Ancient Trees and Glacier Views: Hiking Great Basin's Bristlecone & Alpine Lakes Loop

Hiking the Bristlecone, Alpine Lakes, and Glacier Trail in Great Basin National Park feels like stepping through a series of natural worlds, each more dramatic than the last. The journey begins in cool, aspen-dotted forests where leaves shimmer against the sky, then climbs past high alpine lakes tucked beneath the towering walls of Wheeler Peak. From there, the path leads into the ancient silence of the bristlecone grove, where gnarled trees—some over 8,000 years old—stand as living monuments to time. Beyond them, the trail ascends into the stark, rocky cirque where the Rock Glacier sprawls, a rugged reminder of the park’s ice-carved past. It’s a hike that combines beauty, history, and raw mountain drama in just a few unforgettable miles.

Trailhead elevation 9,957'

Water from Stella and Teresa Lakes

Don't miss the Bristlecone Interpretive Trail

Hiking the Bristlecone & Alpine Lakes Loop

It’s late September, our second day in Great Basin National Park. After a quick lunch in Baker, Dad and I set out for the Bristlecone & Alpine Lakes Loop. He’s a bit tired, so he opts to start from the Wheeler Peak Summit Trailhead, where the climb to the lake is only half as steep as the traditional route. I take start from the traditional Bristlecone-Alpine Lakes Trailhead instead, planning to meet him at the lake.

From the trailhead, the path threads through a thick forest of pine, occasionally following the course of a quiet, meandering stream. It's a bluebird day with temperatures in the upper 60s, perfect for a late afternoon hike. I decide to hike the loop counterclockwise, saving the best—the ancient Bristlecone pine grove and the Rock Glacier—for the end.

About a third of a mile in, the forest gives way to a wide-open view of Wheeler Peak and Doso Doyabi—two of the range’s most celebrated summits—framed by a broad stand of subalpine fir. Having climbed Wheeler Peak just yesterday via the Wheeler Peak Summit Trail, I’m pretty excited now to see what the landscape looks like from below.

Beyond the clearing, the forest shifts to groves of golden aspen, their pale trunks lining the trail as it climbs steadily toward Stella Lake.

By the 1.1-mile mark, I arrive at the lake. Dad hasn’t appeared yet, so I walk along its shoreline, stopping to snap photos from different angles. Subalpine firs encircle the lake, with a scattering of aspens adding contrast, while Wheeler Peak and Doso Doyabi rise prominently in the background. It’s a striking scene, but my attention is already fixed on the Bristlecone grove waiting several miles farther along the trail.

When dad arrives, we relax for a few moments—chatting about the shifting colors, the climb to Wheeler Peak, and our loose plans for the days ahead—before I press on. Beyond Stella Lake, the trail winds deeper into the forest, weaving first through groves of golden aspens shimmering in the light, then into darker stretches where pines dominate the air with their resinous scent.

The ground grows rockier in patches, though nothing compared to the relentless stone fields of the Wheeler Peak Summit Trail, which is nothing but rocks piled upon rocks. Around the two-mile mark, the trail drops to Teresa Lake, a small alpine tarn that, by now, is two-thirds dried up. I pause just long enough to snap a few photos, soak my feet in the cool shallows, and then continue at an easy pace.

From the lake, the path swings east, then south, climbing a shaded slope that offers glimpses of bright aspens flashing gold on my left.

Soon, the terrain sharpens. A series of rocky switchbacks climbs higher, and with them comes the moment I’ve been waiting for: the first appearance of the ancient Bristlecone pines.

Not long after, around the three-mile mark, I reach the Bristlecone Pine Interpretive Trail—a short loop, maybe a third of a mile, showcasing dozens of these extraordinary trees. Some of them are nearly 8,000 years old, living relics of an ancient world. Twisted and gnarled, their weathered limbs bear the scars of countless storms, yet their very endurance is what makes them so remarkable. Their growth is painstakingly slow, their wood dense and resin-rich, nearly impervious to insects, decay, and even time itself. Many of these trees were already ancient when the Pyramids of Giza first rose from the desert sands.

At the far end of the loop, a weathered sign points me toward the path to Rock Glacier—the last surviving glacier in Nevada. Time is slipping away, so I quicken my pace, jogging sections of the trail until I encounter a couple my dad and I had met the day before on the Lehman Caves Tour. We exchange stories and laughs for a few minutes, and they tell me the glacier isn’t far.

After a final set of rocky switchbacks climbing through a chaotic spill of boulders, I arrive at the end of the trail. Here, in the shadow of Wheeler Peak, lies Rock Glacier—a remnant of the Ice Age clinging stubbornly to existence. Unlike a traditional glacier of gleaming ice, this one is a strange hybrid: a slow-creeping mass of rock, soil, and hidden ice buried deep beneath its rubble. Shielded by its stony armor, the ice has survived for thousands of years, silently shifting, silently enduring. At first glance it looks lifeless, a graveyard of boulders, yet within it lies a frozen archive that scientists study to better understand both the past and the future of our climate.

It’s possible to scramble across the rocks and touch the glacier itself, but I’m already late, and dad is waiting patiently at the trailhead. I stay only a few minutes, breathing in the cool air beneath Wheeler Peak, before turning back. As the sun sinks behind the mountain, I jog downhill, the day’s final light painting the aspens gold. Another remarkable day in Great Basin is behind me, and somehow, it feels like the park has only just begun to reveal its secrets.