A WALK IN THE WILDERNESS

I can’t remember my first backpack. I’m sure it was in Colorado - probably in Rocky Mountain National Park or the Indian Peaks Wilderness. I’m sure it was grand and beautiful and life-changing. And I’m pretty certain I would remember it EXACTLY if it were the grand scenery of my most recent walk in the wilderness – along the Teton Crest Trail in Grand Teton National Park.

Spectacular doesn’t begin to describe it. My 24-year-old son and hiking buddy describes it on his Facebook page as “that feeling when you see something breathtakingly beautiful, your heart skips a beat, and your jaw nearly drops to the floor? It was like that, for 5 days.”  The route we took along the Teton Crest Trail is uniquely blessed to make you happy – all 28 miles of it, even when you are trudging along in the rain.

We start our journey by taking the boat shuttle across Jenny Lake to the Cascade Canyon Trailhead.  Cascade Canyon is a lushly beautiful, water-filled canyon formed by glacial action with cascades (of course), small pools in the creek’s bends and steep, rushing waterfalls coming down the canyon walls. It’s the kind of wild place ideally suited to moose, which we see laying and grazing along the banks of Cascade Creek.

Our first night’s goal is way up on the South Fork of Cascade Canyon to an area of organized (for wilderness anyway) campsites with bear boxes for our food. Bear boxes, provided by the Park Service and usually a safe bit away from several good campsites, are very useful in bear country. The steel sides of the boxes are as tough as dumpster steel with heavy, industrial locks that discourage a bear’s rummaging. Only a very hungry bear will waste the energy to tear up a bear box.  If they are that hungry, you want them to opt for your food instead of you.

The climb up through Cascade Canyon is strenuous in some spots but mostly a gentle incline.  Yet, the further in elevation we climb, the more trouble I have getting enough air.  I am asthmatic and although I take regular medication for it, the particulates of the fires to the north have left a haze I know will make it even more difficult than usual. The others are patient and wait for me time and time again as I stop to attempt deep breaths. I am worried, but not anxious. I have medication and most of all a lot of determination. I will make it up not only to our first night’s camp but all the way along this 28-mile journey. I’m that kind of wild child.

Still, with my chest heaving and hurting, I am glad we find a suitable campsite about 4.5 miles up from the trailhead. We make camp at about 9,000 feet in a small area right below a very steep, very beautiful waterfall. A doe crosses close by our camp with her three fawn on their way to the water flow below our camp. We are tired and excited, knowing the biggest challenge of our 5-day backpack, Hurricane Pass at approximately 10,500 feet, lies ahead of us the next day. All through the night, the waterfall sings lullabies and we sleep deeply in the fresh, cool air.

In the morning I take additional medication, one that I normally would only use in the case of an emergency, knowing without it my usual asthma medication will not be sufficient to help me breathe. I vow to discuss a more rigorous regime with my doctor, knowing she will suggest that I think about quitting high altitude, heavy exertion activities. She will expect my usual reply, “not happening, so let’s figure this out.”  She knows even though I am averse to most medications, if I have to choose, I will choose a life well lived over a long one.

The medication helps and I can begin to climb again. We have another 1,500 feet to climb to Hurricane Pass before we descend into Alaska Basin. We are on the ‘less steep’ side, with more gentle switchbacks carrying us up to the pass.  We have filtered enough water to carry us over the Pass and into Alaska Basin where we know there will be plenty of clear, running water and glacial lakes.  Even though the water looks clean and tastes pure, we all know that all kinds of bacteria and parasites can exist in water in the wilderness. We have two filters between us and they are put into action any time we are close to water and have room to spare in our water bottles.

The five of us, friends for less than 24 hours, have already bonded over a card game called 99 and the brandy in our hot chocolate the night before. Backpacking is an activity that encourages discussion, friendship. Each one of us knows that we can without question trust the others to do whatever is necessary should our efforts lead us into danger. That kind of trust you can’t easily find in the city. It is literally one for all and all for one here. The wilderness demands this kind of commitment.

We continue to climb up past many, many wildflowers. Some I know – lupine, paintbrush, green gentian, wild parsnip. Others I’m sure I will come to know.  We wind through a lush valley and then the final ascent to Hurricane Pass begins across the talus. To our right is Schoolhouse Glacier, a remnant of a grander time when the glaciers were not receding as quickly because of global warming. The switchbacks get steeper as we climb across fields of loose rock called talus, the soles of our feet becoming tender from the small, hard rock trail surface.

Craig, out in front, gets to the Pass at about the same time as our sons. He is ready with his camera to record our faces as we look at the heavenly valley below.  Each one of us is struck with wonder at the color and diversity of the flowers in the Alaska Basin. Each of us has that aha moment with words something similar to “Holy Shit!” Below us rests Sunset Lake, a small blue-green glacial lake at which we hope to camp. Going down is always a pleasure after a steep climb but we tighten our boots knowing our toes may suffer bruises from the steep descent.

We are now in Idaho's Jebediah Smith Wilderness and out of Grand Teton National Park. We have the freedom to camp anywhere we wish and have many choices although Alaska Basin is a popular backpacking site from not only the Park but the trailheads to the west in Idaho. We head for Sunset Lake, ready for a swim to wash off some of the dust of the trail. Christina splashes into the lake and then dives like a fish into its icy waters. We take ‘splash baths’, quickly coming back to shore to let the sun warm our chilled bodies. The waters are very, very cold; the bottom is filled with what Craig, a geologist, calls glacial ‘flour’, soft powder created from the rock as glaciers pound their way over them. The flour sucks at our feet whenever we stand in the lake.

This night we sleep in a small copse a bit away from the water. Two couples from Utah camp on a hill near us. One is a ginger head like Dan.  His wife and I discuss the merits of living with gingers.  In camp, we prepare our dehydrated meals and then clean up, careful to place our bear vaults (those small space-age plastic containers that are supposedly bear-proof like medication bottles are child proof) a safe distance from our tents. We then play more card games, including a new game called Bullshit, bonding once again over hot chocolate and brandy.

The morning means we will be walking through beautiful Alaska Basin, a deservedly famous area bursting with wildflowers. Mother Nature has been incredibly generous to Alaska Basin. We walk waist deep through paintbrush and lupine, then lupine and wild parsnip, then wild parsnip and mountain asters. The flowers kiss our legs as we pass on the narrow trail, releasing their scents to the fragrant air. The topography is rolling and we are in no hurry. We literally have time to smell the flowers.

At some point we meet Bob, an adventurous man walking from the Continental Divide trail at the border with Mexico in New Mexico all the way up the Trail to Canada. Yes, there are trails like this and the Appalachian Trail all across America. And this one leads Bob through God’s country, the Grand Tetons. I feel humbled by his efforts.

Soon, the low hills begin to climb again and flowers give way to rock and talus. We manage several very long switchbacks, with the last one coming up through scree on a very narrow trail. I snap a picture of Kyle with the narrow trail across the talus and the cliff face in the near background. Later he uses it as a Facebook profile picture.

We finally reach Mount Meek Pass. Snow still lies on the ground here and Kyle and his dad Craig can’t resist playing a little snow ball with Craig’s hiking poles. We can see Death Canyon Shelf below us - a tall, long strip of cliff under which is a fairly narrow shelf on which we will camp. The Shelf rolls along for several miles to its junction with Fox Creek and the precipitous trail down into Death Canyon itself. At the Pass, we once again hike into the Park and its more ‘organized’ camps along the shelf.

Earlier, we meet a hiker who shares his knowledge of the Shelf campsites and warns us that a bear has visited his camp just the night before.  We all decide to head once again to the campsites nearest the Park-provided bear box.  We settle on a nice flat area close to the creek (nearby water is always a huge plus) and set up our tents. We once again filter enough water for our dinners and then move to the edge of the Shelf, high above the canyon below. Looking south, we see where the canyon walls come together, undoubtedly where our trail will take us in the morning.  East we see other rocky mountain forming the east side of Death Canyon. Looking down into the Canyon and its wandering waters, we spot two dark shapes, a mother moose and her calf, far below us. We sit quietly and enjoy the absolute solitude of the Shelf.

To the north, the imposing spire of the South Teton shines in the waning light. In a mountain environment, there is often an effect called ‘alpenglow’ when mountain summit rock reflects the glow of the departing sun.  If one is lucky, the alpenglow can color the mountains orange or red or gold.  Tonight we are rewarded by a golden alpenglow as we sit on our conveniently placed rocks on the Shelf’s edge.

Having hiked through Alaska Basin and then over Meek Pass we are weary but elated and as darkness descends we move toward camp. The night air is crisp and cool. Small clouds are in the sky but we are not worried about rain or lightning. Our camp is on high ground and there are plenty of surfaces much higher than our small tents to tempt lightning their direction.

We sleep. At some point in the middle of the night, I awake to flashes of light outside of the tent.  I lay quietly until I am sure the light is lightning rather than a flashlight. I hear thunder way off in the distance, counting the seconds between the lightning and the thunder. The worst of the storm is passing a few miles to the south; we feel only rain from the very edge of the storm on our tents that night.

We awake to grey skies. Knowing we may encounter rain, we pack our backpacks with our raingear laid ready. We skip breakfast, anxious to head down the trail before rain makes the precipitous path down to the floor of Death Canyon slick and dangerous. Hiking the rest of the Shelf to its junction with Fox Creek, our trail leads us down quickly, losing about 1000 feet in elevation over about a half mile. By the time we are down on the canyon floor, rain is falling steadily. The vegetation, in some places as tall as our hips, weeps on to our clothing. It is not cold and we are not uncomfortable, just wet.  There is a difference to a backpacker and it is not subtle.

 

We continue our hike through the verdant canyon, over wonderfully engineered log bridges above swiftly moving Death Creek.  We are headed for the Death Canyon Group, a Park campsite area about half-way to the trailhead at the Canyon’s mouth, where my trusty truck YiHa awaits us. We have met no one this morning except a couple hiking north on the Shelf.

 

Our last night is spent on a small hill with a flat top and several large rocky areas at which we will lay our wet gear to dry once the rain stops and the sun warms the rock. Nature’s dryer. We set up our tents and place wet socks onto the taut tent poles, hoping they will shed enough moisture in the morning for a comfortable hike out.

 

Joining us at our camp is a funny little Marmot we quickly name Allan or Steve, after a hugely popular animal video on Youtube.  The young people riff on the video; providing merry laughter in camp. Steve or Allan does not seem to fear us but we are careful not to invite him too closely to our camp or our food.  Marmots are notorious food thieves, with sharp teeth that will chew through a backpack like the backpack is cookie dough.

 

Tonight it is Feast. The last night of a backpack, anything that is left to eat should be eaten to lighten your load on the way out. As backpackers are prone to say “It’s either on you or in you.” There is no reason to carry any more weight than is absolutely necessary; you are on your way back to ‘civilization’ with its restaurants and tap water and dry clothes and warm vehicles. Having been backcountry for 5 days now, we all expect to experience a bit of dissonance with the noise and the traffic and the lack of natural sounds. It’s a common phenomenon and we all prepare ourselves mentally for the plunge back into the ‘city’.

 

Our last night is the coldest of the entire journey. We have good sleeping bags and arrange ourselves to make maximum use of the warmth our bags have for us.  The morning dawns clear and cool. Perfect for our last few miles of our adventure. We will be heading toward Phelps Lake, a beautiful mountain lake surrounded by hills, popular to day hikers to the Park. The closer we get to the lake, the more hikers we see. Often we are asked about where we have been, how many nights we have been out. Our general unkemptness and faint odor clues most of the hikers that we might have been out for more than a day hike. We are briefly backpacking superstars.

 

The last mile of a hike is usually the worst for me.  I dread going back to the noise but relish the thought of a nice, cold brew.  I wish I could stay another day or two or three but am tired of feeling and smelling filthy, especially as day hikers, smelling fresh and clean, pass by us with tiny packs filled with the day’s lunch and a bit of water. I know once I get to a regular restroom again, I will stand for a moment staring at the hot water rushing out of the tap and be glad that we have such a luxury at our fingertips in America.

 

I swear my pack gets heavier those last few miles, even though I am still consuming my trail mix and am no longer needing to refill by water bottles. The party with Mother Nature is about over; I will no longer be just another animal along the track. I will soon be a sentient being with responsibilities, friends and family to call to reassure of my health, plans to make, clothes and body to wash.

 

We all are looking forward to a beer and a bison burger at Dornan’s on our way back to Craig’s rented car. The burger will be the best burger we have ever tasted after five days of dehydrated food. The beer will be unbelievably good, a real medal-winning brew in the coldest, sweatiest bottle we have ever seen. Others will look at us wolfing down our food and think “I bet those people have been backcountry” or more probably “I wonder that they could let such dirty people eat here. Isn’t there some kind of law?” No mind. We are happy and elated at meeting our challenges.

 

The wilderness is not a luxury for me but a necessity. When I am no longer able to carry my own weight, I’ll ask Daniel to carry more, a trade we made a very long time ago when he was a small child and I had to carry everything we needed for both of us in my backpack. If Dan is not available, well, perhaps I can hire a Sherpa or a guide. I WILL continue to walk into the wilderness. It is where I center myself and undoubtedly it is where I feel closest to the One. Perhaps, someday, in the wilderness I can actually join with the One.  That really would be worth a walk in the wilderness.