Thunder on Wheeler Peak, Great Basin NP
Summit #32 of 70--September 9, 2023
Returning west from Colorado, I had a couple of options for one more stiff hike to someplace high and wild. The La Sal Mountains near Moab was a leading contender, perhaps Mount Tuk or Mount Peale. But so was Nevada’s Wheeler Peak, a 13,000-foot peak within Great Basin National Park that had charmed me for decades. When I realized my overall driving distance was pretty much the same, I opted for Wheeler. Moab, I knew, would be a zoo.
The fabulous weather window over these western states was also about to change, in the sense that a chance of thunderstorms had reappeared in the forecast for September 9th. For Wheeler, it was just a twenty percent chance, mainly after 4:00 pm, it said. But when I arrived at the park’s visitor center at 8:00 am (after a three-hour drive), the forecast had bumped up the storms to 11:00 am, though still just a twenty percent chance.
I continued to the trailhead and skedaddled upward under partly sunny skies. I figured I might just make it to the top around 11:00 am. I’d descend quickly, or turn back if conditions worsened. A few other hikers had similar ideas.
About 1,000 feet below the summit, a dark mass of clouds was slowly moving our way, though I had yet to hear any thunder. A few hundred feet higher, people were coming down and saying that yes, they’d seen lightning in those clouds from the top. It was now 11:00 am. I passed a family group of older kids and adults also working their way down the mountain.
I watched the dark mass and continued up. The normal route to the summit is a steep and rocky trail, and is quite exposed to the elements for 2,000 vertical feet. Not a good place for outrunning nature’s fireworks. Finally, with less than a hundred feet to go, I heard thunder and stopped in my tracks. It seemed odd that the skies above and to the east were still broken clouds, as the ominous dark mass slowly bore down from the west on Wheeler Peak.
Of course, I should have turned back then and there. However, I’d heard only one good rumble that was still far off, and decided that one more minute of climbing to the summit crest wouldn’t add much to the risk. So I trotted up the last bit of trail, peaked over the top, and bam! Lightning flashed in front of me, certainly less than a mile away.
I immediately began a rapid descent, careful not to trip in the rocks. A minute later, despite the approaching storm, I passed a young guy who was still headed up. He had the look of a seasoned hiker, so I presumed he knew what he was getting himself into. Lightning strikes at the summit seemed imminent at this point.
By the time I caught up with the family, we were off the steepest part of the trail, nearly 1,000 feet down, but still very exposed. The hail came first, then the whipping wind that blew the icy particles into our faces with a sting. And then—flash!—kaboom! The storm had arrived. The family dove behind a stone windbreak that happened to be standing near the trail, while I scrambled down the east slope for 20 or 30 yards, tossed my metal trekking poles aside, and sat on my pack.
Everyone hunkered down for the next ten minutes or so, as perhaps a half dozen bolts of lighting struck our ridge and the summit area of the peak with a humbling ferocity. Soon it was quiet. After a few minutes of near-silence, but for the wind, we emerged from our meager hiding places and were on the move again. We all checked in with each other and thankfully everyone was okay. By the time we reached the saddle at the low end of the ridge, the storm was over and the smiles resumed.
We’d survived a scary moment, and hopefully learned a little more respect for the awesome power of darkening clouds. Over the many years I’ve been hiking and climbing mountains, I’ve had maybe a half dozen close calls with thunderstorms. I’ll share some of those stories later, but will sheepishly admit that I pushed it a bit too far this time. I’ll give myself credit for another wonderful summit, but it goes with a couple of demerits for that dumb decision to push on.
I enjoyed a leisurely hike down and reached the visitor center in time to look around before it closed. I drove west to Ely, then south toward Vegas until I ran out of daylight. Once again, I camped in the car and scarfed dinner in my front row seat as two more storms lit up the dark skies around me.
You can browse my 70 Summits adventures here.