the snow, and I  immediately knew my location.

This is the roll-over on RectangleRun. I last skied this on March 22, 2020, 49 days ago. This rock has inflicted three core shots on my skis. 

Ravens. The day I was lost in the fog (see December 27, 2019, post) I kept hearing human voices, which was kind of eery in thick fog amidst big, dark trees, until I saw four ravens perched in a dead tree in Crescent Bowl. They were talking to each other, looking at me with pure bewilderment, probably telling disparaging 'stupid human' jokes, like, "why is Dumb-shit slogging up the mountain in the dead of winter in a total whiteout."  Today I think they were again telling stupid human jokes.  

Rectangle Peak. 

My first ski run was down the sliver of snow on the ridge then down the open snowfield in Crescent Bowl (down the fall-line from the obvious saddle). Photo was taken as I was hiking back up Rectangle Ridge, and, as you can see, there's not even a hint of my ski tracks, testament of the hard refreeze and my poor timing. I tried to catch the corn just as the snow softens in the sun but timing has never been my strong point.  

  View SW towards the Oquirhs. After my first run I hiked up Rectangle Ridge from Crescent Bowl and my second run (exit run) became obvious - the snowy glades on Dead Tree Ridge, the snow-line leading downward to the right.

Brown Eyed Primrose?

First run descended the snake line on the ridge to where it disappears behind the minor sub-peak to the hidden saddle, then down Crescent Bowl, also hidden. But what's not hidden it Black's Peak (r) and Session's Mountain (l).

Antelope Island from the ridge between Dead Tree Peak (just ahead with the snow and conifer) Rectangle Peak.  

View north to Francis and Thurston Peaks.

Snow-stake and the Mueller Trail descending into North Canyon just above the moose beds.

Avalanche Lillies everywhere.

Aspens leafing out along the North Canyon trail.

Good thoughts. This one touched me, so I left it in place.
I remove most signs of humans I find in nature: rock cairns, rock towers on summits, flagpoles on summits, solar light beacons on summits, a permanent hunter's tree stand (it was there two years with a growing pile of trash at the base), surveyors tape marking trails, and trash everywhere. The question is, why do we need to leave a mark on the top of a mountain? Is God not good enough? I don't go to the mountains to see human creations, I can go to City Creek Mall for that, so I remove those human signs as much as possible.