Back Packing the Wind River Range: August 2009

August 24

Camp between Deep and Clear Lakes (hiked approximately 8 miles)

It was a gray, overcast start to the day.  Even though I was in high spirits about the trip, it wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I signed up for the hike.  I had envisioned blue skies, with views of mountain peaks.  It was instead low laying clouds and an occasional rain drop falling on my forehead.  Over and over in my mind, a negative worm of gloom about the weather attempted to snake its way into my psyche.  Would we be snowed on?  Would we walk in rain?  Would we set up and take down a wet camp each day?

Even so, it was perfect hiking weather.  I would estimate it to have been about 55 degrees, which served as a more powerful stimulant than coffee for the ever incredible Pat, who started off the first mile at a blazing 3.1 mile an hour pace.  We all ran down the trail behind her in a futile attempt to keep up.  

We met a steady stream of hikers coming out of the Winds until we exited the interstate at Big Sandy Lake and steamrolled up the switchbacks past Deep Lake to find the perfect camping spot at 10,300 feet on the edge of huge, flat, sloping granite slab next to Haystack Mountain.  We immediately set out to establish camp, as the skies still looked threatening, and then gathered enough fire wood to heat a small city.  

Jon, Bernie and I grabbed our fly rods and wandered about a half mile up to Clear Lake, another scenic wonderland at the base of Steeple Peak and the Lost Temple Spire.  I wouldn’t call it amazing angling, but we collectively caught enough brook trout to fill up Pat’s frying pan for dinner.  

As we settled into the dinner hour, the weather man decided to make a statement.  A short but powerful blast of pea size hail, followed by intense rain, sent most of us scampering for cover under Willie’s tarp.  

The light show that night was better than Vegas.  The sky alternated between pinks, reds and blues, with blacks and whites thrown in for contrast.  The alpenglow on Haystack Mountain was neon yellow and Warbonnet Peak of the distant Cirque was surrounded by a bright pink haze.

Our first nightly contest of “Liars Dice” commenced.  As one can only imagine, the greatest liar of them all, David Hanson, won. 

August 25

Camp on Little Sandy Creek (hiked approximately 5 miles)

We rolled out of bed a few minutes before 7:00 A.M. to find the fire blazing and our compatriots at work breaking down camp.  Kim and I flew through our morning rituals and soon were packed up and ready to hit the trail.  

It was uphill from our first step.  Steep uphill!  With excessively heavy backpacks, loaded down with the extra weight of the early morning dew, Greg, Kim and I chugged up the granite slab incline towards Clear Lake, where we found Willie standing on a ridge line overlooking the lake.  Collectively, we sped on in search of the other two Johns and the much loved Pat, skirting around and above the gorgeous vista of Temple Lake before the trail got serious, and took on true billy goat proportions, climbing straight up to a narrow saddle just north of Temple Peak.  My heart pounded violently in my chest as I fought to pull oxygen into my lungs.  The skinny appendages holding up the 50 plus pounds on my back burned with every step.  Just when I thought we were at the top, a mean looking and even nastier acting boulder field appeared, obviously established there to taunt our worn bodies.  We scrambled up and over house sized rocks, bounding to the next one only to find another igneous obstacle in our way.  Finally, after ascending over a short snow field, we were at the top of Temple Pass, standing at 11,500 feet.

The vistas were incomparable.  Rugged spires jutted into the sky in the distance and we could see the course of Little Sandy Creek below us to the east.  We descended the pass after a lengthy lunch and made our way down the creek bottom for two miles before selecting a camp site under the granite fingers of Continental Tower.  It was a magnificent setting to pitch a tent.

August 26

Camp off of the Toyo Creek Trail (hiked approximately 5 miles)

Thanks be to Greg, Jon and Pat, we had found a way to climb out of the steeply sided, granite walls of the Little Sandy Creek drainage and through a notch to drop down into Coon Lake.  Before we could begin this adventure, we had to rock hop and pass packs over the creek.  I hopped across the creek and Greg handed me Kim’s backpack and then my backpack.  Both were heavy, miserable weapons of mass destruction.  Then he handed me the big white mushroom, his massive suitcase with shoulder straps that was filled with everything from Cuban cigars and a fat treatise on Hegal to fine whiskey and gorp.  I nearly collapsed under the weight.  How could he bound up the trail with that thing on?  I wouldn’t even want to carry it into the airport, much less on a hiking trail.

The route to Coon Lake entailed a little swamp slogging, boulder hopping and a great deal of huffing and puffing up the steep hillside.  When we finally dropped down to the Coon Lake, I was almost in a panic to get out my fly rod and tie on an Adam’s Parachute, as I could see numerous fish rings on its placid waters.  Over and over, we cast, only to find the finicky Golden Trout aloof to our entreaties.  In the end, each of us scored one fish for over two hours effort.  However, to the east stood a massive unnamed, El Capitan like mountain flanked by several small spires on its northern side.  It was so beautiful I could have cared less about fishing.

After a brief snack, we quickly threw on our packs and marched down the drainage for three easy miles to Toyo Creek.  On the walk, we ogled a large bull moose a few yards off the trail and looked down upon Poison Lake in the distance.  

As earlier in the day, after setting up camp in a flash, it was time to fish.  We were to bushwack a half mile to Mountain Sheep Lake in hopes of catching fish for dinner.  Almost immediately, tragedy struck when Kim slipped off a big rock while boulder hopping over Toyo Creek.  “Splash,” she tumbled into a deep hole, drenching herself up to her chest.  I was expecting the worse, that she would climb out of that creek meaner than a rabid badger, but instead she bounded out of the water like a happy labrador puppy and immediately stripped down to her underwear to continue our jaunt to the picturesque lake.  

Once there, we geared up to catch a plethora of 6-12 inch Brook Trout.  The lake, set in a steeply sided, narrow valley, was worth the trip alone.  It was one of those perfect moments in life when things couldn’t be improved.  The warm sun beat down on me as I flicked my fly out onto the placid water.  The company I was keeping was excellent and the fishing was red hot.  I knew I was in heaven.

That night the two Johns and Elliot's enjoyed a fresh fish dinner, while the rest of us dined on the exceptional cuisine of the Mountain House.  It had been a fabulous day.  

August 27

Camp at Jug Lake (hiked approximately 5 miles)

Our day started off with a wandering walk through the trees looking for Hanks Lake.  Poor Greg, who was serving as our Daniel Boone in searching for this medium sized body of water at the base of a mountain, zigged when he should have zagged and had the pleasure of walking a couple of extra miles in looking for this alpine gem.  

Upon advancing to the shoreline and looking down from some cliffs situated 8-12 feet over the water, I could see numerous 15-20 inch, fat Rainbow Trout breaking the surface while feeding.  Unfortunately, cast after cast proved fruitless, as they would swim up to the fly, sniff it and brazenly swim away with a condescending smirk on their faces.  In the end, I missed setting the hook on one of the monsters sniffing my caddis,  and only through divine intervention, was able to catch one small leopard spotted rainbow with a deep red stripe across his side.  One hour, one fish.  Not exactly bragging material.

The group headed out of the the Hanks Lake drainage by following the creek to where it intersected with the Ice Lakes trail.  While on this march, I looked back to see a glowing green meadow with a beautiful mountain peak in the distance.  “Hmmmmmmm..... another award winning National Geographic quality photograph,” I thought to myself.  I pulled my trusty Canon Elf from my pocket and turned it on.  “Beep,” it chimed.  I looked at the LCD panel.  “Lens error, restart camera,” it stated.  I tried again and again.  I put in a new battery.  I beat the camera against my palm.  Borrowing John’s pocket knife, I attempted open heart surgery by cutting into the lens opening.  Zero!  Defeat!  Nothing!  I was crushed like a 12 ounce Budweiser can at a frat party.  

The trail up and over Ice Lakes Pass was a steep collection of endless switchbacks.   At first I attempted to stay with Greg, our group’s answer to the bionic man, but when I felt my heart nearly pounding out of my chest, I slowed my pace and took brief breaks.  Soon I found myself standing at the top, at over 11,500 feet, and thought of my hero, John Lund, struggling up the steep grade while carrying his near 79 years and a backpack twice the size of Texas.  I threw off my hated Kelty and flew back down the trail looking for John.  Ten minutes later I found him down the trail and only after much argument, he belatedly allowed me to help him by carrying his pack up the pass.   

I was sitting at the bottom of the pass taking a break with Kim, changing socks and looking at my map for the first time on trip.  John showed up a few minutes later and surprised me with a nice flake from an Indian arrow head.  Next, to my shock, he handed me his expensive camera and said it was mine, that he didn’t take pictures anyway.  I was speechless.  I thanked him profusely, and explained that I would love the use of his camera for the remainder of the trip, but that I would not accept it as a gift.  I was absolutely blown away by his generosity.  

We camped that night at Jug Lake, which is part of the Ice Lake group.  Again fishing was red hot for brilliantly colored Brookies, who were dressed in vibrant red and black suits with white tipped pectoral fins.  

That night Thayne beat Columbia Falls in a nail biter cribbage match and we all had fun searching for the Liar’s Poker dice that Bernie had accidently kicked into the bushes.  Proving that there is justice in this world, Mr. Lund prevailed in the evening’s contest, while I was out before they even started serving the complementary casino cocktails.

August 28

Camp on the Popo Agie River (hiked approximately 5 miles)

We swiftly climbed up and out of the Ice Lakes Basin and almost immediately lost our elevation gain in dropping down to the scenic Deep Creek Lakes, where we stared at Little El Capitan to the west.  If we turned our head a bit, we looked up at the snow fields on Wind River Peak, the highest point in the Southern Winds. 

On our way up the pass, John Elliot prescribed a short but eye popping hike for Greg while the rest of us would go fishing at one of the Deep Creek Lakes.  The fishing proved to be marginal, as both Bernie and I were shut out, while John only hooked one Cutthroat brute that immediately snapped his four pound test line.  

After our stay at the lake, we once again loaded up the packs and trudged on down the trail.  Now, for the first time on our adventure, the hike was steeply downhill, which is a weakness of the Hanson/Mason hiking machine.  We lagged far behind the rest of the group, really hiking on our own for the first time on the trip.  We chatted as we took our time picking our way down the steeply descending slope into the Popo Agie River valley.  

After fording the river, we hiked up the trail for a few miles before selecting a campsite in the forest along side the river.  At the end of this day I was tired - tired of carrying my million pound pack, tired of the itchy bug bites on my legs, tired of eating dehydrated chicken dung for dinner at night and most of all, tired of smelling myself.  I had made classic error of only bringing one t-shirt for the week long trip, and between the lethal combo of camp fire smoke and dried sweat, it stunk terribly.  Even more evil were my socks.  When I took off my shoes at night, the smell nearly incapacitated me, so you can imagine the Hell of my poor tent partner.  Nevertheless, I sucked it up, because I knew we were in the suburbs of Heaven, and that the next day I would walk right into the world famous Cirque of the Towers.

August 29

Camp west of Lizard Head Meadow near the Cirque (hiked approximately 4 miles)

This was it, the big day, the day we had been anticipating since leaving Star Valley.  We were to see the much touted Cirque of the Towers, one of the earth’s most majestic marvels.  

Our first stop was at Lizard Head Meadow, a large, flat, glowing mass of greenery with the meandering Popo Agie making its way through a thick concentration of willows.  In every direction we were surrounded by huge mountains.  Lizard Head Peak, a nearly 13,000 foot monster which has the look of a breaking wave in the ocean, towered above us on our right, while the massive Mitchell Peak stood on our left.  In front of us was every mountain climber’s  definition of nirvana, the cirque’s famous Pingora.  And we weren’t even there yet, not to the good stuff.  The bounce returned to my step.  I was thrilled to be back on the trail.

We established camp quickly and then took off for the Cirque of the Towers, only a short mile down the trail.  As we neared this famous bowl surrounded by mountains, I couldn’t help myself.  I would walk a few feet, stop and take a picture.  Walk a few more feet, take John’s trusty Canon out of my pocket again, and then take another picture.  We took turns posing by Lonesome Lake with the backdrop of the peaks of the Pingora, the Sharks Nose, the Wolfs Head, Watch Tower and Warrior One.  Then we walked around the north shore of the lake to where we thought one could access Texas Pass.  Greg and K.P. opted to climb up the steep slope, while Kim and I voted to lay about on the soft grass floor looking up at the rock marvels surrounding us.  It was so perfect, so peaceful and beautiful.  You could hear the “Sound of Music” being played on the loudspeakers in your mind.

Poor Kim, who was already suffering from a muscle strain on her left thigh, had more bad luck on the hike back to camp.  As she was walking in front of me, all of a sudden she started dancing around and yelling.  I hurried up to her to see the last of a hoard of hornets stinging her.  Altogether, she had been stung five times, taking much of the joy out of our day in paradise.

That night Pat and Jon pulled out all of the stops by making John Lund a birthday cake, which was coated with M&M's frosting donated by K.P., and emblazoned with two larger than life, candle digits, celebrating his seventy-nine years on the planet.  After our desert, we had our nightly game of Liar’s Poker and then went to bed early knowing we had a big day getting out of the Winds ahead of us.

August 30

The hike out of the mountains (hiked approximately 11 miles)

We woke up on a mission to get packed up and on the trail.  Our tent was soaking wet from the morning dew, but I hardly took the time to shake some of the moisture off of it.   I gobbled down some granola and and few breakfast bars with my normal three cups of coffee.  I was going home..... home to a shower, home to a real meal, home to a bed with sheets and home to a house that didn’t smell of stale socks and campfire.

We scurried down the trail, making Lonesome Lake in minutes.  Then began our climb up and over Jack Ass Pass.  The previous day we had walked around the lake, and looking up, I thought to myself, “Not a problem.”  It certainly wasn’t the worse climb I’ve made with a backpack, but I do have to admit that there was an inordinate amount of heavy, uncontrolled breathing.  The view of the Warrior off to our side was magnificent and during my frequent breaks to catch my breath, I turned around and looked back into the splendor of the Cirque.  

Within minutes we had crested the pass on first part of the trek and then found ourselves picking our way through an obstacle course of small rock, boulders, and steep sections on the trail.  Soon we were standing by the shore of Arrowhead Lake, thinking we had the world by the tail.  Wrong!  We had one more steep climb and then another steep descent into the Walmart parking lot of all Wind River expeditions, Big Sandy Lake.  

At last we were finally there, the bottom.  We had whipped the Jack Ass.  In celebration and in a state of partial fatigue, we stopped for a break and something to snack on.  Greg, of course, was long gone on his way to Utah.  We hadn’t even seen the vapor trail, he was moving so fast.  We knew it had to be his sweet and comely wife, the vivacious Candy.

The day had gone well so far, but with threatening clouds in the sky, we knew we had better take off our ballerina slippers and put on some real walking shoes.  Off we went like a herd of first graders at recess, smoking down the flat, easy, six mile section out of the Bridger Wilderness like we knew there was a hamburger and beer waiting for us in Pinedale.  We walked at a three mile an hour pace, which isn’t too bad for half starved, old people carrying heavy backpacks.  

When we finally spotted the parking lot, Kim and I immediately shed our hiking clothes and did a thorough spit bath using up a great deal of the five gallon water container stored in our Toyota.  It was so good to be quasi-clean again.  I had even scrubbed off most of the dirt between my toes.  After the bathing session, we sat around in the parking lot and tossed back a few beers and shared Pat’s sack of chips before saying our good byes.  It had been a wonderful trip, simply one of the best backpacks of all time.  The company was first rate, the scenery was incomparable and the fishing was excellent.  How do you beat that?

El Tour

By David Hanson

We had trained and trained and trained.  I, alone, had ridden over 500 miles in the previous month readying myself for the big day.  However, once we had made the trip to Tucson and the day was upon us, I was nervous beyond comprehension.  “Dread,” would be the word that best described my feelings.  I was worried about Kim.  As I laid in Ed and Eileen’s bed tossing and turning through two sleepless nights, visions of her laying on the side of the road, a bloody pulp with tire tracks all over her face, dashed through my mind.  And I wouldn’t be there to save her.  I also worried about the length of the course, a good thirty miles beyond my longest ride.  Would I be able to make it?  Would Kim run out of gas and collapse along side the road, with no help in sight.

After two wonderful days of being royally entertained by the Carothers, including a two special trips into the city to go to the bike fair at the convention center and then the next day to test ride the new Trek Madone 5.2, we awoke at 4:30 A.M. on the morning of the ride.  After a quick scrubbing of the teeth and a dab of sun screen on the face, we jumped in the car and took off for Denny’s, where we downed several cups of coffee and enjoyed large omelets.

The 25 mile drive into Tucson went without issue and soon we were in the parking lot of the convention center readying our bikes for the day ahead.  It was still dark out but enough sunlight was creeping over the horizon to function.  Even though we were in the heart of the southern desert, it was November, so the cool chill of the morning found us borderline cold in our razor thin, breathable biking jackets.

With the announcer blaring uplifting messages to the riders in the distance, we pulled our bikes to the back of the line, not really understanding the mass of humanity ahead of us.  As new people would come, Kim and I let them go ahead of us, confident that nearly everyone would be able to ride faster than us.  We didn’t want to be hated for holding up future champions.

I faintly heard in the distance, “And they’re off.....the 25th anniversary of El Tour.”  I looked around us.  No one was even moving.  In fact, they would not move for the next ten minutes, as the bikers in the speedy groups ahead of us slowly crept through the streets.  Finally, we started.  At first it was simply walking your bike forward, separating yourself from those in front of you.  Then, once on your saddle, you struggled to keep your bike upright as you very slowly pedaled forward down the street.  Finally, a good 15 minutes after the start  of the race, Kim and I crept past the starting line and our day had begun.

I was able to put some space between myself and the other riders almost immediately, but soon guilt and concern over my wife burdened me to a complete halt along side the road.  Kim, riding with the police motorcycle escort, was bringing up the rear.  Of the 5100 riders to start the 109 mile version of El Tour, I was in 5499th place and Kim was in the 5100th position.  She gave me a reassuring smile and stated that all was well, not to worry.

I was off.  I picked up my pace, flying by an endless mass of leisurely riders.  I wasn’t  riding hard, as I was concerned with burning out my flame before hitting the fifty mile mark, but it seemed like I was on fire.  It was so easy.  Absolutely effortless.   I roared through the slums of south Tucson, hardly noticing the dead airplane graveyard or the sanitary landfill.  Our first stop, only seven miles into the adventure, was an approximately 300 yard long wash, over which we carried our bikes across.  As I turned around, I noticed a small woman in a baby blue jacket.  Kim was right behind me.  Wow.  I was so relieved. 

I pulled into the 25 mile rest stop to find cub scouts waiting to hold up our bikes.  My $1049, two year old Trek wasn’t really worthy of being held up, but I handed it over to an eager scout and headed for the snack table.  I quickly wolfed down a banana and a couple of orange sections along with some animal cookies and lined up for the porta-potties, where I played the part of the Southern Utah Chamber of Commerce and conveyed the virtues of St. George to a young Los Angeles couple.  Upon leaving the potty, I found my wife standing by my bike, again right on my heals.  We enjoyed more snacks and visited briefly, posing for pictures with our favorite cub scouts.  That was to be the last time I was to see Kim along the 109 mile course.

I took off like I had been fueled by a triple shot espresso.  I can’t explain how  good it felt.  It was just so easy.  Thinking that I was burning myself out, I opted to get into a pace line of bikes at one point and be drug along for a few short miles.  Tiring of this quickly, I mustered a quick burst of speed and sped into the open, again finding myself passing biker after biker.  

The real joy of the ride was visiting.  Time after time I would pull up next to riders and start a conversation.  Not only were they interesting, but they made the miles fly by without really noticing that you were riding.  I also enjoyed being from Alaska again.  Since I was wearing my Alaska license plate jersey, many fellow Alaskans beckoned me on the course.  “Hey, Alaska,” they would shout, “where are you from?”  I would proudly exclaim Bristol Bay and then invariably we would slip into a conversation about hunting, fishing, Alaska politics and Anchorage.  Never mind that I haven’t lived the Last Frontier for eight years, for on that day I forgot all about roots we’ve established in Wyoming and Utah.  I was once again full bred Alaskan.

I hadn’t really realized that we had been slowly climbing until we turned the corner on Freeman Road and headed north along side the Saguaro National Park.  It was a long series of  rolling hills, where one really didn’t need to peddle, but I couldn’t help myself.   Looking down at my bike computer I found myself effortlessly spinning along at 35+ miles an hour.  

The next excitement came at the Sabino Creek Wash, which is an approximately half mile, sandy, tree lined, meandering course that you carry your bike through.  It wouldn’t have been a problem at all except that a large group of racing 80 milers burst through us like we weren’t there.  They sprinted through the wash, banging into us while fighting their way to the front of the line.  There was no “excuse me” or “behind you and coming through.”  No, it was get the Hell out of the way and hope you didn’t get run over.  Making my way to the center of the wash, I found another of the many rest stops along the route and elected to hide out while they fought their way through the narrow corridor.  The irony of this situation was that I passed many of these crazed competitors within the next twenty miles.  I really don’t know why they were so Hell bent for election in getting through the wash.  They weren’t exactly Lance and this wasn’t France. 

Now the scenery had changed.  No longer were we out in the boring, slum ridden flats, but had moved into the city’s high rent district, at the base of the Santa Catalina Mountains.  Giant Saguaros stood everywhere.  Developments were upscale and the roads were better.  People stood along side the course, yelling out encouragement, ringing cow bells and whistling as we rode by.  I couldn’t help but spin a little harder when they would yell, “Mush on, Alaska!  Mush on!”  Some had driven their golf carts out to the edge of the road, and were enjoying a full scale picnic while watching the riders power up the long hills and down the other side.

I couldn’t believe my computer.  I had done 60 and then even more incrediably, 80 miles without feeling fatigued.  I was actually fresh as a feisty puppy.  I was supposed to near death by now, stopping to inhale large quantities of caffeine laced energy products and Advil by the handful.  To the contrary, I was passing people right and left, and my speed was now holding steady at over 20 miles an hour as the miles roared by.  This was easy.  Way, way easier than riding to Veyo up Gunlock.

After taking a long break at the 85 mile mark to wait for Kim, I hopped back on my saddle with a new enthusiasm.  Sure I had re-lubed my bottom with the magic product of all bicycling marathons, Baby’s Butt Paste, and yes I had devoured another energy bar and at least two bananas, but I was amazed to find energy like I was starting fresh from home.  I now got into the racer’s mind set.  With new vigor, I passed long strings of bicycles, thinking that I was competing for the world championship of all of Thayne, Wyoming.  Others had found the same manta, and it actually became a race of sorts for the last twenty miles.   I don’t think of myself as a competitive person, but I must admit that I found joy in passing an athletic 30 year old man on a top dollar Look and racing by scores of younger riders that had far better bikes than mine.  However, as much as I fought, I never could catch the tall girl on the sleek black Trek or the young man on a 25 year old Schwinn with no handle bar tape.  They were simply too much for me.

The last few blocks were wild.  We were forced to stop at several stop lights, where we would jockey for position and then standing up, peddle feverishly to surge ahead of the pack towards the finish line.   When I rounded the last corner, I had raced ahead of my competition, sliding under the banner to hear the announcer bellow our names over the loud speaker as the crowd clapped for our arrival.  

I looked down at my computer.  My riding time for the 109 miles had been 6:20 and my average speed was 17 miles an hour.  I was Greg Lemond.  No, I was Lance Armstrong.  Maybe I was Floyd Landis without drugs.  Well, maybe a little Advil.  I was so jacked that I could barely contain myself.

After putting my bike away, I watched Lucy Ormond and Susan from Jackson, Wyoming come across the finish line.  Just like me, they had beat the world record and were inches away from achieving Tour de France greatness.  They were so excited, so proud of themselves.

Now I started to worry.  Where was Kim?  Yes, I had waited for her at the prescribed rest stops, but she had never arrived while I was there.  Was she laying beside the road, a bloody mass of road rash.  I started to think of the many accidents that I had witnessed while on the course, the ambulances, the injured riders laying on the asphalt.  As the minutes sped by, concern turned to anguish.  I was so guilt ridden that I no longer thought about my great tour victory.

Just when I was about to give up and start calling hospitals, I saw a small Cactus Hugger jersey fly around the corner and her baby blue Trek sprinted towards the finish line.  She, too, had won the tour.  We high fived, we hugged and then she told me about her ride, complaining about large groups of city riders holding her in the back of the pack, as they chatted about doing their nails and shopping at Nordstrom.  

We then walked over to where the results were officially posted.  I was a little stunned to find that my official time was actually 7:26  and that I hadn’t exactly finished in first place.  I was actually the 2749th rider in the 109 mile division to cross the finish line.  The number one rider had done the course in 4 hours and 10 minutes.

Kim had completed her El Tour officially in 8:09.  She had a riding time of 7:29 on her bike’s computer and had averaged 14.7 miles an hour, an amazing feat in itself.  Even though we had just finished riding our first century, and hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in two days, we were absolutely giddy.  The drive to our friend’s home in Green Valley took seconds and once we arrived, we excitedly replayed nearly every mile of the event for Ed and Eileen, who patiently shared our joy over a few beers of celebration.  Our adrenaline high lasted for hours and only late that night were we finally able to sleep, justly rewarding our bodies for a very long day of excessive cycling abuse. 

Walking in the Tetons

Teton Backpack 2008

August 15 - 18

August 15 - Death Canyon 

4.5 hours hiking / 6.5 miles

After a 5:30 A.M. wake up call, Kim and I hustled out of bed, slogged through some oatmeal and headed a few yards down the road to pick up our friend, Jim Hauser, for our annual Teton backpack extravaganza.  

Unlike last year where we fought marginal weather and delayed starting our adventure one day due to the storm from Hell, this year’s trip came off without a hitch.  Perfect 70 degree hiking weather, coupled with good company and the amazing visuals of Death Canyon made the hike “almost” perfect.  

“Almost,” you ask?  

Well, sadly the trail was steeper and the packs were much heavier this year.  I also found that the oxygen supply was lacking, undoubtedly sucked up by the many rogue bears and moose lining the trail.  The essence of the matter was that it was a hard hike and we were all hurting by the time we rolled into our favorite campsite overlooking a huge meadow under the rocky ledge of Death Canyon Shelf.

Upon pulling into camp, we all anxiously threw off our packs and exhausted, sat down in the meadow sucking down a massive volume of water while cursing our poor physical conditioning.  Stories were told, politics were argued and the unbelievable alpine surroundings were ogled.  

After a disgusting dinner, dehydrated mule dung in gravy, we hit the hay at 8:30, already feeling the temperature plummeting quickly into the lower 30’s or high 20’s.  Needless to say, we rummaged through our packs to find every bit of our clothing and put it on before climbing into our bags.

August 16 Marion Lake

3 hours hiking/5.5 miles

It was much, much better today.  The trek up and over Fox Pass (over 9500 feet) and down to Marion Lake was actually enjoyable.  The day started with coffee on the rocks, sitting out in the meadow soaking up the warm morning sunshine.  As we sat there solving humanity’s problems, a large cow moose ambled across the hillside in front of us.

The trudge up and out of Death Canyon was brutal, the legs burned like Chicago on fire and the lungs just couldn’t find enough oxygen, but other than that, it was a nice walk.  The wildflowers were absolutely eye popping spectacular.  Purple, yellow, blue, red, pink, and a wide range of other colors dazzled us.  Once we crested the top of the pass, we stopped for a long rest, enduring tasteless energy bars and downing a massive volume of water.   

The second part of the walk was a breeze, with the trail mostly down hill.  The terrain was more moon scape, the elevation much too high for most things to grow well, and small snow banks dotted the country side.  I thought that we had a good distance to go, so when we pulled into a perfect alpine cirque and questioned a resting backpacker, I was shocked to find that we had already reached our day’s destination.  I’m sure that we had made Marion Lake in record time, breaking Carl Lewis’s long standing record.  

The evening at the lake was almost magical.  The setting, a small, aquamarine colored lake below the steep cliffs of a major mountain, was impressive, but our campsite, a few yards up from the lake, was even better.  A small brook gurgled past our tents on one side, while off the other was a thousand foot drop off into the North Fork of Granite Creek.  Pet deer grazed 20 feet from our site.  

August 17 - Lower Granite Canyon 

5 hours/ 7 miles

The full moon of the previous night made sleeping a challenge, so I didn’t wake up until 7:00 a.m.  Jim, as usual, had secured our packs and bear proof food containers, making waking up easier than it ever is at home.

We lazed about camp that morning, leisurely drinking our coffee and wolfing down granola and breakfast bars until about 9:00 a.m., when the caffeine finally kicked in and we broke camp like a wayward bunch of Marines on a mission.  

The early going was amazing, with the same brilliant array of wild flowers and huge, vibrant green meadows interspersed with small stands of lodge pole pine.  The meandering creek and towering mountain walls of the canyon filled out this living post card.

At one point, we happened upon a cow moose and her calf placidly dining along a hillside a few yards above the trail.  Even though we stood there for minutes on end, taking pictures and talking at full volume, mom and the baby couldn’t have cared less.  All they were interested in was eating, paying less attention to us than the black flies buzzing their heads.

We stopped an hour or so down the trail to rest at a rustic park service cabin, pumping more water and injecting small parcels of fuel into our bodies.  Again, the setting was spectacular and character of the old cabin made one want to stay there indefinitely.  It was so cool.

The hours rolled by and with the loss in elevation the vegetation grew denser and the rocky walls of the canyon closed in around us.  Huge rock slides dotted the terrain and the creek became a fast moving collection of small water falls and log jams.  An occasional fat marmot would bleat at us, before scrambling for cover.

Kim, walking like a woman possessed, led the way down the valley.  Jim followed and I brought up the rear, stopping to take the occasional picture and dine on raspberries and huckleberries.  As she was wheeling around a particularly sharp corner, I heard her gasp and saw that both of them were frozen in their tracks.   Just a few feet away stood a very large bull moose, who had been laying down, but was now on its feet and looking at us with challenging eyes.  We held our ground thinking that he would eventually move off the trail. Taunting us, by lazily snacking on the shrubs that lined the course, he would occasionally return to his glare, as to say, “Come on, baby, bring it on!  Just try to walk by me.”  It appeared that he would never move, so after a few minutes of impatience, we went up the trail and found another route around him, leaving some other fool to be his next WWF opponent.

Finally, worn to the bone, we made it to the end of the camping zone, only to find a group of cheaters had taken the last good spot, camping for a day beyond their permit.  I begrudgingly walked back up the trail looking for another home for the night, finally finding a marginal spot near a torrent of rushing water.  This site was to be known as the “Airport,” as you couldn’t really talk without yelling, due to the high volume sound of the crashing water emanating from the nearby stream.

Again, we chatted the night away, Jim dazzling us with police stories of his days on the San Diego force.  Amazingly, we made it to 9:00 p.m., a full half hour beyond our scheduled bed time and actually after dark.

August 18 - Death Canyon Trailhead

4.5 hours/ 7 miles

Poor Jim had mangled his toes on the previous day’s steep descent into the lower reaches of Granite Canyon, making every step a painful reminder of the heavy pack on his back and the smallness of his boots.  Facing the possibility of losing a toenail, we directed him to hike out the Granite Canyon Trailhead, while Kim and I went up and over the hillside and around Phelps Lake to the trailhead.  At first, Kim wasn’t so happy that we were hiking all the way back to the Death Canyon Trailhead.  She thought it stupid to be taking the rolling, and somewhat boring valley trail, adding an additional five miles, when we could have joined Jim for a two mile stroll to our car.  “We should have taken two cars, David,” she complained, as the day warmed and the trail took another steep ascent.  Thankfully, the huckleberries were abundant and I was hungry, so I escaped most of her wrath by hanging back harvesting the little purple sugar pills and stuffing them into my oversized mouth.  

When we finally made it to our Toyota and were driving out the narrow, ultra-bumpy, extremely rutted road to the asphalt, we found Jim bounding toward us with new found energy.  “He’s thinking about a Blizzard,” I stated.  

“Yep,” Kim replied, “that’s a Dairy Queen walk if I’ve ever seen one.”

A few short minutes later, after returning our bear canisters to the visitor center, we found ourselves in Jackson sitting at the Dairy Queen, drenched in dried sweat, dust, and other caked on filth, relishing every bite of soft ice cream mixed with various high calorie, tasty additives.  It was a fitting celebration for a very successful, very enjoyable backpack adventure, the Greater Teton Death March of 2008.

Lake Powell with Jeff and Penny

Lake Powell and 

a Ride through Utah

The New York Times travel section is fond of Utah.  Frequently one will find stories touting the joy of rock climbing in Zion, canyoneering in Canyonlands or hiking with the Red Mountain Spa.  Since I’ve done many of the activities or been to their recommended destinations, I always read with particular interest.  However, I was more than fascinated when they came out with a story describing the wonders of Cathedral of the Desert on Lake Powell.   At the time I mentioned it to several friends, of which many said that they were interested, but the conversation was dropped there and our lives went back to the regular schedule of hiking, biking and golfing.

Jeff and Penny Feldman were antithesis of this scenario.  When they stated that we should do the trip, I took it to mean the same as with everyone else, “It would be nice, but it’s too much work, too expensive and too much planning.”  However, in early May, Penny called again stating that we really, really should do the Cathedral.   We tried in vain to convince others to join us, but everyone had previous commitments or other reasons for not going.  Since I was dreading the long drive to Bullfrog and we couldn’t get other adventurers, Kim and I had pretty much decided to forget the Cathedral.  When I called Penny to limp wristedly wimp out, I was shocked to hear that they were willing, ready and able.  They were true Marines.  Then, like a gift from Heaven, she offered that we should ride along with them in their deluxe Avalanche.  Now, it was a done deal.  My wrists were once again strong and we are ready to roll.  

The long drive over to Bullfrog was scenic and interesting, as we drove back roads across Utah that we hadn’t traveled before or it had been years since our last excursion.  We stopped for a sandwich and coffee in scenic Torrey, marveled at the vistas of Capital Reef and excitement grew in the cab of the truck as we tore down the highway across the rugged, but beautiful wastelands of central Utah.  

When we finally pulled into the campground at the marina, Jeff drove the two loops three times each surveying the sites for the ultimate camping site.  We finally unloaded our gear, which was enough to equip the 7th army division, and Jeff and I drove off to the store to procure wood and check on our boat for the next day’s excursion.  When we returned, we found our women were waiting to move, as a huge diesel pickup had returned to the site next to ours and the owner had immediately fired up the generator for his massive fifth wheel trailer.  I’m sure he didn’t want to miss “Dr. Phil.”  I mean, who would want to be sitting outside in the gorgeous natural surroundings of Bullfrog when you could be watching the good doctor lambasting some helpless deadbeat with a mega dose of common sense?

We again drove the loops several times and this time settled for “the best site in the whole campground,” which was pointed out to us by the local attendant the next morning.  Kim and I were the cooks that night, preparing white chili and bread served with cold beer.  We took a stroll after dinner and enjoyed a sunset of oranges and purples in the western sky.   No camping adventure would be complete without sitting around the campfire being mesmerized by the flickering flames, talking of nothing important.  We spent a good two hours frozen in this state before realizing that it was well beyond our bed time of 10:00 P.M.  Kim and I frantically scurried off to slumber on our inflated mattress, sleeping like babies until the Spring chill awoke us early the next morning.

After a quick cup of joe and breakfast, we loaded up the truck and headed to the docks, making it there at a few minutes after they opened at 8:00 A.M.  We signed away our lives, were given a cursory lesson on driving a 19 foot Boston Whaler and then were released to play on the lake.  

I was the first captain.  I was also nervous.  I had visions of rocks leaping out of the drought stricken waters of the mega reservoir and plunging our heavy fiberglass boat to the bottom of the sea, ruining everyone’s fun for all time .  However, all of my concern was for naught.  It was as easy as driving your Toyota down main street America.  All one had to do was follow the “dotted line,” a series of red and green buoys arranged several hundreds of yards apart.  

The lake was amazing.  It was like one big wading pool, not a ripple to be found anywhere, surrounded on all sides by towering walls of brilliant red and white Navaho sandstone rock.   A few other rental power boats were  racing towards our destination, and we did see a few slow moving house boats chugging up and downstream, but overall, it lake’s climate was peaceful and you felt that you were out among nature, not experiencing the manic character that Lake Powell possesses from June through September each summer.

We purposely sped to our destination, not knowing how  long it would take us to find the elusive Cathedral of the Desert.  Upon arriving at the mouth of the Escalante River a full half hour ahead of schedule, we poked our nose into the narrowing canyon and throttled down while in search of the second arm veering off to the left.  Once we found it, we followed the narrowing finger of water back through the towering canyon for a good two miles, where it dead ended.  Everything had been so gorgeous, so cool, but now we were in a truly special spot.  The walls of the canyon seemingly had narrowed as they jutted upwards several hundred feet, leaving only a narrow opening for the sun’s rays to penetrate this oval shaped echo chamber.  At the end of the canyon, a small water fall fell into the lake and next to it, the sun’s rays danced weirdly on the red sandstone, making a light show of natural proportions.  One could see why they named this place Cathedral, as it instantly impacted your mood.  Sure the boats were still idling quietly, and yes, you could see two cycle oil being emitted by the three to four boats there while we visiting this majestic spot, but nevertheless, it had a calming effect on you.  I noticed that we were all whispering to each other, as if we would offend the Lord  or Mother Nature by marveling about it all at full volume.  Finally after depressing the shutter button on our cameras for the hundredth time, we exited the canyon and continued our search for more adventures.

The young men at the marina had been taught to lie like politicians.  When asked about how long our gas would last us, our young male attendant told us that we only had enough to reach the Cathedral and come straight back to the dock.  No messing around.  No side trips.  Straight there, shut down the engine and then straight back to the marina.  However, when we looked down at the gauge at Cathedral, we found that we were still above the 3/4 full.  We agreed that he was a liar and that we could continue in our exploration of side canyons. 

Jeff had taken the lead as our captain now, and he ably maneuvered up several narrow fingers of water protruding from the Escalante Arm.  All were scenic and special enough to be a national park in any other state, but here on Lake Powell, they were just one of hundreds just like them.  My favorite was Davis Gulch, an especially narrow, winding slot canyon that was filled with downed timber.  We hoped to see the famous ___ Arch, but as the water became shallower and the dead trees in the water became more and more difficult to navigate around, Jeff made a wise decision to turn around.  Standing in the back of the boat, I helplessly watched him narrowly miss a rock wall by a scant half inch with our propeller as he backed up in a tight spot, but like an old tug boat captain, he thrust it into forward at the last possible moment and screamed out of the slot like he had been doing this every day for the last thirty years of his life.  

 

Finally, tiring of exploration and being hot, I suggested a swim.  My buddies probably thought that I was crazy.  When I dove off the back of the boat, I wasn’t so sure that I was making a sound decision, as it was still May and one could still see snow on the nearby Henry Mountains.  Nevertheless, I bucked up my courage and took the plunge to find that the water was pleasantly refreshing.  No, it wasn’t the “wild dive in, jump back out in a panic” that I had grown up with in the mountains of Montana; it was decent, swimmable water.  Soon I convinced Jeff to join me and then Penny made the decision to leap.  Penny was funny.  She stood on the back of the boat anguishing over the decision to jump for what seemed like minutes and then when she finally hit the water she pummeled it into a wild froth while motoring quickly towards the back of the boat in a state of panic.  Then, when the synapses had finally over ruled the preconceived notion of dying of hypothermia, she relaxed and stroked the water comfortably, swimming around the boat for several minutes before pulling herself out to warm her body in the sun.   

We finally headed back to the dock, having traveled around a hundred miles and having burned around $165 of gas and oil.  I thought life couldn’t get any better at that point, but Penny and Jeff kept the momentum rolling by building a masterful, hundred ingredient mystery salad that included everything from sun dried tomatoes to shrimp.  After a couple of beers and our fabulous salad, we again took a leisurely stroll to admire the nearby wildflowers and purplish, orange glow of the sunset.

We loaded up the truck the next morning and struck out for home by the scenic Burr Trail, a partially paved, partially rutted, wash board road through the middle of Capital Reef National Park.  I could see Jeff wanted to get home, but Penny was wonderful. She insisted that he stop the car time and again, so I could leap out and take another picture.  I'm not kidding when I state that we probably stopped every five miles.  It was that beautiful.  

At one point, we drove a rough spur road to the embarkation point for the Upper Muley Twist hike.  We only had time to wander a half mile up the trail to the top of a giant upheaval in the earth’s surface, but it was well worth the effort, as the vistas were spellbinding.  

One would think that at some point you would reach the apex of your vacation experience and then quietly sit back and reflect on all that you had experienced.  Not the case in Utah.  Our drive home kept our eyes glued to a continual array of towering sandstone buttes, rugged canyons, snow covered mountain peaks and a gorgeous array of fluorescent wild flowers.  Where else but Utah can you take a leisurely drive through three national parks and two national monuments in one afternoon?  I sat in that back seat enthralled at my new state’s beauty, waiting to see what was around the next corner.  It always seemed like it got better.  From the famous hog back on highway 12 between Boulder and Escalante to the magnificent hoo-doos of Bryce, and finally the Grand Daddy of them all, Zion, the vistas were unending.  Honestly, you felt like you were watching the travel channel from the back seat of Jeff’s Chevy.  

The drive had other fun distractions, too.  We stopped for a tasty picnic lunch, complements of the Feldman’s, and played “Name that Tune,” reliving the music of our youth via satellite radio.  Since my recollection didn’t go beyond a few Allman Brothers works or the Eagles, they had me play the part of moderator in this never ending game.  Although Kim was hot on Van Morrison and Clapton, and Jeff knew his early 70’s hard rock, it was Penny who was the champion, knowing nearly every Motown tune of the early 1960’s.  God knows that girl had a 45 collection that was the envy of all her friends and neighbors.

Was it worth the long drive from St. George and the expense of over $400 for one day’s fun?  Empathetically, “Yes, it was a bargain!”  We had had an excursion to remember and it had seemed like we taken a two week vacation wrapped around a 72 hour period.  The change of scenery, the wonderful company and the marvelous, never ending vistas of Utah played out before us like one long epic motion picture.  

Grand Canyon 2007

Elderly do the Big One:

Grand Canyon 2007

10/11  South Rim Motel

Having endured our summer walk through the hills of Grand Teton National Park in August, we once again signed up to hit the trails, this time in the less friendly, harsher environment of the Grand Canyon.  Steve and Fay had planned a five day, four night backpack down the Grandview Trail to ultimately stand on the banks of the Colorado River, nearly 6,000 feet below.

We started the five hour drive from Ivins fresh and fully coffeed at 8:00 A.M.   The Toyota struggled up the steep, winding hill out of Hurricane, roared by the polygamous enclave of Colorado City and tore through Jacobs Lake on our way to the south rim of the Grand Canyon.  Finally, a good five hours into Tour de Arizona, our stomachs started to growl and my tender sitting instrument was in need of a break from the front seat of Old Red.  Steve suggested stopping at Cameron, where a certified traditional Navaho trading post/mega tourist trap is located a few feet off the highway.

When we were seated and given our menus, I informed my companions that “when in Rome, you do as the Romans.”  In other words, if you’re in Cameron, you order Navaho Tacos.  The taco, in all honesty, was huge.  The greasy fry bread spilled over the sides of the platter and was topped with a Teton sized mound of absolutely tasteless beans and sprinkled lightly with a  few crumbles of cheddar, a smattering of lettuce and crowned with one slice of sterile tomato.  

Ok, the food wasn’t great; bland as eating cardboard with paste.  No, paste has more taste.  That’s an unfair comparison to Elmer's.  However, the real trouble started almost immediately for me.  I no more crawled into my drivers cockpit, than my stomach started to revolt in the most violent, disgusting way.  I could feel each one of those beans fermenting in my tender little tummy, and with it, a pressure was building equivalent to a major thermonuclear device.  For the next ten hours every moment was agony.  Yes, I would excuse myself while walking along the rim of the canyon, and emit long, trumpeting flutters of flatulence throughout the day, embarrassing Steve, Fay and the prim, proper and gas less Kim, but it never seemed enough.  Here I was, walking by one of the great wonders of the world, watching grazing elk, mountain sheep and deer, and all I could think of was giving birth.  I now know labor, ladies, and let me say, “You are amazing to have lived through it.”

10/12 Horse Shoe Mesa

The hike down the Grandview Trail was supposed to be an easy one.  “It’s only,” Steve explained, “three and a half miles the first day.”  Sure I was a little bummed about having to carry three liters of water for our first night’s dry camp, but with the short distance, it couldn’t be all that bad.  Right?  

WRONG!  One hundred percent wrong!  It was approximately 2600 feet of elevation loss in not 3 1/2 miles, but only a little over two miles.  It was 2600 feet of backpacking Hell.  Ninety-five percent of the trail offered uneven, steeply graded terrain where one would have to carefully step down on pieces of loose gravel, while navigating between awkwardly placed boulders.  In places, the miners, who had constructed the trail, had built a cascading pathway of crudely placed stone, a cobblestone walkway of sorts, down endlessly steep sections where you fought to gain purchase with your hiking boots.  Considering that I had 45 pounds on my back, it was more difficult than you could imagine.  Pathetically, it took us a little over three hours to make our first night’s camping spot, an absolutely breathtaking location overlooking the jagged peaks and multicolored mesas of the Vishnu and Rama shrines.

10/13 Hance Spring

After we had our breakfast bars and granola and two cups of disgusting instant coffee, Kim and I took off to “check out” the steep, double diamond descent from Horse Shoe Mesa past Page Spring and into the Hance Wash.  The day before, on our difficult walk into the canyon, a well intentioned character from somewhere in the midwest had told us of the trail, describing it as “the worst, scariest, most treacherous 500 yards he had ever experienced.”  I listened to this information with a bit of skepticism, knowing that it was a park service trail, but it filled my wife with absolute terror at the thought of even looking at this sure fire wall of death.

I told Kim the next morning that we would take a look at the trail and then make up our minds.  I explained that we would drop our packs at the top and that I would help her down before ascending to retrieve our possessions.  The flatlander was absolutely correct in describing it as steep, narrow and with long drop offs.  Just to make it more interesting, God had dropped sacks of multi-sized marbles, otherwise known as rocks, in every location where you would have to put your foot down in the descent.  Other than that, it was a piece of cake.  Easy!  We quickly wound our way down the zigs and zags and before we knew it, we were looking down at Hance Springs, the last source of water between the rim and the mightily Colorado River.  

That afternoon, Steve and Fay day hiked down the wash until the walls turned from limestone to marble, and they faced boulders the size of  small homes.  Kim and I trudged up the Tonto East Trail, marveling over the steep wash and surrounding peaks and mesas.  The canyon walls in the distance lit up a bright orange in the fading late afternoon sunlight.  

I know it sounds stupid, but food takes on a new meaning in the back country.  This was our first real venture into the world of freeze dried dinners and even though I didn’t love them, they have their attributes.  Each night was pretty much the same, with only a change in the main course.  Dinner that night was Mountain House Teriyaki Chicken and Rice.  Not exactly P.F. Changs, but at least there were no dishes, as you eat out of the same bag your meal is cooked in boiling water.    Each night I would also slowly savor each bite of my two cheese stick appetizers, relishing every morsel of nutrition, and then after the meal of the day, was my dessert.   I can’t tell you how wonderful those three caramels tasted. 

It was late that night, probably around 7:30 P.M., when I was making my last rounds around camp before crawling into my tent.  I looked up on the hillside to see two small lights coming down the trail toward us.  Knowing that it would be a big challenge to find a suitable campsite in the area and that ours was the easiest to see, I went up on the trail to meet the midnight walkers and assist them in finding their Motel 6 for the night.  A young couple, probably in their early twenties were walking along as if they didn’t have a care in the world.  Sure they had come down a double diamond trail in the dark that had gotten my respect in the middle of the day, and yes, the young man’s light was dimming badly, with maybe only a few more minutes of battery left.  They didn’t seem concerned at all.  After introductions, I helped them to their campsite, where they told me that they wanted their wake up call at 4:30 A.M. and that Eggs Benedict with toast would be adequate.  I assured them that it would all be ready for them and bid them a good night.

10/14 Hance Rapids of the Colorado River

We took a leisurely five mile stroll to the river to see the magnificent Hance Rapids.  Secretly, I was hoping to find boat loads of partially drunken, friendly rafters who would take pity of us poor backpackers, offering us ice cold beer and barbecued steak.  It was not to be.  The only rafters we saw didn’t even have the energy to wave, much less offer culinary delights or refreshing beverages.  

We situated our camp that afternoon on a boulder strewn plateau overlooking the river, and then unloaded everything in our packs except our bone dry water bottles.  We then set out to the river for our first bath in three days and to pump water for our dry camp.  The half hour walk to the water was uneventful and even bordering on pleasurable until the last few hundred yards of slogging through sand.  Like a well trained army, we immediately set out to complete our work before cavorting about in the 50 degree Colorado River water.  My muscle deprived arms were bordering on fatigue by the time we had topped off our six bottles.  Steve and Fay then took a long walk down the beach as Kim and I tore off our clothes and waded into the cold water.  Damn, and I mean, damn, was it stimulating.  It took all of the courage that I could muster to finally submerge my body.  Scrubbing away the layers of trail dirt was out of the question.  It was dive in, dive out and then watch your quarter inch sized goose bumps evaporate in the warm sun light.

October is a wonderful time to hike in the canyon.  The days are reasonably warm and the nights are perfect for quality slumber, which is a good thing, as the nights are endless.  The sun goes down at 6:00 P.M. Arizona time.  Fay insisted that we stay up until we had seen a star, but with no campfire to tell stories around, sitting in the dark just wasn’t that much fun.  We frequently were in our tents by 7:00 P.M. and I would read until around 8:00 P.M., when I would belatedly turn off my head lamp to conserve battery strength.  From then on it was laying there, wide awake, day dreaming about everything from eating seafood in a fine Alaskan restaurant to having a burrito at Taco Bell.   I have never slept so much in my life.  When the sun would finally work it’s way over the canyon walls the next morning at 6:30 A.M., I would nearly tear down the tent door leaving my twelve hour prison.  

10/15 Hance Springs

We woke up earlier today than ever and hit the trail running at 8:30 A.M.  Kim and I started before Steve and Fay and nearly got lost within the first half mile of camp.  Here I was, day dreaming away about cold beer and pizza, and I came upon an area where someone had piled a large bunch of rocks in the middle of the trail.  Concentrating on  a mushroom-bacon cheeseburger by now, I merely stepped over the obstacle and continued on my happy way.  A few minutes more I found more rocks blocking the trail.  Again, I merely lifted my legs a little higher and kept right on going.  It was only when our course wound around a rock ledge several hundred feet above the river and when I had to get down on my hands and knees to crawl under a rock outcropping that I realized something was amiss.  At the same point I heard my wife’s somewhat panicked voice, “This isn’t the trail we took yesterday, David.”  With more than a little embarrassment, Kim and I carefully reversed our course and worked our way off the ledge and back to the junction where a new trail had been built.  Within minutes I was back on cruise control, my mind safely drifting off to more interesting topics than paying attention to what I was doing, walking.

The rest of the day went like clock work.  We made the five mile walk in less than three hours, getting to into our new camp site just when the canyon was heating up.  It was probably only about 85 degrees, but to our frail Wyoming skin it felt like 105 in the shade.  

The four of us spent the afternoon in the shade under the only giant cottonwood in the area, moving our worn bodies periodically to match the movement of the sun.  I would occasionally find the strength to walk down to the spring to wet my baseball cap, which felt like an air conditioned suite at the Hilton when I put it back on my head.   

I realized that it was time to go home that night.  Upon pulling off my boots and socks, I found myself breathing in an unbelievably vile odor that burned my nostrils like toxic waste.  I hurriedly drove my feet deep into my sleeping bag, hoping that Kim wouldn’t notice the natural stench emanating from my lower appendages.  Since our tent is the smallest model ever sold, offensive odor is no small topic.  It was time for an honest to God shower.  A long shower of much soap.  A shower with a scrub brush.  After all, if I could no longer stand myself, chances are......

 

10-17 Home in Ivins

The long walk out was finally upon us.  Secretly, I think all of us were a little apprehensive.  After all, we were climbing out of the Grand Canyon, and we all remembered the hugely steep trail we had descended in getting in here.  

At the first sign of daylight, I was out of the tent like a jack rabbit and offering a wake up call for Steve and Fay.  Kim immediately set to her tasks of stuffing our bags while I started our Pocket Rocket and the morning’s coffee.  Having just completed the Tetons trip earlier this summer, Kim and I now function like a well trained pit crew in breaking camp.  It was only minutes before we were ready to walk. 

After stretching out and downing our mandatory dose of “hiking medication”, we started up the steep ascent, many pounds lighter in our packs, but with a slight sense of dread embedded in our hearts.  As usual, we had worried ourselves sick over nothing.  Yes, it was tough getting the legs and lungs going, but after we had built a pace, the uphill climb turned out to be actually enjoyable.  We stopped at the old mine site above Page Spring, where we watered up and munched on salty snacks, and then again about half way up the main trail.  Switch back after switch back flew by, and then to my shock, we started to see sure signs that we were at the top.  Portly tourists dressed in white sneakers and carrying twenty pounds of camera equipment started to appear everywhere on the trail.  We knew that we had won the game.

When we finally crested the last hump, I looked down at my watch to see that we had done the over five mile, approximately 3700 foot climb in 3:40, surely a new world record, and we had proudly achieved it without steroids.  Advil yes, steroids....no!  Take that Marion Jones.

We sat on the rim wall waiting for our friends to crest the trail for a time, but soon realized that the climate was changing for the worse.  A powerful wind blew out of the south and the temperatures had dropped to the low fifties.  Black rain clouds lurked in the horizon.  It was time to hide out in the car.  We were done and we couldn’t have timed it better, as the new residents of Horse Shoe Mesa, Hance Springs and other Grand Canyon locations were going to be cold, wet and miserable.  We were going to be home.   A warm, dry and happy home.