The Individuation of Adventure on the Teton Crest

Phelps Lake

BEAR! Bear in the brush! I had been hiking along blurting out my usual chorus of “Koo-Ka-Doo,” and “Human in the Forest,” among myriad other random pointless grunts and phrases. My internal monologue has a tendency to externalize in quiet sections of trail in bear country, and this was a quiet section of trail. I was on the Valley Trail in the Tetons between Phelps Lake and Granite Canyon, and there was not another soul around. This was my second day on the Valley Trail. I had started at Lupine Meadows the morning before, and camped at Phelps the first night. It was crowded in the immediate neighborhood of the valley lakes—Bradley, Taggart and Phelps—but away from those lakes I was alone.

The bear stood up. It was full sized, black in color, black in subspecies. It looked at me, turned and ran away. For my first bear interaction alone in the woods, it was almost optimal; posing just long enough for me to get a picture before running off would have been an improvement.

I kept up my chorus of mindless chatter until I was far away from where I thought the bear might have run to, and until I was sure the bear was like “I can’t take the noise! Run away!”

As I headed up Granite Canyon and approached the Crest Trail, alone became much less of an issue. There were lots of hikers and runners about. I met two groups of young guys, out with buddies gathered from over the years and from all around the country. They took me in. We chatted over lunch, we chatted while hiking. I raced the lead group to Marian Lake. Told them I’d be naked and in the water by the time they arrived. They arrived immediately after I did and joined me in the Marian's chilly waters.

My permit had me staying at Marian Lake for the night, but stormy skies had caused some folks to bolt. I’d met two women hiking down Granite Canyon who had a permit to camp on Death Canyon Shelf for tonight. I told them I’d be taking their spot. So, after a refreshing swim, I headed onward.

Marian Lake

It was up here on the Crest that I started to notice the variety of activities folks were engaged in. Mixed in with, and passing, us backpackers were trail runners, lots of trail runners. The most ambitious were running the entire length of the Crest, some 40 miles from Paintbrush Canyon to Philips Bench. Others were running up one canyon and down the next, doing loops in the 10–20-mile range. These shorter distance runners were more apparent the next day as I trekked across Alaska Basin where Buck Mountain Pass Trail combined with Devils Staircase Trail made for a beautiful 16-mile loop starting and ending in Targhee National Forest in Idaho.

The sky threatened all day on Day 2 of my hike. It had the look of a sky that was not quite summer, not quite winter. The clouds were grey cumulonimbus that look of a summer storm, but the clouds had a flat base that filled the expanse of the sky, not unlike the clouds that cloak these mountains while dumping loads of snow in winter. A storm finally hit as I was pumping water, and right as my filter clogged. I wanted to clean my filter and continue pumping, but I wanted to get out of the rain more. I headed out along Death Canyon Shelf looking for a protected spot for the night. The wind had blown hard at Phelps Lake the previous night, and I was expecting the rain to settle in. I found a protected spot in the trees, but the night turned out to be serene. Only the howling of coyotes, that at one point had gotten unnervingly close, broke through the calm quiet.

The Grand and the other granite peaks from Death Canyon Shelf

Two women backpackers passed my camp as evening set in. They were moving fast, but even so, they stopped to chat with me. They had climbed the Grand the previous day and had put down about 12 miles from the top of the tram already, and now were aiming to set up camp in Alaska Basin, still some 7-miles distant. Their packs were light, but not the lightest I had yet seen. Last evening at Phelps Lake, among the other set of 4 campers there, two had packs that seemed to me to be little more than day packs. We set off together in the morning, and I queried them on how they did it.

Some of the answers were obvious. They were only out for 2 nights, and the two of them shared the load. One guy carried the bivy sacks, the other the food container. Both only had shorts, no long pants, except, I guessed rain pants, though maybe not. I carry a cotton sleeping shirt so as to not sleep in my stinky clothes, they allowed themselves no such luxury. I didn’t get to ask other questions as we quickly reached the junction where we parted, they were heading up Death Canyon, I was going to Granite.

I know that ultra-light backpackers make all sorts of compromises to lighten their kit. Some do without stoves, eating only cold food; others sleep in their clothes carrying only a light blanket or nothing at all. I learned about sleeping quilts while on this trip; sleeping bags that save weight by forgoing a zipper and hood to seal them against the cold. It’s all pushing the mantra first popularized by Ray Jardine and others to carry only what we actually require, not what we think we might need.

I met Rich, a chiropractor from Cedar City, Utah, hiking across Alaska Basin. Rich’s kit was ultralight and he told me that I was carrying too much. I told him that I had purchased my backpack, sleeping bag and sleeping pad 6-years ago. This new gear weighed 6.5 pounds and cut the weight of these 3 items to half of what it had been. There were smaller, lighter packs on the market when I bought mine, but I just couldn't see how I could fit all my gear in so small a pack. He explained that studies done by the Army over the years, linked the weight that troops carried to back problems soldiers experienced. I allowed that I needed a new lighter tent, mine was now 18 years old, and my ceramic water filter could be replaced by a new lighter offering, but that I had confidence in that filter and was hesitant to replace it.

Rich stopped in Alaska Basin to camp and do some day hiking. I continued up toward Hurricane Pass. As I hiked, I thought more about my kit. I came to a few realizations. The optimal kit was the product of trial and error, and determined by the needs, and pocketbook, of the individual hiker. If speed and distance are the only two factors in your decision making then by all means, eat cold food, sleep in your clothes and carry the lightest kit you can. There are times that this makes sense. I recently read “Thirst: 2,600 miles to home,” by Heather Anderson. It’s about her race to beat the Fastest Known Time on the Pacific Crest Trail. What she did was amazing, she averaged more than 40 miles per day for 60 straight days, while being completely self-supported. I saw it as a testament to her logistical skills and drive that she managed to stay on track and not take a single day off while coping with every adversity a long trail can and does throw at you. She succeeded.

But I am not trying to set a speed record. I am going farther and moving faster than I would be if I were out here with buddies, but I am also focused on taking pictures and interacting with whoever is willing to walk with me. Camping in comfort is part of the equation for me out here. I am not willing to give up hot meals, my sleeping shirt, or my sleeping bag with pillow; yes, I decided long ago that a small pillow is worth its weight in gold.

Sunset Lake, Alaska Basin

The wind howled as I made my way to the top of Hurricane Pass. At the top were two young women boiling water for tea, and a couple who were cutting cheese and salami. The guy handed me a chunk of salami topped with a chunk of cheese. I announced, “It’s my birthday, this is the first present I’ve gotten today. Thank you so much.” I turned 66 that day. I chatted with them for a moment, then I suggested that it would be better to make tea and eat snacks below the pass and out of the wind and I moved along.

I headed down the South Fork of Cascade Canyon. Along the way, I met a young couple as I stopped to take a photo and we ended up hiking together all the way to the intersection with the North Fork Trail, where we headed in opposite directions. They were full of questions. My grizzled look was maybe mistaken for wisdom about backpacking. I told them what I knew, I tried not to tell them too many lies.

Views while hiking down the South Fork

This was my second Labor Day weekend out on the Crest Trail. As I started up the North Fork I stopped at the first few campsites to check them over and consider, “Is this where Dan, Jeremy and I camped that night in 2008?” When I reached the group site, I realized that was where we had camped. It was a wild night 15 years earlier. The first round of snow hit us when we were camped in Alaska Basin the night before. We crossed Hurricane Pass in a white early morning; two inches of fresh snow were on the ground, snow clouds enveloped the Teton peaks. The pass might not have been obvious if not for the one set of tracks that preceded our own to the top.

As we headed down the South Fork, we could feel the backcountry emptying out. Chatter was all about the coming storm. While most everyone else headed down Cascade Canyon to make their escape, me and my two greenhorn mates were about to get ourselves a trial by fire. The wind howled, the temperatures dropped and it snowed sideways. Jeremy and Dan were thrilled nearly to the point of madness. We got a blaze going, kept throwing on logs. Flames roared sideways; our crazed laughter captured in strobe lit flashes of orange. It was a party toasting the apocalypse.

We survived. Woke up the next morning to calm, brilliant blue skies, 8 inches of fresh snow and bitter cold temperatures. We hiked up the North Fork under a warming sun. I thought about staying at this same camp this evening to try and better recreate the memory of that night, but I wanted to get as high up the North Fork as I could. A storm was forecast to come in tonight as well. Not snow this time, but torrential rain. I figured that being far up the canyon would reduce the risk that I chose to bail and just hike out in the morning. I was determined to hike over 10,700-foot Paintbrush Divide and down Paintbrush Canyon before hiking out.

As I headed up the North Fork, the canyon once again appeared to be empty. I listened at every campsite I came to, no sound. So I went higher. I checked my map. Only 3 campsites left, at least one campsite had to be open. I kept hiking. The first one was taken. Good, I comforted myself, I want to go farther anyway, The next one was also taken. The last one had three tents at it when I arrived. I decided to go down to the site, appeal to the better nature of the occupants and maybe squeeze my tent in with theirs.

I introduced myself, and they readily told me that there was a nice spot behind a big rock not too far away. I got their names, Ron, Jax who was Ron's son, and their friend Chris. I thanked them, said that I would be back to hang out over dinner.

With dinner in hand, I came back and found an uncomfortable rock to sit on, while noticing that the three guys all had these take apart 1-pound chairs that I had seen while waiting in line at the permit office. I queried them, “You carry those backpacking?” Ron chirped up. “I value my comfort out here. An extra pound of weight is a small price to pay.” He explained that he had a very light tent, pocket rocket for cooking, slept with a quilt, but insisted on some comforts.

As we talked Chris got up and was playing with his camera. It finally struck me; he carried a tripod and full-size camera with telephoto lens out here. He owned up to the fact that it hurt to carry the extra weight, but he loved doing night photography. They had been out longer than me, they weren’t hiking more than 5 miles a day, and he was staying up to photograph the stars. Tonight his foreground was the west face of the Tetons. I expected he was going to get some great pictures. I hadn’t even seen the stars except for the moment in the middle of each night when I got up to relieve myself.

I came back to say good night, and found Ron sitting comfortably in a full down suit, while I stood chilled in my sweater and rain jacket. Ron, I learned was 72, and he repeated that comfort was key for him out here. I began to understand that their whole purpose out here was different from mine. I was cranking out miles, they were leisurely progressing and enjoying the sights. Ron told me that I missed a bull moose who moved through the meadow in front of camp while I was gone. Their gear was every bit as light and modern as my own. They just chose to carry more of it.

Mts Teewinot, Owen and the Grand in early morning light

I awoke to a spritz of rain under partly cloudy skies. I thought that maybe the forecast was wrong. Maybe we weren’t going to get doused with heavy rain. I was ready to go at 8 am, and stopped to say goodbye to the guys. Chris was fiddling with his camera; he’d gotten some good shots last night. Ron was sitting comfortably in his chair and down outfit. He seemed nonplussed by the threat of storm. We said goodbye and I headed out of camp.

I got back on the trail at the exact same moment as the two women were passing by that I’d met making tea up on Hurricane Pass. They too were making an effort to get up and over Paintbrush Divide ahead of the storm. We set off together. The weather was holding, so we took a short break at Lake Solitude before starting the long grunt up to the divide. We chatted about our trips, a bit about our lives, and a bit about what we carried. The two women, Emily and Jenni, were veterans of multiple backpacking trips together. I commented on the stuff that Emily had hanging off her pack. She said that she carries less each time they go out, but she is still working out what she needs.

I was learning that modern technology offers each of us a lot of options in what to carry. For each of us, finding our comfort zone with what we carry is a process. We each have different fears, different needs, and these things are not static. Our needs and fears adjust with experience, and adjust with our goals for each trip.

Looking back at the North Fork of Cascade Canyon, (left), and toward Mt Moran, (right) from up on Paintbrush Divide

A few sprinkles followed us up and over the divide. We took a break at Holly Lake, and the sky finally let loose a little while later. This time it rained steadily for at least an hour before taking a break and then setting in for good about an hour later. I thought about Ron, Jax and Chris. They were planning to camp in Upper Paintbrush Canyon tonight. It was unlikely that they were over the divide before the rain started. I hoped that they made their way to camp and got set up during the break. I have never had to set up camp in sheeting rain. I didn’t wish that on them. I wanted to feel that Ron and gang were hunkered down and ready to wait out the storm. I wanted them to be comfortable.

Emily, Jenni and Chuck during a break from the storm in Paintbrush Canyon (photo courtesy of Emily), and looking out at Jackson Lake

I made it back to my car during the break in the storm--the 56.8 mile Crest Trail Loop was now behind me. The plan had been to sleep in the back of the car overnight in Lupine Meadows, then run the Middle Teton in the morning. I have climbed the Middle 3 times since I was 19, and I was determined to give it another go, in running shoes this time. But it was not to be. Now that I had service again, I could see that the forecast was not going to allow it. Rain was settling in and wasn't going to let up for about 30 hours. I wasn't willing to hang around for a day with no where to stay except a small car filled with wet gear. It just didn't satisfy my comfort needs. I got in the car and started back to Bozeman.

This is the third in a short series of stories under the category "The Payoff." It's about adventures I am phyically primed for following a year of hard training for the Ridge Run and other trail races.