I'd delayed my hike to the top of Boundary Peak - Nevada's highest point - for 24-hours, and that turned out to be a good thing. As I turned off US-6, clouds - that had deposited rain and snow over the course of the day - still obscured the peaks along the northern end of the White Mountains. I crossed my fingers that the weather guessers were right, and that they'd clear up for the first half of the following day; if not, I was in for a rather anticlimactic summit.
Still not sure this is a good idea.
The road up through Queen Canyon was well graded, and as I passed one mining ruin after another, I gained elevation. Eventually, I was driving through the clouds I'd seen from the valley, the ground now saturated from rain that was still coming down in places.
I arrived at the trailhead - a saddle between Mustang Mountain and Boundary Peak - just as the sun was setting. There, two other groups - one in a 2nd gen Tacoma, the other in a 3rd gen Tacoma - were already setup, their roof top tents soaking wet and flapping in the wind. Apparently, it'd been raining nonstop for the last three hours, an experience I was happy to have missed! At any rate, after quick hellos - and confirmation that they didn't mind my imposition for the night - I leveled best-gen Tacoma and snapped a quick photo before settling down for a bit of reading and an early night.
Still light out, but time for bed. Having gotten far too little sleep before my hike to Morgan Pass, I didn't want to make the same mistake again.
Temperatures on the trip so far had been warm, but up here at 9,749 feet, they were finally pleasant for sleeping. Soon, I was snoozing under a single comforter, the cool breeze swirling through the tent as it slid over the saddle and down into Owens Valley.
I woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom.
I'd planned to get an early start the next morning - not so much because I wanted to be back for lunch, though that was a nice side effect - but because the weather forecast suggested clouds and rain at the summit around 1:00pm. And so, just before sunrise, I climbed down the ladder and consumed several bowls of Wheat Chex before gathering up my camera gear and a bit of water, all I decided I needed for the 4-mile trek to the top.
The tent was covered in dew, and I hoped the breeze would dry it off by the time I got back.
While I'm amazingly good-ish at planning a trip - the roads I'll travel, the sights I'll see, how much can be accomplished in the admittedly very long days - I am notoriously bad at researching the hikes I do. Sure, I usually know the overall length and approximate elevation gain, but rarely have I taken a look at the elevation profile of a hike before setting off. In this case, I knew that I'd be climbing from 9,749 feet to something a little over 13,000, but I figured it'd be sort of like the hike we'd done up White Mountain a couple years earlier - a reasonably consistent ascent over the length of the trail.
In fact, that was not at all how the hike turned out, but I still had no idea that was the case as I started up the first set of switchbacks, through the old workings of the Queen Canyon Mine.
I gained the first 900 feet quickly as the trail climbed up from the saddle.
After a mile, I reached the top of the first climb; warm and with a slightly elevated heartbeat as the trail leveled out. In front of me, I could see it continue for the next couple miles - "thankfully" following the contour line - along the grassy ridge.
I say "thankfully" because it was what I saw beyond that, that had me wondering what I'd gotten myself into.
Wait, is that Boundary Peak? Way up there?
In fact, what I'd gotten myself into was the most lopsided hike I'd ever undertaken. Rather leisurely for the first 3 miles, then 2,500 feet of elevation in the last mile of the hike! This wasn't going to be the leisurely stroll that I'd envisioned, it was going to be a leg-numbing slog over icy rocks and loose scree, all at more than 10,000 feet above sea level.
Ironically, it would be all this, and yet less than a mile from the summit, Montgomery Peak would stand another 250 feet above the highest point in Nevada. Just far enough west to be in California, a state chock full of points much higher.
Should've taken a look at this earlier. Not that it would have changed anything.
As I reached the end of the easy part, the morning sun shown bright up Trail Canyon.
My legs felt great as I approached the climb, and above me I could see two parties who'd left an hour or so before I'd gotten under way. Nearing a false summit, two guys who'd shown up in a Jeep half an hour before sunrise; halfway between their position and mine, the driver of the 3rd gen Tacoma. Always competitive - never mind that I'm not as young as I used to be - I wondered if I could catch them.
Doing so would surely involve suffering, but what's a little gain without the associated pain?
Headed up, into - and through - the clouds.
Somewhere down there is Owens Valley.
One foot in front of the other, I pushed as quickly as I could go. It was not fast. Why the trail here cut a line straight up the mountain - rather than switching back and forth in order to decrease the "up" required with each step - was beyond me, and I wasn't going to waste mental energy thinking about it. Rather, I set about counting steps - from one to whatever number I lost track at, before starting over at one again.
Before I knew it, I was 1,200 feet higher, and at the false summit myself!
Still a lot of up to go.
I'd lost sight of the folks in front of me throughout most of the climb, the false summit blocking my view of the highest saddle, and the trail winding around the back side of the mountain for portions of the final ascent. Allowing myself 30 seconds of controlled breathing - in order to arrest my we're-definitely-at-12,000-feet-heartbeat - I realized that I wasn't far behind the solo hiker in front of me. Still, catching him - 'cause dang it, I was going to catch him - had to wait. It was time for a photo.
So small along the ridgeline.
After retracing my steps to grab the camera, I resumed my incoherent counting to random numbers between 1 and 167. Shockingly - and even with a few stops to admire the view when the clouds cleared around me - this technique seemed to work and 15 minutes later, I greeted the 3rd gen Tacoma owner and his dog as they contemplated what exactly it was that they'd done right earlier in life to deserve a fantastical hike such as this.
And with that, I moved into silver medal position, which I'd maintain for the remainder of the ascent.
I smile when I'm suffering.
Three-and-a-half hours after leaving camp - and with 75 or more rest stops along the way - I reached the summit. For a few minutes, I was the highest human in the entire state of Nevada.
Looking out over my domain.
A Foresty Forest style celebration.
Looking around, it was reasonably clear that the weather forecast - rain in the early afternoon - was spot on, and I'd made it to the top just before the entire thing was engulfed in clouds. This meant I was in a bit of a rush to snap photos of the various survey markers, summit logs, and surroundings, before following the lead of the other three folks who were also at the top, in making a beeline for lower elevations.
Two of what must have been at least three survey markers. Summit marker (left). Locating marker #2 (right).
Not a rarely visited place.
Oh look, there's Montgomery Peak, above my current elevation! 
Soaking in the summit view one last time before heading back down.
The whole time I'd been climbing up, my real concern hadn't been the burning in my quads, but rather the beating that my knees would take on the way back down. However, in a strange twist of fate, the decomposing granite - that'd resulted in sliding half a step back for every step up I'd taken on the way to the summit - made the descent a breeze. Like coarse sand on a dune, it cushioned each step down, even allowing me to jog-slide in places, a pure pleasure as I raced back down toward the flatter section of trail!
As I reached the false summit, the real thing was already shrouded in clouds, a bummer for the four groups still making their way up.
As I was sliding down through the scree, this little red flower - Holmgren's buckwheat (Eriogonum holmgrenii) (?) - caught my eye.
By the time I reached the final set of switchbacks into camp, there was no question that my early start had paid off. Temperatures were still pleasant - somewhere in the mid-60s °F - but a few sprinkles had already fallen, and more was definitely on the way.
Perfectly timed. (a.k.a. "lucky")
Arriving back at the Tacoma, I wasted no time stowing the tent and then making myself the largest tuna sandwich I've ever consumed. Sitting on a jerry can, I enjoyed it with an eye to the east - where the weather was approaching - but mostly enjoying the still-partly-sunny view to the west. While the trip up had taken three-and-a-half hours, the trip back ticked in at just under 90 minutes.
Lunch view over Queen Canyon.
Rain started to fall in earnest just as I put away the fridge and climbed into the cab. Luckily for me, I was headed a hundred miles into Nevada, well beyond the reach of the storm. There, I'd finally find myself at the eye of an entirely different storm, albeit one now more than half a century old.
The Whole Story
