First look: an empty lake
I crest the hill and receive a really nasty shock. The lake is empty! The rocks you see here have always been covered with water, and there were stepping stones over to the little island that stuck out into the middle of the lake. I've eaten many happy sandwiches here. Back in the days before I believed in giardia I looked forward to burying my face in the water and taking a long cool drink. I grew up drinking from the streams that tumble clear and cold in every canyon above Farmington. I don't remember ever getting sick from it. But I do remember looking into Emerald Lake after one hot ascent and seeing little red wormlike threads wriggling. I don't know what they were, but it cured me of drinking unfiltered water! Now I carry a pump filter if I'm planning to get water from the mountain. It tastes just as good as ever, and I don't spend two weeks wondering if I'm going to die from Montezuma's revenge.
The first time I saw this lake it was at the bottom of a huge snow field that started at the saddle you see against the skyline about a mile and a half away. This "Timpanogos glacier" extended unbroken clear down to the edge of the lake, where it terminated in an ice wall. You used to see locals climbing the mountain with skis on their backpacks; they'd hike to the top of the glacier and then ski to Emerald Lake. It was the favorite August way to get a "ski fix" before the snow started flying.
The upper part of the glacier was so steep that it wasn't possible to work your way down standing. There would be several "snow chutes" - halfpipe tubes - that would form where hikers repeatedly slid in the same spot. The first hundred feet or so felt nearly vertical (but was probably about 45 degrees). The slope would gradually flatten, but continued steep enough to slide on for at least half a mile.
The most dangerous part of this slide was unexpected rocks. The cliffs that line both sides of the glacier field are constantly shedding limestone chunks that vary in size from dust up to smallish cars. These rocks would crash down from some high crumbling ledge and come to rest somewhere on the snowfield. The sun would warm the upper surfaces of the dark rock, which would melt the snow beneath it. The rock would sink into the crusty snow until it achieved temperature equilibrium. There it would stay, half-embedded and frozen into the snow. The chutes tended to collect any rocks that rolled across them. The rocks would get caught in the tubes, where they would slide downhill until they lost momentum. Then they would melt the snow beneath them and sink into the icy trough. Hikers' clothing tends to slide better than sharp-edged rocks, so it was always possible you'd find yourself suddenly confronted with a boulder looming in the chute you'd chosen to slide. And it can be devilishly hard to eject yourself from a slide tube while you're hurtling on your back downhill.
Our solution was to slide the chutes standing. If your legs are under you, a good bound will send you over a small boulder. A sideways leap will leave you rolling, but will allow you to miss an unwanted collision. And out of the chutes you tended to stop quickly on the scalloped lower slopes of the glacier.
In order to slide on your feet you need some leverage to help you keep your balance. So we would walk Timp with a stout, longish staff. When it came time to slide down the glacier we'd stick our staff out behind us. We'd grip just below the top of the staff in an underhand hold. This hand would be held in front of us at about chest height. Then we'd lever down at about mid-staff with the other hand, holding it just off our hip. The staff would hit the mountain about thigh-high behind us, making a third leg to balance against. And by varying the pressure down on the staff you could use it as a brake to control your speed somewhat. I've had many fine thrilling slides using my trusty staff!
But we will slide no more. The snowfield is gone. Kind of makes me believe in global warming.