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Above the Great Salt Lake

IN THE MIDDLE of northern Utah, there’s one of the world’s most incredible lakes: the Great Salt Lake. In the middle of the lake, there’s an island: Antelope Island. In the middle of the island, there’s a peak: Frary Peak. As soon as I saw it, I itched to stand at its summit.

Everything about the Great Salt Lake is immense. The clue is in the name. It currently measures around 75 miles long by 35 miles wide, although this varies. Historical records show that it has been both half as big and twice as big in the past, with the shoreline moving back and forth by as much as 15 miles. Seventeen thousand years ago, at its greatest extent, it was more than ten times as big. Known as Lake Bonneville, it then covered a third of what is now Utah. That must have been some sight.

Around the perimeter of the lake are enormous expanses of sands and salt flats. The blindingly white Bonneville Salt Flats in the west, covering an area of sixty square miles, are a world-­famous venue for attempts on land speed records. At other points, mountainous peninsulas push deep into the water. The desert-like Promontory Mountains penetrate 20 miles and reach a height of 5,782ft. Ascents here are hot and rare. Some summits have probably never been trodden.

Antelope Island is the largest of several islands, measuring 15 miles long by 4.5 miles wide. From the ‘mainland’, near Salt Lake City, it can be reached by a 6.5ml causeway that carries a road. As my partner Sandi and I drove out into the lake across the narrow lifeline, it was as though we were being cast adrift from the security of the land. The island shimmered in the heat haze like a mirage, its skyline reflected on the bright surface of the lake, its shoreline merging with the still water so seamlessly that it was difficult to distinguish one from the other.

When we stopped to take a photograph, our senses were assailed by the smell of salt and the squawking of countless gulls. The lake is the second saltiest in the world after the Dead Sea. In places, it’s ten times saltier than the oceans. Despite its salinity, it supports abundant life in the form of brine shrimp, brine flies and algae, which makes it a prime habitat for the millions of birds, over 250 species, that either live here or use it as a stopover during migration.

The island today is designated as a state park and is uninhabited, apart from a small day visitor centre overrun by a cacophony of martins. The few visitors who make the trip come to float in the waters or view the herd of more than 500 bison. These, together with bighorn sheep and the antelopes for which the first non-Native American explorers named the island in 1843, roam free and have little fear of humans. At one roadside halt, a coyote ambled past us without even a glance.

Frary Peak (6,596ft) is the highpoint on a broad ridge that climbs south from the visitor centre along the spine of the island. The route to the top is only 3.5 miles long, with an ascent of 2,100ft, but there’s no shade or water to be had along the way. The trailhead sign warned that it was ‘a strenuous hike with difficult terrain’, and so it was to prove.

From the empty parking lot, the sun-baked trail climbed a scrubby hillside between gnarled outcrops of metamorphosed quartzite. Muted colours, heat haze and yellow mullein plants gave the scene an unreal sepia tone. The trail climbed over the ridge and continued along the far side, seeking the easiest route through fields of contorted rock formations.

Frary Peak floats on the Great Salt Lake

Half a mile from the summit, it reached a hilltop radio tower on the ridge-crest and we saw the summit for the first time. It lay at the far end of a narrow, convoluted ridge, whose traverse required a hard and exposed scramble. After much deliberation, we couldn’t summon up the will to tackle it in the debilitating heat. Most hikers who reach this point are of the same persuasion, for the trail avoids the ridge by dropping 60m/200ft below the crest and re-ascending close to the summit.

This alternative turned out to be no picnic either. With big drops below, the descent required care, while the re-ascent involved some awkward moves on steep, loose ground that had us scrabbling for tree roots. There used to be wooden steps here, but all that remains now is the half-buried rebar that used to support the crossboards. We were relieved to reach the small, tabletop summit.

The view was as extraordinary as is everything about the Great Salt Lake. To the east, the Wasatch Front of the Rocky Mountains was an undifferentiated black skirting board on the horizon. Elsewhere, it was difficult to distinguish land from water. Dazzling, limitless brightness extended in all directions. This was a planet I no longer recognised. We were standing on a mountain that seemed to float unmoored on a sea of light. Never before had I felt such a sense of dislocation.

Then, of all things, it started to rain. The re-descent of the slippery rebar resulted in some undignified moves. The now grey sky merged with land and sea to add another surreal layer to the scene. We arrived back at the trailhead wet and bedraggled, though still sweating in the oppressive heat. Don’t tell anyone I said so, but there are times when there is something to be said for a visitor centre with a cold drinks cabinet.