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It was time.
For the past week or so, the snow has been melting off the Wasatch mountains in earnest, once again opening up the lower, south-facing canyons for relatively snow-free hiking. On this day, we decided to take a fairly traditional early-season hike to Circle-All peak, a minor prominence directly across the canyon from Kessler peak. Another destination that we had considered was the meadow in Broad's Fork, but Tim reported that there had been a lot of snow up there in the week earlier and that he didn't think that its north-facing slopes would be clear enough... yet...
After meeting in the parking lot, the five of us piled into my Jeep and we made our way up the canyon, noting which areas had snow, and those that didn't. Finally arriving at the Butler Fork trailhead, we piled out, donned our gear, and started up the trail. The only minor difficulty that we encountered was the first stream crossing almost immediately above the trailhead. With the stream emerging from Butler Fork running fairly fast, the random assortment of logs was of relatively little help in assisting in a dry crossing. While most of us had relatively waterproof foot gear, Dale had well-ventilated runners, so he ended up with wet feet within the first few hundred yards of the start of the evening's hike. Most of the rest of us gingerly made our way over the partially-submerged logs while Ron simply walked through it, his still-waterproof boots keeping him dry.
Passing this first hurdle, we soon began to climb the steep trail. Being the first hike of the season, many of us were less-accustomed to such an ascent than we would be later in the season, so we didn't attempt to break any speed records. Fortunately, the trail itself was dry and in fairly good shape so it was solely a matter of moderate pacing and heavy breathing.
Just below the junction of the trail that comes from Dog Lake, we ran into two college-age women, each carrying an armload of firewood - some of it looking sort of wet. Pausing briefly to speak with them, it was quickly apparent that they were more interested in getting somewhere than talking, so we passed, continuing on the upward path ourselves, eventually getting to the switchbacks. It wasn't until we traversed from the north set of switchbacks to the south of the drainage set that we ran into our first significant snowbank: For some of these, it was easier just to cut across and rejoin the trail above us. At some point, we were joined by yet another guy who, carrying his Tevas, seeming to be content to hike barefoot in the mud and snow: "I get better traction this way," he said...
Chris, who had moved ahead of the group - apparently deciding not to be excessively slowed down by a bunch of old guys - made it to the peak first. Like the switchbacks, the traverse of the ridge, too, was blocked in several places by large snowbanks, diverting us to an apparent "alternate" trail. Getting to the peak we were greeted by a vista that included snow-laden surrounding peaks up and down the canyon and the still-slender crescent, waxing moon.
Settling down for a brief respite, we re-arranged our gear slightly, rehydrated, changed shirts and ate our snacks, enjoying the scenery and carrying on weighty discussions of who-knows-what. As the shadows lengthened, we paused for our "obligatory group picture" and then prepared for the descent. Even when it got darker, the temperature - while chilly - wasn't actually "cold," probably because there was practically no wind at all.
We descended the trail without incident, pausing occasionally to look at the scenery. Unlike many of the times we've taken this trail, we didn't see any deer or moose along it, although there was plenty of scattered scat to be seen.
As we neared the junction of the trail from Dog Lake we began to smell wood smoke and hear what sounded like a dog barking. In a very small clearing on the south-west side of the trail and stream, we could see the two women that we'd encountered carrying firewood: They'd set up a camp consisting of a simple lean-to tarp and were cooking dinner over a small, smoky campfire at the edge of the stream. When asked if they were cooking hot dogs over the fire, they simply replied "Ramen!" Interestingly, even though I could swear that I heard its sound, I didn't spot a dog at their camp... It was the general consensus that camping that close to the stream wasn't the ideal location.
Further down the trail, we ran into two younger women who were gingerly making their way down the trail at its steepest part, seeming to be equipped only with bottled water, which they were carrying. Finally, as it was getting quite dark, we reached the stream crossing. Once again, Chris managed to hop across without really getting his shoes wet, Ron simply sloshed across while Tim and I managed somewhere between the two extremes. Dale, still reluctant to drown his shoes, crossed very carefully.
Finally back at the vehicle, we piled in and made our way down the canyon to the parking lot. There, some of us waited for the scheduled Iridium flare before going our separate directions.
No-one is exactly sure of the name's origin, but Gordon, who spoke with Charles Keller himself, said this:
"Mr. Keller believes that the Circle All Slide Area got its name because of how the slides behave. They come roaring down the north side of the canyon with enough energy that they go back up the south side some distance. That creates a secondary slide that comes back down and the two create something like a circle in the canyon bottom."
None of the above information is from the book "The Lady in the Ore Bucket" by Charles Keller.
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