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?
