The Flying Machine

Day 3 - Dad's Lake, Realizing What I've Gotten Myself Into

The following morning we set out at 6 am. The drive to the Wind River range from Laramie clocks in at just over 6 hours - this is some remote wilderness, and it also happens to be just about across the entire dang state. Upon arrival, we shouldered our packs and set off for our first night's camp. It was only something like a 6 mile hike over relatively mild terrain - a great way to start off a hiking trip. I had, however, as I usually do, forgotten how heavy a full pack feels. This sucker was hitting in at around 40 lbs and I could FEEL it. I also started getting blisters within 20 minutes. I resolved at this point to purchase some new boots. Good ones. After a while I got used to the pack and got used to ignoring my feet. This tends to be my usual backpacking routine. I really need new boots.

Within 20 minutes of hiking I learned three things about the Wind River range:

One, people frequently take horse-packing trips in through the Big Sandy entrance, as evidenced by several trains of grumpy horses led by wizened Wyoming fellers and the omnipresent horse poop on the trail. Myron assured us, however, that once we got farther into the backcountry we could hopefully avoid the frequent pungent land mines.

Two, Wyoming is dusty. I mean, really dusty. Dusty enough to coat your entire body and make you sneeze and get into everything.

Three, high elevations definitely affect one's breathing, especially if one has spent her entire summer at or below 30 feet above sea level. We started at around 9,000 feet above sea level in the Winds. I didn't have altitude sickness, but I did certainly feel out of breath most of the time when moving at any pace faster than "rolling over in sleeping bag."

It's hard to describe the scenery without being cliche - it was very postcard stunning. We came in through the Big Sandy entrance, which is known for having rewarding views just about as soon as you leave the parking lot. Sure enough, we spent most of the afternoon crossing long open meadows bordered by spruce and small, silvery lakes, with the bare, rocky shoulders of distant mountain peaks looming large. Myron and Ben pointed out the peaks we'd be climbing later in the trip. They were very large. There was also much discussion of a snowfield, and that scary winter gear, and what the guidebook called 800 vertical feet of "unmitigated scree." Also known as, "Hey! How'd you like to send rockslides down upon your friends below with every footstep?"

Upon arriving at Dad's Lake, our campsite for the evening, R and I set about assembling The Walrus - our tent. The Walrus was a cinch, if a bit, uh, damp and funky, went for a QUICK dip in the coldcoldcold lake, and soon we and the rest of the group were sitting out on a big rock by the lake, sipping scotch poured from a titanium pack bottle and watching fishermen try their luck below us.

We went to bed at dusk, in typical backpacker fashion, but R and I wanted to see the stars, so we stayed awake talking until it was dark enough to see. Instead of having to get re-bundled up (while the days were warm, nighttime was VERY chilly) to stargaze, we just stuck our heads out of the tent's back flap and gazed up into a dense, bright mesh of stars, with the Milky Way stretched clear across the bowl of sky. It was just stunning. As we lay quietly gazing upward, a shadow swept in JUST above our heads - it slowed, hovered, and then swooped off in complete silence - an owl! Probably determining whether or not we might be edible.

Eventually I started to fall asleep so we zipped up the tent and as I unzipped my fleece vest to use it as a pillow, I noticed a spark of light across my arm. I blinked and pulled the vest across my arm again. A trail of sparks leapt across the fleece's path. RITCHIE! I whispered (well, probably it was louder than a whisper, I was pretty excited). And I demonstrated my exciting luminescent qualities. Apparently this phenomenon has something to do with static electricity. It was awesome.

Day 3 - In the Valley of the Glaciers

This day was a hiking day. We hiked for a good long while, and just as I was getting exasperated by a lengthy scramble-with-packs through some gnarly rockfall, we popped out into what would be home for the next few nights - the East Fork Valley. The East Fork Valley is a textbook-perfect glacial valley, with a wide, flat floor dotted with lakes and bound at its sides by steep, rocky peaks. We set up the ol' Walrus again and then relaxed. Janet trekked around our small lake to chill a cheesecake for dessert. We went to bed early, because the next day we were to be out of camp by 7 am to summit Mt. Geikie.

Day 4 - Climbing Mt. Geikie - Or, Learning to Self-Arrest

Ben decided not to summit Geikie with the group - he'd climbed it once before and was looking forward to a day of relaxing. He laughingly told us he'd watch for us on the summit and sliding down the snow. The rest of us packed our daypacks with food, extra clothes, and, of course, the ice axes and crampons. We spent the first hour huffing it up some rockfall, and when we reached the snow, we strapped on our crampons. Turns out walking in crampons was fun and easy. I tromped steadily upward along the snowfield. R and I had learned how to self-arrest with our ice axes in case of a fall, so as not to slide out of control to the bottom - you hold the axe a certain way, and if you fall, you dig its long blade into the snow and put your full body weight against it. If you don't do it right, you'll just keep sliding, and probably slam into a rock or off a cliff or something terrible. It's kind of important that way.

The coolest part (ha ha) about the snow was that it had long, spiralled streaks of pink in it - watermelon snow! This pink snow is caused by some sort of algae, and by gum, it really did smell just like fresh watermelon. My oh my. All I could think of while tromping on it waswatermelonwatermelonwatermelon.

We had one brief, scary scramble through some very loose, damp, messy scree, and then we hit the steep part of the snow. Myron showed us crampon newbies how to kick into the slope and 'walk' up the wall with our feet and the long blade on the ice axe. I felt pretty badass when I got to the top.

While climbing the steep slope, one of Janet's crampons came loose, so at the top of the slope she pulled it off. There was still another hump of scree to climb before reaching the flat shoulder where we'd rest before heading on up, so she shouted up to Myron - Hey Myron, I'm going to toss you my crampon!
He replied, I don't think that's a good idea- and was about to instruct her to carry it up herself when, after a second's hesitation and with a shout of glee, she wound it up by its straps and flung it upward with an underhand heft. Straight up, up, up... and backwards, flipping in slow-motion behind her and down the snow slope. We all gaped. Myron climbed down to get it. This story is a lot funnier if you have ever met Janet.

But anyway. We stowed our crampons and axes and then set off for the last bit of the ascent - a long scramble up the ridgeline to the summit. This took what seemed like forever, but eventually, we made it! All 12,378 feet above sea level! It was over 2,000 feet above our camp below - the tents were so small as to be nearly invisible.

Then came the hike down. The first part was alright - I'm no fan of clambering down unsteady, rocking, rumbling, heavy, sharp-cornered rocks, but, well, going up is optional, but getting down is mandatory. When we reached Geikie's soft shoulder where we'd left our snow gear, I learned how to descend the steep slope - pretty much as we'd ascended, using the crampon spikes to kick little steps out of the softening snow, and digging the ice axe in deep for a solid hand-grip. This was pretty easy, and I didn't even mind skidding and stumbling along with everyone down the scree between snow slopes.

Then we were all standing at the top of the long snowfield - all several hundred feet of it. I looked down and it gave me that squirrely, nervous feeling I get when I'm looking down a steep snow slope (sledding down the Dartmouth Skiway by moonlight comes to mind...). Especially one that terminates in a field of sharp boulders. Adele kicked at the snow and deemed it too soft for walking down. She and Janet promptly sat, unstrapped their crampons, and proceeded to skid down the slope on their butts, keeping a moderate pace by dredging their ice axes as brakes. Ritchie got excited and soon followed. Except he hadn't got his axe in before he started moving, so he started sliding faster. And faster, and faster, until he was catching air and rocketing downslope. He rolled to avoid a rock and used his axe to self-arrest. When he got up he was too far away for me to see in detail, but he seemed to have had a blast, and he shouted up to me something along the lines of, THAT'S HOW NOT TO DO IT!

So now it was just me and Myron at the top of the slope. He was waiting for me to go, probably so he could collect my shredded remains after what was clearly to be my imminent death. I gathered my guts, plunked my snow-pants-clad butt, and pressed my ice axe into the snow for a brake. I started moving, nice and slow, and I stopped myself easily with my axe. I gave a little sigh of Thank-God-I'm-In-Control relief, lifted the axe a bit, and immediately began careening downward, completely out of control, bouncing, spraying snow with axe and feet, barely sitting upright, twisting, and all the while rocketing faster.

At some point I got a bit of sanity in my head and rolled onto my belly, a rushing sound in my ears and pink snow in my face, somehow wrangled the ice axe into its position, and dug in with the blade.

And kept sliding.

I am certain at this point I uttered some curse word, but I don't know which one. I heard shouts from below, indecipherable, and dug in some more with my axe, putting my full weight on it. And, just like that, I stopped, dangling by the axe in my gloved hands, sleeves, pants, and boots full of snow, snow in my sunglasses, snow in my mouth, snow all over, and I dangled some more. I managed a tittery, high-pitched HA HA! WASN'T THAT A RIDE!

Myron expertly skidded his way over to me and told me how to get up, and I very slowly and unsteadily crept the rest of the way downward (it was less steep at this point) by kick-stepping (kicking one's heels into soft snow to make little slippery steps). I was not under any conditions going to sit down on my snow-pants-clad-butt again.

But hey! I made it! And then we climbed over those big rocks again and found a lovely small snowmelt stream, from which we drank blissfully, water so cold it hurts your teeth. Mmm.

Back at camp, R and his uncle did some fly-fishing and I did some dozing on a rock. We told Ben about our adventures, and he laughed and said he'd watched us, tiny specks that we were, skidding down the snow.

Then there was dinner and stories and another night of watching the dusk settle against vast dark mountain silhouettes.

Tower Peak's ascent began much more benignly. We traipsed over some up-and-down meadowy country and, after a good hours' march, ended up at the base of a very, very long scree field. I was all up for a good long scramble when Adele mentioned something called screeing. Turns out that folks were discussing the best way to descend such a slope - yes, you guessed it, sliding. Probably, in my case at least, completely out of control. I stood there for a moment, considering whether or not I really and truly wanted to risk my life again for this mountain, and whether my poor knees, which had been pretty sore after the previous day's adventure, could take it.

But then I looked around and I looked up and I looked down and I said to myself, Of COURSE I CAN DO IT! And I set off.

I watched everyone scramble, mountain-goat-like, up the scree easily, quickly disappearing out of my sight and along the ridge to the summit. It took me a lot longer. Thankfully Ben was back there with me, making his own way slowly, and we talked and helped each other find steady paths on hand and foot up the unsteady slope. Besides the fact that scree fields like this one are steep and exhausting, they are also dangerous, because one wrong foot placement can easily start a rockslide that might knock you or your groupmates down with it. Not to mention the risk of errant pebbles to the head or eyeball. By the time we got to the top I was a bit of a bundle of nerves, twitching my way up the final narrow little slope to the summit. The wind almost knocked me right off and down a cliff, which made me too nervous to get my camera out for a photo. But here I am on the summit elevation 12,330 ft, thanks to Myron. Lookit my pants! that's some wind!

I was dreading going down. I think never having any experience sliding around on unsteady, steep surfaces as a child (skiing, etc) made me a real basketcase about being unsteady on my feet. I'm cool with ice skates - they're on flat surfaces. But put even a bit of a hill into the equation and I turn into a Nervous Nelly, as cautious as a grandma driving in the right lane on I-75.

Adele and Janet again scooted right down, easy as pie, and Ritchie rocketed down easily too. Me, well, I crept slowly, wincing every time sand and rocks shifted uncontrollably under my feet, dragging me along, upright at least, down the slope. By 3/4 of the way down, though, man, I'd gotten it! I was slippin' and slidin' pretty comfortably! Of course, we were almost down. But still. I made it. At the bottom of the slope, most of the group decided to go climb Midsummer's Dome, but Ben and I decided to take a meandering route home instead, past Pyramid Lake. We had a lovely stroll, talking and bushwhacking our way back to camp through meadows and forests. This is also where I first tasted wortleberries - the best little wild berry you'll ever eat. Oh MAN. All I wanted to do after tasting them was to spend my afternoon foraging like a good little cave-woman, but I suppressed the urge and kept moving instead. Then we made it to camp and when Ritchie got back we had a very quick swim (well, dunk, really). Then it was time for My First Fly Fishing Lesson!

I was really excited - I'm hoping to do a little fishing in Oregon when I move, and Tom's dad has offered to take me fly fishing, and it's kind of one of those things that just looks so darn lovely and peaceful that you just have to try it. So I did.

I will not discuss my first 30 minutes with the pole. Suffice it to say I snagged everything but a fish and that some of my old pole-wielding winterguard twisty wrists came back to haunt me. Eventually, though, I got it together, getting something closer to a nice cast, and I even caught a fish! Sadly I forgot to get my picture taken with it, and Ritchie anyway had left to take a nap, so I had no photographer. It's ok though, it was only about 6 inches long. Anyway, I really liked fly fishing. I'm going to have to do it some more. From then on out, I found myself gazing intently at waterways, looking for fish darting in the rocks and imagining myself standing zen-like by the water, flicking the line beautifully just like they do on TV. I think maybe I'll even read A River Runs Through It.

After a while the titanium scotch bottles were opened again, and we sat about and ate and went to bed. Right before I fell asleep Ritchie woke me up to look at the stars again - and my, they were even more magnificent than before. There's just nothing like seeing the sky so clear and star-bright, so far away from streetlights and skyscrapers and headlights.

Day 6 - Scorched Earth - Things that Sheep Do

This was probably the dustiest day of my life. We headed through some country where sheep are still grazed every summer. It's very romantic, Brokeback style, of course, except for the fact that the sheep overgraze the delicate meadows and turn them into dusty, harsh, scorched-earth wastelands. That's why some folks call 'em range maggots. Mostly I spent the day trying not to inhale too much dust and sheep poop. It was really lovely, though, when we weren't in sheep country, and Ritchie and I had even grown accustomed to our stale, hard, dry, flavorless pitas for lunch and they almost tasted good. Prior attempts at eating the pitas were only successful when combining pita, cheese, and peanut butter into a thick, sticky mess that should ONLY be eaten in times of duress. We camped in an old lake bed and made dinner atop a nearby rock face - it was my and R's night to cook, so we pulled out the ingredients Adele had put into the dinner bag - dehydrated chicken, artichoke hearts, mushrooms, cous cous, and some random spices - and turned them into a massive, massive pot of cous cous. Somehow we ate it all. This is probably due to the fact that I rule at cooking and it turned out quite deliciously (though Adele gets credit for the ingredients. I mean, who would put all those things together into one dish? Not I, under normal conditions!). Thankfully Ritchie had agreeably functioned as dinner-finisher the whole trip, and he had it in him for one more night of agreeably cleaning out the pot.

Day 7 - The Long Way Home, and Wild Currants

No matter how much you like the wilderness, the last day is always barn fever day. If you've ever been on a horse and made the mistake of moving at faster than a controlled walk when in sight of the barn, you know what this means - it means a full tilt pell-mell dash toward home. We broke camp quickly, R and I dismantling the Walrus one last time to the tune of all the Magnetic Fields' 69 Love Songs that we could recall.

With one mile left to go, we set off on a bushwhacking shortcut. I was dubious, but it turned out to be a path dotted with patches of wild currants, which were delightful, though not quite as awesome as the seed-bead-size wortleberries I'd been scouting each day. And then we were at the car. I took off my boots and I'm certain my feet sighed with relief. We piled in, stopped for sodas and chips on the way, and eventually found ourselves back in Laramie, eating awesome pizza made by Ben's wife Mickey, telling Janet stories (she had left to go back to CO to see her sweetie), and looking at Myron's pics from the trip. Back at the house, it felt SO good to be back in a real bed instead of my smelly sleeping bag. Ooh boy.

Day 8 - This is When I Chilled

On our last day in Laramie, we climbed. Well, Ritchie, Myron, and Adele climbed, and I read Anna Karenina. My feet were too blistered to handle climbing shoes, but that was ok, 'cause it was just about perfect to lie on a big, sun-warmed rock and read for a few hours. Then we came home and did some laundry and laughed - a lot - at Myron's 1970's Dartmouth yearbooks (he's an alum!) and ate some dinner and packed and hit the hay one last time before our flights home.

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And then I flew home! That, believe it or not, is the short version of the trip! Ask me in person sometime if you want to hear some more stories.