Unlike the previous morning - where I'd been so excited to be in Butte Valley that I'd woken up nearly an hour before sunrise - I was able to sleep in a little later on our second morning. But not much.
The reason was right out the tent window. There was - so to speak - an elephant in the valley. An elephant known as Striped Butte. For all my love of this place, we'd never climbed its imposing slopes, and I knew that if we didn't climb them today, it could be years before we'd make another opportunity for ourselves.
By 7:00am - after we'd exited the tent and were sitting on a nearby rock enjoying breakfast - we'd already decided that today was the day. Then, the only question that remained was: how?
From our vantage point, the most obvious route seemed to be up the western ridge. This would add a bit of extra distance - as the nearest road was a quarter mile from the bottom of the ridge - but that would certainly be easier than going straight up the southern face, which, from camp, looked like the kind of slope that ends with one of those little memorial plaques bolted into the rock. You know, one that might read: "THEY LOVED THE OUTDOORS" in a font chosen by our next of kin.
At least that was our read, until @mrs.turbodb broke out our Death Valley bible (bold mine):
The most spectacular route up Striped Butte is the south ridge, along the abrupt edge of the eastern escarpment. From the butte's southern tip climb onto, then along the ridge. The slope steepens gradually to 45% near the midpoint of the climb. There are lots of loose rocks, but plenty of sturdy base rock for steady footing. The route crosses steep channels etched into the limestone, giant chutes that wiggle down hundreds of feet to the foot of the butte.
We figured that if Digonnet - who hasn't led us astray previously - could do it, we might as well put it back on the table for consideration. At least, we resolved to have a closer look when we weren't gazing across the valley!
I can't really say that the southern route looked any "better" when we rolled past it on the way to check out the western ridge, but we weren't able to spot an obvious trail at either location, and so deferred to Digonnet as we oriented the cab of the Tacoma away from the climbing sun and got ready to go.
A beautiful little mountain, Striped Butte is a steep-walled, finely shaped pyramid of highly contrasted strata, perfectly framed by Butte Valley's open floor. Composed entirely of limestone beds from the Bird Spring Formation, it puts the original stratification boldly on display for all to admire. This sinuous sandwich of tilted strata - alternating bands of white, rust, blue, and gray - is on full display on the southwestern face. To the east, a sheer escarpment exposes the twisted core of tight recumbent folds.
Part of what makes this place so dramatic is the uniqueness of Striped Butte in an otherwise unstriped valley. This, and the pronounced southeastward tilt of its stratification may be linked to the Butte Valley Fault, a semi-circular fault that roughly climbs through Warm Spring Canyon before curving south through Butte Valley just west of the butte. Some evidence suggests that it is a thrust fault that has been active since at least the Late Jurassic, with Striped Butte's tilt a result of being dragged along the fault's lower plate.
Or perhaps it might not be a thrust fault at all, but rather a steep fault formed during the collapse of a caldera centered on upper Anvil Spring Canyon. The tilting would then have occurred when the butte slipped southeast toward the center of the sinking caldera.
Whatever the origin, it left us with quite a bit of climbing to reach the top!
While steep, the climb is so short that we made quick work of what - from the bottom - seemed like a fool's errand. With only a few stops along the way - mostly for photos of the valley expanding below us - we soon reached the false summit at the top of the southern ridge.
From there, it was only a few hundred horizontal feet to the actual summit - some 25 feet higher - at the top of the northern ridgeline. It was 9:00am!
For the better part of an hour, we putzed around up on the top of our little world. I'd like to say that most of that time was spent soaking in the views and enjoying our morning above the valley. In reality, it was taking a few dozen (!) "summit" photos, since - for some reason - I kept blinking, looking in the wrong spot, or perching myself in some unnatural position every time the shutter ticked off another shot.
I have a whole post - a whole post - built on the premise that "if you take enough photos, some are bound to be decent." It was a statement I found myself seriously reconsidering as I bounded back and forth between the camera and my spot.
Luckily, I think the problem was mostly the subject, and I had some much better luck with some landscape shots I took throughout the morning.
Finally getting a shot we were satisfied with, we signed (and archived) the summit log and then started working our way down the western flank.
Following the faint foot trail that we'd been unable to see from the truck, we worked our way along the knife edge, all the way to the valley floor. It was one of the most pleasurable parts of the hike, and entirely uneventful except for an encounter with one of the strangest birds we've ever seen.
Field guides will tell you that what we saw was a Common Poorwill (Phalaenoptilus nuttallii). I would like to register the following objections to this "common" nomenclature. One: it has whiskers. Two: it is the size and shape of a pinecone that has read about owls and is trying its best to imitate one. Three: "common" is a word birders use to describe any bird they've personally seen more than twice, regardless of whether the rest of us are ever likely to see it one time.
It was a super cool way to cap an already magnificent morning, and the perfect way to start what would be a very delightful day!
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