City Creek Canyon, a place I know and love deeply, sits directly North of the house and neighborhood I first moved to in Salt Lake City back in 2016. Countless memories are contained within the NW & SE flanks of this quick escape from the sirens of downtown. Gazing up the valley is captivating. A long, continuous gorge that appears to fade away, never quite reaching a saddle amidst the rising tide of foothills. But that saddle is out there. Around 12 or 13 miles up canyon, nestled between Lookout Peak and Grandview, waiting to be crossed in a wonderfully epic loop from the front door.
Brandon and I had tried to cross that saddle once before, creating enough lore to receive accusations of having tried it upwards of three, four, even five times. Let the record state we bailed in 2024, when there was far too much snow, and haven't made an effort outside of that outing. Probably could've done it then but boy howdy I'm glad we didn't.
Fast forward to 2025. Snow is slow to come, and the few storms rolling through haven't left enough more to create a problem for the route. The CCURL, previously already tabled for the year by Brandon and myself, is suddenly back in contention. What comes up as a joke at our friends' wedding turns into a plan for the following weekend. Redemption on the horizon.
It storms early in the week and I take pictures of the cloud and snow covered Grandview from Morris Mountain; many miles and a gaping canyon away. It warms steadily through the rest of the week, promising that while there may still be some slippery and obnoxious sections, it won't be nearly as bad as last year. We're doing this damn thing.
Brandon sleeps over the night before. Not keen for alpine starts, we hold each other accountable to be walking out the door by 5:30am. Quiet, dark miles with the sounds of life waking up around us start our day. Visits from owls, mice, and a curious pair of cougars keep us wide-awake-alert-enthusiastic despite our lack of coffee. With sunrise dragging late into the morning, we're nearly atop the ridge to Little Black by the time its rays light up our return route across the open valley below.
We pass Little Black within both our expected timings, but disagree on how long the next section will take. Little Black to Lookout. The only section of the entire route I haven't once stepped foot on. From Smugglers Gap onward we're going in blind, armed with legends that the bush will be thick. We could've listened to those prophecies and worn pants. I even carried a pair in my pack the entire way through. I guess there's just something to the bloodletting of wearing short-shorts through a miles long thicket of scrub oak, manzanita, and the occasional surprise set of thorns. It sucked, it took a while, and impressively, without any outbursts, we made it to Lookout Peak.
Another short schwack later and we were back on (overgrown, snowy, hard to follow, occasionally absent) trail. That long promised saddle between Lookout and Grandview greeted us without fanfare, a quiet aspen grove with leaves already buried under a crunchy blanket of crusted snow. We continued, surprised to see some other aspen groves still splashed with loud, highlighter yellow canopies amidst the softly sleeping hills surrounding us. This section of the route is as deep, as far out, as remote as it gets in the central Wasatch mountains. Grandview, which we were now approaching up its SE flank, is the most remote peak in the entire range and you can feel it. Having approached and reached this depth from the comfort of my home of nearly 10 years felt impactful, filling, and beautiful.
The summit of Grandview is appropriately named. Expansive views radiate outward from every direction. The bulbous observatory on Francis Peak creates a familiar landmark on the long ridge extending Northward. The Unitah mountains, whose high peaks lie 50 miles to our East, are clearly visible across an expanse of rolling high desert terrain. Glances South are met with a staggering stratification of the increasingly rugged peaks lining Emigration, Millcreek, and Cottonwood Canyons. The Salt Lake valley, from where we came, lies directly to the West of these looming giants before lending way to the Oquirrh Mountains and the Great Salt Lake sitting somberly low when viewed from this high vantage point.
After properly imbibing these views, swapping out some waters, snacking, and selfieing, Brandon and I begin the long trek home. We're on familiar ground, having completed this same part of the journey as an out-and-back the year previous after throwing in the towel on Grandview. This also means we are starkly aware of the sheer distance that lies ahead. There is a rough "trail" to follow along this seemingly endless ridge of false summits, but it's mostly obscured by the fresh snow I had viewed falling from my view on Morris earlier in the week. Familiar landmarks take the shapes of jagged rock fins jutting out from the earth and gnarled, ancient pines long lost to the elements, stubbornly holding on in defiance of time.
A missed turn on a tricky navigational section of the ridge causes our already tired and low spirits to plummet. We are now faced with a short but snowy and bush laden traverse above a gully that we experienced last year and know to avoid at all costs. I bash my shin on a spiny, fallen oak that was covered in snow before I slipped on it and impaled my leg with its multiple spears of cold hard wood. More bloodletting aside, our marks left in the snow, we reach the correct ridge and with time, effort, and continual encouragement despite our tired spirits, make it down to Rudy's Flat. We're far from home yet, but we have a solid trail to follow all the way back to my front door.
Our remaining miles are tenuous and slow, but steady and increasingly light with the knowledge that we can walk every future step and still arrive home before dark. Ari meets us on Dude Benchmark, arriving mere seconds after we've sat down on the rocks to take our first real rest since Grandview. We march, alternating between shuffles, runs, and plodding walks when the trail gets rough or steep, endlessly driving forward and back towards the city. Our spirits don't reverse, but they do take a positive turn with renewed energy and stoke brought on Ari’s fresh legs as he helps to carry us home.
We stay reluctantly ridge proper for the entire route back; the steep, loose slopes of Finnegan's Ridge delivering us above Capitol Hill, on pavement once again. We cruise down through winding neighborhood roads and into Memory Grove Park, surrounded by more people than we've collectively seen all day. My favorite cooldown, the park stairs (three steep flights), bring us back into the Avenues and onto the final roads to my house. We run up the alleyway and into my backyard, mostly silent as we shuffle in the back door, take off our shoes, and collapse.
What an absolutely stunningly beautiful day.