Yellowstone Adventure, Day 1

[This is a continuation of the Yellowstone Report by guest author, Oliver Lignell.]

Day 1 – The Yellowstone Way: Trailhead to Fall River Cutoff (8 miles)

The next morning was a surprise: 26 degrees and foggy. Our first indication that moisture on this trip might be different than the more typical high mountain trip. The first activity, after coffee, was shuttle trip logistics. Dan, Dan, and I would take both cars to the Park entrance. I would be dropped off to get our permits, while Dan and Dan drove both cars to the far trail head, left one, and returned to pick me up in the remaining car. Meanwhile Kevin and Rick would organize the camp and pack. What could be simpler?

Rather than filling out a form, paying, and leaving – the California Way, or scrawling a rough note in trailhead ledger and leaving – the Colorado Way, Yellowstone Way required forms. I had to fill out a form to watch a wildlife safety video, sign a form that I had watched it, and then fill out the post video forms. At one point, I was confident we wouldn’t make it to the trailhead until nightfall. However, the ranger was kindly and patient. He even confirmed that there was a hot spring near Ferris Creek, saying something about “Mr. Bubbles.” However, I did not get much detail. I was on a mission. Finally, I was certified, finished the paperwork and ran back out to the road. I figured the guys would already be there, irritated and waiting.  After all, they only had to drive 12 miles up the road to the terminating trailhead and return.

I waited. And waited. I sat by the road, stood by the road, explored by the road, and even read the labels on trash by the road. Approximately 8,000 cars drove by. I watched the masses leaving the country’s first national park. Finally, I saw a familiar car. It was them! I yanked open the door to give them an earful. Not that I was impatient or anything.

Dan S. said, “You know, those directions you gave us really sucked. Do you know there are actually several different trailheads up the road?”

Dan T. said, “Yeah, we drove past a couple before we stopped and then asked and found out we had to drive back again to the first one. And the traffic was terrible."

About 30 different comments went through my head, including, “The first trailhead on the left 12 miles up the only road in sight was complicated!?” and, “Yeah, well, I was stuck here getting carbon monoxide poisoning.” Instead, I paused, took a deep breath, and settled for, “Oh well, it’s a beautiful morning, let’s go!” It truly was. Who could stay angry? The fog had lifted, the sun was shining, and we were headed to the trail.

When we pulled back into Flagg Ranch it was pack-like-mad time. Kevin and Rick were done, but the rest of us had to hurry. The plan was to make two trips to the trailhead. Do the math – 5 guys, five full packs with a week’s worth of food, and one small 4-door Toyota. However, Dan S. became convinced that we could make it. If only we had a video: unstrapping, wedging, stuffing – and in only an hour, we were done: four packs, or pieces thereof, into the trunk. The last pack straddled Dan S., Dan T., and me in the back seat. The back window shelf was filled with odds and ends, Dan S's hiking poles stuck out the window like Martian antennae and Rick, in the passenger seat, had to contend with at least two sleeping bags and a stove under his chin. Success was reached thanks to Kevin’s superior shape and weight analysis. For his efforts, Kevin earned the Get Stuffed Badge. By doing this in one trip, we probably saved…about an hour. The car was only 2 inches off the ground, but we could drive.

Arguing about what the best approach would be.

After a short 15 mile drive, with the last few miles bouncing heavily in and out of potholes and the car bottoming out, we were finally at the trailhead. At the base of a small dam, the trail headed out along the outlet. At first we weren’t even sure this was the right one. It was a huge paved lot and we were the only car. But, finally, a sign was found to confirm that we were, in fact, at the right place. We were good to go.

Our target was camp 9UI, just over 8 miles away traveling first northwest up to Fall river and then west along the river until we reached the Fall River cutoff. Yellowstone has designated sites that must be reserved and, unlike any other trip we had ever taken, we knew exactly where we would stay and how far we would go each day. The sky was incredibly blue and the trail modest, rolling through thick pines and the occasional meadow. In fact, we experienced what would become the pattern for nearly the entire trip. Dense forest, limited views of hills and bluffs, easy rolling trails and, fording streams. Strangely, when I asked the ranger whether we would need to prepare to ford streams he said “nope, nothing to worry about at this time of year." A statement which leads the reasonable person to conclude we would only encounter mere trickles as we hiked. What could be the problem anyway? According to the map, we only needed to cross one stream on the first day.

However, long before we came to a stream to cross, we came to something else. Since it was not a stream is must have been a river-ette or perhaps it was creekish.  In any event, we soon learned that stopping for crossings would become a frequent feature of our hike. Yellowstone has water. As with many backcountry features, this provided an opportunity to test gear choices. And, through rigorous field testing, we determined that Crocs™ were the superior gear in this regard.

The first of many river-ettes.

Later, during our first lunch stop, several remarkable events occurred. Rather than interpret, we are able to reconstruct events through the careful notes that Kevin made: 

“When we finally stopped for lunch, DS ran into the woods to deal with his excess gluten consumption of the past 24 hours. Meanwhile, a youthful, beautiful, ex-Yellowstone ranger approached our sprawling party, with bear spray at hand. She stopped to talk, and we learned that she was about to start a new job elsewhere, and was taking a day to do the one hike she had always wanted to do, but never had the chance; to Union Falls. Unfortunately, that's not where we were headed, and we wouldn't have been able to keep up with her anyway. After she departed, Oliver defended us and our food from a chipmunk which had identified us as easy marks. His ninja skills (mostly noises, with a makeshift spear for good measure) finally drove the beast away. We were relieved that we didn't have to resort to the bear spray yet. DS finally returned from his second trip, and O wanted to know if he needed a new blowout preventer.”

The time passed quickly until we came to a large meadow. The trail split and the team headed up the trail until I called a halt. It did not feel right. I convinced the MountainGuys that we should go the other way. After the usual grumbling and nay-saying, my suggestion was supported. We went back and, viola – found the camp site about 150 yards away.

Yellowstone Meadow near Fall River

The campsite was on the edge of the meadow, along a creek, with scattered mature pines. In a word, it was beautiful: level ground, numerous shaded spots to pitch a tent, and what would become – the ubiquitous cooking and food cooking area. We learned a number of things about camping the Yellowstone Way at that first evening Fall River.

First, Yellowstone requires back country campers to pitch their tents at least 150 ft from the cook area. Initially, this seemed rather odd though logical, considering the concerns about bears and foods. We quickly learned to appreciate this design. Each campfire ring was substantial and commodious. There were many fine spots to set up one’s tent. And, hanging the food did not require infamous “Well Hung” badge skills. Instead a tree trunk was chained at right angles between two live trees next to the fire ring. It was usually about 15 feet up, forming a large “H”. We pitched two ropes over the log and literally pulled up our entire packs. Camping made easy.

Second, the unmentionable: back country toileting. A topic usually skipped in the more polite journals, but a necessity nonetheless. Yellowstone solved this problem by setting up a pit toilet at every designated tent site. My greatest fear – after being mauled and eaten by a bear, was having a large green phone both sized pit toilet right next to the campfire. I could envision it all too well. Instead, there was a small trail from the fire that led about 50 yards away to a low profile brown toilet in the middle of the trees: one lid, no walls, no smell. One hesitates to say tasteful, but it was at least not too bad – and removed any chance of finding unwelcome surprises while looking for a quiet spot to do one's business. The set up was well designed.

After a satisfying meal that was not noted in any detail, the MountainGuys went off to their separate areas to drift in to a relaxed slumber while listening to the gurgling river. Tomorrow would take us in to the mouth of the Bechler River canyon and Ouzel Falls.

Yellowstone National Park, September 2010

 MOUNTAINGUY ADVENTURE - YELLOWSTONE EDITION

September 2010

By Oliver Lignell 

Copyright Oliver Lignell, 2012

[Readers: This edition of the MountainGuy News has been written by guest author, Oliver Lignell, one of the original MountainGuys. But please do not hold that against him. Enjoy the story, and, as always, comments welcome. Ed.]

Preparing and Staging for the Bechler Canyon-Shoshone Lake Shuttle Trip—September 2010

(Author’s note #1 : Rather than the usual exaggerated, one-sided, semi-fictional hyperbole published as MountainGuy news, this report is fair, balanced, and a purely factual account of the events. It is not only based on the author’s rigorous and extensive note taking, but exhaustively cross checked against the meticulous notes kept by Kevin. Therefore, relax, make yourself comfortable, you can be sure that everything you read is unadulterated mountain gospel.

Author’s note #2: This narrative could not be fully experienced without use of the excellent pictures taken by Kevin. In fact, this narrative is peppered with more than the usual number of photos, for which I apologize, however there were just too many amazing photos and for each one you see there were a handful of others you did not. This speaks to the spectacular nature of the nature we saw. Naturally.)

Yellowstone! What an icon. It was a definite bucket list item for the MountainGuys. The most discussed topic? Bear. Bears were the content of almost every planning conversation for months as the mighty MountainGuys pondered, planned, and philosophized about taking on the fearsome bear-infested Yellowstone backcountry. John did serious research, Dan S. trained for the trip by wearing a home-made sign on the back of his pack that read “ Bear Meat”. He also changed his mind about going at least four times. I invested in triple-redundant safety systems: a personal siren, pepper spray, and a REALLY big knife. Kevin maintained a steadfast optimism. Rick played it cool.

In the end, a route was found that – in theory, avoided the greatest concentration of grizzlies, and only featured an average population of black and grizzly bears. It was a 60+ mile shuttle trip featuring a multi-day journey up the Bechler river canyon. Were the MountainGuys nervous? Yes. Would they admit it? Perhaps – but only as a sign of maturely admitting fear to show even greater, though understated, courage. Little did we realize that bears would be the least of the threats they would face. Far greater threats would arise as we took on the Bechler Canyon-Shoshone Lake shuttle trip.

In the last month leading up to the trip it was learned, with dismay, that a key stalwart member of the pack would not be able to join the adventure. John was not going to come. Not only did this leave the dubious task of journalism to yours truly, but it shook the foundations of the MountainGuy institution or, at least, caused some indigestion and maybe a little gas. John ALWAYS came. How would we do it without him? There was no easy answer, but John’s absence, while doubtless for reasons that can not be assailed (but were), did provide someone to blame for any issues that occurred in his absence: a proud MountainGuy tradition.

So, a reduced team gathered in Boulder one fall morning and departed for the wilderness in two cars. This trip was to be a rare shuttle trip with a car at either end, allowing for greater mileage and scenery. And, as usual with our map and route finding, we agreed to disagree. We drove North and West, one car guided by Mapquest and the other by Google, each sure that the directions they had were more efficient.  In this case, Google (and Dan S.) won the race to Laramie. We continued on to Lander – where a terrific burger place was discovered (to be revisited). Lander is the home of NOLS and had a healthy percentage of granola mixed in with the usual agricultural/rural mix of small town western America. Past Lander, through the Wind River Indian Reservation and, finally, ten hours after leaving Boulder we caught sight of the majestic Tetons rising in the west. Finally, we were approaching the launching point and mere moments from our trailhead lodgings on the outskirts of Yellowstone.

Once we reached Jackson Lake and completed the requisite oohing and ahhing, we turned north and soon reached our destination. While the tradition, and a good one, is to find a convenient campground close to the trailhead, this proved nigh impossible for this trip. The state campgrounds were closed this late in the season and the Yellowstone campgrounds were full months in advance. That left us with an odd fifties style KOA style campground called Flagg Ranch. An “authentic” western cheapo lodge/gas station/restaurant with a ring of campsites hosting RVs, Campers, and a few lonely tents. The ratio was, I think, about 50 to 1. But, we had a spot and it was ours. We squeezed our five tents in to a spot made for four and called it home. Yours truly managed to grab one of the few spots with duff and Kevin, by far the politest guy in the group, was stuck camping on the gravel parking pad next to the car. Hey, it’s a dog eat dog world.

The MountainGuys soon made it a comfortable spot. Tents were pitched, food bins unloaded, and beverages consumed. A strange incident then occurred, as the group was milling about organizing and unpacking.

We noticed a somewhat disheveled women in running shorts jogging along the paved road linking the campsites. She appeared somewhat disoriented, bobbing her head in one direction and then another. She gazed our way.

Dan T., trained in handling situations like this, asked in a kindly voice, “Do you need some help?”

“Um, well, kind of, yes.” She wandered a little closer – at least as close as a lone woman would come to a group of scruffy and getting scruffier outdoor kind of guys.

“You see, um, my husband.” Her eyes darted around nervously.

“Yes. I see, your husband.” Dan was comforting.

“Well” She paused. “I need an axe. Do you have an axe?” Her voice was plaintive. She seemed in real need.

To confirm we all understood this, Dan said, “So, you need an axe. For your husband.”

“Yes”. She said.

“So, there’s been some trouble?”

“Well, I didn’t bring one and I really need one and, you know” she paused rather breathlessly, “do you think I could borrow one? I’ll run it right back. No problem”.

Dan seemed to be weighing the situation. But I, always ready to be helpful, jumped in. “Sure, we have an axe – will this do?” I handed her the large axe that I, as a prepared MountainGuy, had within easy reach.

“Oh yes, thanks!” She grabbed the axe and jogged off rather quickly with the axe held at the ready.

“Wow!” said Dan S. “What a nut case, I wouldn’t have given her the axe. Who knows what she’ll do with it?”

“I know what she’ll do with it”, said Dan T., “and I wouldn’t want to be in her husband’s shoes right now!”

“Oh, come on, you guys are so suspicious”, said Kevin. “She was just a little distraught. I’m sure she had a perfectly good reason.” Kevin was the trusting one.

Not me. “I’m checking for blood when she brings it back – if she even comes back.” Everyone burst out laughing.

Alas, the axe was returned, there was no blood (I checked), and no further suspicions could be reported.

Thereafter, a fine evening fire-side mean of grilled pork chops with chipotle raspberry sauce, veggie kabobs, and yams was enjoyed by all.  We each retired to our tents that night replete with food and anticipation for what our trip would bring.

Popo Agie Wilderness, Day 7

Day 7: Three Forks to the Bruce Trailhead, via Popo Agie Falls (11.5 miles)

Kevin finally saw his moose on the morning of the last day while he was peeing in the bushes behind the tent. No word on what the moose was doing at the time. By the time I managed to get out of bed and get down to the kitchen area, all three of my traveling companions were awake and sorting through food and gear. Kevin was doing his little moose dance in celebration of seeing the moose, and I was very glad that he had finally seen one. I felt bad the day before when he learned that I had seen a bull moose, although he kind of beat it out of me.  I hadn’t wanted to tell him, but he insisted. “How was the fishing?” he asked.

“The fishing was crappy,” was my response, “but I saw a bull moose grazing on some willows on an island in the river. Want to see the picture?” So I had no choice. Kevin went into a bit of funk after that, but he recovered enough to join us for dinner.

Breakfast was a hurried affair, and we were fed and packed and ready to hike by 8:30. We had a long day ahead of us, and we wanted to get a good early jump on the day.

We passed the spot where we had met Ranger Gus, and from there it was 10.5 miles to the trailhead. The trail conditions were mostly pretty good. The trail was soggy in a few places, but still much better than it had been even a week before. About five miles below Three Forks, we ran into six backpackers. They were part of a group of ten people, eight of whom had paid for a guided trek into the North Fork valley. This was the second large group we had seen with guides, the first a group of climbers who passed by our campsite on Deep Creek on their way to the Cirque. I guess this shouldn’t have been surprising, since Lander is home to at least one outdoor school, and maybe more. At the height of summer, after the snow has melted and the high passes have opened up, I imagine there is plenty of traffic on the Middle Fork Trail, a lot of it from these schools. As we looked back on our week in the wilderness, we couldn’t help but enjoy the irony—the snow made travel difficult and forced us to change our plans, but it may also have been the reason why we had the backcountry pretty much to ourselves the whole time.

Excellent signage.

We were hiking out on Saturday, the first Saturday of July, and two days before the Fourth of July. Five miles below Three Forks, fellow hikers started to dribble in. Six miles below Three Forks, the dribble turned into a trickle. Two miles from the trailhead, the trickle became a steady stream, and once we reached the junction with the trail to Popo Agie Falls, a mile from the trailhead, the stream had developed into a flood. They came in all shapes and sizes: big, small, fat, skinny, tall, short, dressed, and undressed. There were families with kids, kids with dogs, and dogs with families. There were hikers hiking alone, hikers hiking in groups, and groups hiking in shorts. There were kids, and teenagers, and parents, and old folks. There were old folks dressed as kids, and kids dressed in inflatable tubes. Because, it turns out, Popo Agie Falls is a local hangout and a vacation destination. It is a place where visitors go to admire the wonderment of the natural world, where vacationers slide down a big rock chute into a deep pool at the bottom of the falls, and where locals go to drink beer before sliding down the big rock chute into the deep pool at the bottom of the falls. Like the parking lot at the Bruce trailhead, Popo Agie Falls is a regular scene.

Popo Agie Falls.

But on that particular Saturday, the scene was a bit quiet for the first week of July. It was still possible to admire the wonderment of the natural world, but no one was sliding down the big rock chute. The big rock chute was indistinguishable from the rest of the falls, and even the term “waterfall” is too timid to describe what was going on. The whole mountainside was a roiling cascade of near-freezing water, churning over rocks, pouring through the trees, and tearing through the landscaping that Mother Nature had worked so hard to establish. Meaningful conversation was nearly impossible anywhere alongside the roaring cacophony of falling water, which was okay with us since meaningful conversation is not part of the MountainGuy Creed.  There has never been a Thoughtful Conversation badge, and come Hell or high water, there will never be one. That’s part of the joy of being a MountainGuy. (By contrast, a Thoughtless Conversation badge, or even better, a Thoughtless Comment badge, might very well have a chance.)

The big rock chute is in there somewhere.

Nonetheless, we learned all this and more from a friendly couple who had established themselves on a bench overlooking the part of the mountain where the big rock chute would have been if the whole mountain had not been underwater. They had to shout to make themselves heard, and we had to cup our hands behind our ears to hear what they were shouting, but we learned a lot, at least about the couple themselves. We learned, for example, that they were from Utah, and that they came out to see the falls at least once a year, and that their children used to accompany them until they got too old and moved on with their lives, so now the couple comes by themselves, but they are not bitter, and it’s sort of more fun now that they don’t have to worry about their kids sliding down the chute into a big rock ‘cause that happens sometimes. We also learned that all those people we saw climbing around in flip-flops while wearing a bathing suit and carrying a floaty tube or a flotation vest were not insane, just early. But this had been a record-setting water year, and the rock chute would be a certain death sentence for at least another month. The couple agreed to take our picture by the falls, we thanked them for their hospitality, and then we made ready to leave.

MountainGuys at Popo Agie Falls.

At least Rick and Oliver and I made ready to leave. Kevin had somehow persuaded himself that we had hiked the half-mile from the trail to the falls because we had a deep and abiding desire to fill our lungs and hearts with the intoxicating thrill of nature in the extreme, but mostly we had hiked out just because we wanted to see the falls. Now that we had seen them, it was time for burgers, and even the spectacular sight of Popo Agie Falls in the fullness of snowmelt would not delay us. Our cup of Spectacular already runneth over, and now we wanted nothing more than to fill our cup with flame-broiled greasy goodness, smothered in cheese and grilled onions. So we left Kevin at the falls where he could fill his heart and lungs, and told him that we would wait for him at the trailhead at least as long as it took us to get packed up and ready to go.

We did not have to wait for Kevin at all. He lingered at the falls for a few minutes, until he was so intoxicated with the thrill of nature that he risked getting a DUI for weaving his way down the crowded trail, but Kevin travels fast when he wants to, and the promise of burgers was a mighty powerful draw. So despite the weaving from his intoxicated state, Kevin caught up with us before we had gotten halfway to the trailhead.

The Bruce Trailhead parking lot was even more of a scene upon our return than it had been at our departure. The same guys were still selling drugs in the back of the lot, but now the lot was two-thirds full with hikers, bikers, and adventure seekers of all kinds. The crowded conditions made changing from our trail-stained clothing into clean travel clothes a little more challenging than usual, and even though we waited for an appropriate moment, no one seemed to take any more notice of us than usual.

The Gannett Grill was hopping by the time we reached Lander at about 1:00 in the afternoon. Nonetheless, we were able to secure a fine table in the shade of a large oak tree in the seating area between the Grill and the Lander Brewing Company. A cold beer seemed like a good idea, but one that would have to wait. Oliver and Kevin were looking at a seven hour drive to Boulder (five hours and 46 minutes with Oliver driving, including getting pulled over and being issued a warning for driving slightly faster than the speed limit), while Rick and I were just going to drive as far as we could, but at least as far as Park City, Utah. So we had to forego the beer, but the burgers were very good, served with a big basket of steak-cut fries.

The trip had not gone as planned; not even close. This had not been the California trip we had been expecting, it was not in September as we had originally thought it would be, we had not been able to hike our intended route, and had, in fact, only hiked about 34 miles altogether. The fishing had been terrible, too. Nonetheless, it had been an excellent trip. We had endured snow and sleet and rain and hail. The winds had tried mightily to blow us down, yet we got back up. We had eaten excellent food, including hot apple cobbler, we had discovered Spectacular, and we had learned more about Popo Agie Falls and the local fishing hot spots than we could have wanted to know. And as we sat there in the beer garden at the Gannett Grill, we realized that not all of our efforts had been wasted: our plan to eat burgers and fries had come to fruition exactly the way we had planned it. 

Spectacular, one more time (photo KR)

THE END

Popo Agie Wilderness, Day 6

Day 6: Pinto Park and a Commanding View to Three Forks (4.5 miles)

The night was very cold. The last of the clouds cleared out and there was no moon, so the sky was dark and clear. When I crawled out of my tent sometime around midnight, no imagination was needed to see the earth suspended in space, surrounded by stars. I felt as though I might bump my head on one of them they pressed so close. Even without the moon, the light of a billion stars was enough to illuminate the landscape even off in the distance: Lizard Head and The Cirque of the Towers were etched against the sky, their shape and texture defined by the starlight reflecting off the snow.

Though a long battle was waged between toasty comfort and bladder pressure before I reluctantly got out of the tent, I would have enjoyed staying out to watch the earth spin through the sky had it not been so cold. We just don’t have stars like that in the San Francisco Bay Area. But my business done, I quickly retreated to the relative warmth of my tent. I am not sure about the science, but there is no question that the need to seek relief in the middle of the night is inversely proportional to the outside temperature. It might even be a logarithmic thing.

When I finally got out of my bag in the morning, all of the other guys were already up. Our plan for the day was to hike back to Three Forks, and camp there on our last night. Ranger Bob had said that there was good camping up among the trees away from the river, and that suited us just fine. But as I surveyed the scene in the bright light of morning—Pinto Knob behind our campsite, the view from the veranda, and the little notch in the ridge across the valley that was just begging to be explored—I could not help but wish for another day here. 

The notch in the ridge crying out for exploration.

“Hey! What would you guys think about staying here another day?” I asked, striding down the hill to the kitchen area.

“That’s a great idea,” said Oliver, not even looking up from his packing. “ I would like to climb up to that notch that is just begging to be explored.”

“You don’t seem very enthusiastic,” I said, disappointed by the tepid response.

“You do know that it’s 14 miles to the trailhead from here.” Rick looked at me sternly. “No way we hike 14 miles, get burgers and beer, and drive eight hours all in one day.”

“We could forego the b…” I stopped midsentence as Oliver’s golf disc went whizzing past my head.

“Don’t even say it,” Oliver growled. “ We’re getting burgers.”

The question settled, I checked on the water that was heating on the stove, and then made myself a cup of coffee. No use being an immovable object in a field of rolling stones—something is bound to get broken. But the view was uncommonly excellent, and it sure would have been nice to have it for another day.

I was clearly not the only one who felt that way. Despite our determination to leave, no one was anxious to go. We talked about playing a round of golf, Oliver talked about climbing up to the notch, and Kevin talked about making a complete study of the ecology of Pinto Knob, but mostly we lollygagged from task to task as a means of enjoying our excellent accommodations for just a little bit longer.

When we finally got on the trail, the sun was well up in the sky, and the clocks were spun well around to 10:00 or so. The snow was melting very fast, perhaps two feet a day, so a lot of the northwest slope of Pinto Knob was now clear. By staying up above the meadow, we were able to wind our way around the remaining snowdrifts almost all the way to top of the saddle. Once we reached the top, however, we were back in the trees, the soft snow was just as treacherous as ever—too spotty for snowshoes, but still deep in a lot of places. Fortunately, we ran across our outbound tracks relatively quickly, and even though the hiking was hard, we at least knew where we were going.

Within a quarter of a mile, the snow was mostly done, and the worst we had to contend with was the small stream running down the trail and an occasional patch of soggy snow through which we had to slog. It was while passing through an especially soggy spot that we ran across two very attractive women who were taking a day hike to Pinto Park. They were both wearing shorts and trail running shoes with short gaiters, and both had the long, lean legs that come with running up mountains for entertainment. They were curious about the conditions over the pass, so we stopped to share all we’d learned.

Soggy hiking.

Once satisfied, the women remarked on the large size of our packs, pointed to their own dainty day packs that included an extra pair of socks, an energy bar (one), a small bottle of water, and of course, an iPhone, and then suggested that carrying such a large load as we were was tiring, slow, and really quite stupid. We thanked them for their thoughtful assessment of our approach to the outdoors, noting along the way that they might get cold if they decided to spend the night, that at least two of us might die if we only had one energy bar for a whole day, and that running 14 miles to the top of a mountain just so you could turn around and run 14 miles back seemed quite stupid as well.

So we parted friends, each of us grateful in our own way: on our side to be rid of their youthful zest, and on theirs to be rid of our ponderous pace. “Bye!” we all said.

“We’ll see you later,” responded the women as they hiked by, their tone of voice not so much hopeful as certain.

I, for one, was grateful not to be visited by that indignity on top of everything else. It was bad enough that they viewed a 28-mile trek as a day hike, and even worse that they had already done 13 of them by 10:45 in the morning. If they also lapped us on the way down, that would be just plain rotten, and would have seriously damaged my self-esteem. Fortunately, despite their confident predictions and uncharitable assessment of our hiking pace, we did not see them again.

Within half a mile of meeting up with the two women, we reached the Deep Creek Lakes Cutoff. We stopped briefly to note how much snow had melted, and then continued on. Though nothing was said, I suspect that the other guys felt as I did—that being lapped by two women who were out to hike in one day what we would hike in six somehow made our adventure less adventurous, and that it would be good if this didn’t happen. Thus, with the wind at our backs, the slope in our favor, and the silent but still urgent need to maintain the manly integrity of our adventure, we quickly covered the three miles between the Cutoff trail and the Middle Fork trail, just below Three Forks.

It was at that point that we met up with Gus the Forest Ranger. Gus the Forest Ranger sat upon his old mule, Charlie, with an easy familiarity that suggested his butt had conformed completely to the shape of the saddle. Charlie looked no less comfortable with the situation. Gus had been up there for a really long time, and there was no sense in trying to peel him off now. They were stopped in the shade of a big pine tree, and until we walked up, I’m pretty sure both of them had been sleeping. The mule opened one eye, a hint of suspicion in his glare, but as soon as he got a good look at who was coming down the trail, both eyes closed and he went back to sleep. I have hard that mules are a good judge of character, but this one clearly had no sense of just how dangerous we really are.

Although Charlie appeared largely unperturbed by our arrival, Gus was positively gleeful about having someone new to talk with. We exchanged greetings, and quickly got into the business at hand. With but a few well placed questions, we learned that the river was running unusually high, that several streamside campsites were flooded, that the river can rise and fall quite quickly, and that Gus had rescued a good bit of gear from a campsite that had been occupied when the rising river had forced the campers to abandon the spot in a hurry. Gus confirmed that there was some very good camping up in the trees away from the river, and noted that it was easy to find if we just walked to the end of the big meadow, turned right, and then left as we entered the forest.

This sounded simple enough, so we gathered up our hiking poles and got ready to go. It was then that I made a fateful mistake. “I was hoping to do some fishing,” I said. “Any recommendations? So far the fishing has been lousy.”

Charlie had kind of perked up when Oliver, Rick, Kevin, and I made ready to go, but as soon as I said the word, “fishing,” he let out a snort and closed his eyes again. This might have set alarm bells to ringing, but we didn’t yet know what we were dealing with.

“Well,” said Gus, “usually folks limit out right here. Mostly brookies up this high, but also some browns and cutthroats. The Bloodback Nymph is a good choice. That fly was developed by a local guy. With the water running so high, you probably won’t see much action here—maybe in a couple of weeks.” He took a breath. “You might have some better luck up in the lakes. They’re starting to open up. Got big cutthroats at Shoshone Lake—that’s a big lake so it doesn’t freeze like some of the smaller ones, so it opens up earlier. Worthen Meadow Reservoir is usually pretty good, but the road was closed ‘til just a couple of weeks ago, and I don’t know how the fishing is now.’”

Okay, thanks,” I said, taking a step toward the trail.

But it turns out Gus was just getting warmed up. “Now up in the high country…” Oliver, Rick, and Kevin were glaring at me. Even Charlie was giving me the evil eye. But Gus just kept going. Every time one of us would take a small tentative step to be on our way, Gus would raise his voice ever so slightly to bring our attention back around. “…Now Smith Lake, that’s a great lake. Might even catch some goldens up there. Pretty good-sized lake, too. I imagine nymphs would be better than dry flies right now, but the mosquitoes are coming out so the fish might be feeding on the surface.” Again a big breath, a couple of tentative steps by us, but then Gus launched right back in. “Not far from Smith is Cloverleaf Lake and also Cook Lake. There’s some good spots up there. Don’t want to use to big a hook, though…” This monologue had been going on at least ten minutes, and Gus was showing no signs of fatigue.

Probably would have gone on longer, too, but Charlie had closed his eyes shortly after Gus took us up to the high country, and with each additional lake, Charlie’s head hung down just a little bit further. Finally, after we had managed to tour 22 of the best local lakes, including type of fish, type of fly, hook size, and at least three recipes specifically developed for the fish caught at one lake or another, Charlie’s head had lolled so far down that he just fell over, fortunately onto a tree. Gus almost certainly would have fallen from the mule if his butt had not been molded to the saddle. But the tree caught Charlie, and Gus was stuck tight, so all that happened is that the fall broke Gus’s train of thought.

“Well, thanks for the information,” I said quickly. “This is our last night, so we probably won’t get up to any of those lakes on this trip, but maybe next time. Bye!”

Oliver, Rick and Kevin also quickly said goodbye, and we headed on up the Middle Fork Trail. Can’t be sure, but as we were walking away, I think I saw Charlie smiling—he may have used that same maneuver before.

“So, did you find out what you wanted to know?” asked Rick, once we were out of earshot. His tone was slightly sarcastic.

“Sorry, guys,” I said, “I had no idea.”

The imprecise nature of the directions we had gotten from Ranger Gus complemented the sparseness of the directions we had gotten from Ranger Bob, leaving us without a lot to go on. They both agreed that the campsite in question was “up in the trees”, which was helpful but not specific since the whole river bottom was heavily forested. Both rangers had made it clear that the site was across the trail from the river. This made sense in an obvious sort of way because most of the land between the trail and the riverbank was underwater. We passed at least two fire rings that were submerged in no less than two feet of water. The only remaining guidance was “at the end of the big meadow,” which was subject to interpretation. What is a “meadow” in this context? What is “big”? These questions occupied us as we hiked up the trail.

The Big Meadow.

“Does this look like a meadow to you?” asked Rick.

“No. It looks like a big field of rocks that is barren of trees,” Oliver declared.

“I see a wildflower,” offered Kevin. “That seems kind of meadow-like.”

We all had to agree that a wildflower was a good sign, but does one wildflower constitute a “big” meadow? What happens after the wildflower season is over? Is it still a meadow if no more flowers are blooming? The existential nature of the questioning led me to believe that it was time for lunch, but I was keeping silent after my faux pas with Ranger Gus. We passed one rocky, bare patch, then another, and finally a third, this last slightly larger than the first two. I decided it was time to take a flyer, if only to change the quality of the conversation.

“This is it!” I left the trail and started hiking toward the trees on the other side of the rocky, bare patch (aka, meadow).

Curiously, none of the other guys questioned my judgment. They just followed along. I would like to attribute this behavior to my strong leadership skills, but I think by now we all know better. They followed because they knew I was right, and they knew I was right because each of them would have made the same decision if he had been hiking in front. Somehow, the imprecise directions led all of us to the same place. We might have been unsure of the words, exactly, but we knew the spot when we saw it.

Despite our certainty, we did not find the spot that Ranger Bob and Ranger Gus had recommended until after we had already set up camp. We crossed the meadow to get up into the trees, but once in the trees we turned left to parallel the river. The trees were closely spaced, the ground was level, and the forest duff was thick underfoot. Except for the cow pies that liberally decorated the forest floor, this little forest offered excellent camping possibilities.

About a hundred yards along, we came across a small clearing with a fire ring at the center. We had found our spot. All four of us quickly shed our packs, removed our boots, and slipped on our camp shoes. The campsite was at the western end of the little forest, up against a bog that was thick with grasses, vines, and stunted trees. Mosquitoes had not been a big problem the last three nights, but they would be here. 

Despite my hunger, I was hoping for a campsite with a few more amenities—a view would have been good, and perhaps a nice little hot springs and a small waterfall. So while the other guys started to get their lunch stuff out, I decided to have a quick look around before everything was unpacked. Behind the campsite, away from the river, was a steep embankment, maybe 20 feet high. Beyond that, it looked like the ground flattened out again, as though the land had been tiered. As I reached the top of the embankment, I was startled by the sounds of crashing brush and broken tree limbs as a moose cow disappeared into the trees not more than 20 yards away. Although seeing a moose in the wild is cool, it is also a bit unnerving. Moose are really big and notoriously ill tempered. I am all for majestic and wild and all that, but still I am happier when what I see is moose butt in retreat.

I scouted around for a bit longer, but didn’t see anything as nice as what we already had. “Those aren’t cow pies,” I said, striding into camp. “They’re moose pies. I just startled a moose cow up there, beyond the embankment.”

Kevin stiffened as I said this, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s just not fair! You traipse through the forest with all the stealth of a tractor, and you are the one to see the moose.” He crossed his arms, slumped heavily on the log he was sitting on, and said “Harumph!” And he meant it.

Kevin’s mood lightened some about midway through our meal. He was sitting, facing the bog, when he quickly sat up, reflexively reaching for his camera. This was a completely different face from his ‘I want to take an emergency picture of you eating peanut butter face,’ so of course we were curious.

“QUIET!” hissed Kevin. “There…in the bog…something moving.”

We all turned around slowly so not to frighten Kevin, and there, partially hidden in a dense thicket was a mink. We did not know that at the time, however, and a lively debate ensued as to what we were seeing. Weasel? Maybe. But too big. Fisher? Probably not, unless it was on vacation from Canada. American mink? Possibly. At least it’s American. Ferret? Unlikely. Ferrets are domesticated animals. Black-footed ferret? No. The black-footed ferret is endangered, and lives on the prairie. Stoat? Not out of the question, and native to the area, but an animal of dubious moral character. Polecat? Come on! The polecat doesn’t live in North America. American marten? Fighting chance. It is, after all, American. The debate lasted awhile, the animal long gone before we concluded that it must be either a mink or a marten.

“Wow! That was great!” gushed Kevin, holding up his camera triumphantly.

“No kidding!” agreed Rick. “Who would have thought that we could name all of those animals in the weasel family without access to Google? Astounding!”

“You’re right!” said Oliver, holding his hand up. “We rock!”

Rick and I immediately got up to give Oliver a high five and celebrate our Jeopardy moment. Kevin just hung his head in dismay, more convinced than ever that the three of us were unworthy to witness nature’s wonderment. Without another word, Kevin picked up his bags and went off to set up his tent.

Shortly after Kevin left, Rick pointed out to the bog. A moose cow was picking its way past our campsite, keeping a wary eye in our direction as it wandered past. “Alright!” said Rick. “I can hardly wait to tell Kevin that we saw another moose!”

The day was still young, and we were all anxious to enjoy what was left of our time in the wilderness. However, before darting off, we would have to hang the food. We had been using the new two-line technique all week, and the results were indeed impressive. It was not a perfect system, though. Although it enabled us to make use of less-than-stellar trees for hanging, the system, by its nature, required that we hang two lines. I got the first line up pretty easily, but the second line proved my undoing. After getting the pilot line over three different branches and then pulling it down because it was not the branch I was aiming for, Oliver’s impatience boiled over.

“What’s wrong with that one?” Oliver demanded, as I was pulling the line down for the fourth time. “Don’t you dare pull that down.” Oliver wanted nothing more than to be done with the food hanging so he could go set up his tent.

“I don’t like the angle of that branch,” I responded, giving the line one more tug and pulling the rock down out of the tree. I looked at Oliver. “Oops.”

Oliver demanded the rock and the pilot line. I handed them over. He tossed the rock overhand over a decidedly inferior, yet admittedly adequate, branch, lowered the rock to the ground, and attached the second rope to the pilot line.

“That hanging job is an aesthetic nightmare,” I said. “Hardly worthy of a MountainGuy.”

Neither is spending all afternoon making it look pretty. Just clip the damn food sacks on those carbiners, and let’s move on.” So I did. But I sure as heck didn’t take any pictures of that food-hanging job.

The campsite that the rangers had told us about was up the hill a ways from our site. Oliver found it while scouting for a place to put his tent. The site was not really very appealing, and I imagine the rangers steer visitors there so they don’t stir up trouble elsewhere. It was big and flat, but was denuded of forest duff. A large log was suspended horizontally between two tall trees for hanging food near the oversized fire pit. The site looked as though it was used by large groups of horse campers, who, over time, had packed the ground down rock hard and swept it clean of all ground cover. The hanging log was nice, but the rest of it reminded me of car camping, with big piles of horse shit in back.

With camp established, the food hung, and time to enjoy ourselves, I put my fishing gear together and headed down to the river. Oliver and Rick played golf, and Kevin spent the afternoon sneaking through the forest in hopes of seeing a moose. The fishing was still lousy, although I did at least see a couple of fish swim by. The afternoon was not a total loss, however, as I got a chance to see a bull moose grazing on a small island in the middle of the river. I decided not to tell Kevin. But I did take a picture just in case the subject came up and I had to prove myself.

Bull moose across the river. Or Sasquatch.

The mosquitoes arrived at the dinner hour, even though we had not issued a formal invitation. The buggers were ubiquitous, but still early season—that is, slow and stupid. The clothes I had treated with permethrin were still working, so I didn’t have too much trouble, although I did have to spray a bit of picaridin on the top of my hat to keep the buggers away from my face. Neither Rick nor Kevin seemed too bothered by the mosquitoes either, but Oliver was in full defensive posture. He had his head net on, long sleeves and long pants, and he was swatting wildly left and right. By the time dinner was ready, he had a pretty good pile of dead mosquitoes lying about his feet.

While Oliver was swatting, I was cooking. On the menu was curried rice with chicken, which Oliver had graciously offered to let me cook. This is one of my favorites. The menu selection seemed particularly appropriate to the venue as well, since the thick clouds of mosquitoes reminded us of some of our adventures in the Indian jungle. However, we were still at 8,500 feet of elevation, and unlike the Indian jungle, by the time dinner was done, the temperature was down and so were the mosquitoes. 

Dinner party, bog side

This being our last night, we were all in a bit of a celebratory mood, so Oliver whipped up a batch of dessert pancakes. Dessert pancakes are like regular pancakes, except you eat them for dessert. Add a little cinnamon and sugar, a little honey, and a little jam to the batter, and they make for a nice finish to a long day. Top that off with a bit of scotch or tequila, and it’s just like a regular party, except that it gets cold once the sun goes down, so the party is over in a hurry.

Mountain Apple Cobbler

In response to several inquiries, I am posting Kevin's recipe for mountain apple cobbler. This is worth doing. The results were excellent! The recipe is reprinted from Kevin's notes. JT

Hot apple cobbler.

I soaked dried apples all afternoon for cobbler,
so after the main dish I heated them over the fire, added the sugar mixture,
and topped it with the almond meal+flour biscuit dough with O's help.
Then put the pot on a bed of coals, and loaded the lid with more coals.
The wind whipped them to red hot and flaming.
After about 10 minutes I checked inside, and the dough had risen to the
pot lid.  We feasted and decided that was worth doing again.
So here's the recipe, more or less.  I probably doubled it for our trip.
Before the trip:
   Dehydrate ~2 pounds of peeled, cored apples (makes ~4 ounces),
     or buy  ~6 ounces of commercial 'dried' apples,
     and pack in a ziplock.
   Mix the dry ingredients of the biscuit dough topping:
     1/2 c almond meal
     1/2 c flour (either wheat or gluten free)
    (1/2 to 1 c chopped pecans or walnuts, optional)
     1/4 c butter (softened, or mix it all in a food processor)
    (1/4 c powdered buttermilk, optional)
     1/2 t salt
     1/2 t baking soda
     1/2 t baking powder
   Put in a separate ziploc (or 2, if you're worried about punctures)
   Mix the apple syrup ingredients and put in a 3rd ziploc:
     1/2 c packed brown sugar
       4 t cornstarch
     1/4 t mace or nutmeg
     1/2 t cinnamon

   In camp;
     Put the dried apples in a pot and barely cover them with water.
     Cover and let soak for at least 1/2 hour.
     Check occasionally to stir them and see if they need more water.
     Towards the time to cook there should still be water in the bottom,
        but not enough to cover them.
     Heat the apple/water mixture until boiling.
     Meanwhile, add ~1/4 cup water to the biscuit mix and stir until blended.
        It should be a sticky dough; not dry and not liquid.
     Add the "syrup" ingredients to the apples, stir, and return to boiling
        over gentle heat (don't scorch the thickening syrup!).
     Add the biscuit dough on top of the apples, replace lid, and cover the lid
        with coals and/or burning sticks.  Plenty of heat up there is fine;
        it may brown the top of the biscuit.
     It may be done in 10 minutes if the wind is stoking the fire,
        more like 15 if it's calm out and/or the coals are wimpy.
     Serves 4 moderate appetites.

Popo Agie Wilderness, Day 5

Day 5: A Blessedly Snow-Free Spot Below Lower Deep Creek Lake to Pinto Park and a Commanding View (3 miles)

The wind howled throughout the night. Squalls came through periodically, dropping buckets of rain and then moving on. I worried for awhile about Kevin and his collapsible tent, but as the conditions really got nasty after midnight, I stopped worrying about Kevin and started worrying about me. I have used the same ultra-light tent for many years, in some really ugly conditions, but this was the first time I worried about the tent collapsing. When the big gusts would blow through, the entire structure would be staggered by the blast, the roof pressing down on top of me. But I made it, and so did all of the other guys. Kevin said that it got so bad at one point that the wind was even shaking his pillow. Oh, the horror!

The squalls passed through sometime in the night, but the wind persisted into the morning. None of us had slept well, and we were all a bit grumpy and anxious to leave. The site had proven accommodating, but it wasn’t spectacular. Despite the deep snow and the high water and the complete hatchet job that the snow and the water had done to all of our excellent planning, we held out hope that spectacular still might be on the agenda.

We breakfasted on oatmeal and coffee and hot chocolate, all the while packing and preparing to hike. We had agreed that our only choice was to make for Pinto Park and hope for the best. The North Fork valley might have been appealing if we had one more day, but none of us were anxious to set ourselves up for a really long day of hiking followed by eight hours of driving on the last day. Besides, Oliver already was rehearsing what he might order when we got back to the brewpub in Lander. I found his long recitations about the merits of the bacon burger, and the mushroom burger, and the California burger (California burgers? in Wyoming?!) to be mildly annoying, sort of like being poked in the eye with a sharp stick, but I have to admit that a hot, juicy burger with grilled onions and a bit of fresh avocado did sound mighty good.

Although we were all anxious to get on the trail, the wind made packing a challenge. Nothing lightweight, like a tent or a tarp or a jacket, could be set down even for a moment without a rock or something heavy on top. I momentarily lost sight of the stuff sack for my tent, and ended up having to chase it almost all the way to bear-scat rock, which was only about ten yards from the creek. Another gust, and it would have been gone for good.

The skies had been clear when we got up, but clouds began to drift in about 9:00, just as we were hoisting packs and getting ready to hike. They did not look terribly threatening, but anytime the clouds show up that early it is cause for concern. Nonetheless, we were all happy to be back on the trail, and excited about the prospect of a noteworthy adventure.

Most of the snow in the area where we were camped had melted over the last two days, and the trail conditions were very good. Only a few small snowdrifts remained, so we were hopeful that the trail to Pinto Park would have cleared up some as well. We should have known better.

The wind subsided as we rounded Pinto Knob to the east side, but we immediately found ourselves wading through deep drifts. If anything, the hiking was more difficult than it had been on the hike in. Although a lot of snow had melted, the snow that remained was soft wherever it was exposed to the sun, yet deep drifts were piled high in the shade under the trees. Ten steps on solid ground would be followed by a steep climb to the top of a drift, every second or third step would result in a deep posthole, and after struggling to clamber back to our feet on top of the snow, there would be a steep climb or quick slide down to solid ground. The worst of it only lasted for half a mile, though, and forty minutes after leaving our campsite, we were back at the junction with the Pinto Park trail. A lot of the snow had melted here, despite the thick forest canopy, and the trail was mostly clear of snow. The ground was very wet, and water was dribbling and oozing and trickling and flowing everywhere, but after struggling through the snow, wading through the muck was a pleasure.

Crossing snowdrifts.

From the junction with the Cutoff Trail, the Pinto Park trail ascends for about half a mile to Pinto Park, which straddles the low pass between the Middle and North Forks of the Popo Agie. Within a quarter of a mile, we were once again hiking through snowdrifts. A faint set of tracks appeared here and there to help us with finding the trail, but the tracks had melted away with the snow at more or less regular intervals. The intervals were not regular with respect to time or distance, however, but rather with the condition of the trail markings. Where the trail was distinct or easily identified, the tracks in the snow were plainly evident. Where the trail makers neglected markings such as cairns or blazes altogether, the snowfield would be pristine, uninterrupted by the telltale signs of travelers.

The going was very hard here. The snow was soft and in many places the drifts were deep. Stunted trees were widely spaced, no path possible that did not require crossing sun-warmed snow. We struggled for half an hour to cover a quarter of a mile, with no sign of the trail anywhere.

 

Eventually, we agreed that Kevin and Oliver should drop their packs, put on their snowshoes, and go on a scouting mission in search of the trail. Within five minutes they were back.

“Did you find the trail?” Rick asked.

“No,” said Oliver. “But we found a dry meadow on the south side of the saddle that we think must be Pinto Park. There’s more snow going up to the right, which is where we think the trail is.”

Dry ground suited us better than slogging through pine-scented Slurpee, so we hoisted packs and struggled up the last bit of hill to the south side of the saddle. I cannot tell you how disappointed we were to finally reach this bit of “dry” ground. The meadow was free of snow, but its entire surface was covered in at least two inches of water, more in some places. We tried crossing the meadow to get up on some rocks on the far side, but there was water sloshing around even on the hillsides. The grassy tundra looked dry enough from a distance, but the saturated ground was thick and spongy, so even on the slopes the water was two inches deep. By the time we had gone a hundred yards, we all concluded that as bad as it was hiking on snow, snow was far preferable to wading through the meadow.

The dry meadow. Worse than hiking in snow.

Our epiphany coincided with the end of the meadow in any case.  The meadow straddled the southern side of the saddle, nestled up against the northern flank of Pinto Knob. Aside from this small meadow, the saddle was heavily forested, and snow lay deep amongst the trees.

The deep snow was both a blessing and a curse, depending on who you were. If you were Oliver or Kevin, carrying snowshoes, the snow coverage was an improvement. If you were Rick or me, it meant there was no relief from the postholing and groin pulling and rolling around trying to right oneself in snow that was wet enough to swim in. We tried for a bit to have Oliver and Kevin take the lead and stamp down the snow, but Rick and I continued to sink, and their efforts were sometimes counterproductive, causing them to sink after breaking through the hard snow at the top. 

Tough sledding.

Our choices at this point were unsavory: we could turn back, we could hike due north and try to find the trail, or we could hike to the northwest and hope that we could pick up the trail a bit further along. In addition, clouds were building in the western sky, adding a sense of urgency to our deliberations. Whatever we chose to do, we needed to do it soon. None of us were inclined to turn back, and hiking uphill into the trees to find the trail we couldn’t follow when we knew more or less where it was didn’t make much sense, either, so we chose to hike downhill to the northwest.

Rick and I struggled to follow Oliver and Kevin, especially Rick. Between his small feet and his overloaded pack, it seemed as though he was sinking on every step. Every time I turned around to check on him, one of Rick’s limbs was sticking straight up out of the snow while the rest of him was buried. How he kept up I don’t know; I think he may have fashioned a snorkel out of a reed and swum most of the way. But even the snowshoes were not foolproof. Oliver and Kevin were having an easier time of it, yet they too would occasionally sink in a particularly soft spot, and then the snowshoe became an anchor as they struggled to haul themselves out of the hole. 

The forest thinned out as we worked our way downhill, slowly opening up into a broad meadow. The snow was only two to three feet deep here, but it was very soft and there was a layer of running water on the ground under the snow. These are dangerous conditions, and it was only a matter of time before one of us fell through into a stream or deep hole.

Rick and I finally caught up with Oliver and Kevin at the top of a small rise. The snow-covered meadow stretched out before us, a prelude to a wide-open view of the North Fork valley. We had finally found spectacular. Perched above the North Fork, across the valley, was the monumental Lizard Head Peak, draped in diagonal bands of snow. Behind Lizard Head was “The Cirque,” a dramatic ring of high mountains along the Continental Divide. Wind River Peak towered over the valley to the southwest, the north face clothed in ice and snow. But for a few small problems, all that spectacular was ours to enjoy. 

Spectacular.

First among these problems was finding the trail, closely followed by finding a dry patch of ground upon which to camp. Kevin was inclined to head straight down the meadow across the snow. I was inclined to take a perpendicular path to get up into the trees and onto the small patches of dry ground that bordered the meadow.

“If we cross the meadow that way,” argued Kevin, pointing to the southwest, “it looks like there are some dry patches that might be large enough to set up camp.”

“But that involves hiking across this unstable snow, and we already know that there is water flowing under the snow everywhere. I really don’t want to sink into a deep hole and end up soaked,” I argued right back. “I’d like to find the trail, too, in case we need to hike out in bad weather.”

“What good is that going to do?” Kevin snapped. “We couldn’t follow the trail in the bright sun. How will knowing where it is at this one spot help us follow it in bad weather? And why hike that way,” asked Kevin, pointing to the north, “if we’re going to end up on the dry ground over there?” He pointed over to the bare patches off to the southwest.

“We hike that way,” I said, pointing north, “so that we don’t sink through the snow into a big puddle of water. And the last time you found a “dry patch,” it was a soggy, waterlogged bog that was worse than hiking on snow. You go where you want, you snot-faced snowshoe snob, but I am going to head up into the trees.” I wanted to stomp off for effect, but that would have been a bad idea, so I gingerly tiptoed my way across a small depression, hoping there was no stream underneath.

“Fine! Slink off into the trees, you wuss. Lot of good that chair is doing you now!” Kevin called after me.

Rick and Oliver had remained silent throughout the exchange, more amused than anything. “Looks like the kids are getting restless,” said Oliver, “must be lunchtime.”

As it turned out, Oliver was right. It was getting toward lunchtime. Oliver quickly passed me by as I struggled to reach dry ground, not surprising since he was wearing snowshoes while I was sinking to my knees every third step.

“Hey!” exclaimed Oliver. “Here’s the trail.” He had reached the edge of the snowfield, and there, running just inside the trees on the edge of the meadow, was the trail.

This was good news. I was vindicated. And I lost no time in letting Kevin know that. Sadly, my victory was short-lived. The trail skirted the edge of the meadow for perhaps a quarter of a mile, and then veered off in exactly the direction that Kevin had indicated we should go. He was vindicated. And Kevin wasted no time in letting me know that.

Tired of listening to us quarrel, Oliver suggested we stop for lunch. We had found the trail, at least for the time being the clouds were holding off, and a break would afford us the opportunity to consider our options. Directly across the meadow was a snow-free patch of ground that looked like it might be dry enough to camp. If that didn’t work out, the trail continued down the meadow, across the stream, and into the trees, and we figured we might be able to find a good camping spot as we got down into the North Fork valley. Both options were highly speculative, but they were the best we had. The only things we knew with certainty were that the entire meadow, at least where it was free of snow, was under four inches of water, and the spot we stopped for lunch was not an option. Small snowdrifts lingered under the trees, but even where the ground was free of snow it was wet and too sloped to be comfortable.

With the sun shining down, a warm spot to sit, a belly full of food, and a spectacular view to contemplate, I started to feel a bit bad about my little spat with Kevin. “Hey, Kevin!” He looked over. “Sorry about most of those things I said. You’re not as big an asshole as I implied.”

“Thanks, John. That means a lot,” Kevin answered, “especially since your not really the biggest jerk I have ever known.”

So with things all patched up, we agreed to send out scouting parties to get the lay of the land. Oliver and Kevin offered to explore the dry patch across the meadow, and I agreed to scout down the trail a ways.

My scouting trip proved a disaster. The snow-free parts of the meadow were more swamp than anything, and getting across the stream to the trail on the other side required a long hike around the bottom of the meadow, crossing the stream in three places, and all for the opportunity to discover that the trail completely disappeared under deep snow once back into the trees. Fortunately, Oliver and Kevin had better success. Crossing the meadow was treacherous and wet, but the spot we had seen from our lunch spot was dry enough to camp, and the view was top tier. Despite all the hardships and struggles we had endured to get there, being there made it all worthwhile.

However, worthwhile does not mean trouble free. The rain had held off long enough to us set up camp, and for Oliver to create a nine-hole disc golf course, but a whole day free of precipitation was out of the question. Rick and Oliver and I were just starting the first round when the rain came. It rolled in slowly, a light sprinkle, a bit of breeze, a band of thick clouds forming over The Cirque. We played in rain gear, though the conditions never really got bad. Actually, Rick and I played in rain gear, which was stylish but not conducive to disc golf excellence. But as bad as the rain gear was, it was lot better than the poncho that Oliver was wearing. Oliver figured that the poncho would be lighter than rain gear and a pack cover, and would do pretty much the same thing. To a certain extent he was right. The poncho was lighter than rain gear and a pack cover, and it did cover both Oliver and his backpack, after a fashion. The problem with poncho technology is that there is no chance it will keep you dry in the rain if there is any wind or you move around at all. And it does absolutely no good for your golf game. So Oliver was fortunate that we did not get much rain or wind, and Rick and I were fortunate that Oliver had handicapped his game by wearing what is essentially a tent with a hood.

Stylish rain gear versus a tent with a hood.

By the end of the first round, the weather had blown off to the east and the warm June sun had returned. This was all the encouragement we needed to play a second round, although not before taking time out for refreshments and a brief rest. Conveniently, the first tee was very near our kitchen area, and the last hole even closer. Oliver has been building mountain disc golf courses for many years, and he has learned the importance of building in amenities to encourage less dedicated golfers to keep playing. That group includes pretty much everybody else, and a long hike from the ninth hole to the snack shack would almost certainly mean the end of the game. 

A comfy spot on the veranda. (Photo KR)

The second round was much more pleasant than the first, and much more competitive as well. Rick and I had shed our rain gear, and Oliver his hooded tent. Kevin even emerged from seclusion to join us, and to share in the magic of the moment. And magical it was. The sun was warm, the sky was blue, the snow was white, the trees were green, the ground was brown, the flowers were yellow, and the breeze was light and scented with pine and rain and the musty damp earth. Clouds danced around The Cirque and Lizard Head Peak to the west, and a view of a thousand miles stretched out past the mountains to the north. Well, maybe I exaggerate—the clouds weren’t really dancing. After three days of battling wind and rain and snow and high water and muddy ground and the proximity of bears and shitty fishing, we had found our bliss, and it came in the form of disc golf on our dry little knoll on the northwestern shoulder of Pinto Knob.

The moment was short lived. The dancing clouds, taking exception to the sight of four old MountainGuys doing their own little disc golf dance to celebrate the moment, quickly formed a dark phalanx that charged across the valley on a rising wind. We could see the rain coming as the sun disappeared behind the clouds and the temperature dropped. Then, Boom! The lightning and thunder and rain chased us under the tarp. Of course, we had been prepared for the weather—our stoves and chairs and snacks were all set up and ready to go—but the ferocity of the downpour caught us a bit off guard. The skies opened up and dumped, just as it had the day before.

The downpour lasted only 20 minutes, long enough to plant seeds of doubt about camping on an exposed knoll, open to all the weather blowing in from the west, but not so long that any of us became too anxiety-ridden to drink a cup of coffee. It was bad, but not that bad.

The squall passed just as quickly as it started, moving off the east. The bright June sun returned, quickly warming the air and sending up plumes of steam from the rocks and tree stumps and ground. We were even treated to a double rainbow stretched across the low pass between the Middle- and North-Fork valleys. A hot cup of coffee, bright sun, steaming ground, a double rainbow, and three good friends to enjoy it with—I’d take that hand any day of the week.

Double rainbow.

Dinner that night included chili and pan-fried spoon biscuits. Soups do not typically offer enough heft to sate the hunger after a long day of hiking, but the chili and biscuits did a pretty good job. Oliver had produced another culinary masterpiece, artfully blending the spicy chili and the warm, heavy biscuits with a wide-open venue that was perfect for dissipating the gasses that were sure to form after such a meal. You know he was awarded the Fry Baby badge for his efforts.

Sunset from the veranda.

The rest of the evening was devoted to lounging and snacking and waiting for the spectacular sunset that was sure to happen. In the interim, we were treated to a lightshow of clouds and peaks and rays of sun. The sun dipped behind Lizard Head, and we could all feel the anticipation welling up—either that, or we were all shivering because it was starting to get cold out there at 10,299 feet with a mostly clear sky and lots of moisture in the air. But we were not disappointed. The moment was brief, and in that moment the clouds turned bright red, the diffuse light highlighting the bands of snow draped around Lizard Head. We oohed and aahed, gave a couple of low whistles of appreciation, Kevin and I snapped pictures, and then it was done. At that point, it is hard to say what was moving faster: the light draining out of the sky or the four of us as we dashed off for the warmth of our tents and sleeping bags.