There are some places that I have ended up unexpectedly. Utah, for example, was not a part of the plan, a detour turned multi-year stopover. Portland was the same way-- one Oregon summer turned into 3 years. One day found David Rhea and I walking through rolling steppe country east of Bear Lake during mule deer season. This is the kind of scenery that is more likely driven past en route to somewhere prettier. There are no big trees, granite peaks or arches, no waterfalls, just bushes, yellow grass, and hills that barely rise to 1000 feet in prominence. Still, the whole experience was quite enjoyable. Slow hunting turned to scouting as we made our way over the sage covered hills. Dave is the type of guy who thoughtfully chooses his words. If he doesn't intend to say it, odds are it will not leave his mouth. Between the two of us, this makes for a quiet experience, and we scarcely saw another human being. Hiking from morning 'til dark and taking in the fall chill and a lavender sunset, I couldn't help but reflect on what peace possessed me at the end of that day. I was not necessarily filled with awe at the scenery, but the simple experience of being outside and putting one foot in front of the other left me with such a feeling of satisfaction that my view of wilderness was slightly altered. I will still seek out breathtaking landscapes, but know that in my heart, the fulfillment the outdoors has to offer is much more simple and attainable than any epic trip I may plan. This is an odd introduction to a story which continues in what I would characterize as one of the more unique wildernesses I have had the pleasure of leaving tracks in, but no matter where you may be, I feel it needs to be said: go outside.
The day was mostly overcast. Much of the scenery was treeless and grassy, between 11,000 and 12,000 feet of elevation. We hiked past Smiths Fork Lake on our way to the pass of the same name. Saying goodbye to Red Castle, we found ourselves flanked by Mount Powell and Wilson Peak as we headed over the pass, southbound into the Yellowstone Creek basin. I never tire of the varied unnamed bodies of water in our way, frequent alpine oases. Limey colored lichen decorates the ground which rises at its perimeters into surrounding peaks of brown to paler greys and reds. To the east is Kings Peak and South Kings Peak. They are connected by a ridgeline, no more than a class 3 scramble up and between the two. For tonight, we will make our way to the army of conifers miles below, divided by the tributaries of Yellowstone Creek.
We really didn't need to take any shortcuts, but I was not satisfied with the seemingly inefficient passage to which our trail would lead us. It extends southeast then northeast, forming a 'V' and I thought it better to make a beeline and meet the trail closer to our destination. I convinced Melody to 'bushwack' across the expanse to cut mileage across the seemingly open terrain. The landscape was fairly easy-going, a gradual descent into the basin, and we did experience a bit of a scramble over modestly sized boulders, but nothing perilous. I was quickly reminded of the wisdom in staying on trail. Bear feces was turning up frequently. We made our way down into some high, dense brush. The ground there was saturated with moisture, and bugs were more prevalent. Seemed like a decent feeding ground. I was not too keen on surprising any predator, so we quickly and noisily found our way out of the brush and back onto the trail. I chose not to make any conversation of bear poop until after the trip.
We picked a camp spot, a grove of evergreens amidst a general clearing, which had had some good use by previous travelers. The trees were high which made much more effective bear-bagging. We must have set up camp around 2 PM. A thunderstorm had been brewing for hours beforehand. Clouds had collected in the south and slowly made their way up the watershed. I walked to the creek about a hundred yards away to fill water bottles while my lady prepped dinner, and a few minutes later we were chowing down. We climbed into bed before 4 PM. Precipitation dripped through the trees overhead and the thunderstorm commenced for the next hour or so as we drifted into sleep.
I dream bear dreams. But not the 'being scalped' kind of bear dreams, no, just the ones that make me grateful to see our bag of food still hanging high between the branches when it's time for breakfast. A couple of customary trips to the latrine designated area later, and we rise to a moonless night, to eat, pack, and begin our approach to Kings Peak. Deep in the heart of Utah, the stars shine bright, but I've never been much good at finding constellations, and would make a poor sea navigator. I can always find Venus, and usually Mars, depending on the time of year. In the absence of streetlamps, the suns of our greater galaxy are fervid nightlights. I sprinkle some dry dairy on my hot water drenched oatmeal and enjoy my cereal beneath the Milky Way. Melody points out Orion with his two hunting dogs. We muse on our little dog, who, at the thought of joining us for one these forays, is made more the butt of our jokes. "He'd miss his clothes and heating pad, lipstick and high heels!" and be more of a potential snack for some greater mammal. Of course, Hero does have a becoming personality, and is likely to schmooze his way out of a dangerous situation. "I'll never forget the time we found him having a bobcat try on some of his outfits,'That color is amazing on you!', and how it was really time to go when he started to paint its nails,'We're not done, I am an ARTIST!' "
We are the two most obvious creatures in the forest at this time. The heightened awareness of our susceptibility is a reminder that we are strangers here, son and daughter of towns and metropolises. How I love that this too feels like home. Our headlamps glow, fluorescent interruptions to a very active woodland nightlife. The bears are still brawling at the neighborhood bar, enterprising trout working swing-shift, taking advantage of pay at time-and-a-half, and the marmots, trying to get even a scratch of shuteye, are yelling at the delinquent deer from their basement windows, "Get the hell outta the alleyway!!!" We pause intermittently, switch off the lamps, and take in the night sounds for moments at a time. A quick fill of our bottles (the last water for the next 7 hours or so), and we set off into the darkness, below great peaks, the two luckiest people on Earth.
-Grasshopper
I awoke to rockfall the next morning. The steep, scree-covered slopes above the lake were giving way into the water, interrupting the morning silence with festive belligerence. The mountains called out for us to rise. Our campsite was tucked into a shroud of stunted evergreens, more like shrubs than trees. Cool mountain air greeted our exit from sleeping bags and thin tent walls. Mornings are often a race to the trail to take advantage of all available daylight hours, but today was different. I had budgeted our trail mileage with the particularity of an accountant. Today was a relaxing 5 miles, to be followed by a pair of 11 mile days to cap the trip. We were both looking forward to a leisurely stroll to our next campsite, not just for the luxury of it all, but to offset an impending 3AM wakeup call the following morning to climb Kings Peak. Our goal was to be in bed by late afternoon.
The day was mostly overcast. Much of the scenery was treeless and grassy, between 11,000 and 12,000 feet of elevation. We hiked past Smiths Fork Lake on our way to the pass of the same name. Saying goodbye to Red Castle, we found ourselves flanked by Mount Powell and Wilson Peak as we headed over the pass, southbound into the Yellowstone Creek basin. I never tire of the varied unnamed bodies of water in our way, frequent alpine oases. Limey colored lichen decorates the ground which rises at its perimeters into surrounding peaks of brown to paler greys and reds. To the east is Kings Peak and South Kings Peak. They are connected by a ridgeline, no more than a class 3 scramble up and between the two. For tonight, we will make our way to the army of conifers miles below, divided by the tributaries of Yellowstone Creek.
We really didn't need to take any shortcuts, but I was not satisfied with the seemingly inefficient passage to which our trail would lead us. It extends southeast then northeast, forming a 'V' and I thought it better to make a beeline and meet the trail closer to our destination. I convinced Melody to 'bushwack' across the expanse to cut mileage across the seemingly open terrain. The landscape was fairly easy-going, a gradual descent into the basin, and we did experience a bit of a scramble over modestly sized boulders, but nothing perilous. I was quickly reminded of the wisdom in staying on trail. Bear feces was turning up frequently. We made our way down into some high, dense brush. The ground there was saturated with moisture, and bugs were more prevalent. Seemed like a decent feeding ground. I was not too keen on surprising any predator, so we quickly and noisily found our way out of the brush and back onto the trail. I chose not to make any conversation of bear poop until after the trip.
We picked a camp spot, a grove of evergreens amidst a general clearing, which had had some good use by previous travelers. The trees were high which made much more effective bear-bagging. We must have set up camp around 2 PM. A thunderstorm had been brewing for hours beforehand. Clouds had collected in the south and slowly made their way up the watershed. I walked to the creek about a hundred yards away to fill water bottles while my lady prepped dinner, and a few minutes later we were chowing down. We climbed into bed before 4 PM. Precipitation dripped through the trees overhead and the thunderstorm commenced for the next hour or so as we drifted into sleep.
We are the two most obvious creatures in the forest at this time. The heightened awareness of our susceptibility is a reminder that we are strangers here, son and daughter of towns and metropolises. How I love that this too feels like home. Our headlamps glow, fluorescent interruptions to a very active woodland nightlife. The bears are still brawling at the neighborhood bar, enterprising trout working swing-shift, taking advantage of pay at time-and-a-half, and the marmots, trying to get even a scratch of shuteye, are yelling at the delinquent deer from their basement windows, "Get the hell outta the alleyway!!!" We pause intermittently, switch off the lamps, and take in the night sounds for moments at a time. A quick fill of our bottles (the last water for the next 7 hours or so), and we set off into the darkness, below great peaks, the two luckiest people on Earth.
-Grasshopper
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