If you are never scared, embarrassed or hurt, it means you never take chances.
Julia Soul
No one visited last night after the moose sneeze. My food bag is still hanging in the tree, but my view seems a bit obscured. Is that smoke settling in?
I take my time getting out of the warmth. There’s only a bit of frost, but mostly it’s warm still in shadow as I make breakfast. It’s fun to think back to when I made all this food, planning to eat it on the CDT. I have enough for weeks of trips and I can taste all the love and hope that went into these individual meals.
I pack up and start heading down, saying goodbye to this spectacular site on soft grass looking right at the Grand with water burbling around me all night. Before the moon came up, I looked out on both strands of the Milky Way clear as can be, millions of stars making me feel tiny.
It’s all downhill to the cut off up the South Fork of Cascade Canyon. Trail builders created beautiful rock stairs most of the way following rushing water the entire way down. Yesterday, a man asked me close to Lake Solitude how much further. I said not far, and he hazarded a guess of four miles.
“Well, four miles and you’re halfway there.”
He loved my answer and shared it with his slower partners. It’s really only a few miles through stands of white bark pine and willow, loads of campsites tucked in near water. I cross a massive boulder field, part of an avalanche. Picas peep loudly at me, then scurry into their burrows, fat but fast.
As the forest thickens, I call out for bears. On day one, I passes a couple wearing bells and a solo hiker carrying a large cow bell. It’s only picas this morning plus squirrels and chipmunks.
Down and down I go towards tall trees. This entire system was carved out by glaciers miles thick. I yell out a particularly long bear call and it summons a backpacker. We both laugh as his three friends show up. They give me good beta on the Alaska Basin and we wish each other well as I begin to ascend again.
It will be up the rest of the day, with a few flat patches set aside for campsites. It’s shaded with water crashing next to me in cascades over granite boulders. I yell for bears as I round blind corners and yet again, I summon a trio of hikers. They’re friendly and cute and agree to some silly pictures before we share beta and move on.
It seems everyone is starting their day from the South Fork campsites and I meet more backpackers – some happy and friendly and others more sullen. Tired? Cranky? In a hurry? Two women are curious about my tent and just as I begin to share my opinion, they move down to make way for two more. These guys are not with them, though tell me they’ve met at nearly every break spot, which may explain why they kept moving.
We are on a steep slope, but stop to talk about how steep it is, getting altitude sickness and that they saw a massive moose. I try to convince them not to leave today via Cascade Canyon but to continue over Paintbrush Divide, but they are exhausted.
One asks me if I’m from around here since I’m so comfortable in the woods. I say no, but accept his lovely compliment. Up and up I go, switchbacking around a massive boulder and up and over falls. The smoke is making a haze in the peaks which now tower right over my head. I don’t smell it though, and am only breathing heavy because I’m at 9,000 feet.
It’s beautiful in spite of the haze, the bushes turning bright red and yellow, the water crashing nearby. I meet two more backpackers who stop to talk and give me beta on Death Canyon Shelf.
They remind me it’s all up today and I tell them that I am emotionally prepared. One tells me she only prepared for Hurricane Pass and was surprised by the second bit, “And I’m pregnant, too!” I congratulate her on the effort and they head on down.
Just ahead is good access to the river and I fill up and get a snack. The water is clear and cold and I’m so happy I set up a gravitational feed, so I can snack as it fills. I follow the river on flatter ground for a while, the pass – at least the first one – peaking out through the trees.
It’s more up on easy trail through forest where I yell out for bear, assuming I’ll see people, which I do. I have a good rhythm, but it’s long and I’m a bit tired. Heck, I did not come out here to hurry. I find a nice rock and take a break, drinking an entire liter of water. Does it still count as carrying weight if it’s in my body?
I check the map and see that I’m just below the switchbacks and near the cutoff for where I plan to explore. It’s up, but switchbacks make it easy and I float up, looking out to massive spires above the deep canyon I just climbed out of.
I begin to see signs for campsites, plus one huge tent like a house, likely a horse camp. The sign here points to Hurricane Pass on the Teton Crest and Avalanche Divide which is a dead end, but has an interesting set of lakes under a massive wall which I’ve been told is amazing camping.
But I’m a bit uncertain about heading two miles off trail into the unknown. It’s most definitely an Alpine Lake above treeline and could be cold, and certainly remote.
I cross a stream and head for some shade on a beautiful slab of granite to study the map. Just then, as if the trail decided to step up and do some providing, a man appears at the junction seemingly from nowhere. He too studies his map and I call out to him.
“Hey, are you headed up the divide?”
“What?”
I ask again and he says yes, then I suggest he come in the shade to look at maps. He obliges and tells me he plans to camp here, but wanted to explore. I tell him I’m headed to Kit Lake and he wonders if we’re even allowed to camp there.
“Ranger George said I could!”
So without much discussion, we head up the divide together. I wasn’t entirely clear on the fact that it was more ascent, but it’s astoundingly beautiful in here – a giant bowl of crushed rock and moraine, snow fields and the towering Tetons above.
He tells me his name is Alexis, from Phoenix and half Austrian, half Mexican. He keeps a steady pace, but it’s mellow like mine and we can talk, stopping every now and then for pictures of this wild moonscape.
Still, there are flowers and the first deep purple gentian of the trip. The rock is mottled, showing its fossilized beginnings. We cut high up and turn west, seeing the switchbacks to Hurricane Pass before we turn east, straight at the Grand.
Water is everywhere including two pools where we take snapshots of each other. Just as we come to a cut off for Icefloe Lake, Alexis’ original destination, we meet a trail runner! He’s come all the way up from Taggart Creek. “But I thought this trail was a dead end?” He tells me there’s a faint track, but I neglect to ask him where.
We contour the mountain nearly straight out to the end and come to a cliff looking down on Kit Lake, my camping destination. There’s a gusty breeze and a nice, flat sitting rock we share for lunch. I am not sure about going down there, a place looking very remote indeed.
Alexis has brought a monocular and I study the terrain. I can see a flat spot below near a boulder with shade. The ranger didn’t seem to concerned about my camping there, but how exactly do I get down?
We talk about other things, life, our careers just as dozens of butterflies float past, seemingly allowing the breeze to pull them up here. Alexis points below at a chunky marmot running by and I realize if I can see him that well, the scale is much smaller than I thought.
There’s always an out to turn around and camp below, or keep heading up on the TCT, but I decide to give it a shot, finding the most gradual slope. It turns out to be on dried mud from recent snow melt and grips quite well.
Alexis waves from above and wishes me luck, telling me he’ll talk next by email. I zig zag down on an angle towards a shoot of grass and flowers between two cliffs. From above I saw that it was best to stay high here and contour above the lake where I hit stunted pines in a row, humpy grass and beautiful leafy plants in a variety of colors.
It’s only a matter of minutes that I reach the boulder and find an flat grass patch close to a tiny inlet. I’m exposed to the wind, but it’s soft and has me looking right at the wall, the caves I’ve left unexplored.
I set up (placing rocks on all my stake out points) get water and wash up, then hang out on a flat rock with a giant red stripe through it, reading and contemplating this mysterious high altitude rock garden. The wind is gusty, pushing big puffy clouds across the sun and keeping me cool. They make waves on my aqua lake which burp against the rocks. Birds visit but I never see a marmot or hear picas. I hope I’m not being foolish to sleep with my food tonight.
Swallows are the last to pass by before I tuck in, the wind shuddering and shaking but so far holding up. I’m all alone tonight and loving this silence, a chance to contemplate a glorious day of exertion and views, laughs, connections and a new friend.
Also, that I feel mighty bad ass in this high lake all alone.
2 Responses
You are right to feel “mighty bad ass!” 🥰😊
you are the best!! ♥️