At 8:15 a.m. on a cool, breezy Saturday morning with temperatures in the mid-fifties, four Motorola Hiking Club members and guests—David Langford, Chuck Parsons, Yang Wang, and his friend Doris Du from Allied Signal—met at the Mt. Humphreys trailhead in the Kachina Peaks Wilderness Area to begin our assault on Mt. Humphreys, at 12,670 feet the highest point in all of Arizona.

To even the most casual observer traveling this somewhat tortured landscape north of the Flagstaff area, it must be readily apparent that something quite dramatic, something on a very grand scale, must have occurred here in the far-distant past.  This land for hundreds of square miles north and west of the present-day Flagstaff area, encompassing most of the Coconino Plateau, was a seething cauldron of volcanic activity that lasted from approximately 15 million years ago to about 200,000 years ago, when the last great eruption occurred.  That mighty eruption, rivaling or even surpassing the Mt. St. Helens eruption of 1980, blasted away the upper 1,300 feet of what is now Mt. Humphreys (making its original height almost 14,000 feet) in a cataclysmic explosion that rocked the surrounding area for hundreds of square miles and blasted millions of tons of hot ash and lava high into the atmosphere.  What we now call the San Francisco Peaks actually date back approximately 2.8 million years in time.

Exactly what happened next is still the subject of some debate among today’s volcanologist and geologist.  Some of the experts go with the Mt. St. Helens theory—a violent sideward explosion tore open an immense cavity on Humphrey’s northeast flank, collapsing the peak, and creating the present-day Inner Basin.  A succession of glaciers then gradually ground down and smoothed out this great basin, depositing a series of moraines across the open side of the basin as they retreated.  This sculpturing by fire and ice created the awesome landscape we see before us today. 

Other experts support a second theory—that the central part of the volcano erupted and then collapsed into its partially emptied magma chamber, again creating today’s Inner Basin.  The end product, regardless of which theory is correct, is the present-day stratovolcano known as Mt. Humphreys, composed of alternating layers of lava flows and volcanic ash, accumulated over several million years of intermittent eruptions.  (Just some food for thought here—the last known eruption in this area occurred less than a thousand years ago, resulting in what we now call Sunset Crater, northeast of Flagstaff.)  One wonders-is it all really over? 

Sorry for the digression, but I felt it was critical for a better understanding and appreciation of what this area is all about.  Now back to the trail.  The Mt. Humphreys Trail, starting at 9,300 feet and ending 4.5 miles later at the summit (the longest 4.5 miles on Earth), is deceptively easy at first, carrying us for about a quarter mile over a relatively flat meadow into the edge of the forest.  This now-colorful meadow was filled with alpine Iris swaying in the steady breeze and a sparse covering of lush green ground cover.  The breeze was but a precursor of what would await us higher up on the trail.  This same meadow, wearing a thick cover of snow in the wintertime, serves in its dual capacity as one of the Snowbowl’s lower ski slopes. 

Entering a thick old-growth forest of aspen, Douglas and white fir, Englemann spruce, and ponderosa pine, the trail now begins a gradual but steady climb up the sloping side of Mt. Humphreys in a series of long switchbacks, so long in fact that one is almost unaware they are even switchbacks at all in the beginning.  It would be almost three very long miles before we would emerge from this forest primeval. 

At about 10,000 feet we encountered a massive rock slide, approximately 100 feet wide and running for hundreds of feet down the mountainside—millions of tons of rock literally forming a rock river, frozen in time.  This definitely would not have been a good place to be anywhere near, when that earth-shaking event occurred, wiping out everything in its path as it smashed its way downward to the bottom of the mountain. Quite an impressive sight that would be repeated numerous times along this awesome trail. It wasn’t too long before we saw our first patch of snow at about the 10,500-foot level, one of the few remaining remnants of last season’s meager snowfall that survived only because of its deep-shade location.  In another week of two even these will vanish from the scene, as warmer temperatures creep up the mountainside.

Climbing ever higher, at about the 11,000 foot level we begin to notice the trees gradually thinning in numbers and shrinking in height, becoming more bent and twisted in appearance due to the punishing effects of the relentless winds howling up this mountainside. From just a little above 11,000 feet to treeline at 11,400 feet, one of the few trees that can survive this harsh and unforgiving environment is the Bristlecone pine, the oldest living thing on Earth. Living Bristlecone pines in the Sierra Nevada range of California have been dated at 4,000 years old, mere saplings at the time the pyramids were being erected.

The trail is now becoming more and more rocky, traversing several more rockslides along the way (actually several of the switchbacks meet the same long rockslide we encountered earlier).  We have now seen the first of several huge avalanche tracks streaking their way down the mountainside, evidence of the force of millions of tons of snow and rubble roaring down the mountain’s slopes, bulldozing down everything in their path and leaving a cleared out swath of total destruction in their wake.  This unbelievable and sometimes awful power of nature is evident almost everywhere along this long, winding trail to the summit. 

Beyond 11,400 feet the familiar treeline, or what’s left of it, slowly begins to disappear altogether, and the only tundra found in Arizona gradually starts to emerge in its place.  However, the hardy little Bristlecone pine still hangs on tenaciously in ever-dwindling numbers and only very reluctantly will relinquish its final foothold on these mountain slopes, finally giving way completely to the tundra somewhere above the saddle at 11,800 feet.  The tundra, with its small and twisted ground-hugging shrubs and numerous tiny wildflowers, including the rare San Francisco Groundsel, will soon become almost the only thing that can survive in this now extremely harsh and punishing environment. It is really amazing the number of colorful wildflowers that seem to be thriving in this area.  Due to the very fragile nature of this environment, all camping is prohibited beyond this point, according to a posted trail sign marking the 11,400-foot level.

Rounding a bend in the trail we see Mt. Agassiz looming ahead in the distance, its upper peak piercing the clear blue sky at 12,400 feet, second only to that of our destination—the still unseen Mt. Humphreys.  We are becoming acutely aware that the trail seems to be getting a bit steeper at this point and the footing a bit more treacherous as well, with a lot of loose rock now covering much of the path.  The switchbacks are also getting shorter and tighter, as the trail slowly winds and claws its way up the slope toward the long, rocky ridgeline that connects Mt. Humphreys with Mt. Agassiz. 

Finally, after struggling through several more ever-steeper and tighter switchbacks, we emerge—at 11,800 feet—onto the ridgeline, commonly known as the saddle, where we catch our first glimpse of the majestic Mt. Humphreys, still looming in the distance another 870 feet higher and a little over a mile away.  Sloping away directly in front of us is the breathtaking Inner Basin, an immense green and rocky valley forged from a cauldron of fire and ice 200,000 years ago and surrounded by the towering San Francisco Peaks.  To the west of the saddle, stretching endlessly toward the horizon, is the vast Coconino Plateau and the San Francisco Volcanic Field, a smoldering and churning hot-bed of volcanic activity dating back fifteen million years, that was the primary force in shaping this landscape we see spread out before us today.

After struggling through too many switchbacks to count over a course of almost 3.5 miles and an elevation gain of 2,500 feet, in air growing thinner with each foot of elevation gain, you now feel drained, wasted, almost totally exhausted.  Virtually every muscle, every tendon, and every fiber in the lower half of your body—not to mention your entire respiratory system—is begging, pleading, imploring you to do the sensible thing and turn back now, while you still have the remaining strength in your body to make the return trip back to the trailhead.  It’s a long walk back through that forest primeval, even from here.

A good number of sensible people do exactly that, including one of our own party, Doris Du. She had not complained (at least to me) of any soreness or extreme fatigue to this point, but simply (and sensibly) decided she had gone far enough and would wait at the saddle for the rest of us to return from the summit.  Hot Rod Dave Langford, meanwhile, had long since pulled ahead of the rest of our small group and was no doubt enjoying the view from the summit by now, wondering what in the world happened to Yang, Doris, and myself.  Most of the die-hards, including Yang and myself, are drawn on inexorably by the mysterious and powerful force of the mountain, challenging us to test our limits even further—pushing us to the very edge of our bodies’ physical endurance envelope.

With a grim new determination to reach our goal, we press onward into the ever-increasing winds, now growing steadily stronger with every 100-foot gain in altitude.  We had already experienced 25-30 MPH winds back at the saddle, where we left Doris.  The mountain’s call to the summit is virtually irreversible at this point, and lightning and thunder would be the only thing to turn us back now.  That was actually beginning to look more and more like a distinct possibility, as billowing gray clouds sweeping in from the west were starting to increase in numbers.  The thought of turning back now so close to our goal drove us on at an even quicker pace, despite the altitude.  Extremely violent electrical storms can strike these peaks at almost any time, and over the years a small number of unlucky hikers have been struck and killed by lightning at or near the summit, with no cover whatsoever for protection.  It is highly advisable to turn back immediately at the first sound of thunder and beat a quick retreat to lower ground.

Not too far above the saddle, Yang and I met Gloria Jiang from the hiking club. She had started out with a friend about a half-hour behind us back at the trailhead and was now on her way back down from the summit.  We were evidently talking to a seasoned mountain hiker here.  The remainder of the trail from here to the summit consists largely of rock rubble, much of it loose volcanic talus, very treacherous footing for the unwary.  At this point we are essentially hiking on a gigantic cinder pile.  As we slowly wind our way up the ridge, carefully picking our way through the loose rubble, the winds sweeping in from the west grow steadily stronger, making it more difficult than ever to keep forging ahead.

About a quarter-mile in the distance we see what has to be Mt. Humphreys, a long procession of hikers carefully picking their way up its steep southern exposure.  We soon join this procession and slowly pick our way to the top—only to find we have been duped, like many an unwary hiker, by a false summit!  The mountain is seeking its revenge on us, mocking us to the very end, for the true summit lies yet another quarter-mile and another 150 feet higher in the distance.  At this point you must control yourself and suppress an urge to sit down and cry, for true mountain men (and mountain women) obviously do not cry.

Gathering what remaining strength we can muster for this final assault of the true summit, we navigate out onto the last ridge approach, where we encounter ferocious and unrelenting 50-60 MPH winds roaring up the mountain’s western flank and slamming into us broadside.  This horrendous wind is now so powerful it is quite a challenge to even maintain an upright position, and most of us find ourselves desperately trying to counter-balance and lean heavily into the wind to prevent getting body-slammed into the rocks, or worse, being blown over the edge into the rock-filled Inner Basin far below.  Not a good way to end the day at all.

At some point Yang had forged ahead of me, and as I was nearing the end of the last ridge approach, Dave and I crossed paths as he was returning from the summit. Dave has been to the mountaintop!  He whispered something about a fantastic view and the terrible winds, and even being cold and tired (can’t imagine why), as I casually nodded in agreement, wondering why in the world he was whispering in this deafening wind.  The truth is he was actually screaming at the top of his lungs, but these roaring winds literally tore the words right out of his mouth and flung them out into space.  Soon I met Yang, also returning from the summit. We too exchanged a few brief blown-away words, and I then pressed on alone, determined now more than ever to reach the top of this mountain, despite being bone-weary and walking on legs of rubber.

Pushing ahead into this unmerciful and unrelenting wind, I made the final assault up the last steep slope to the top alone—only to find about twenty-five other hikers already there, huddled together in the rock shelter and hunkered down, trying to ride out these relentless summit winds.  After I finally catch my breath and start to take in the spectacular 360-degree panoramic view of hundreds of square miles stretched out below us, it finally starts to sink in.  We are actually standing on top of Arizona, the highest land point in the entire state.  We are now 2.4 miles above sea level, or precisely 12,670 feet above San Diego Bay.

Between the altitude, the elevation change, sore, aching muscles, and this horrendous wind, it has been quite a struggle to make it to this, our final destination.  Was it all worth it?  On the way up, we certainly all had our doubts, growing stronger as the journey wore on.  Considering that this experience--in this place and this time--and this unparalleled view are to be found nowhere else on this Earth, I believe that we can all safely say, yes, it was all more than worth it.  With that, we will close out yet another unique chapter on another unique experience in this very unique and special place called Arizona.

The above listed trip reports--documenting day hikes, backpacking trips, and car camping trips organized and arranged by the Arizona Trailblazers Hiking Club, Inc.--are meant to be more of a record of the various events performed by the hiking club and are not meant to be the only guide for anyone else wishing to do the same hike or backpacking trip. Instead, they should only be used as a supplemental to an official guidebook that addresses that specific hike or backpacking trip. Natural changes (floods, fires, windstorms, etc.) can occur and change and alter the landscape. The Forest Service sometimes changes the routing of a trail. Trail junction signs can be removed or altered. For these reasons, the hiking club's trip reports and even the official guidebooks may no longer be totally accurate in describing the trail and its layout. There is always the possibility, however remote, of a hiker sustaining harm or injury while on any hike, no matter how safe it may initially seem. The Arizona Trailblazer's Hiking Club, Inc., as well as any of its officers, directors, representatives, and designated hike leaders, disclaims any liability or responsibility for accidents, injuries, damages, or losses whatsoever that may occur to anyone using the trip reports that are available on our website. The responsibility for good health and safety while hiking, backpacking, or camping, ultimately rests with the individual.