Homeward Bound: Tetons Part 3

I stumbled back up and recovered my knife. I felt a surge of pride when I found it no worse for wear. Yep, that is a good knife. I’m sure we will have many more adventures together.

I scrambled down and down and down always avoiding the snow as much as possible. I had had enough with snow, falling, and icy water. I was exhausted but exhilarated that I had made if off the ridge without injury. I vowed to wear boots and not come alone next time. Doing this alone had been the most risky element of the entire hike. This entire time I was mostly far off trail and no one knew where I was or when to expect me back. Dumb, very dumb.

I made it to Delta Lake, finally, and while sunning myself on another rock, I called Dave Marcum and told him exactly where I was. If I didn’t text him when I arrived at my car, he knew where to send the rangers. He pulled up his map software and I recounted my tip as he followed my course. It was incredibly odd to be six thousand feet above the valley, tucked inside the range, and have flawless cell service with my buddy looking at a map and satellite images of my exact position. How many more years until those images are live?

The sun had sunk below the peaks and it was growing dark and cold. I attempted to navigate as best I could out of the basin and was relieved when I came across a thin, overgrown trail. I followed it down and around the crest of the mountain until it plopped me out of the ferns and onto the main trail. I must admit I was terribly glad to be on a simple, wide, trial again. I’d run out of water long ago, but still had a hearty supply of Starbursts and Granola bars. I munched on these until I drove into Jackson and got the biggest meal money could buy at Dairy Queen.

The end.

Onto the Cliffs: Tetons Part 2

Continuation from my trip to the Tetons in July 2009.

Crawling to my feet, I cautiously worked my way around the boulders, and then headed far up onto the scree where the snow ended. I was taking no more chances. I marmot barked out its displeasure as I climbed into its territory.

I circled the basin, maintaining my elevation above the lake for safety, and came to a large boulder blocking my way. Of course, I opted to climb over it instead of easily going around. It took two moves to get on top where I found myself suddenly face to face with the marmot. It looked completely surprised. Neither of us moved for a moment. It was close enough for me to have reached out and touched it. Realizing this, it grunted and shuffled away slowly. I pulled myself fully onto the top of the boulder and sat down. The marmot disappeared down a crack. But seconds later it popped its head out and watched me. Finally it climbed back out completely and we shared the warm rock together, mere feet apart.

I came across a trail, a real one carved into the wet soil, that led up to the saddle I was meandering towards. I had studied the map back at the hotel. I knew the other side was steep, but it looked passable enough.

The wind blasted me as I stood in the saddle and stared nervously into the next valley. The pass was not just steep, it was cliffs. Better yet, icy cliffs.

I followed the trail as it wound treacherously along one cliff top then the next. At this point there were trees to cling to. But the treed slopes quickly thinned to solid cliff. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I thought of turning back on many occasions. But back was now a long fight up. Besides, I’d come up that way and below me lay an unexplored, untouristed basin. And you know how I love to explore…

I lost the trail. There were no markings on the solid rock, and the footprints in the snow were very intermittent. Somehow I shimmied down a crack and along a rapidly narrowing ledge I sincerely thought was the trial, well, possibly…until the ledge ended in a wet curving slope that then dropped ten feet to another wider ledge. Yeah, this definitely wasn’t a trail. Again, I could turn back, try and shimmy up the crack without protective climbing gear, or I could tempt fate by climbing down. There were no clear holds close by, but an nice series out a ways on the cliff face. The ledge below was wide, and not too far down. I really hate backtracking…so I jumped for the holds. I made it easily, but my shoes couldn’t register and I gave up quickly and lowered myself with my arms. I caught my breath, trembling slightly, on the wide ledge. How did I end up stuck on a cliff in an area where very few people ever come?

Luckily this ledge networked with others and I find myself on the trail again. As I followed it I quickly realized it had no intention of weaving down into the basin and to the lake below. It maintained its elevation high on the ridge wall, skirting the basin up to the glacier that rests below the Grand Teton. I was not where I wanted to be. I was on the trail to summit. The snow was packed and my shoes couldn’t dig in enough to keep my footing. I slipped several times. The slope of the snow was by far the steepest I had ever tried to tackle. I was still high enough up to be very nervous and there were obvious cliffs below me if I slid far enough, which on this slope I figured I would. But how do I get down off this infernal wall? I cursed myself for not wearing my better hiking boots; I was in my old flimsy cross trainers. I cursed myself for mocking summiteers with all their gear. I had been one to state loudly that the guide books said you could summit the Tetons without ropes or axes. It is not that tough…and I was still on non technical terrain.

But walking the slope now, I realized the handiness of such items. My pulse was racing and I was sweating from the tension. Every step might send me to a fateful drop. If I had an axe and some crampons, oh man, that would be heaven. How did I get into this type of snow and ice with totally inadequate footwear?

However, I did have my SOG knife which I quickly unsheathed. It was dangerous, but it could bite into the snow and hold me when I slipped.

My plan was to continue along until the cliffs safely ended and the slope lessened as the basin curved.

Even stepping where others had trod, the slope was too much. I made my way, my knife digging in and holding me several times. One time, however, I lost both my feet. I hung from my knife as I clawed at the snow with my other hand and kicked with my legs. The knife suddenly gave way. I shot downward. I spun onto my back and thrust the knife into the snow. It skipped across the surface; I was moving too quickly for it to penetrate. Below me, and coming up fast, the snow ended far sooner than I would like. With both hands I frantically worked the knife. I was able to dig the blade in and keep it in. The torque on the handle was incredible and it was all I could do to keep the knife from twisting out of my grip. Between my heels and the knife I slowed quite nicely. But not before the snow stopped. Suddenly I was sliding along rocks and dirt. The knife scraped and caught stone and skittered out of my hands. I actually laughed at this point. I was moving slowly, but the slope was so steep that even out of the snow I could not stop myself. It is amazing how, even moving so slowly across rock, momentum can keep 165 pounds from stopping. When I noticed the drop off below me, I stopped laughing. I clawed at the rocks and focused on jamming my feet into anything that would stop me. By the time I reached the cliff I was moving at a crawl. I had time to think “No, no, no, come on, no!” before momentum carried me over the edge. I dropped…three feet. It was actually perfect: I was able to just put my legs down and stand up. I ran another fifteen feet down the increasingly grassy incline and finally stopped against a large rock.

I was finally off the cliffs and free of the snow. I was shaking badly, but was laughing. What a rush. That had been crazy fun—well, perhaps just crazy. My hands throbbed and were bleeding badly from hundreds of little scrapes and cuts. I was relieved to have sustained no knife wounds.

I looked up at my path. Now, this all happened much quicker than you can ever read. This whole episode may have taken ten seconds. I had slid about forty feet in the snow, another fifteen on the rock and dirt, and then the ledge. God’s hand was immediately evident. The drop off was three feet where I went over it. Five feet to the side, down slope, it was eight feet. And it quickly grew to about thirty or more feet as it pulled out of the scree slope and the basin descended to the lake still far below me. Sliding any time earlier would have so easily ended very poorly.

I stumbled back up and recovered my knife. I felt a surge of pride when I found it no worse for wear. Yep, that is a good knife. I’m sure we will have many more adventures together.

Into the Water: Tetons part 01

From my trip to the Tetons in July 2009.

I gasped; not only because the water was freezing, but also because there was water. I had supposed I was safe on the shore. Apparently I was on ice and had just punched one leg through. The lake was larger than it looked, swaddled in snow as it was. I pulled my leg out, stood up, and scrambled further away from the lake.

The sun was high over head, the weather was warm, and I had Amphitheater Lake all to myself. It was beautiful and peaceful, but not the ideal time to fall into ice covered lake. The friendly ranger with his tour group had left only minutes before, but were doubtlessly out of hearing range. I had a three mile hike off the Tetons to get back to my car. I preferred to do it without hypothermia.

Not far from the lake, starting to climb the ice covered talus slope, I came across a well defined path going around the lake. The footprints had melted in the sun forming a shapeless rut in the deep snow. Not far along, the path curved around some larger boulders taking me closer to the lake than I liked.

At the exact time I wondered if this was actually a trail or if it could really be a seam that—I fell through the ice again. In the split second of hesitation as my body started to plummet straight down I instinctively threw myself backwards and spread my arms. Having no footing, I didn’t get much backward motion, but enough to slam my backpack into and catch the edge of the hole I had broken in; and with my arms I effectively stopped my fall. I let out a laugh: I had caught myself. Then I felt the cold gripping both my lower legs. I stopped laughing and immediately pulled myself out of the hole and rolled to the side. Looking in, I was still over the lake which was three feet below the snow. Both my legs to mid calf were soaked. The path I had been following was indeed merely a crack from shifting ice that had a foot or so of snow over it. I had foolishly been walking on the weakest part I could possibly walk on without realizing the danger.

Laying in the sun, shivering, still very alone, I pondered on the many warnings I’ve heard about crevasses in glaciers. Crevasses are giant cracks throughout a glacier. They can be wide as a road, or so narrow that snow easily drifts across obscuring the crack completely. They are the most dangerous threat to mountaineers; one wrong step, a quick plummet, and then a crunch of broken bones and a slow death. I’ve been warned to avoid walking in fresh snow. When on a glacier, stick to the dirty packed stuff.

Well, lesson driven home, I’d say. This was a humorous and relatively nonthreatening way to have that point demonstrated.

Crawling to my feet, I cautiously worked my way around the boulders, and then headed far up onto the scree where the snow ended. I was taking no more chances. I marmot barked out its displeasure as I climbed into its territory...

To be continued...

North Thurston Peak

I touched the sky today.

I stood at the base of the mountains and looked up. The clouds, far above, crashed into the mountain tops. I turned to Amber Tolman and said, “I want to get lost in those clouds.”

She agreed.

Up there the snow was just relinquishing its grip. Among deep drifts, bare dirt exposed the still dormant bushes, bent from the weight of winter. Crouching, I ran my fingers over the first of the green spring shoots that were months behind their valley counterparts. They peeked cautiously through the dead matted grass, unsure of Spring.

Straightening, I raised my arm and ran my fingers through the thick feathery clouds. My hand was in the ceiling of the world.

Around us all was gray or white. The city, four thousand feet below, had faded into the clouds. The mists swirled past us, dancing over the ridge in intricate curving figures, vivid and varied. We were not alone lost in the gray. And though I wanted, we could not remain. We did not belong…we were strangers: travelers exploring a foreign realm.

So we plummeted from the clouds. My legs are so tired now. Of course; I touched the sky today.

Silver Island Campout

Shower after shower crossed I-80. I was nervous about the roads. To my surprise, the road along Silver Island was fine. I took Dad’s Pop tent. You pull it out of the bag and, pop, it is up. I used it years ago when we last came to Silver Island. There had been a wind storm and the fly had been ripped off. Luckily I had had enough foresight to lash it to our van door.

Janalyn, Michelle, Stefanie, Bryson, Nolan, and I roasted Starbursts. We cooked apples and dipped them in brown sugar and cinnamon. We made smores.

The girls decided to cram into one of the small square tents together. Bryson joined me in my large two man tent. We had plenty of space. Nolan slept alone in the other small square tent.

At 6:30 the storm hit. I had just gone back to bed after checking to see if there was any sort of decent sunrise. Suddenly the rain crashed down. I curled up warm in my bag. Then the wind hit. The tent shook and bent. A little water was seeping in the edge of the tent by our heads. That was normal for this tent. Not a big deal; we’d be dry as long as we didn’t go up there to bother the puddle. The wind grew worse. A bump brought my head out of my bag. The tent had come un-staked at our head and the end flapped up against us. That nice puddle of water was coursing through the tent now, soaking into Bryson’s pad, and the edge of my sleeping bag. Oh, and my shirt, pants, and camera.

Things were going down hill fast. By 7:30 our rain fly was giving up its last hold on the tent. The wind caught it like a sail. I climbed out quickly. I felt like a sailor as I clawed out knots in the icy rope attaching the fly. I made a complete circle attaching all the ties but the wind had already whipped my knots free. I circled, tightening again. My hands were frozen. The horizontal rain was hitting me in the face.

I fled to my car to find it already occupied by Janalyn and Michelle. They had gotten wet in their tent and had come to get dry.

The sky did clear up and we had a wonderful day.

We headed out to the caves. In the first I found a small piece of woven basket. I was shocked. It was definitely and Indian Artifact. So the rumors are true: the Fremont Indians did use these caves as shelter. The second cave had somewhat fresh animal bones. It looked like a fox had been in on the soft silty dirt.

Real food sounded great so we packed into our cars and trundled off down the dirt road to Wendover. The rain had been enough to turn it into the slimy goo I remember from my last visit. I was on a slight curve when my car spun. There was no warning. I was just suddenly sliding sideways. I corrected and kept us on the road. We slid and sloshed forward; the car fishtailing eagerly. I stopped my car and jumped out just in time to see Stefanie’s car, facing the wrong direction, slide off the road at the curve. After five minutes we had rocked it out of the trench and back onto the road.

We got out safely, got our food, and made it home just in time to get rained on by a passing thunderhead.

Adams Cabin 2006

Introducing you to a new segment you can expect to see from time to time: Old Memories Relived. These will be videos and slides shows from adventures, or entertaining daily life, I have had. I am sorting through my gigabytes of pictures and video clips and realized that I need to share these.