North Thunder Mountain
Michael T. Hannan, Kimball, Brooke Snarr & Nate Miller
September 24, 2005
On the morning of September 30th the outside air is clear and cool. Splendid views of the fall-colored Wasatch are offered to all in the valley, free of charge. I sit here at the computer and see crutches leaned carefully against the desk to my right. I only mention this because their presence is interestingly tied to the hike I am about to describe. So I return to the early morning of September 24th.
I had spent the prior week soliciting participants for an assault on one of the least-visited 11,000’+ peaks in the entire Wasatch, North Thunder Mountain. Lee Jepsen and I had seen it when we climbed South Thunder, and I had also looked at it from the east when I had climbed to the top of the Hogum Divide. To summit it remained only a dream, but Kimball, Nate and eventually Brooke had committed to accompany me on the attempt which would take up most of the day. The weather forecasts had changed multiple times during the early part of the week, but now all of the meteorologists seemed to have settled on a forecast calling for a slight chance of isolated showers, gusty winds and generally typical fall temperatures.
Brooke drove over to our house at 6:30 and he, Kimball and I drove to meet Nate at the alternate TH for the Bells Canyon, the one just east of the traffic light at Wasatch Boulevard and 9800 South. We had originally talked about trying the Coalpit
Gulch route, but my exploration of that route the day before had given me huge second thoughts about even trying it. I felt like it was too technical and too dangerous for us to even bother about, so I had decided that we would take the Bells Canyon route and ascend the west ridge of Thunder Mountain. Before we departed from the parking lot we paused to offer a prayer in which we petitioned the Lord for his blessings. As it would turn out, the prayer was not offered in vain.
With the first light of dawn we all agreed that it was a great day for hiking: cool temperatures and a high overcast. None of the others had ever been in Bells Canyon, and Brooke was excited to finally explore this portion of the Wasatch. We made good time and hit the usual check points exactly on schedule: at one hour cross a tiny stream and look back at the valley while enjoying the granite towers of lower Bells Canyon; at two hours cross another tributary and find a popular remote camping spot (this after enjoying a clearing and a nice stroll through aspens and tall brush.
The route from the camping spot is the roughest part in terms of staying on the trail, and with 4 of us looking for faint hints of trails and cairns we only took a couple of wrong turns, always finding our way back quickly to what must have been the preferred route. I recognized the stream flow coming from the upper reservoir and had no sooner commented on it than we saw the dam of Upper Bells Canyon reservoir. This occurred at the 3-hour point. I would not want to boast, but three hours to the reservoir is not too shabby. The level in the reservoir was a little bit lower than it was when Lee and I had been there in August.
During our ascent to the upper reservoir we stopped to enjoy a number of breathtaking views of stratus clouds both above and below us, fall colors in all their glorious splendor and brilliant combinations of greens, oranges, yellows and reds on steep hillsides. Truly, this time of year can’t be beaten for scenery and color.
The reservoir was a perfect spot at which to take a break, filter water from the outlet stream and try to find temporary shelter from the wind which was gusting like a frustrated boss eager to berate the nearest underling. Nate and Brooke spotted two trout darting about in the little stream! Kimball had some sour gummi bears which he shared, and we all felt ready for the second phase of the climb, the off-trail portion for which we had some printed instructions I had taken from the website www.summitpost.org. We would see how accurate these recommendations were.
We crossed the outlet stream, scrambled up a small rise, turned southeast and made our way back down to the reservoir shoreline. We then traversed along the reservoir to the northeast corner where we began ascending the ridge in a southeasterly direction as per the website instructions. “Look for a saddle” read the description. We actually saw two saddles and wondered which one was THE one to attain. Opting for the more southeasterly one we eventually found out that we made the wrong choice. We should have gone directly east from the northeast corner of the reservoir and headed for the narrower saddle, not the broad shallower one to which we climbed. We did cover some remarkable terrain, though, including a lingering snow field, massive boulders and 360° of beautiful scenery regardless of our position.
At one point we began spotting mountain goats, and eventually we identified a herd consisting of perhaps six or seven head. Through binoculars we watched them work their way up steep ledges and hurdle gigantic clefts with ease. They made most movements so quickly that it amazed us. Soon we had to concentrate on our own movement. The wind was still strong and cool. I recognized at some point that we were heading for the very same saddle on which Lee and I had stood after beginning our descent from South Thunder. Then I knew for sure that we had chosen the wrong saddle, thus inadvertently lengthening our hike by at least one hour, but at that point there was no turning back to take the “right” way. Live and learn.
At the saddle we took a brief break and surveyed the situation. We were looking down into the gaping expanse of Thunder Bowl. To our south, 30 minutes’ worth of scrambling, was the summit and sheer east face of South Thunder Mountain. Oh, it was very tempting to just go there instead of thinking about down-climbing 300’ or 400’ into Thunder Bowl and picking our way northeast to the summit of North Thunder. There was going to be a lot of boulder hopping followed by scrambling up the rugged west face of the ridge line to do that. But North was our goal, so after enjoying the view for a few minutes we began a careful descent into the south end of Thunder Bowl. Towering above our right shoulders was a series of pinnacles known as the “gendarme,” a formidable obstacle for those wishing to follow the ridge line to North Thunder.
The going was tricky but fairly normal for such a scattering of rock. A huge snowfield lay silently along the eastern edge of the bowl, the usual random red coloring making the snow seem dirty and artificial. Once down at the bottom of the bowl along our line we headed for what looked like a grassy spot west of and below the summit, and as we approached it we saw that it was nothing more than a thistle meadow. Nate and Kimball decided to attain the ridge line through a narrow couloir of rock and trees while Brooke and I contoured a little further to the north before attempting to climb. We ended up coming out first after struggling through exposed boulders and a nasty little cluster of pine trees growing tenaciously out of hidden crevices. We then climbed to the pinnacled ridge line a few minutes before they did.
We were still south of the summit, and we scrambled along a harrowing ridgeline for 5 minutes before reaching the summit, marked among other things by a ragged line of colored pennants someone had strung up long ago. Most of the pennants were nearly in shreds, and all of them had only a hint of their original colors of yellow, blue and red. Where necessary, we had stayed on the west side of the ridge to avoid serious exposure along the ridge line itself. At the top Nate and Kimball exulted in the view and quickly donned a second layer as shield against the wind. Brook discovered a mailbox and found a large PVC container with spiral-ring register and pencil inside. He made an entry and signed our names. We ate lunch and marveled at the sweeping views we had of the Cottonwood area of the Wasatch. This wilderness was truly magnificent.
Only 11 others had signed the summit register for 2005, so we knew that we were in nearly virgin territory up there. Kind of a neat feeling knowing that you have attempted a climb only a select few others have. And we had made it in spite of our navigation boo-boo. We could now easily see the saddle through which we should have come. Also, it was clear which peak was Bells Cleaver and which was Rocky Mouth Canyon Peak. We speculated together that we just might bag Bells Cleaver on our way out. Why not? We would be, at the most, 500’ below its summit when we attained the saddle above the reservoir.
Lunches in our stomachs and curiosity satisfied we began our descent. We could have continued along the descending ridge line to the north before going down but we all decided to just immediately start down. This was about 2:00 and everything was going swimmingly until around 2:25. It was about that time that something we could have never anticipated happened, and it turned the entire rest of the day into a scene which none of us will ever forget.
Brooke was in the lead, hands in his pockets, judiciously picking his way down the beginning of a steep boulder field which plummeted about 900’ into the north end of Thunder Bowl. There a small pond and brown grassy area waited along with random small stands of pine trees, mostly along the western edge of the water and grass. I followed Brooke while Kimball and Nate brought up the rear of our party. Perhaps 200’ or 300’ below the summit I stepped on a large boulder which lurched so quickly from its position that my balance was gone in a heartbeat.
I remember yelling as I catapulted into the air and a feeling of panic coursed through me as I realized that I had totally lost my balance and had no control of myself. I then came crashing down hard on my right side, the hip and thigh of my right leg taking the brunt of the fall’s force. Having a rather full pack on my back probably spared me from sustaining any injuries to my back and head. A split second after slamming on to an irregular granite slab I heard the sound of rolling and grinding. Looking to my left I saw an 18” diameter boulder rolling toward my lower legs. I let out another yell of exclamation and watched helplessly as it rolled over my legs and came to a sliding stop about 5 feet below me. My right leg had been under my left, but I had no idea what damage might have been rendered. All I knew is that I was in tremendous, excruciating pain and I didn’t feel like I could move either of my legs.
It had happened quickly. The entire accident had taken less than 5 seconds to begin, unfold and end. There we were, one man down, three rushing to my aid, myriad thoughts going through their minds. I was very fortunate to have my faculties about me and I never once approached any stage of shock. But instinctively I knew that I had some serious injuries, or at least should have them.
Huddling around me, asking me the usual questions, my brave friends checked my legs for fractures and bleeding. I had sustained a puncture wound in my right hip and it was bleeding slightly. Abrasions were present all over the outside of my upper thigh, and I had opened some of the same on both forearms and on the heel of my right hand. I had less serious abrasions on the upper left ankle, “tread marks” from the rolling stone which had somehow failed to crush either leg. I was in not-so-good shape, but it could have been much worse. Kimball attempted to heft the errant boulder but it wouldn’t budge. How on earth had that thing moved? That is a question I’ll never be able to answer.
I couldn’t place full weight on my right leg, but I could scoot along and spider crawl. Nate immediately used his cell phone to call someone who had a good knowledge of first aid and acted on her advice regarding checking my body over. We were prepared: two cell phones and a GPS in addition to there being four of us. We began down climbing as quickly as I could maneuver, and that was painfully – excuse the pun – slow. Nate decided to call a mutual friend and, in this case, powerful ally, Kent Harrison. Kent is a part-time instructor for Westminster aviation and a full-time pilot for AirMed. His advice was timely and fitting. He thought we should measure our pace and call for help as soon as we determined that there would be no chance of getting out before dark.
After 30 minutes of painstakingly slow progress (it was so slow that the word “progress” is a misnomer) I told Nate to make the call to have AirMed dispatch a rescue helicopter. Feelings of embarrassment and pride pushed me to avoid making that call, but I knew then that we would never get out of there, even if we had two full days to do it. My leg was hurting more than before and my arms were beginning to tire. Nate made the call and gave them our GPS coordinates. We suggested that the chopper land about 4:30, for we thought we would be down to the landing site by then.
Wearing thin dollar-a-pair gloves I had retrieved from my pack allowed my hands to withstand the scraping and pitting that I was experiencing by placing so much weight on my hands, but the spider crawling was a valiant effort which I would make as long as I had strength. I had to ask for water with every short break, and I know that it was very frustrating for my companions to have to walk along and not be able to physically help. But they were most reassuring with emotional and verbal encouragement, telling me that I was doing well and looking good. “Keep it up, Michael, you’re doing all right.” “Not that far to go and we’ll be there.” When we first saw the chopper we had maybe 75 yards more to down climb before reaching the grassy east edge of the pond below. Nate was on the phone to Kent, and Kent was in contact with the pilots of the helicopter by radio. After several passes they spotted us, and then they maneuvered around assessing the winds and the intended landing spot. I think they actually landed around 4:30, right where we thought they would.
By then we were still 50 yards from the bottom of the boulder field, but it might as well have been 50 miles. I was exhausted. My arms had no strength left, my right leg was nearly useless and stiffening in addition to bleeding again, and my will to go further was at a dead end. I admitted as much and soon Brian, one of the male nurses from the rescue craft, suggested that they bring up the carry-board, strap me to it and slide me down the rest of the way. It sounded good to me, and the agreement was struck.
I was velcroed to the board in quick fashion once they had muscled it up to our position. I felt like a modern-day mummy once secured to it, and the ride down was bumpy and anything but stable. But I wasn’t complaining. I listened to their banter and attempted to picture them in my mind’s eye as they slid and carried me, all the while trying to keep their own balance. After several minutes of bouncing and tipping they reached the end of the boulders, and from there the carry to the helicopter was quick and smooth. Brian calmed me with words of reassurance, asking me if I was warm enough or thirsty. He talked of giving me an IV, an offer I immediately but politely declined. But, surprise, that was not an acceptable response. I was getting one whether or not I wanted one. I later learned that it was necessary to get the IV going now so that medication and pain killers could easily be given later, if necessary.
I was strapped in tighter than a tamale in fresh corn husks. I think we took off shortly after 5 o’clock, and I couldn’t actually see a thing unless I rolled my eyes to the left and used peripheral vision. So I had Brian tell me at several points along the way where we were, and then I could picture it in my mind’s eye. The AirMed craft would drop me at the University Hospital ER/Trauma helipad, re-fuel and return to carry out my companions. Once we had landed it took only a couple of minutes to transfer me to a gurney and wheel me in to an empty ER room. My nurse’s name was Kimberly; she was efficient and friendly. An officer from the sheriff’s office came in to get some details about the accident: where, when, what happened, injuries.
An aid cleaned my puncture wound, Kimberly gave me some morphine to dull the pain and a Dr. McIntosh made a short appearance to assess my overall condition. He ran is fingers up my spine and neck, checking for any injuries there and asked some general questions about the pain, etc. Another tech came in and took x-rays of my chest and my pelvis, returning to re-do the pelvis because someone had left an exposed x-ray out where he thought that it was un-exposed. The x-ray results were negative. About 8 o’clock I was told that I could call someone to come and pick me up. I had to sign some papers and took others with me, instructions for treatment of the puncture wound and an admonition to not regard my treatment at the ER as a substitute for seeing my doctor, etc. Kimball came, loaded me into a wheel chair and with Kimberly along for moral support I managed to carefully shoehorn myself into the passenger seat of the little Toyota. That little effort was met with serious protestations from my entire body, and it would turn out to be an omen of things to come.
As we arrived home Pam was pulling into the driveway, just then returning from the women’s meeting she had attended from 6:00 to 7:30. That was the first time she had known that anything was wrong. She was very understanding and grateful for my safe return. Kimball, Nate and Brooke had been airlifted out of the Thunder Bowl to the Search and Rescue Command Post which had been quickly established at 112th South Wasatch Boulevard, an exigency for the possibility of the chopper being unsuccessful at plucking me from the mountain.
Thus an eventful day came to a conclusion. It ended in far different fashion than we could have ever imagined, but we were all thankful that we were prepared and made prudent decisions when we needed to. In my mind I will always be convinced that the Lord blessed us abundantly in spite of having the fall. It could have been much, much worse.
Epilogue
It is October 19th, the fall colors are in evidence now in the valley while those on the mountain sides have long since faded from their former glory. It rained last night, but the sun is shining today. My recovery has been slow but steady, a perfect reflection of the lifestyle of a turtle. The first week was painful and resulted in many near sleepless nights. I saw Dr. Mark Lee the Wednesday after the accident and he determined that none of my injuries were permanent in nature. With his prescription I began physical therapy the following week at TOSH (The Orthopedic Specialty Hospital) under the capable direction of PT Kurt Dudley, a 25-year veteran of his profession.
Rick Burtenshaw loaned me a pair of crutches and with them I was able to hobble around and get places faster with each passing day. Pam was very helpful and was more than willing to change the dressing every day – twice – on my puncture wound. Kurt decided to help things out when he saw it, and his squeezing out of black fluids from the periphery of the wound helped the healing process immensely. At therapy I received electrical stimulation, heat packs and ultrasound to help loosen the large hematoma I had sustained on my outer right thigh. Only able to bend my leg 80° my first visit, Kurt worked me out on the Total Gym and the recumbent bike to help my flexibility quickly increase. Kurt noted that it was a miracle that there were no broken bones considering how traumatic my injuries were. He hadn’t seen anything like it when it came to the discoloration around the wound and the total discoloration of my legs.
Between the four sessions of physical therapy and my working at home to apply heat and stretch and exercise as best I could I am now at the point where I can almost walk without limping. I can go up and down stairs and lead with my right leg like one would normally do, and I am hopeful to be able to take a short “hike” this Saturday, provided all goes well. It will be nothing big, only another baby step forward in the recovery process. Thanks goodness for modern medicine and willing health care providers.
October 27th: As it turned out, I didn’t take any hikes on the 4-week anniversary of the accident. But by then I had “turned in” my crutches and was walking with only a small limp. My son, Jeremy, had returned from missionary service in Spain on the 20th, and over the weekend family duties prevented me from attempting too much physical activity away from home. But today brought a final breakthrough: I was able to spend 40 minutes on the recumbent bicycle, walk for 10 minutes on the elliptical trainer and then walk one mile in about 15 minutes on the indoor track at the Cottonwood Heights Spa.
I now have proof positive that I will recover from my injuries and that I can safely look forward to heading to Argentina and attempting Aconcagua February 1, 2006. The human body is a wonderful piece of machinery, and I thank the good Lord for the copy I have received.
