Back in the Backpack: Tetons 2007

Back in the Backpack:  

Tetons 2007

August 17 Rain Out

The Greater Teton Backpack Extravaganza for the Elderly started off with the rude scream of our alarm clock at 6:30 A.M.   It was telling us it was time to roll out and make for the car, but one look out our sliding glass doors told me that we weren’t going anywhere.  It was raining and blowing, not the kind of gentle rain that would make walking in the woods possible.  No, this rain was serious rain, driving rain, cold rain.  It would be no fun walking a trail in such weather, much less setting up a tent and cooking barely edible, very disgusting backpack food.  

After a short consultation with Steve, Faye and Kim, we unanimously made the decision to cancel our walk for  that day and instead drive to the park to pick up our bear canisters and repack our backpacks for the final time, hoping to somehow find a way to magically carve off another few ounces from their overwhelming burden.

August 18 Rain and Hail Hell

It wasn’t exactly a blue bird day, but after 24 long hours of driving rain and wind we were ecstatic to see partially cloudy skies and  a heavy ground fog enveloping Star Valley.  We quickly took our last showers for the next five days, chomped down a plateful of my Greasy Dave’s Skillet and then bolted for our already packed vehicles.  After a  desperate 20 minute wait in Alpine for coffee, the drive to the park went fast and easy.  

It wasn’t the timely exodus that I had anticipated, but we were all in high spirits when we were finally able to board the boat  at 10:30 sharp, staggering under the weight of our 45 million pound packs.  The slow moving ferry was a slow moving ferry.  However, it  certainly was an appealing alternative to walking the 2 1/2 mile trail around the lake to head up Cascade Canyon. 

We soon fought our way past the typical Teton tourist, who take the ferry across the big water to walk the steep one mile ascent to Inspiration Point, a rock cliff overlooking Jenny Lake with an unobstructed view of the Grand Teton.  After idling our motors during the previous rainy day, we were all ready to put it into fourth gear, streaking up the trail paralleling the gloriously pristine Cascade Creek.  

The canyon was beyond beautiful.  Heavy gray, rain laden clouds played peek-a-boo with the Tetons,  moving in and out of the over 13,000 foot jagged spires, providing a different look every minute.  Rugged granite walls mixed with dense foliage surrounded us on all sides as we ascended.  It gave way occasionally to areas where the canyon  widened, the land plateaued, the creek slowed to a crawl and an almost velvet covering of grasses, moss and stray conifers glowed in the horizon.  As we quietly walked through this wonderland a covey of grouse stupidly announced that they were standing a few feet off the trail and that we should not miss them.  It was too good to be true. 

After about two hours on the trail we found that the head of the valley was no longer looking kind and compassionate.  It was a big, blackish-blue mass of ugliness.  A booming roar of thunder exploded in the distance.  We had made it to the junction of  the trails to the Alaska Basin and Solitude Lake, but that wasn’t where we needed to be.  We stopped, begrudgingly put on our rain gear  and headed quickly up the trail again.  Within minutes the great blue-black mass disappeared east, having barely misted the exterior of our jackets, and the sun once again came out to heat our now steaming bodies.  Post haste, we dumped our packs and pulled off our rain gear, and again headed up the trail.

All of our hearts jumped for joy when we saw those sweet words, “South Cascade Camping Zone,” spelled across a sign in front of our worn bodies.  We continued to push on for a short while, thinking that we should follow the advice of a youthful girl from Salt Lake City, who had told us that the best spots were at the top of the canyon.  However, sense quickly returned to our over 50 year old bodies.  The second camping spot just happened to have a gorgeous view of a creek wildly cascading down the mountain side, and more importantly, it was there.  It was more than enough for the first day.  We had had enough fun.  It was time to set up our tents and enjoy the fruits of our labors.

It had only taken moments for Kim and I to set up our miniscule REI domicile and decorate the floor with our down bags and blow up Big Agnes air mattresses.  I had elected to go down to the nearby creek to pump water into our jugs and get ready for dinner, still a few hours away.  I had filled my first bottle when the sky fell, starting with a few pea sized stones of hail and then becoming a torrent of the small marbles.  I ran up to the tent, flinging the water bottles and pump into the center of our camp area.  Within seconds of pulling off my boots and zipping up the door, the din from the roof of our shelter was like having your head inside Ringo’s drum.  Kim and I would lay in the tent for the next three hours, wondering when the “short lived” thunder buster would pass overhead and the sun would return.  Finally, at 6:30 P.M., Steve crawled out of his nylon prison and yelled that it was tolerable.  The sun wasn’t shining and it was still dripping and wet everywhere, but it was an improvement for sure.

Hungry beyond description, Kim and I looked forward to eating our now defrosted burritos, an idea that we had gleaned from Aaron Ralston’s book on losing his arm but surviving in Canyonlands.  I fired up our pocket rocket and put in the first of our burritos.  Within seconds the white flour shells had turned into charcoal.  I flipped the burritos with my plastic spoon and repeated the charring.  With a sense of defeat and embarrassment, I handed the burritos to Kim.  “Frozen on the inside and burnt to a crisp on the outside,” she muttered.  Not even the cheese and ensalada topping could make it enjoyable.  At this point, she recommended steaming them, so I poured a small amount of water into the cooking pot.  Again, disgusting results.  Now I had manufactured a pasty mess that fell apart when  you attempted to retrieve them from the bottom of the pan.  Disgusting or not, we ate all six burritos, mostly because we were starving and finally because Kim had stated she wanted less weight in her way too heavy pack.  I now realized the folly of following Ralston’s tip for fine dining.  I mean, if he was stupid enough to put himself into the Canyonlands Maze district alone, without sharing his whereabouts with any other human being, how could he recommend meals for the outdoors experience?  It would be like asking a good Mormon to recommend an outstanding wheat beer.

The rest of the night sped by in seconds.  We had barely chomped down the last bites of our disgusting fare when last rays of the sun were leaving our cloud covered canyon.  I knew that we had to hustle to secure our camp against the much advertised camp raiders, the unholy, ruthless enemy of mankind, the Teton black bear.  I ran up the trail with our small bear canisters, two small keg like containers, and put them into a steel and cement bear box that would protect mankind from the nuclear holocaust.  Seeing that there was additional room in the box,  I then illegally stuffed our packs into the fortress for the night.  I knew that I was only supposed to put food into the U.S. park service sanctioned containers, but I could visualize one of the black demons ripping my ancient external frame to shreds in search of a long gone Snickers Bar that still sent its powerful odors into the night. 

August 19 Climbing the Big Pass

The next morning arrived quickly.  Like all nights of backpack sleeping, it had been a constant battle to find comfort, tossing and turning every half hour to finally find that perfect position in the confines of a mummy bag.  It is an impossibility, but one persists in this search none the less.  Anyway, I had actually slept well enough and to my surprise, Kim had not awakened me once with reports of  an eminent attack by a marauding troop of Grizzly bears.  This was going to be a good trip, no doubt about it.

We leisurely had three cups of dismal instant coffee and then inhaled a collection of breakfast bars and granola. It wasn’t exactly an omelet at Denny’s, but it would fuel us up the hill and over Hurricane Pass.  

Kim and I are very different than Faye and Steve.  While they carefully clean and fold their tent, we simply shake it out a bit and stuff it into the bag.  They meticulously pack their bags with the precision of brain surgeons.  We hastily throw our belongings where ever we find room, never quite knowing where we have put things for later in the day.  There is one advantage to the Dave and Kim methodology.  We are much faster at breaking camp.  

Considering that we had our bags packed while they were merely removing their fly, we elected to push up the trail with a promise to meet up later in the day.  Kim and I soon found our pace.  She led the way up the rock strewn, meandering course through thickly forested sections, into giant meadows with gurgling brooks, and everywhere you looked, huge expanses of rugged canyon walls and the three spires of the enormous Teton peaks towered above you.  It was simply magnificent.  

We stopped and chatted with some campers from Tennessee and California, hearing bear stories about the Alaska Basin, where a black bear was holding up backpackers with the sophistication of Jesse James.  As we walked, we paused more and more to take pictures, as the vistas seemed to improve with every step.  The mountains seemed bigger, more jagged, and water falls pounded down the mountain sides everywhere. 

Finally the terrain and botany of the trail changed.  We had moved from a partially wooded, densely vegetated zone to the barren, treeless landscape of the alpine mountain tops.  We stopped at the boundary between these two distinct areas, which also happened to be a trail junction for Hurricane Pass.  Soon Steve and Faye arrived, winded but excited about the lovely walk that they had just encountered.  As we sat eating our snacks, we watched an immature black bear raiding a nearby campsite.  The bear wandered in looking for a free lunch and when encountering a camper’s enmity, shot out of the camp like a bolt of lightning with his tail between his legs, looking like he had just met the devil himself.

We now pulled our worn bodies up the steep switch backs of Hurricane Pass.  Below us was a turquoise colored glacial cirque lake surrounded by gray,  shale like rock.  The Grand Teton and his little brothers were bigger than life.   It was simply one of the most dramatic pieces of eye candy I have ever experienced in the continental United States.  

Upon making the top of the pass, an impressive 10,400 feet, we sat admiring the vista while hidden behind a very small and very ineffective wind break, a small rock outcropping along side the trail.  Even though the vista was spellbinding, the cold wind and menacing clouds moving in from the west were motivation to quickly remount our packs back on our tired backs and begin to forge on towards the Alaska Basin and Sunset Lake.  

The walk was now down hill and it couldn’t have come at a better time.  We pounded down switch back after switch back, stopping at one point to watch a colony of Rock Chucks complain about our appearance in their world.  Finally, well worn and in need of a home for the night, we found our way to the lake, where we found a level, grassy area protected by a few trees.  

Upon completing the setting up of our homes and securing our packs in trees high above the reach of the famous Alaska Basin black bears, we began to think it terms of food.  Our second night’s offering, beef stroganoff, was beyond terrible, but thank the Lord that we had booze.  After a large belt of peach schnapps I didn’t really care that our meal was like dog food on noodles.  The night came earlier than ever, with Kim and I barely holding out until 8:00 P.M. before heading for our tent.  A cold wind was building and with the sun receding behind the western mountains, a warm sleeping bag and a good book seemed like an attractive option.  

It must have been about 11:00 P.M. when I woke up the first time.  The roaring wind,  gusting an easy 30-40 miles an hour, coupled with near freezing temperatures, made my new 20 degree Lafuma down sleeping bag seem like an oversized sieve.  I would roll over, my arthritic left shoulder throbbing painfully, and find another way to return to fetal position.  Still, even though I was miserably cold, I found sleep in small windows.  I would awake  many times through the night, reposition myself, and then drop off until waking cold an hour later.  It wasn’t the worst night I’ve ever had in the woods, but it wasn’t really fun either.  It was Wyoming in late August, unpredictable and temperamental.

August 20 Bear News and Life on the Shelf

As we were working through our third cup of coffee and thinking of packing up, a lone horseback rider with a pack animal rode into our camp.  He introduced himself to us as Ryan and explained that he was working for the Wyoming State Fish and Game as a bear management expert.  In other words, he trapped or killed renegade bears who were proving to be a danger to humans or were killing ranchers stock.

Ryan explained that he had shot at the infamous Alaska Basin bear the day before, but had failed to hit him because he had an audience of about ten backpackers in the area.  Even though these people were in danger from this animal, they had seemed to reject the idea that the bear had to die.  I’m sure that if they had been the ones held up in the past few days by the bear, where they had lost their packs and food to him, or if they had been the ones who had had their camp invaded by him at dinner time, they may have had another perspective.  However, they thought that Ryan was dead wrong to exterminate the bear and one young man had suggested that he was unmanly for carrying a gun.  I couldn’t have felt more sorry for him.  Here he was doing his job, providing all of us with a level of safety, and he was being damned by the folks he was working to protect.  

The walk that morning through the Alaska Basin was picturesque.  It was a mixture of glowing green, tundra like grasslands scattered with spruce trees and shallow thaw ponds  that dotted the landscape.  A huge, 11,000 foot  rock cone, Buck Mountain, sat off in the eastern horizon, while to our back, Battleship Mountain, provided our national security.

The way out of the low laying basin entailed a short, zigzagging climb up the Sheep Steps and then walking over a barren high land called Meek Pass to the Death Canyon Shelf.  In all truth, this was my least favorite part of the hike.  It just wasn’t as fabulous as the other miles we had trekked.  Sure, it would have been celebrated as a national park in any other state, as it was still amazingly beautiful, but compared to the walk up Cascade Canyon, it was mediocre at best.

The Death Canyon Shelf is an interesting destination.  Like its name describes, it is an approximately five mile long shelf that varies in depth from a few feet to over 100 yards wide.  It is located with a thousand foot cliff towering above you and a thousand foot drop off below you.  Huge, house size limestone boulders are scattered along the bench.  Scattered conifers and alpine grasslands fill out the picture.  A few small springs provide enough water to make it habitable for the backpacking crowd working their way through the western edge of the Tetons.

I don’t know why, but both Kim and I were lacking in energy for the hike to the shelf.  Perhaps that day’s Advil capsules had been beyond their expiration date, or that the coffee we choke down in massive quantities hadn’t done its job, but we were damned happy to finally land at our camping destination five miles later, the group site on the shelf.  

At first we were trying to talk ourselves into the logic that we were a group, surely four people is considered to be a large group, and that we had every right to camp there.  The issue was water.  The group site had water, good water and lots of it.  If we camped in another location, water might prove to be a problem.  Perhaps we would have to walk to pump our water, which as everyone knows, is an unappealing alternative.  

After spending the better part of the afternoon attempting to rationalize staying in the group site, we elected to camp in a small site located directly above it nestled in the ever present limestone boulders.  Sure our tents were nearly rubbing against each other, and we could easily tell when people in the other tent rolled over, it was still close to the water and we would be able to use the group site bear box and rock tables for cooking.  It was a workable solution.

That night, after a delightful meal of chicken, cheese and noodles, we worked collectively to string our packs up in the one large tree that existed in the area.  All of us took turns in attempting to throw a rock attached to our parachute cord through a small opening between branches.  Finally, with perhaps the greatest throw of my life, I found the magic and we had our packs strung so high that even Sasquatch himself wouldn’t be able to reach them.

We turned in early to read our books before darkness over took the camp, and as we shuffled off to our tents, I reassured everyone that it wasn’t going to rain that night.  Two hours later I awoke to the first pitter pattering of drizzle on our tent.  “It’s nothing,” I thought to myself.  “The weatherman said clear and cold.  We won’t get much.”

Well, the rain didn’t stop all night.  It wasn’t the rip roaring downpour that we’d experienced on Cascade Creek, but the drizzle was a persistent pounding on the tight nylon of our tent’s fly all night long.  I awoke several times thinking that it was going to be disastrous, worrying about packing up and walking the rest of the trail in wet and muddy conditions.  Nevertheless, I slept like a baby and awoke the next morning feeling like a new man.

August 21 Rain, Fog and Perfect

I had heard Steve crawl out of his tent a few minutes earlier and as in every other day, I had elected to continue to lay in my mummy bag for just a few minutes more.  When I finally mustered the energy to sit up and put on my clothes, I found the world to be a very different place.  The first few inches of the tent zipper opening told me that we were in for some serious fog.  It was Fog with a capital “F.”  One could barely see across the campsite.  There were no views of the Tetons or Buck Mountain.  One couldn’t even see the cliff located a few yards behind our camp.

We had a leisurely breakfast and then took our sweet time breaking camp.  Steve and Faye flew through the morning chores quickly and beat us out of camp and down the trail.  

It was an aerie walk that morning.  With visibility only a few yards in front of you, everything seemed so closed in.  The wind blew wisps of clouds through you.  Occasionally, the hazy form of huge boulders or a group of tall conifers would pop into view.  

As we pounded down the trail one and a half miles towards Fox Creek Pass, the sky slowly started to lift and clear.  At first it was minute patches of blue in the sky and by the time we had rounded the corner of the Fox Pass intersection and started our descent into Death Canyon, the day was mostly all about sunshine with a light breeze.

About five miles into our hike we stopped for a snack.  After munching on a few cashews and some dried peas flavored with Japanese horseradish, I wandered down the trail a bit to look for the optimal campsite.  A mere seven minutes away was paradise.  Not only did this site come with two totally flat, well manicured tent sites, but we had a wire to hang our packs from.  No more wild contests of trying the thread the rock through the branches.  It would be a simple underhand toss over the high wire.

The best part of the new campsite was that it was located by a huge meadow, equipped with giant rocks for your relaxation and comfort.  We all spent the afternoon sunning ourselves while reading.  There was a slight wisp of a wind to cool your body, all the bugs had been killed by previous freezing temperatures and if you really tried, you almost felt comfortable leaning up against the rocks while reading.  It couldn’t have been more perfect.

August 22 Moose, Moose and No Bear

The last day of the trip was finally upon us.  It had been a great time, no doubt, but I think all of us were ready to see the inside of a shower, eat a decent meal and sleep in something that didn’t leak cold air with every gust of the night wind.

I knew it was going to be a moosely day when I ambled down to the creek to pump water for coffee.  I no more got there than a large cow spooked from munching on a nearby willow.  She stupidly ran up the steep slope to stop and stare at me, wondering if I was trouble or not.  Finally, after a minute long stare down, she weakened and continued on her way into the trees.

The walk down the western part of Death Canyon was stupendous.  We walked in and out of brushy, willow infested sections paralleling a creek.  Three times we stopped to watch moose enjoying their breakfast.  At one point I moved within fifteen yards of an Alaska size bull to take the perfect wildlife photo.  He merely stopped his feeding to glare at me, not quite understanding how I could be so stupid as to get so close to him.

With the loss in elevation during our descent, we found the trees getting bigger and the canyon walls closing in.  At points, you wondered if you were walking in some Washington rain forest, as giant firs towered over the trail, darkening our journey down the meandering course.  

After a short stop at the ranger cabin, we soon found ourselves standing overlooking Phelps Lake, the end of the steady five mile decline we had enjoyed that day, and the start of a short mile long ascent up a couple of switch backs and then a half mile stroll to our cars.  Steve and Faye passed the baton to us, stating that we were the “up-hillers from Hell.”  Kim and I took off with the determination of two Pit Bulls.  We chugged up the hills at a steady pace, never really stopping to catch our breath or to enjoy the scenery.  We wanted the pain of carrying a backpack to be over and the faster we got to the top of the hill, the better off we were.  

It was over in a few minutes and in all truth, it was relatively painless.  Soon Steve and Faye crested the apex of the hill and stood next to us.  

“Did you see that cub?”  Faye asked.  

“What cub?”  I replied.

“The cub right next to the trail,”  she exclaimed.  “It was in the brush, right off the trail, laying on its back.  I looked like it was playing.”

Amazingly, Kim and I, so consumed to getting to the top of the hill, had just walked by a bear that was less than six feet from the trail and we had never noticed.  And it wasn’t as if he was hiding in brush.  He was laying there, feet in the air, wrestling with the nearby vegetation.  Never again will I claim to be the modern day Daniel Boone.

The last section of the trail was a fast down hill trot.  Steve and Faye took off like bullets.  We motored behind them at a good pace.  Huge, black clouds, blustering winds and the rolling roar of thunder in the distance proved to be highly motivating.  Just as Kim and I pulled into the parking lot and the Blum’s car, a few dime sized drops of rain started to pound down on me.  Within seconds we had stashed our still too heavy packs in their Jeep and moved towards our next goal in life, Blizzards at the Dairy Queen in Jackson.   The Greater Teton Backpack Extravaganza for the Elderly was history.  Excellent history.