Thurston Peak

4 July 2000

Jared Tolman, Matthew Baker, Tom Tolman

Blue skies and plenty of sunshine prevailed on this slightly-cooler-than-normal Fourth of July holiday. This hike was an outing of exploration. I don't think any of us had ever hiked in the mountains of Davis County, unless you count Antelope Island I guess. The only memory I had of the area was a vague one of a ward campout–probably fifteen years ago or so–up the road at Bountiful Peak. That was the time our family took our little blue Ford Courier, laden with our big old camper, on the it's-a-long-ways-down-if-you-drift-off-the-edge dirt road up Farmington Canyon.

We made our return trip to this not-quite-as-terrifying-as-I-remember road on Independence Day 2000 morning. "Annie" the Oldsmobile was the lucky vehicle this trip. Cousin Matthew, Dad, and I left our house a bit before 9 a.m. The road leads to the globe-shaped radar towers on top of Francis Peak, with a panoramic look at cities, mountains, and the Great Salt Lake. We felt like we were in an airplane looking down at the little world in which we live below. Sometimes going up to the mountains helps me realize that this "little world" is a part of something much bigger. I think it's easy to let the details of every-day life cloud the big picture of what life's all about.

Life can be lost in the details, but it can also be found in the details. Funny how taking a breath of fresh wildflower-scented air, listening to a rustling tree quieting nature's silence, or admiring the smooth flight of a pied butterfly, can give us unmatched insight into the world around us. An appreciation for the simple things life has to offer will allow us to clear the less important details from our window to the world long enough for us to gain an understanding of what's really important. Maybe the simple things in life really aren't that simple after all. Or maybe they are, and that's what's beautiful about them. Whatever the case, this big world is a masterfully organized collection of small and simple things. Truly, "by small and simple things are great things brought to pass" (Alma 37:6).

Olds landed and parked right by the radar towers, and we started walking down to the peak. That's right, for maybe the first time ever, we started an ascent to a peak by hiking down! The trail goes along the ridge, passing near a few peaks along the way. A few patches of tress are the only change in pace from this wide-open landscape. The views of Davis and Morgan Counties are second-to-none practically the whole way.

As is typical of ridge hikes, there are level spots, there are ups, and there are downs. What were easy "downs" on the way up to the peak turned into more challenging "ups" on the return trip when logic told my lungs that we had climbed the peak and it should be all downhill from there. Though generally pleasant and not particularly steep, it is an aerobic hike both ways. I was not too excited about the conclusion of the hike, it being a climb back to the car at Francis Peak. There was a road below the peak to the east that we probably should have parked at, but we didn't know about it–so, oh well. It was good endurance-building exercise.

About half way to Thurston Peak, we came to some snow that had survived the summer sun and was in our way. The snow was pretty icy and hard; we didn't want to risk sliding down into the canyon below, so we took a small detour up and around. Around the next bend was the second of the two trail-blocking snowfields. This one was smaller and less intimidating, so we decided to try to cross it. Matthew picked up some rocks for ice picks, but I didn't think he'd need them. Turns out they would have come in handy for Dad.

He was first, slowly making his way across. All of a sudden, he lost his footing and started sliding down the snow on his rear. I'm sure he had quite a view of the boulders and other rocks a hundred feet or so below, where the snow patch ended. I don't ever remember feeling so helpless as when I looked at Dad slipping down the mountain to that dangerous landing spot. I'm sure Dad had similar magnified feelings as he tried to dig his heals into the unyieldingly icy snow, studying his destination below.

Time stood still or at least moved very slowly, just as I did–stunned. At first, Matthew did not see the seriousness of the situation and was laughing, perhaps thinking Dad had chosen to take the easy way to get past the snow. I feel horrible that I did not react quicker in getting down to where Dad would end his slide–not that I could have stopped his collision with the rocks, but I should have been down there a lot sooner. This event has made me wonder about my ability to think and act wisely and efficiently in a stressful situation where time could be of the essence. I was up there on the trail just helplessly watching, shocked and scared.

Dad hit the rocks at the bottom, and he wasn't moving. Then I had no trouble bolting down there, high-stepping down the hill on the loose rocks next to the snow slide. Matthew was right behind me until he slid and fell on his rear end. Dad had begun to get up by this time. But soon after he got up, I went down with a skewed version of a Superman dive. It was quite the comedy of errors if you didn't care about the pain and scariness of it all. It took me a little while to pry myself up and continue down to where Dad was wearily standing.

His ankle and arm apparently took the brunt of the impact. His forearm was missing some skin, and he hobbled some for a few steps, but he was definitely lucky to escape further harm. Well, it probably wasn't so much luck as protection; Dad was blessed. In the spirit of Howard W. Hunter, who wouldn't let a fall at the pulpit or a bomb scare mid-talk stop him from delivering his message, Dad was up and moving just like normal in no time, heading toward the peak.

We patched ourselves up and conquered that peak. There is no trail the last few hundred yards to the summit. I was sweating, and my bandages were falling off. Up top is a plaque about Mr. Thurston, a Mormon Pioneer and Morgan Valley settler. Matthew found a Book of Mormon in a cleft of the rocks with a message that whoever wanted this true treasure could have it. After a while, a couple with two young children, one riding in a backpack for young'ns, joined us at the top for a quick picture taking session.

We did it–a bit battered, bruised, and emotionally spent–but we celebrated our majestic nation's birth on top of Davis and Morgan Counties. I had trouble getting to sleep that night, the scene of Dad's fall, with my feelings of helplessness, playing over and over as the only feature in my mind's cinema. The curtain eventually closed and then opened to a new day; a Wednesday–just another day at the office.