Wind River Mountain Festival
Okay, the grizzly is plywood and on a bungee-corded track at the National Forest booth.
The first ranger handed me a can of a dummy spray and the other ranger released the bungee-corded bear. And spray I did. As if my life depended on it.
Two seconds to have the bear rubbing its eyes due to the pepper spray, and not very happy with me.
“We’re hoping the bears start to associate the icky smell and burning eyes with humans and not want anything to do with them,” the ranger offers.
“Well, that would be great. Now, I felt confident getting off the safety and spraying when I was ready for the charge, but there wasn't any panic. In a real encounter, can I assume once the bear and I realize we’re too close in proximity, the bear will take a couple of seconds to assess threat?”
“Yes. You’ll have time to get the can out of your holster and flip the safety. Then wait. If the bear decides to charge, then spray for two seconds, and don’t move. “
“Don’t move? Really? I would have to stand there?”
“The bear needs time to escape and you don’t want to move in the same direction. Once it moves, back slowly away in the opposite direction, but be prepared that it might try to charge again.”
“Okay. Do I remember correctly that there are about seven seconds of spray in the can?”
“About that, which should give you two for the bear if it decides on a second charge, and another if need be once you are back on the trail.”
“Oh dear. May it never happen. And thanks for the trial, it was really helpful. At least I feel a wee bit more prepared now.”
My empty tent stands as site holder while I camp here, and the rosy hues of the sunset draw shadows on Mts. Sacajawea and Fremont. Below craggy Mt. Fremont, I smile at the recent memory of J. and I skinny dipping in a pond up above Island Lake—somewhere up there in a geologic depression.
On a rounded rock up the hill about fifty feet from my campsite, a female bald eagle statues herself for my photographs. Ground squirrels peak out of their sandy holes, then sneak out to munch low growing chamomile. The dusty aroma of sage perfumes the lake’s border.
Each day, I use Pinedale’s facilities, explore the town’s periphery, then return “home” to watch the sunset to the west over the lake, and nod to the high peaks of the range to the east.
I stand amidst pronghorn bones and sage as they put me on speakerphone. I move from rock to rock to avoid the red ants crawling onto my sandaled feet. I watch the sun lower through some cloud wisps, and look to the east for the rise of the moon over the rolling hills.
“You are journeying for all of us out there, Gail,” one friend says as she pulls some tarot cards to see what we, individually, and together, might ponder for the month ahead. We hold different keys to unlocking those parts our ourselves that others need to experience—for me, as Capricorn, cardinal Earth, I climb the figurative mountains. And some literal ones. I push the boundaries—first my own and then offer that up to others as choice. For my mutable Virgo friend, she channels one thing into another—pushing at the boundaries of old beliefs. Nudging them into expanded understandings. And for our fixed Taurus friend, she holds the terra firma—rooting us, stabilizing us.
“It’s about the balance of strong and soft. The cards are showing us that our real strength is in our emotions and passions. To break down the barriers of what keeps those emotions inside us. Not easy. We're so used to just getting out there and doing it.”
“Part of this journey this time around is about that,” I respond. “To soften the edges still hanging around the over-practical surface. Humility. Vulnerability.”
Clouds and rain obscure the eclipse in the northeast. The reddish moon, full and round, peeks up over the hill next to Soda Lake, but quickly disappears into the low clouds as the three of us catch up on the mundane news of our everyday lives. We toast the eclipse, even though none of us can catch it fully, and reach across the miles to triangulate our energies before saying goodbye.
Pine Coffee Supply
1. Surprise Boxes
Well, bags, actually. In rural India, where mail travels still by yak at times, and boxes don’t exist, bags with stamps on them have to be used.
“I grew up in Pinedale,” my daily barista explains as she pours the icy green tea into a glass tumbler. The heat of the day has settled, and even with the coffee shop’s garage door open, anything hot to drink would be too hot.
“But, I spent twelve years traveling the world, ending up in India to study yoga, which I teach here in Pinedale. A few years in Seattle, and some in Lander, but I came back to visit and got engaged. So, here I am, travel aborted for now. “
“What were the surprise boxes about?”
“Everyone loves a surprise, so I would find goods made by locals, and put them together in bags, which then I would bring to a local seamstress to sew up for the mail journey. I would fill the address in on the stamp on the bags, and send them off. It was a way to make some money. I let friends and family know, and orders piled in.”
“Do you miss being there?
“Yes and no. I’m heading into a different stage now. But someday….I’d love to go back.”
I take the tea back to my table along the wall and long bench, and plug in my device to charge. This kindred connection to other women traveling, or having traveled, solo, overrides any of those initial anxieties from 2014 and 15 I had while traveling by bus around the country. Unspoken experiences link us—we know ourselves better by the challenges of having to rely solely on ourselves. Days of exhilaration. Days of frustration. Days of facing our lingering fears. We come out the other side. I tip my glass to my barista and we nod to the nostalgia of all of those days out there on our own.
2. Something Blowing down from the Winds, I Presume
“Is that actually a computer? It's so small,” the young woman asks from the table next to mine.
“No. I Pad Mini and bluetooth keyboard.”
“Wow. Very cool.”
I look over at her laptop and notes. “Are you a writer?”
“Working on my second book. Young Adult fantasy. Just getting going on this one.”
“Second book? How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Really? That’s quite ambitious.”
“Well, I’m hoping to keep writing after I go to trade school for massage therapy. I want to open my own business.”
“Something is inspiring around here. I talked to Jack Henry at the Festival over the weekend. He told me he’s seventeen as well, and made his first knives when he was fourteen. They were beautiful. He said he’s been selling them on Instagram mostly. The seventeen year olds I know back home don’t start businesses, they just entertain themselves gaming and such.”
“I know Jack. He's doing really well. I’ve had businesses before. I made and sold soap for awhile, and now I have a pet walking and sitting service.”
“Wow. I’m totally impressed. What’s motivating the young people in this town?”
“Wyoming is mostly about oil and tourism now. Ranchers are struggling. The jobs in town usually worked by teens are taken by adults since there aren't many jobs. So, if we want to make money, we have to create our own ways to do it.”
“Well, I wish you well with your entrepreneurship.”
“Thanks." She starts to pack up her computer. "I have to go…I have a pet walking appointment.”
Hope for the planet whooshes through my body, and I desperately want this cross section of young folks to make their way to the forefront of change. One small entrepreneurial step at a time.
Jack Henry Knives: check 'em out!
https://jackhenryknives.com/
“Are you thru-hiking the CDT (Continental Divide Trail)?”
“I am. Came out to resupply and check emails.”
“Where are you from?”
“San Diego. But, since I graduated college, I’ve been hiking. I have a degree in genetics and really need to go for a PHD, but I’m not in a hurry to get back to it. I’m actually considering shifting focus to environmental genetics so I can spend more time outside rather than in a lab.”
“Love that idea. Your pack looks nice and small. Do you carry a tent or use a hammock?”
“A tent. But, really, I prefer to ‘cowboy camp’ when I can.”
“I’m a backpacker too. I know a tent is a poor excuse for armor, but I like the psychological cocoon.”
She smiles and as much as those I know consider me brave, I admire her extra confidence. I’m not sure I could sleep through the night if I thought critters, small and large, would be sniffing at me, or worse. I know I still have work to do around fear. At times, I wonder what it would feel like to be fear-free. Not that she is—I don’t know the extent of her confidence in life. But, for me…..
“If you want a ride back to the trailhead when you are ready, I’d be happy to give you a lift. Think about it.”
“Oh, that would be great. It will save me from hitchhiking.” She returns to her phone to attend to more emails and research, and I work on some writing.
While driving the thirteen miles up Skyline Drive to Elkhart Park and the trailhead, I ask, “What’s the story behind your trail name, Hummingbird?”
“When I first started out on the PCT (Pacific Crest Trail), I was pretty slow, stopping often. So, I would always be trailing other hikers and humming. They started referring to me as their little hummingbird following behind them. It stuck.”
“I love hummingbirds, and can picture it.”
I drop her at the trailhead parking lot and offer her some dehydrated pineapple to take along. Trail angels come in all kinds of variations—gifts from me to those currently on the long trail of life and adventure, and those coming to me on mine. I give Hummingbird a hug and wish her safe hiking along the Continental Divide.
Cirque of the Towers
1. Big Sandy Pond glistens under the weight of the setting sun. Anglers cast for golden or rainbow trout. From my camping perch up the hill from the trail skirting this side of the pond, the mountains framing the valley shadow down towards the quickening last hours of the day. I keep the bear spray handy now that J. isn’t around for company. But this trail, like the one we hiked towards Titcomb Basin, has a following of climbers and hikers wanting to crest the passes into the Cirque of the Towers. Having planned for only about six miles per day, this stretch to Big Sandy gently elevated me by only a couple hundred feet. Enough campers weave their way overnight amongst the trees and boulders supposedly at least a quarter mile away from the trail and water. A lot of noise for grizzlies wanting to compete for trout with the anglers. Plenty of other small bodies of water dot the range’s landscape, and any sane bear would prefer the fishing solitude elsewhere. | As a handful of lingering mosquitoes find their way into my space, the darkening sky nudges me into the safety of my screened tent. Big day tomorrow—up and over Jackass Pass, down into the Cirque and Lonesome Lake, then up Texas Pass and down towards a string of lakes on the other side of this loop. Six miles max. |
2.
Only 2.3 miles to Jackass, but the uphill slog into higher altitude quickly slows me down. I’m on the Diamox drug now for a few days, as prescribed, and being free of nausea and headaches is a relief. But the air is thin, and my goal is to breathe oxygen deeply as I drink to stay hydrated and let my body cool down. Throughout these few miles,I have the realization that Texas Pass may not be a good idea for today. No hurry, take as many days as you need here.
“What an iconic sitting position,” she says. “Would you like me to take your picture?”
“How lovely. Yes.” I hand her my camera as the rest of her party of nine catches up and stops for a greeting.
“Where are you all from ?” I ask.
“We have a hiking club back home in Ohio, although one of the group is from western Pennsylvania. We had ten to start, but one of us was having issues with breathing in this altitude and decided to turn back. She snaps a couple of photos and hands me back the camera, and we wish each other a good hike.
As the afternoon progresses, the group and I bump into each other several more times and once up, then down, Jackass Pass, we meet up again descending to the lake. No way a second pass is happening for me today; my legs have been screaming at me for the last hour.
“Unless you want solitude, you’re welcome to join us at our camping spot. We’re planning on about a quarter to a half mile away from the lake up the side trail,” the trip leader, a man in his early 70’s, offers.
I’ve been wanting more social time out here and the safety in numbers, so, of course, I latch onto the group….or is it that they have started the adoption process?
Aged in range from mid-forties to early seventies, the group draws me into their love, and mileage sanity, out here amongst the spired peaks comprising the “towers”. Clearly having hiked often together, the mix of men and women joke and converse as if the oldest of friends. Tents go up and stoves come out for cooking dinner, and I sit myself down amongst the circle—our own small cirque below the grand one. Being the novelty, introductions are offered in a “meet and greet” round robin of basic info, and once we all retreat early to our respective tents, I fall asleep with the glow of being in my “tribe”.
3.
“Are you sticking with us some more?” I am asked over breakfast of freshly caught and cooked trout. Several of the men have brought fishing poles and spent some early morning time casting into the lake.
“I’ve bonded now. I’d like to, if that’s okay with everyone?”
“Yeah. Yes. We would love to have you finish up with us,” everyone agrees.
We haven't seen any dangerous wildlife—no bears, mountain lions, or moose. But, the group is large enough for me to feel safe. I would have hiked alone, but the companionship helps.
The air feels dead and hot as we head away from Shadow Lake for an eight mile day, which will put us just about three or four miles from the trailhead on the last morning. I have no agenda, but they all have to catch flights out of Salt Lake City. With no more passes to cross, the trail meanders through gently rolling meadows, past small ponds, and oases of pines. A few hikers pass us heading towards Texas Pass, we move off trail to let a pack horse group mosey by, and we long for the ease of the two walkers pulling their gear on llamas.
"No dehydrated camp food for us," they gloat as their lamas hoof on.
The dead air turns chilly as dark clouds move quickly across the sky, thunder rumbling, and lighting strikes cloud to cloud, then onto the ground. Hail pummels our bare arms and legs, and we seek shelter under some pines, scurry to find pack covers and rain gear. Wait out the storm. Once the rain slows, and the thunder is behind us, we plod on.
“We’re looking for a brook outlet leading to Divide Lake. There might be a walking path to the lake from anglers, and hopefully a good place to camp tonight,” one of the men says as he studies his GPS device. “It looks like we’re close.” Several others gather around him for a consultation.
Dead tired, still recovering from yesterday's talus ordeal, the rest of us try to convince them to let go of the brook route, and find a place off trail nearby.
“We’ll go explore,” two say. The rest of us remove our packs and sit by the trail side.
They call down from the small hill facing us, and wave us up to an open field with a couple of fire rings. The brook, mostly dried up, holds onto a couple of shallow pools with a tiny flow moving through them. I’ve filtered water out of worse water sources than this.
The weather allows us tent set ups and dinner before the wind picks up and whips loose belongings around. We scurry again to grab our stuff and dive into our tents. Rain beats us down for awhile, and once awake in the morning, we spread out our wet tents in the sun to dry before walking the last miles out.
Watching the group drive away from the parking lot brings a sense of loss. Three nights and days. Rain, hail, heat. Talus. Miles. Jokes. Tears. Trout. Doesn’t get better than all that. We exchanged contact info so they can keep me informed of future trips in case I want to join the group again sometime, somewhere. A reunion of those willing to slog into the wilderness to gasp at the majesty that only a minute percentage of the world’s population ever witnesses in person. I can see still their two vehicles along the dirt road, diminishing along the horizon, and I wave one last time.