Of course I wanted to climb Kings Peak. How could I not? It’s the tallest mountain in Utah, a status that is catnip to a peak bagger like me. And the journey to the summit, by my metrics, hits the adventure sweet spot — a daunting but doable roundtrip hike of about 30 miles that requires no technical mountaineering skills or equipment.

During the prime climbing period of July and August, however, Kings Peak, located in the High Uintas Wilderness of northeastern Utah, is often infested with both humans and mosquitos. To avoid such nuisances, I spent last summer working myself into acceptable shape on the trails near my home in Park City, biding my time for an opening that was too late for the crowds and the bugs, yet before a big snowfall.

I conscripted my friend Brian, a longtime trekking partner, to accompany me. And in mid-September, with nighttime temperatures in the High Uintas already well below freezing, we dashed off. Kings Peak is only 65 miles from Park City as the crow flies, but nearly three hours as the car drives: first up to Wyoming, then along the north side of the wilderness before dropping back into Utah on a dirt road to reach the customary starting point, the Henrys Fork Trailhead. Kings Peak — like the trailhead, spelled without an apostrophe — is not named for royalty but for Clarence King, the first director of the United States Geological Survey, who helped map Utah in the 1860s.

Brian and I planned to complete the trip in three days and two nights. We shouldered our backpacks, bulging with food and camping gear, and walked giddily into the wilds. The initial miles were forested, first with aspens, their late-season leaves fluttering yellow and gold, then stately conifers as we gradually ascended past 10,000 feet.

The heavy woods petered out after a half-dozen miles, and like a curtain opening we were regaled by the full majesty of the High Uintas. We’d entered a broad, grassy valley, dotted with glacially deposited boulders and crystalline ponds. At the far end of the valley rose an intimidating, snow-streaked rampart of peaks: the central massif. My eye followed the ridgeline to its highest point, which seemed impossibly far away. A mingling of fear and thrill — that indelible mountaineer emotion—shot through me like an electric charge. That’s where we were going.

But not yet. Brian and I left the trail and bushwacked for a mile or so until we found an ideal campsite near a trickling stream and small waterfall on a fertile plateau. We’d encountered a few fellow late-season hikers on the walk, but here there was no sign of anyone else. After 10 miles hauling a heavy pack, I was grateful to sit and cook a warm dinner and sip Brian’s mezcal while the sun dipped below the horizon. As alpenglow painted the mountaintops, all around us moose emerged from their daybeds and began snacking on willows and sedge. We spotted a dozen of them – cow-calf pairs and lone bulls – before darkness descended and I wriggled into my sleeping bag inside my tent and drifted off.

We woke early, our big day upon us, the sky streaked with salmon-colored clouds. For our summit attempt we went light, carrying only the necessities: water, snacks, extra clothes and headlamps. Everything else we left in our tents. We drank a quick coffee, downed a few breakfast bars and set out, preserving as much daylight as possible.

Contouring toward the towering peaks, we soon reconnected with the main hiking trail. The route steepened and most vegetation disappeared as we trekked through a scree field, aiming for a low spot in the wall known as Gunsight Pass. I was nervous in the best possible way. My focus narrowed, every footfall deliberate and precise — this was not a place you wanted to turn an ankle, let alone suffer anything worse. At the same time, I kept a critical eye on the clouds curdling about the horizon. This was also not a spot to be caught in a storm. 

Once we reached the pass, just shy of 12,000 feet, we were truly in the inhospitable, high-alpine environment with nothing but loose rocks and craggy escarpments and an ever-widening bird’s-eye view of the world. Brian and I eased into a steady, careful rhythm, trying to keep our breathing contained in the thinning air. There was hardly any need to talk. The wind picked up; pockets of ice lurked in shady spots. My legs began to protest but my head overruled.

Then came the crux, the long, final ridgeline, a steep realm of furniture-sized boulders piled haphazardly and sometimes unstably about us. There was no more trail. Cairns marked a suggested route, but it was hand-and-foot climbing, with occasional heady exposure. My fingertips were rubbed raw as I gripped the reddish-brown quartzite, twisting and stretching my body, juggling danger and caution. I pulled myself over and around rock after rock, unable to fully catch my breath, until I ascended one further ledge and there was no more up.

From the roof of Utah, 13,528 feet above sea level, the land unfurled. We beheld the entirety of the nearly half-million-acre High Uintas Wilderness; the lakes and meadows we’d come from appeared tiny amid the overwhelming expanse. I’m not entirely sure why I am driven to climb mountains, but the specific feeling you get on a summit of being powerful and powerless all at once seems a chief reason.

“From the roof of Utah, 13,528 feet above sea level, the land unfurled.”

Michael Finkel

The summit was the goal but as all mountaineers know, it’s only halfway home. The weather had held, though our luck was running out. The dark clouds, building all day, now blotted the sun. We didn’t stay long on the top. By the time we’d made it all the way down to camp after a 10-mile, 10-hour day, a few stray snowflakes were drifting down. 

We hiked back to our car the next day, but not before the season fully changed. Over the final miles, we were battered and chilled by a virulent storm, and Kings Peak was smothered in snow.