The Great Wind River Adventure, Day 1

The MountainGuy News:

The Great Wind River Adventure OR

Water, Water, Everywhere

Popo Agie Wilderness, Wyoming

June, 2011

There are some backpacking trips that go exactly according to plan. This was not one of those trips. There are some trips that don’t go exactly according to plan, but what actually transpires is not too far removed from that original plan. This wasn’t one of those trips, either.

We should not have been surprised. Even the planning did not go according to plan. Originally, this was to be a California trip, most likely in September, and most likely to the Ansel Adams Wilderness. The first hint of trouble emerged early, when I started searching for appropriate dates.

“The second week of September could work,” said Oliver, “unless I am in England in September.”

So September was out. “How about August, then,” I suggested.

“August could work, unless I go to England. I can’t take that much time off from work all at once,” Oliver replied.

So August was out. “I will be out in South Dakota in June for a wedding,” I noted, thinking out loud (a dangerous habit, for sure), “maybe we can do a quick trip to the Wind Rivers then, and figure out the MountainGuy trip later.”

“That could work, though I may not be able to take a second trip later in the summer even if I don’t go to England,” said Oliver.

So September was out. August was out. California was out. June was in. Wyoming was in. Quick was out. A week-long trek was in.

With the dates set, Oliver started searching for an appropriate venue in the southern Wind River Range. Cathedral Lakes looked spectacular, but a little high for June, especially in a year of unusually heave snowfall. The Little Popo Agie Basin looked good, but again, the trailhead was at 9,400 feet of elevation, too high for June. So we chose to hike up the Middle Fork of the Popo Agie River, loop past Ice House Lakes, and then back down on the other side of the river. The trailhead was at 7,400 feet, and we figured we could just do a lower-elevation trip. We figured wrong.

Initially, things seemed to be going well. The snowpack was unusually heavy, but the road up to the trailhead opened up about five weeks before we were planning to hike. Ten days later, three feet of snow fell at 7,000 feet, and the road was closed again. It did not reopen until two weeks before the hike, and there was some concern that even though the road was open, the trails might not be. So at this point we should have realized that things were not going to go according to plan.

But one of the traits of MountainGuys is moose-headedness, I mean, persistence, so we weren’t going to let a little frozen precipitation alter our thinking. For that matter, we weren’t going to let a little liquid precipitation alter our thinking either.

I got into a regular habit of checking the forecast in the three weeks leading up to the trip, and the forecast was pretty consistent. Rain, snow, and thunderstorms over the next 7 days, and then beautiful, clear, and blue 7 to 14 days out. We would get to 7 to 14 days out, and the next 7 days would be rain, snow, and thunderstorms, and then beautiful 7 to 14 days out. In other words, the near-term forecast, that part of the forecast that is reasonably reliable, was consistently wet, gray, and gloomy. That part of the forecast that was based on historical patterns, hope, and prayers was consistently fabulous. So, of course, we based our plans on historical patterns, hope, and prayers.

With those scientific, metaphysical, and spiritual forces all working in our favor, we agreed to meet in a brewpub in Lander, Wyoming at noon on Sunday. Oliver, Rick, and Kevin would be driving in from Boulder, CO, while I would be driving in from Spearfish, SD, where I would be attending my niece’s wedding. It was a good plan. But this wasn’t one of those trips. At 11:30 on Sunday I got a text from Rick that they were at the brewpub. At 1200 I received a text that lunch was delicious, and that they were going to go ahead and get a campsite near the trailhead. At 1215 I rolled into Lander, hungry and bitter about being abandoned with nothing to eat—excepting the sandwich and fruit I had in my cooler, and the two large bags of groceries I was carrying for the trip.

I spent a goodly amount of time driving up and down the main road in Lander, mostly because I was just a little bit lost. The driving directions I had gotten from Oliver took me to the brewpub. After that, we all assumed we’d be traveling together. But the time was not wasted. Lander proved to be an interesting spot, the largest town for many miles, and therefore a cultural crossroads. The old Lander was still well represented, including ranching and agricultural equipment, hunting and fishing, and small houses on quaint little streets. The new Lander was also well represented, including the brewpub, more restaurants than one would expect to find in such a small town, large homes with big wooden decks on rolling one-acre plots, several bed and breakfast inns, and, of course, a Starbucks coffee inside the large grocery store. Somewhere in between the old and the new were the large Shoshone tribal community, including the Shoshone Rose Casino not too far out of town, and the somewhat smaller mountain climbing community that had set up camp sometime around 1972 and had never left.

One thing you won’t find in Lander is any signage that points you in the direction of Sinks Canyon. To get there, you have to ask directions, then turn the appropriate way on 5^th Street, drive through a neighborhood of small but tidy homes, turn right on Fremont Street, and only then will you find yourself on Sinks Canyon Road. When I finally met up with Kevin and Oliver at 2:00, on the road to the trailhead, I had been stewing on my abandonment for two hours. My mood was grim. As Kevin lowered his window on the passenger side of the car, I felt compelled to share my black cloud. “To Hell with you guys!”

Kevin just smiled. “Lunch was delicious.”

“I had a bacon burger,” chimed in Oliver, from the other side of the car. “We were waiting for you at the Bruce parking lot. Turns out Bruce is just a trailhead, and we can’t camp there, so we got a spot at Sinks Canyon campground. Follow us down.”

With that, Oliver flipped his car around and took off. I followed along behind, grateful that they had not let me stew for awhile at the trailhead, too.

The campsite was small, but adequate, and nicely situated alongside the Middle Fork of the Popo Agie River. The site featured a steel fire ring, a steel bear box for storing food, a picnic table that was canted ten degrees downhill toward the river, and two or three hard-packed and almost-level places to pitch a small tent. In most years, the sound of the water would have been pleasant background music, but not this year. The Popo Agie was running huge, so high that you could feel the ground shaking if you were within 50 feet of the river, and two of the best tent spots at our site were only inches above the water line.  This made for somewhat crowded camping, so I opted to sleep in the back of the truck.

 The campsite at Sinks Canyon State Park.

Rick greeted me as I got out of the truck. “Hi John! Too bad you couldn’t join us for lunch. The mushroom burger was excellent.”

“To Hell with you, too, Rick.”

With the formalities out of the way, I grabbed a beer and sat down on the bench to catch up with my friends. It had been a year since I had last seen either Oliver or Kevin, and at least four months since I had seen Rick, even though he and I live only two miles apart.

 Just happy to be here, part 1.

The Sinks Canyon campground is small, but neat. There are probably only 15 campsites, one of which is occupied by the camp hosts, whose large trailer was set up just 50 feet from the well. The well featured an ancient pump that gurgled out about a quart of cold water with each stroke of the pump handle. However, the pump handle was about four feet long, so pumping water into anything but a bucket was a two person job: one to man the handle, and one to fill the bottles, bags, and buckets. The pump lost its head as soon as one stopped pumping, and at least five, but no more than 20 pumps were then required to reprime the pump. There was no way to tell when the water would start flowing, exactly, so it was always a bit of a surprise when the first quart gushed out, usually onto the shoes of the person trying to hold the bottles.

 Just happy to be here, part 2.

The afternoon passed quickly as we divvied up food, ate snacks, drank beer, sorted gear, and prepared for the first-night feast. As usual, Oliver had outdone himself. The menu included fire-grilled lamb kebabs, chicken, pork chops, and steak. We had bread, and sweet corn. We had crackers and cheese, and Rick had brought along some elephant garlic pâté.  And for dessert, we had cookies and chocolate cake. Efforts to heat the cake over the fire were a mixed success, however. The cake was soft and warm as a result, but the smoky flavor did nothing to enhance the delicate semi-bitter cocoa taste.

With the fire burning down, the dishes done, and the food put away in the bear box, we offered one final toast to celebrate the beginning of a new adventure. The night had turned cold and damp, and we were all tired from a long day of travel. But aside from not meeting at the appointed place and time, not camping at the trailhead as we intended, not starting from the trailhead we had originally chosen, and now knowing with certainty that river crossings would be deadly and that we would not be able to make the hike we had hoped for, things were going pretty much according to plan. This was going to be an excellent trip.

My First Boat

My First Boat

By John Tuma

My cousin Jeff and I were always in trouble. We didn’t try to get in trouble, it just sort of happened that way. Two incidents stand out. One was when we got arrested, but that isn’t what this story is about. This story is about the time we went boating without permission.

The boat in question was my first boat, or rather, our first boat, since it was a jointly held asset. We were in for equal shares, which was probably good, since that meant there were no clear lines of responsibility. I sure wouldn’t have wanted to bear the full wrath of our parents; a half share was more than enough.

My Uncle Mort and Aunt June lived about 50 miles from us, and I only saw Jeff when we all got together for big family parties, which, as everyone knows, are trouble waiting to happen. The adults would start talking, and sometimes they’d play cards or games, and usually there was a bit of drinking, so the kids were left largely unsupervised. In the long boring time between when everyone would arrive and we would all sit down to dinner, us cousins were left to figure out how to entertain ourselves.

I was 11 years old at the time, and Jeff was 10. My family had just moved into a new house out at the edge of town, a place where immature suburban landscapes rubbed shoulders with lots of open farmland. It was a glorious place to be a kid, and there were always adventures to be found, most of which involved trouble of one sort or another.

I remember telling Jeff that all we had to do was walk to the end of the street, turn right, and go down a couple of blocks, and we’d be out in the fields. So, of course, he had to see for himself.

It was February, and it was probably cold, but what I most remember is that there had been a lot of rain, and there was a lot of water pooling on the ground. The grasses in the fields were tall, the fields were really muddy, and at first we didn’t dare venture out there, for fear of getting dirty or sinking in quicksand. I don’t know much about the geology of modern youth, but I know that when I was growing up, there was a lot of quicksand and we were always worrying about sinking into it and disappearing forever. To the best of my recollection, we never did lose anyone, but at the time there seemed to be a lot of close calls.

So at first Jeff and I just stayed on the path that ran through a greenbelt on the edge of the housing development. We threw rocks for a bit, which landed with a most satisfying, “thwup”, as they got swallowed up in the gooey mud, but you can only throw rocks for so long, and I had already proved my point that the fields were right around the corner.

Throughout the time that we had been throwing rocks, we had continued walking, and pretty soon we came to the place where the pavement ended and it was all open fields from there to Woodland, about 10 miles away. This was further than I had ever ventured, and it was all pretty exciting, but we had seen the fields and it was time to get back home. At this point, neither of us was particularly dirty, and we had learned long before that there was a tolerable level of mud and staining that we could attain without garnering undue attention. Since we hadn’t crossed that threshold, and since we wouldn’t be late, returning now would make a lot of sense.

Generally speaking, though, I wouldn’t wager a lot of money on the sensibilities of a 10-year old and an 11-year old, especially when they are working on a vexing problem together. This time was no different.

“You ever been around that corner?” Jeff asked, pointing to a bend in the dirt road that continued on from the end of the pavement.

“No. This is the farthest I’ve ever gone.” I considered the situation. Since I was older than Jeff, I was expected to be wiser. It was a dreadfully heavy burden. “What time do you think it is? Think it’s dinnertime? Maybe we should be getting back.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Jeff. “But I sure would like to see where that dirt road goes.” He paused for a moment. “Think there’s any quicksand out there?”

“Pretty sure there is. But my friend Kenny said you can tell where the quicksand is by looking at the animal tracks. You can see where the tracks go in, and then they disappear, and don’t come out the other side.”

Jeff nodded. The argument made intuitive sense.

“Paul from next door said he heard the same thing.” (Probably from Kenny.) Since just about everybody I knew was telling me that you could identify quicksand from disappearing animal tracks, I felt pretty confident that I could keep us out of trouble, at least with respect to quicksand.

As we debated the merits of going on, we had continued walking along the dirt road, so by now going around the bend in the road was a foregone conclusion. We rounded the corner, and discovered, to our amazement, that there really wasn’t much to see. The road branched off in two directions, there were some old, gnarled trees in the corner of the field between the two roads that had once been part of a windbreak, and other than that there was just a lot of weeds and mud.

I stopped to survey the fields for any sign of something interesting, but Jeff continued on down the road to the right. My survey revealed nothing, though not for lack of effort, so I picked up some rocks and stood there, idly tossing them into the mud waiting for Jeff to come back.  When he didn’t come back after what seemed like a long time, I began to get worried. I know I had explained to him the finer points of identifying quicksand, but maybe he hadn’t been listening. I ran up the road, fearing the worst, calling Jeff’s name.

“What are you hollerin’ about?“ Jeff asked. “I’m just right here.”

Jeff was off the side of the road, crouched by the edge of a large pond. He had a long tree branch with which he was trying to discern the depth of the water, but without much success since it kept floating to the top. One thing was clear, though. The water was pretty deep.

“Look out there!” Jeff pointed out into the middle of the pond, which was really just a low spot at the corner of the field that had filled with water. “It’s some kind of tractor.” Jeff paused for a moment. “What do you think happened to the driver? Think he’s still stuck out there?”

I looked to where Jeff was pointing. There was an old broken-down combine squatting in the muddy water, slowly sinking into the muck. Both the pond and the tractor had been hidden from view because the weeds were tall and we were short.

“No, I don’t think he’s still out there. Sure hope he didn’t get caught in some quicksand.” I scanned up the road. “I don’t see any footprints.”

“Maybe we should find out. I’d hate to leave him if he’s still our there.” Jeff had point. There was no one better qualified than us to make sure the driver was safe, at least no one nearby. Besides, we needed a reason to undertake the dangerous task of exploring the combine, and that was as good a reason as any. “How do you think we should get out there?” Jeff continued.

“Well, we’re gonna need a boat,” I said. “There’s probably quicksand at the bottom of that pond, and there might be some alligators or even some piranhas in the water.” Jeff looked up at me alarmed. “Kenny said that Paul told him that there were alligators in the fields when he first moved out here. I believe him, ‘cause Paul’s house was one of the first ones built.”

So it was decided then. We would have to explore the tractor to make sure that the driver was okay, but we’d have to have a boat or almost certainly we’d be eaten by alligators before we even had a chance to sink into the quicksand. This was turning out to the best adventure ever, and all thoughts of returning home for dinner clean enough and on time enough were completely forgotten.

About the only sensible thing we did that day was our decision to stay together while we scouted the perimeter of the pond for a boat. This had more to do with fears about being eaten by alligators than any overriding good sense, but it was a good decision for all that.

Scouting the perimeter of the lake proved to be a lot harder than it first appeared. The ground was very soft and muddy, even though we tried to stay up where the weeds were growing, and we were both covered in mud before we got ten steps off the road. We were committed now, and there was no sense going back home this dirty without at least making our best effort to get out to the combine. But it was 30 feet from the shore even at its closest point. About half way around the pond, we came across an irrigation pump. Debris was littered around this spot, and amongst the debris was a rusty, old, steel tank, about six feet long, cut in half. The tank was probably an old water tank, but it could just as easily have been used for carrying pesticides or fertilizer. We didn’t care about any of that. The tank was half floating in the pond with maybe three inches of water sloshing around the bottom. This was our boat!

Since the tank was half floating, we figured that it would be no problem to push it into the water the rest of the way, hop in, and pole our way across. Jeff still had his tree branch, which he had carried along in case of alligators, so he was set. All we needed was another long stick, and we’d be ready to go. I rooted around for a bit in the debris around the pump, but all I could find was a piece of 2 x 4 about three feet long. It would have to do.

While I was searching for my stick, Jeff had been trying to push the tank off the mud and into the water. But the tank was stuck, and even using his stick to pry it off didn’t work.

“How about if I get in, and try to paddle while you push,” I suggested. Jeff nodded. I carefully clambered over the sharp edge of the tank, and with my feet splayed against the sides a few inches above the water in the bottom, I slowly worked my way out to the end. With each alternating step, the tank would rock first one way and then the other. The combination of me inadvertently rocking the boat, along with my weight at the floating end of the tank, was just enough to break the tank free from the suction of the mud. But with the tank no longer level, the water came rushing down to my end of the boat, causing it to tip even more sharply in my direction.

By now I was pretty scared. The round bottom was not very stable, and every time I moved the boat would rock back and forth, the motion amplified by the water that was swirling around my feet.

But Jeff was elated. “Okay. Hold on. I’m gonna to get in.” Jeff tossed his stick into the boat and gave it a little nudge as he climbed in over the end. The boat slowly eased off the shore, and I was sincerely hoping that Jeff wouldn’t tip us into the alligator and piranha-infested waters. All thoughts of paddling were secondary. The boat rocked wildly once or twice, but with Jeff’s weight now on the shore-side end, the water that had been lapping at my feet flowed back the other way, and the bottom of the tank settled once again into the thick, clay mud. With that, the boat stopped rocking and we stopped moving. 

“Well,” I thought, “that’s no fun.” My momentary terror was replaced with supreme disappointment. How were we ever going to rescue the driver if we couldn’t even get our boat off the muddy bank? Jeff tried to push us off with his stick, but the stick just sunk ever deeper into the mud and the boat just sat there. It was quicksand for sure. I leaned over the end of the boat and started paddling with my 2 x 4, and Jeff kept pushing with his stick, but nothing worked. Finally, I suggested that Jeff slowly shift his weight toward me. Maybe we could float off.

Jeff took a couple of steps in my direction, and that was all we needed. The boat floated free. I paddled hard to get us off the bank, and then Jeff moved back to his end of the boat and started poling us toward the combine while I continued to paddle.

The combine was listing to one side, which was perfect since it meant that we could tuck the boat up behind one of the wheels and climb onto a long board that ran from where the driver sat all the way back along the side. “Hello?” I squeaked, not at all sure I wanted to find anyone to rescue. Nothing. “Hello!” I said, louder this time, a little more confident we had the tractor to ourselves. Still nothing. It was clear that the driver either had jumped to safety before the tractor crashed into the pond, or else he’d been eaten by alligators. I climbed onto the running board, and started working my way forward to the driver’s seat. Jeff climbed up after me.

The driver’s seat was a wooden bench, about three feet long. There were three or four long levers with grip handles that had been used for controlling the combine, but they were rusted up, and we couldn’t move them at all. Even so, we had a grand time pretending that we were driving, and when that got boring, we left the driver’s seat and explored the rest of the tractor, clambering all over the outside, and even poking our noses into the inside. But eventually, we realized that the sun was going down, and it was time to go.

“You know,” I said, “it’s getting dark.”

“Yeah,” answered Jeff. “It’s probably time to go.”

The boat was where we left it, which was good, since we had not thought to tie it to anything. Getting back into the boat was a bit tricky. It sure looked like there was more water in the thing than there had been, but it was hard to say since we had never checked for leaks. After studying the situation for a moment, Jeff turned backwards so that he could lower himself into the boat while still holding onto the running board. The boat was pretty tender, especially with the water in it, but he managed to plant his feet firmly on both sides of the boat above the water. From there he retreated to the back of the boat and picked up his stick so that he could hold the boat steady while I got in.

I lowered myself into the boat, and gave us a firm push to get us moving.

“You, know,” I said, “since we have the boat, we should circle the entire pond and check for tracks.” Jeff nodded in agreement.

So he poled and I paddled, and we circled the tractor and explored every inch of the shore, but we didn’t see a single track, either from the driver or from an animal that had gotten caught in the quicksand. This whole operation didn’t take more than ten minutes, but by then it was clear that we were taking on water. As much fun as it was, we needed to park the boat and get back for dinner. We pole-paddled back over to the spot by the irrigation pump where we first found the boat, and beached it the same way we had gotten it off the bank.

Jeff climbed out and I followed. We said goodbye to our trusty (rusty) vessel, picked out way among the weeds back over to the road, and headed for home. We caught hell when we got there, too. Dinner was done, we’d missed the birthdays and the cake. My Aunt June, who was never shy with her opinions, let us have it. All of our other parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles glared silently in the background as Jeff and I slumped lower and lower in our chairs.

“. . .and we’re really disappointed in you. What were you thinking?”

Both of us sat there, a bit shocked. We expected to get in trouble, but not like this. We’d already been home for 15 minutes, and no one had offered us dinner. The situation was increasingly grim.

“Well?!” Aunt June demanded.

“I, uh. . ., wanted to show Jeff the fields,” I started, haltingly. “And we found this tractor. . .” I stopped under Aunt June’s withering stare. My own parents seemed disinclined to help me.

“The tractor was stuck in the mud,” blurted out Jeff, coming to my rescue, “and it was surrounded by a big pond, so we had to find a boat to see if the driver was okay after crashing into the pond.”

“Yeah, we had to have a boat, because there was all this quicksand, and Kenny said we could know it was quicksand by the animal tracks.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Jeff.

I was watching my father as Jeff was talking about rescuing the driver, and I knew then we were going to be okay. Uncle Mort and Uncle Cliff were nodding slowly in the background. The argument made intuitive sense. We couldn’t just leave the driver there—they’d all have made the same decision if presented with the same facts and the same opportunity. However, none of them were likely to intervene, either, and so far Aunt June, Aunt JoAnne, and my mom were not persuaded by our compelling argument. The grilling went on for another ten minutes or so, but we did eventually get dinner and even some dessert.

That old tank was as good a boat as any I’ve ever had. It was rusty, and sharp, and it leaked, but it got us there and it got us back. As ugly and dangerous as it was, the boat was a magic carpet to a great adventure. And the best part was that all the kids in the neighborhood knew that we had braved the alligators and piranhas and quicksand to explore the pond and the combine, because they could see where our tracks went in, and where they came back out.

High Uintas, Days 6 and 7

Day 6: Brook Lake to Lodgepole Island (Kabell Meadows) (8 miles)

Order was restored this morning. Once again I was the first one up, though not by much and not particularly early. While I went to get water for coffee, Kevin spent time rearranging the fire pit to take the water pot. I got the first round of coffee water going on the stove, and Kevin started a fire to heat more water in the big pot.

As he had done at Kidney Lakes, Oliver decreed that this would be an oatmeal-free morning. Blueberry pancakes would be on the menu. The first round of pancakes were frying-pan sized, cooked one at a time, each one to perfection. It was a slow business, but rewarding for the one MountainGuy whose pancake-turn had arrived. Served with a bit of butter and some honey or jam, the pancakes were both delicious and satisfying. The second round of pancakes was cooked three to the pan. They did not cook as well, but the wait was less, and more folk could get in on the action at one time. In between rounds, guys would disappear to take care of morning business, like putting away tents, packing bags and packs, and taking care of morning business. The morning had a nice slow rhythm to it, with plenty of time for a second cup of coffee or a chance to stretch sore legs and tired backs. 

Despite the slow pace, the MountainGuys were on the trail by 9:45 a.m., which the discerning reader will notice is no different from the mornings when the pace was seemingly less subdued. From the first, the trail eluded us, even though it theoretically passed within 150 feet of our camp. But by now, there was no panic, just a generalized feeling of annoyance that finding the trail should be so difficult. Overall, we had a pretty good idea of the direction we wanted to go, and while a trail would have been a convenience, the lack of trail had not stopped us so far.

The morning hike was really quite pleasant. The weather was cool, and clouds were streaming across the sky. The winds were brisk from the very first, and it looked as though we might once again see some nasty weather. After hiking for about half an hour through fairly dense forest, we found ourselves crossing open meadows about half a mile above Fox Lake, which was now clearly visible to the west. The meadows were a bit soggy, and no doubt would have been a really messy affair had we been hiking earlier in the season. We climbed up a small rise on the far side of the meadow, and there, finally, was a trail.

Knowing that we wanted to hike away from Fox Lake, we turned to the right and started up the trail. Something, however, was not right. We could see the pass we wanted to climb to the north, and this trail was taking us east, back up toward Brook Lake and North Pole Pass. Eureka! We had found the trail. Too late to be of any use, but we had found it nonetheless. After a brief discussion, utilizing our unerring MountainGuy sense of direction, we turned around and started back toward Fox Lake. Dan, Kevin, and Rick decided that this was a waste of time, and quickly decided to go cross-country up to the trail leading to the pass. Oliver and I, anxious to complete the full “butterfly wing” loop trail, opted to continue down to Fox Lake and pick up the trail to the pass from there. 

 Fox Lake.

Oliver and I met up with the free-wheeling contingent about 30 minutes later and about a mile up the trail from Fox Lake. Setting out cross country, they had found the trail in about 15 minutes, and so had time to take off their packs, eat a few snacks, break out the easy chairs, and generally rest up for the final push to the pass.

The hike up to Divide Pass went pretty quickly, or at least it went pretty quickly for most of us. Kevin had established early in the trip that he liked hiking at the back of the line, as it allowed him the opportunity to stop frequently and study the flora, fauna, and geology of the land we were hiking through. By the time Oliver and I reached the pass, Rick and Dan were right behind us, but Kevin was about five minutes behind. We could see him, but he looked really small. Now, normally, a pass is an invitation to stop, take off the packs and wait for everyone to catch up, but the wind was howling over the pass and it was really cold. So we continued on with the intention of stopping once we found a good place to rest out of the wind.

We were easily half way down from the pass to Island Lake before we found a stopping place. Rick and Dan were right behind us when they alerted us to the presence of a moose cow only 100 yards down the trail. Fortunately, she ran off when confronted by the four of us in the full bloom of manly odors, but this seemed as good a spot as any to stop and wait for Kevin. Kevin was bitterly disappointed to learn that he had missed the moose, and he immediately deployed his camera for instantaneous action. But while Kevin might have been happy to sneak up on the moose, the rest of us were happy to alert the moose to our presence and give her the chance to run off. We never did see that moose again, as the sneak-up sect was simply overwhelmed by the loud, manly odor sect.

Just about the time that we reached Island Lake, we looked backed and noticed two hunters on horses were right behind us. In retrospect, this raised some interesting questions. All of the hunters we met kept coming up from behind us, and were aware of us before we were aware of them. Could it be because they were on horses and so traveled faster than we? Or could it be something more sinister—like we would be dead meat if it had been MountainGuy hunting season? In any case, one of the guys was the one we had met at Kidney Lake a couple of days before, and the other one had seen us crossing the meadow on our way down to Kidney Lakes from Davis Lake. They were friendly, and told us about the big bull moose that patrolled the forest between Island Lake and the pass, and also wanted to know if we were the ones they had heard up at Brook Lake the night before. We told them that we had seen the bull on the way in, and that yes, it was us they heard up at Brook Lake. Like I said, it’s a good thing that it wasn’t MountainGuy hunting season. They bid us goodbye as they set off for Round Lake in search of their still-elusive elk. We never did see them again, though they may have seen us.

Island Lake was a couple feet down from its high water mark, and as a result, there was a fine little beach on the east end of the lake where the creek flowed into the lake from the pass. We reached the lake about noon, and since we had been hiking for almost two hours, it was clearly time for lunch. This was the sixth day of our seven-day trip, provisions were getting a bit light; we were down to our last 25 pounds of food. In fact, there was barely enough cheese and sausage for each of us to have two large tortilla sandwiches, dried fruit, trail mix, peanut butter, cookies, and chocolate. Despite the short rations, we were in such good humor that Kevin dubbed the event a beach party, making it the Second Annual MountainGuy Big Beach Bash. Sadly, our itinerary required that we pack up and move on before the party really got into full swing, but it was still a welcome respite from the unrelenting rigors of the trail.

Our plan for the day was to hike to Kabell Lake, which was about four miles from the Hoop Lake trailhead. That way, we get one more night in the backcountry, and then a short hike back to the cars. This was a good plan, but one that required a climb up to the lake. In the event, we took a short break at Kabell Meadows, decided that we didn’t want to hike uphill to Kabell Lake, and then continued down the trail for about half a mile before finding a good camping spot.

The trail skirted the edge of a series of meadows for about a mile or so below Kabell Meadows proper. Though there were many flat spots along the trail, none of them offered anything magical enough for a last-night campsite. We didn’t want to go too far, because the trail eventually veered up and over a small ridge, away from the meadows and water, and we didn’t want to end up back at Hoop Lake. Nice as it was, one night was enough. But just as we were nearing the end of the meadow trail, we found an island of trees out in the middle of the meadow near where the stream flowed through. Lodgepole Island proved the perfect spot. There was a well-developed fire ring, good seating, and lots of flat spots covered with comfy forest duff. The stream was just crying out to be fished, and the meadow was large enough to accommodate an 18-hole Frisbee golf course. The perfect last-night spot.

 Lodgepole Island.

Throughout the afternoon the weather had deteriorated, and while we hadn’t seen any rain, it was looking increasingly likely. The wind was still very brisk, and the clouds were building in the south and west. We arrived at Lodgepole Island about 4:00 p.m. Camp was quickly arranged, firewood was collected, the hanging tree was set up, and the rain tarp was fully deployed. On the menu for the night was our famous Mountain Jambalaya, and fresh trout was an ingredient I was hoping to add.

With camp set up, I went down to the stream to fish. Dan and Kevin joined me for a time, which was especially welcome since they showed up right about the time I pulled out my first fish. I caught three, all small cutthroats ineligible for jambalaya status, but even so, it’s good to have observers around when you are catching fish so that your credibility is higher when you are not and have to lie. Oliver and Rick set about making the Frisbee golf course that Oliver had been hoping for from the beginning of the trip. The course took them all over the meadow, and every once in a while, we would hear the telltale vocalizing that accompanies both successful and unsuccessful moments in golf.

With the exception of the beef stew, Oliver had done all of the cooking on this trip. I was itching to cook—though I refrained from scratching while cooking—so I begged Oliver for the opportunity to make the jambalaya. He pondered for a moment, and then graciously agreed. As the shopper-in-chief for the trip, I know it was difficult for Oliver to let go—I am sure he had a fine recipe already planned. But I had been shamelessly begging for the chance to make this from the end of the Flat Tops trip, and the weight of a full year of pathetic pandering finally wore him down. Though the weather may also have had something to do with it.

 Fine kitchen facilities.

Just about the time the onions and chicken and sausage hit the olive oil to be lightly browned, the first wave of rain blew through. I huddled in my rain gear, trying to protect the flame from the wind and rain, while the rest of the MountainGuys lounged comfortably under the tarp and out of the rain, snacking on snacks. The rain did not last long, however, and by the time I was adding the salmon to the pot, the rain was already gone. Kevin took the opportunity to start a fire. The flames quickly drew everyone out from under the tarp, at least until the next little squall went through. And so it was throughout the night. The wind would suddenly pick up, rain would fall for five to ten minutes, and then both the rain and the wind would subside. One or more of us would emerge from under the tarp, stoke the fire, and like moths, the other guys would emerge. The wind and rain would return, and we would scurry back under the tarp.

With the chicken and onions lightly browned and the salmon heated through, I added spices (curry, mesquite seasoning, oregano, thyme, hot mustard, pepper, and salt) and tomato paste, and fried on high heat for about three minutes. When the tomato paste started sticking to the bottom of the pan, I added the reconstituted freeze-dried vegetables, including the water, and a dash of soy sauce. This was simmered for as long as we could stand it (maybe ten minutes, max), and then added the sauce to the five cups of cooked rice. Altogether the mixture filled our one-gallon pot to within half an inch of the top. It was all gone in no more than ten minutes.

One nice thing about cooking the jambalaya on the last night was that we could add pretty much all of the remaining dinner-type food to the mix—a true jambalaya. Dinner done, Dan offered to clean the pots, pans, dishes, and utensils, a role he had taken on from about day three. On this particular night, he deserved combat pay, as he ended up doing the dishes in the rain while the rest of us threw a bunch of wood on the fire and then retreated under the tarp to stay dry.

Dessert was a fine blend of scotch and dark chocolates. Cookies would have been nice, or a fine, fresh fruit compote, or perhaps tortillas fried in butter and dusted with sugar and cinnamon. We did have sugar and cinnamon. We had butter. We had plenty of isobutane to do the cooking. But fruit, tortillas, and cookies. . .all gone. Alas. Time for bed. One by one we retired to the snug warmth of our tents and sleeping bags. Rick and Kevin stayed up late around the fire—till maybe 9:30 p.m.—but then they too called it a night.

Day 7: Kabell Meadows to Hoop Lake (3 miles), and Hoop Lake to Sills Café, Mountain View, WY (22 miles)

The wind continued throughout the night, and squalls passed through periodically, but by morning the weather had settled down a bit. With our routine now firmly established, I was up first to get the coffee water started and to retrieve the food, while Kevin was up shortly thereafter to start the fire.

With rations down to the barest of minimums, breakfast was a barren affair of fresh coffee, hot chocolate, oatmeal, cold out bran (okay, that part was barren), and bacon and eggs. Dan offered to make the eggs, and though the project started out well enough, once past the fried bacon part, the egg part turned out to be less than stellar. Lest the sensitive reader feel these comments too harsh, be advised that this correspondent did not eat any of the eggs and confined his efforts to oatmeal—the assessment came from none other than Dan, who concluded that they were “the worst eggs ever.” Oliver tried to be diplomatic, but he too eventually agreed that the eggs were not “wholly tantalizing.” Nonetheless, there were none left to feed the fire.

Even though we were not in a big hurry, camp was packed and packs were hoisted by 9:45 a.m. By 11:30 a.m., we were at Hoop Lake, mugging for the end of trip picture. 

 End of trip picture.

It was a quick trip out, but a great hike. There were a few ups and downs, but the trail was mostly gently graded, winding through thick pine forests and occasional groves of aspens. The aspens had been green just the week before as we were hiking in, but many had started to turn yellow, and there were even a few shaded red. As Kevin noted, “We hiked in during summer, we hiked out in the fall.”

It is always with a mixture of relief and sadness that the cars are unlocked, the packs tucked inside, and the backcountry clothes exchanged for clean clothes not imbued with the scent of the mighty MountainGuy (or should I say the mighty scent of the MountainGuy). However, the sadness was brief. It felt good to put on clean clothes, and the cold beer (or in Kevin’s case, the cold root beer) in the coolers did a lot to lighten the moment. There was but one thing left to do: the end of trip luncheon.

While driving in, Rick had the presence of mind to notice that a small café we passed was jammed with cars, and took this to mean that it was popular, and perhaps, popular because it had good food. A leap of faith to be sure, as this was Mountain View, WY, but in this case faith was rewarded. Not instantly, or even in short order, but eventually. After driving for 40 minutes and sitting in traffic for fifteen minutes while a bunch of guys in hardhats drove heavy machinery back and forth along a recently paved stretch of road, we had the good fortune to arrive at Sills Café. This local icon did indeed have good food. The cheeseburger was great. The chicken sandwich was excellent. The fritters were homemade and amazing. Although each of the three fritters we ordered was the size of a dinner plate, there was none left at the end. The cherry fritter was great. The apple fritter was excellent. The raspberry fritter was amazing. [Menu idea: fritters would make a great dessert in the backcountry, and wouldn’t be hard to make.]

The fritters gone, it was time to go. The Ninth Annual MountainGuy Rendezvous and Gasfest was officially over outside Sills Café. It was another great trip, perhaps one of the best. The hiking was great, the campsites fine, and the variable weather both challenging and fun. The food was excellent. Even the fishing had been pretty good. With a last round of handshakes the California contingent headed west, and the Colorado contingent headed east. It was a bittersweet moment, but the planning has already started for next year. On the agenda: the Grand Tetons!  The Weminuche Wilderness! The Marble Mountains! Bring out the maps—let the full-contact planning begin!

High Uintas, Day 5

Day 5: Queant Lake to Brook Lake (7 miles)

Kevin was up first this morning. I was awake, but comfortable in my warm little cocoon, and the first indication that this day would be different was when Kevin walked by my tent to get the food. My understanding of the MOU from the night before was that the day would start early, weather permitting. However, there were clouds drifting by as the sun came up, so as far as I was concerned, the weather was not permitting. Wouldn’t want to get caught going over a high pass in a thunderstorm, so it made sense to me to stay in bed, take a lay day at Queant Lake, and try again tomorrow.

Curiously, Kevin’s response to clouds in the morning was to get up even earlier, and to get over the pass before the thunderstorms moved in. Crazy talk to be sure. Nonetheless, Kevin was up, and since he is not a coffee drinker, the situation was not likely to improve unless I got up to heat water. The rest of the hard working MountainGuys were up before the water was hot. Yep, this day would be different. Coffee was chugged, oatmeal was scarfed, cold oat bran was gustily consumed, and packs were quickly packed.

At least most of the packs were quickly packed. One of the enduring mysteries of the MountainGuy is how your correspondent can almost always be the first one up, yet without fail the last one packed. I was determined on this morning that I would not be last, but determination can only carry one so far. Alas, though I had but my water bladder to pack, and Oliver still had his entire kitchen to put away, I was still the last one working. Of course, the bladder had to be packed just so, with the Frisbee underneath it so that the water tube would not be pinched and the tube length would be not too long and not too short, but just right. It all takes time.

Though I could have spent a good deal more time getting my pack just so, I was feeling the pressure. It was time to go. By 8:15 a.m. we were on the trail. By 8:20 a.m., we had lost it. This was unfortunate, because off trail in this instance was a really bad thing. The map showed the trail following the northern and eastern edge of the lake almost all the way around before intersecting the trail up to North Pole Pass, which then proceeded north from the lake. Theoretically, this geometry should have meant that we could cut the corner and pick up the trail without walking all the way around. The trail, however, followed the backbone of a long low ridge that separated the Queant basin from the basin to the southeast. By cutting the corner we found ourselves first traipsing across a boggy meadow, then fighting our way uphill through dense forest along the side of the ridge, and finally scrambling across a tumbled landscape of giant boulders that filled the valley on both sides of Taylor Lake, all the while searching for the trail. 

 A long escarpment defined the western side of the valley above Queant Lake.

A long escarpment stretched from Fox-Queant Pass all the way to North Pole Pass, and since this was by far the most prominent feature of the landscape, we were never really lost. We had only to keep climbing up the eastern side of the valley above the creek that flowed out of Taylor Lake; the escarpment defined the western side of the valley. The climb was hard. The forest on the lower reaches was dense with deadfall. Promising trails would appear then disappear. At one point, Oliver startled a moose cow, but fortunately she took off, though I think Oliver was a bit unnerved. Higher up, the forest thinned out, but the going was even harder. Giant, jagged boulders covered the side of the ridge. There was no way but over, around, and between them. At times brush filled all the spaces between the boulders, and there was no way forward but by thrashing through the brush. It was hard, slow work.

Dan, I thought speaking for the group, exclaimed that this was the hardest hike he had ever done.

“Yeah! It’s great, isn’t it!?” Oliver responded, again, I thought, speaking for the group.

“No, I mean it’s the hardest hike I’ve ever done,” said Dan.

Oliver smiled wistfully. “Yeah, it was really great.”

“No, I mean it’s really hard.” Dan scrambled between two boulders and then forced his way through a particularly dense patch of brush.

“Yeah, I love this kind of hiking, too,” replied Oliver, leaping from one boulder to the next.

 Hard hiking. It was great.

At this point the discussion could have gone only one way, but fortunately it was interrupted by our arrival at Taylor Lake. The clouds continued to pass by, but they hadn’t yet started to build into big, dense thunderheads. Dan speculated that the clouds looked more like the edge of a front than a precursor to afternoon thunderstorms, but still the weather was a bit threatening given the prospect of going over a high pass. Without better knowledge of the landscape between Taylor Lake and the pass, we decided to take a rest, fill up on water, and scout out the trail without packs. 

 Rest spot, with Taylor Lake in the background.

Kevin and I went down to the lake to get water and to search for possible campsites should the weather turn for the worse, while Oliver and Dan, still using the same words but clearly not saying the same thing, went off in search of the trail. Rick chose to stay with the packs and to contemplate the map. Oliver and Dan were back in ten minutes, having found the trail just a quarter of a mile ahead. Once out of the trees, the trail was marked by a series of huge cairns, the first of which was visible from the spot we where we had stopped, clearly outlined along the ridgeline against the sky. As Kevin scouted the upper end of the lake for campsites, I settled down on a large rock to fill the water bottles. The lake level was about two feet down, and the rock I was on formed a perfect shelf that jutted out into the deeper waters of the lake. This would have been an excellent diving rock had the weather been warm, the skies clear, and no need to scurry over the pass to avoid possible storms. Kevin did find a good campsite at the head of the lake, which would have been welcome had we been turned back from the pass, but as it turned out, the clouds just continued to float on by, and we never did see any significant precipitation.

With the trail in sight and water bottles full, we scrambled the final 300 yards to the first cairn.

“That hike was really hard,” gasped Dan.

“Yeah, it was really great. I love this kind of stuff,” gushed Oliver.

The wind was brisk on the ridge top, and the air at 11,500 feet was really pretty cool, even when the sun was out. With the conversation clearly going nowhere, it was time to hike. The trail followed the ridgeline up into a small meadow at the base of the pass. From the meadow floor, steep switchbacks worked up the side of the mountain, quickly gaining several hundred feet of elevation. But after the initial steep section, the trail leveled off, and though still uphill, it was well graded. The views on the climb up were absolutely spectacular. Barren mountains framed against the cloudy sky, trees marching up the slopes and surrounding bright, blue mountain lakes down in the valleys.

From the meadow, Dan had taken the lead, step by step working his way farther and farther out in front. All at once he turned back and pointed to spot further up the slope, “It’s really steep. . .,” we thought he said.

“What?”

“Mountain steep.”

Well, yeah, it’s all really steep. So we ignored him.

“Mountain sheep. Right there.” Finally we understood. A small herd of mountain goats was grazing along the side of the steep slope, their white wool blowing in the brisk wind. Mountain goats—how cool is that?

North Pole Pass is a broad open meadow of crumbled rock and small, hardy grasses. To the north, the ground continues to slope upward, and to the south, off toward Fox Queant Pass, the ground slopes gently down to the small rounded mountain that forms the northern side of the latter pass. At 12,226 feet, North Pole Pass is about as high as the Uintas get. There are a few higher peaks, but not many. 

 The long climb up North Pole Pass.

This is the kind of experience that defines the MountainGuy. When I hiked up the last few hundred feet to the top of the pass, Dan greeted me with a huge smile, his face flush with the excitement of BEING THERE. At that moment, there was no place better. It was cold, and windy, and the clouds were still threatening, but it was a great moment, just standing on the top of the pass with world spread out below. Oliver arrived at the top a minute or two after me, and Rick and Kevin were perhaps a couple minutes later. Like Dan and me, they were a bit gassed from the climb, but high on adrenaline and filled with the joy of just living in that moment.

 Dan at the top of North Pole Pass

 Kevin, high on adrenaline.

 Too cold to linger with only a rock cairn to block the wind.

It was exciting, but the wind was bitter cold, and it was time to get moving. Like the east side of Fox Queant Pass, the west side of North Pole Pass was brutal, descending steeply over a blasted and jagged rock landscape. The trail from the meadow at the base of the eastern side of North Pole Pass might have climbed 500 feet over a mile and a half to the top; the trail to the valley floor on the western side descended even further in little over half a mile. The footing was treacherous, and by the time we reached the bottom, our feet had that decidedly hamburger feel to them. We did the only thing we could. We stopped to eat lunch.

 A brief rest before stopping for a well-earned lunch break.

At this point, the plan was still to hike over Divide Pass to Island Lake. We reached the pass at 1:15 p.m., and were at the base of the pass on the western side by 2:30 p.m. Island Lake was still about four miles off, so a long lunch followed by a couple more hours of hiking seemed a plausible plan. We lunched in small stand of trees off to the north of the trail, just down from a small pond. Water flowed out of the pond through a small, snake-like stream that wound its way through the high meadow. With the prospect of a long lunch, and with water readily available, I heated water for coffee and hot chocolate, while the rest of the weary MountainGuys got out the food for lunch. Our repast included bagels and tortillas, peanut butter, tuna, dried fruit, nuts, berries, and of course, chocolate. Lunch finished, we continued to lounge in the shade in full repose. The clouds no longer appeared so threatening, though it was a bit cold whenever the sun would disappear behind a cloud.

Dan was lying on his back, eyes closed, with his jacket draped over him, when he said, “That was a really hard hike.”

Oliver was lying on his side sipping coffee. “It was great, wasn’t it?”

Pause. The remaining MountainGuys cringed in silence, fearing what might come next. “Yeah, it was great,” said Dan.

The lunch break lasted about an hour, but then it was time to move on. Old muscles were getting stiff, and there was still a long way to go. Rick broached the idea of stopping at Brook Lake, which we believed was but a short distance down the trail, rather than taking on another pass and the hike to Island Lake. The rest of us, though still hoping for a lay day, reluctantly agreed that stopping made sense. Packs were quickly packed, boots were laced up, and within no more than 20 minutes, we were hiking again.

We had left the trail at the last large cairn that marked the trail over the pass. But from that point, the trail disappeared completely. Though it was not our intention to go cross-country to Brook Lake, we never did find the trail, in part because we were under the impression that Brook Lake was closer than it really was. The map showed the lake to be nestled under the shadow of a steep mountain on the south side of the broad valley that fed into Fox Lake. The stream that flowed into Brook Lake followed a steep canyon down from the pass, so once again off trail, we simply followed the stream along the top of the canyon. Though the trail was shown on the map following the stream pretty closely, we concluded that the map was not entirely reliable—where the trail was shown on the map far from the streams it was far from the streams, and where the trail was shown close to the streams, it was still far from the streams.

Brook Lake proved to be about a mile farther away than we had thought, so we didn’t roll into camp until about 4:30 p.m. Our campsite was a fine spot at the western end of the lake, just across the stream that flowed out of the lake. There were plenty of flattish spots to put the tents on a small mesa above the cooking area, and the cooking area featured plenty of seating and a large firepit. As with so many of the sites we had seen, this one was well-used, but it suffered from an unusual abundance of garbage, including numerous cans, fishhooks, horse tethers, and an assortment of plastic utensils. Between them, Oliver and Kevin managed to pack up a lot of the garbage, and what they couldn’t carry they consolidated into a single neat pile. By the time they were done, the site was totally remodeled and in move-in condition.

With a bit of daylight left, I took off to go fishing. There was a fine little pool in the meadow just below the outlet from the lake. Through a complicated process of watching the bugs that were flying around, evaluating them for size and color, and with a hefty dose of plain dumb luck, I picked a black fly with light-colored bristles. Though I don’t know what the fish thought that black fly to be, whatever it was must have been really delicious. I caught fish on my first five casts. Three of the fish were native cutthroat trout, which are protected in the Uintas, and had to be thrown back. The other two were brook trout. One was too small and got thrown back. The other was a fine big fish about 12 inches long. It got eaten.

Dinner that night was spaghetti with pesto sauce, followed by trout cooked on a hot rock in the fire. What the fish lacked in spicing it made up in freshness. The meal was followed by a dessert course of chocolates and dried fruit, and a splash of scotch for those so inclined. Dan contemplated cooking his Chili Mac meal, but the pesto was really quite filling, and no one went to bed hungry.

High Uintas, Day 4

Day 4: Kidney Lakes to Queant Lake (10 miles)

The day started a bit slow. I poked my head out of the tent a couple of times before finally getting up, but it was cold and the air was damp. I got the water going on the stove and then lit a fire. Both Oliver and Kevin were up by the time I got the fire going, so they went to retrieve the food from the hanging tree. This was a simpler operation at this point, since there was only about 70 pounds of food left. 

 View of Kidney Lake from the camp site.

Before the food had even touched the ground, Oliver made clear that he was done with oatmeal and that this would be a bacon and eggs morning. Concerns about the long hike were secondary. Whatever time it took, the bacon and eggs would be worth it. And they were. Oliver fried the bacon to get it warm and crisp it up, then made up the “egg mix” by adding water and letting it set for a few minutes. The egg mix looked a bit like yellow carpenter’s glue, but once he got done mixing in the bacon and frying them up, the eggs were a pretty good approximation of scrambled eggs. Served with cheese on a warm tortilla, they were a great way to start the day.

The sun was strong on that clear morning, and though everything was a bit wet from the prior day’s rain and hail, tents and bags did not take too long to dry. Dan offered to pump water for the trail, and managed to get about four quarts before the pump handle broke. Of course, we had a backup plan: a light pen, which fries viruses and bacteria using ultra-violet light. This was a new technology for us, and while totally cool in a sort of Star Trek way, there is something a bit weird about using a glowing blue wand to make water safe. Adding poisonous chemicals or straining out the microscopic little bastards make intuitive sense, but using light just seems wrong. And despite the claims of the manufacturer that the light pen is fast, 90 seconds of stirring with the pen immersed in a quart of water feels like a really long time when you are doing it. But it is totally cool.

The camp was packed up, and by 9:45 a.m. we were ready to start hiking. Almost. The traditional early morning disc toss delayed the departure by a few minutes, but by 9:55 a.m. we were hoisting packs, and by 10:00 a.m. we were on the trail. It was a beautiful morning, the air was clear and cool, and our packs were starting to feel lighter and more comfortable. Unless, of course, you were Kevin. Throughout the trip, Kevin had been stopping along the trail to pick up garbage, which he then mysteriously managed to stuff into his already over-packed pack. But by the time we left Kidney Lakes, Kevin had added about 15 more pounds to his load.

The situation is really quite odd. The Uintas are large and wild, and even in the heavily used areas one can find duff on the forest floor and firewood within an easy walk from the campsite. At the same time, many of the campsites have a well-used appearance, and it isn’t uncommon to find things like frying pans, cups, and garbage left around the firepit. Ironically, while hiking in Kings Canyon National Park two years prior, we had been confronted by hordes of unruly hikers (including the LA Sirens Hiking Squad), but even the most used sites were largely garbage free.

The campsite at Kidney Lakes was clearly well used, but it was in pretty clean shape. At least it appeared so upon first inspection. However, the situation was akin to sweeping dirt under a rug. The dirt is still there, but it is not immediately apparent. So it was at Kidney Lakes. There, in deep a crevice, amongst the rocks between the campsite and the lake, was either a cache or a garbage dump. Early rumors that the crevice contained a dead body proved to be untrue (the wrapped bundle turned out to be the fabric for a large awning or tent enclosure), but it contained tent poles, cooking gear, shoes, a tent, and other assorted camping gear.

At some point during the time that we were at Kidney Lake, Kevin had retrieved the tent poles and a bunch of other garbage from the dump, and somehow managed to pack it into and onto his pack. So as he hefted his pack there was an audible groan, from either the pack itself or from Kevin’s back, not sure which. As fellow MountainGuys, we had to applaud Kevin’s service to all of us and to the principles of environmental stewardship that his selfless act demonstrated. We were so moved that we even talked about taking some of Kevin’s food burden to offset his burgeoning load of garbage. I don’t think any food redistribution ever actually occurred, but we did talk about it.

The hike from Kidney Lakes to Fox Lake went pretty fast. The trail was well marked, and with the exception of a couple of steep sections, pretty well graded. Ironically, had the vote for the high road gone the other way, the low road would have taken us to our destination at Kidney Lakes much more easily and directly, and probably would have meant a true lay day. 

Fox Lake is kind of an ugly lake, as high mountain lakes go. It lies in a shallow bowl, and may not have been a true lake at all had it not been for the dams that had been built along the eastern edge. Several detour signs had been placed to keep horse and foot traffic off the dam, and bulldozer tracks were evident along the dam and also along parts of the lakeshore. Fortunately, the backcountry road crews were much like the road crews along any state or federal highway. The signs were up, the cones were in place, but there wasn’t anything going on and no work crews were evident anywhere. Hence, we were free to traipse across the no-traipse zone unimpeded, although the bulldozer tracks did raise some interesting questions about how these crews could have gotten such a large machine into the backcountry in the first place. Though a contentious point of speculation, we finally concluded that Homeland Security was probably involved since the Fox Lake dam was almost certainly a target for angry Jihadists and unruly Canadians.

A lunch of bagels with salami and cheese, dried fruit, trail mix, and dark chocolates provided a welcome respite from the hardships of the trail, and by 1:15 p.m. the MountainGuys were once again ready to hike. By 1:20 p.m., we had somehow lost the trail. However, as the trail would have wound its way up the ravine to Fox Queant Pass if we had been able to find it, we simply improvised and hiked uphill toward the pass. The ravine narrowed as we moved upward, which had the beneficial effect of reducing the amount of space that the road crews had to hide the trail. Eventually, the combination of thinning forest, narrowing ravine, and eagle-sharp MountainGuy eyes enabled us to once again find the trail, though in a bitter dose of irony, the pass was clearly evident at that point, and the six-foot high rock cairns were not really needed.

The hike till this point had been relatively genteel, but that did not stop Dan from complaining about it. In fact, he had started complaining about the climb before we left Fox Lake, and he complained continually to anyone who happened to be nearby all the way up until that point where we once again sighted the trail. The sight of the pass finally short-circuited his long lament, however, and he set off for the top with determination and purpose. This was as clear a case of Pass Induced Fever, or Passitis, as I can ever recall. The hardship is forgotten, the goal is in sight, and it’s time to go. Though we were all filled with a little bit of pass-induced adrenaline for the last part of the climb, Dan kicked ass and was at the top at least three minutes before the next MountainGuy got there.

Looking east from Fox Queant Pass.

Looking west from Fox Queant Pass.

Fox Queant Pass is not the most scenic of passes. It is really a low saddle between two mountain-sized mounds of boulders and broken rock, and though it is high relative to the surrounding peaks—the pass sits at about 11,200 feet and the mountains on either side are probably only a few hundred feet higher—the views over both sides of the pass are largely obscured.

The hike up to the pass took only about and hour and fifteen minutes from our lunching spot, so we were at the top by 2:30 p.m. A brief rest and snack, and it was time to hoist packs and get going again. Like MountainGuy machines, really. 

 MountainGuys atop Fox Queant Pass.

The trail down from the pass on the Queant Lake side was brutal. The trail was carved out of a steeply-sloped rubble field, and the footing was treacherous over loose stones and small boulders. In places, one could see where the trail had been wiped out by a rockslide and then rebuilt. A small acid-blue lake filled the bowl at the bottom of the rubble field, and though beautiful, the trail demanded concentration so the view did not get the attention it deserved.

Once at lake level, the trail continued winding its way down through high meadows and thin forests, but the hiking was pleasant and not too difficult. By 3:30 p.m. we were at Cleveland Lake, which was significant because it meant that it was once again time to start a spirited discussion about which trail to take. The main trail continued east for half a mile or so past Cleveland Lake to a junction, where the trail to Queant Lake turned off to the north. However, the map seemed to suggest that by taking off cross-country, we could easily cut the corner and save some time. The decision to go cross-country was aided by a strategically placed spur trail that led up the steep embankment to the left side of the main trail, and seemed to offer the perfect short cut. The spur trail disappeared after about 200 yards, but no worries. Armed with only a compass, a map, a GPS, and the unerring MountainGuy sense of direction, the five of us confidently set off in five slightly different directions. After a few minutes, the five wanderers had banded into two loosely affiliated groups—the north by northeast group, and the east by northeast group. In the event, the EbNE group found the trail first, but the NbNE group actually ended up further up the trail and well ahead of the EbNEs. None of this really mattered, because it turned out that Queant Lake was but a quarter mile up the trail, and we all arrived there at about the same time.

 Queant Lake.

Queant Lake had that well-used look about it, but it was easy to see why—it’s a truly gorgeous lake. The trail intersected the lake in the southwest corner. The southern and western sides of the lake were heavily forested, while the northern and eastern sides were more open meadows interspersed with small groves of trees. Our campsite was a fine spot on a small peninsula that jutted out on the northern side of the lake. It featured numerous duff-covered flat spots in a small copse of trees for sleeping, a well established fire ring with ample seating, good kitchen facilities, a large table built between two trees, and a lovely open Frisbee meadow sloping gently down to the lake.

 A fine campsite with excellent kitchen facilities.

As always, we quickly got down to the business of setting up camp. However, the workman-like scene was just as quickly shattered by a whoopin’ and a hollerin’ down by the lake. Actually, down in the lake. There, covered with the native water grasses, but otherwise naked, was Kevin, who had seized the moment and gone for a swim. Naked, but for water grasses. The idea was simply too good to pass up. The rest of us, inspired by Kevin’s fear-no-shrivel attitude, quickly followed suit. The water was brisk, but the bath, however brief, felt great. Fortune was shining upon us: the water was cold, the sun was warm, and the event was not recorded and will never be seen on YouTube.

Dinner that night was chicken burritos, prepared by Chef Oliver. At this point, only about 55 pounds of food remained, and yet somehow Oliver continued to produce one excellent meal after another. I suspect alchemy, though excellent planning also could be part of the explanation. Oliver reconstituted the freeze-dried refried beans, which he then added to the fried onions and chicken that were already in the pan. This was simmered just long enough to allow the spices to meld, and then served on warm tortillas with melted cheese. Each of the hard-working MountainGuys got two large burritos, which was a very satisfying meal at the end of the long day of hiking. Initially, Dan claimed that the burritos were so good that he could eat another 17,000. But, perhaps embarrassed by his obvious hyperbole, revised his claim to an additional 17 burritos, as long as they were large ones. In other words, he was really pretty full.

Dinner was followed by a spirited game of Mountain Meadow flying disc, which in turn was followed by cookies, chocolates, and the last of the tequila. This last was a moment of such sadness that we had to break out the scotch to restore our spirits. Once again, an example of how the tough of spirit use spirits to overcome dispiriting moments. 

 Flying disc meadow, adjacent to the campsite.

As the stars came out, the conversation naturally drifted to the plan for the morrow, and though we were all basically in agreement, reaching consensus proved impossible. Nonetheless, the bare roots of the plan was to rise early, forego the fire, eat oatmeal, and weather permitting, be on the trail by 8:00. Our goal was to climb over North Pole Pass (12,226 feet), descend into the Fox Lake valley, and then climb over Divide Pass so that we could take a lay day at Island Lake. That way we could relax, knowing that we would have no passes to cross should the weather turn nasty. With the ethereal calm that comes from having a plan, sort of, we doused the fire and said good night.