28th of May, 2007
Another long week draws to a close up here in the sticks and I hit the sack hard. Next morning I’m up at 10:00 (hey you have to sleep in every once and awhile) and throw my sleeping bag and a little bit of food into the truck. My plan is to explore Yellowstone now that everything is open but it is not to be: Cars loaded with tourists and a few angry locals who were too stupid to stay home Memorial Day Weekend, block the northbound lane so turning left is not an option anytime before, say, dinner. I turn right and head down the road into a relatively quiet Grand Teton
National Park.
I hit Leek’s Marina after a ways and remember that I had heard of them having excellent Pizza so I drove to the little pizzeria by the Marina of Jackson Lake. I order a pizza called the “Maintenance Man”. It’s fit for any self respecting carnivore cum wolf lover such as myself as it possesses every type of meat available as topping. I seat myself out on the deck under a shade umbrella and look out toward Mount Moran which looms over the bay. It’s a clear day, with temperatures in the 70s; nice weather for any man, beast, or even tourist. There are a few of them on the deck, carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone outside of their own party, staring into the middle distance. I always make a point to wave and say “HI!” very loudly which tends to provoke a slight jump and mumbled reply of some sort. I begin a letter to my Grandmother back home in Durango and wait for my pizza to come. I’m about halfway through writing it when the pizza arrives, borne aloft by a rather incredible waitress. I spend the next few minutes alternating between eating and writing (sorry about the tomato sauce Meme…). I consume roughly half of the pizza and set aside the rest for dinner. I seal the letter and finish my iced tea looking out over the bay.
I get back into my truck and cruise down the road at a healthy five over-and get passed constantly by expensive cars with California plates which are doing around 20 over. I could go into a long rant about the fact that Californians not being able to drive, but I’d rather just give you the condensed version: “Californians…” *quiet swearing*spit on the ground*. I take my time and park at the String lake picnic area and take the ladder out of my truck so I can get at my bike. It’s mounted on a new kind of rack so you have to roll it backward to remove it. Unfortunately this almost sends it off of the back of the truck so it’s quite a balancing act to remove it with out falling off of the ladder into the expensive car next to me-probably one with California plates…
I screen up and hop on the bike. It’s a brief ride down the one way scenic drive to Jenny Lake. I meet a family riding the wrong way in my bike lane; I smile and give them a wave and a smile: no need to bother them with the rules. A bike path that appears to be the old road appears on the right with enough signage indicating its location that even Helen Keller could have found it ok. What is it with the NPS and signs? There’s idiotproof and there’s overkill: the NPS seems to err on the side of overkill. For instance, at each junction here in Grand Teton there are signs warning of the upcoming junction sign. There is even a series of four signs on the highway that read:
~WE SAW WILDLIFE~
~FROM AFAR~
~UNTIL WE HIT THEM~
~WITH OUR CAR~
That’s what I mean by overkill. Anyway, back to the bike ride.
The bike path was pretty overgrown and had small mounds of pine needles everywhere, washed there by the melting snow. I meet no-one and pass the campground before the path narrows and I drop down next to Jenny Lake. Jenny Lake is a glacier lake and was formed by the very glaciers that sculpted the Tetons. I learn later that the dark water toward the center marks a depth of nearly 300 feet. I cruise into the main Jenny Lake Village and lock my bike on the bike rack. There are only four spots to park a bike in this entire place—contrast this with the 200+ parking spots…hmmm… The ranger in the visitor center recognizes me from a bear jam I had stopped at about a week earlier and we chat about the Jenny Lake ferry. NOTE: I never, as rule, stop at wildlife jams, but this one happened to be a female Grizzly nursing three cubs by the side of the road. How could I resist?
I grab my water bottle and went to catch the ferry across the lake to the Inspiration Point trail. The rate was $10 for a round trip fare. But for Yellowstone and Teton employees it was $2. That’s a nice touch. I get my hand stamped like a little kid at the water park and board the boat, which seems to be the spawn of an illicit tryst between a pontoon boat and a safari bus. The boat starts with a roar and powers out into the deep, cold lake. The boat driver is an exceptionally attractive dark haired woman perhaps six years my senior. She gives a great leave-no-trace/don’t-feed-the-animals speech as we near the opposite shore which is definitely a turn on for ranger nerds like me. I leave the boat dock and start up the trail behind about 20 slow moving tourists. They soon step off the trail to take the first of several hundred pictures and I waste no time passing them. I half run, half walk up the steep and rock trail, soon coming to Hidden Falls, whose 70’ span I admire for awhile before continuing to inspiration point.
Inspiration point is, well, inspiring. It is one of the few overlooks in park that looks away from the Teton range and rather at the immense glacier carved valley of Jackson Hole. Jenny Lake is spread out far below, the boats humming across her surface looking like fairy shrimp in a pothole. I can see Yellowstone off to the North, home. To the south, the town of Jackson peers out from behind the large Butte that shadows it; Snow King Mountain—devoid of snow now—encircles it protectively. I look west into the mouth of Cascade Canyon, one of many glacial gouges that score the range. I can’t see much but the peaks on the canyon’s opposite side beg exploration. I decide that I’ll hike it tomorrow.
I race back to the dock the catch the last boat, soon running out of water. Not carrying enough is unusual for me being that I’m the desert rat that I am. I swear at myself and keep walking; I’ll find water back at the visitor center I’m sure. I meet a large red-faced man puffing his way down the trail. We chat for a while and I slow down to match his pace. He tells me that he doesn’t think he’ll make the last boat and begs me to ask it to wait. I comply and start running to the dock. My haste is unnecessary and the boat ends up leaving at 4:30. My friend makes it down with no problems and we wait in line. A child screams in front of us, squalling that they had already ridden the boat and that he wanted to keep hiking. It’s a comfort to hear really, that in this age of morbidly obese children drooling in front of their video game consoles that there’s still a kid who wants to be outside enough that he’s actually pitching a knock-down, drag-out fit. Three boats arrive to round up the stragglers and I board the second one and enjoy the cool lake breeze blowing through the cabin of the boat.
I arrive back at my bike, and soon my car, with no problems and wrestle it back into the roof rack. I drive to Moose Village and shop around at Moosely Seconds: Gear Store of the Gods… I then get back on the highway and turn at Gros Ventre junction. I dodge a large herd of bison and a herd of tourists watching the bison and race across the sage flats toward the campground. The campground is comprised of several loops spread out beneath towering cottonwoods along the Gros Ventre river. Grabbing a fee envelope I fill it out and go to find a site. There are plenty to choose from and I pick one near the river. I claim the site and race off the find an ATM, ending up going back to Moose for the $20 necessary to pay the overnight fee. Upon my return, I go down to the river and gather some firewood for later that night. The two familes in the site across from me (who I had enlisted to guard my site earlier) invite me over for BBQ chicken and potatoes cooked in the Dutch Oven; it’s the best meal I’ve had in weeks. We talk for a long time and I learn that they’re Mormons from Layton, UT, and that the two babies are the same age and both wives are pregnant and therefore moody. They’re a great bunch and we speak on a wide range of topics. They ask about my job and I ask about their trip. We part when it begins to get dark and I go to revitalize my fire. I watch it until it burns down to coals and write a letter with the day’s happenings and address it to “Mi Familia”. I call home from the pay phone and ask what I’ve missed. Turns out two graduations and a wedding; I guess life continues back home whether I’m there or not. I go back to my site and add more wood to the fire and watch it burn down again, enjoying the rich aroma of woodsmoke.
A distant roar interrupts my quiet contemplations of the flame and I douse the fire, use the bathroom and dive into my truck as the thunderstorm hits. I turn my little clock radio to a classical music station and read some of Ed Abbey’s essays in “Journey Home” by the light of my gigantic maglite. I switch off my light and fall asleep to the rhythm of the wind and rain.
I awake to shafting sunlight, the clock reads 7:30. I boil water and drink some Green tea (God only knows how old it is) and begin to break camp. This is easy when you are sleeping the back of a truck as you just have to round up your camping gear and throw it in the back. I soon find myself driving out of the Gros Ventre valley back in direction of Jenny Lake. The storm system from last night is still blowing around so I fight with myself on whether I should go or not. The fight doesn’t last long (I won) and I pack my raingear, first aid kit, and water (much more than yesterday). I bring my trekking poles, knowing that I’ll get the inevitable “goin’ skiing?” question. Sure enough, it comes from a tourist on the dock as I wait for the boat. I just smile wanly in his direction and say “you know it…” I ride across and step onto the dock on the opposite shore
I pass the tourists and fly up the now familiar trail and arrive at inspiration point in no time at all. I take a deep breath and plunge into the dark forest of spruce that lines the bottom of Cascade canyon. It’s quiet here, although the occasional sharp whistle of a Marmot interrupts my reverie. The sharp, sweet scent of spruce fills the air and the creek rushes by on a bed of unforgiving rock. The trail winds up the canyon and in and out of the forest into boulder fields. I stop by the stream and eat a breakfast/lunch of smoked oysters (I pack out the can). The north face of Grand Teton looms to my left its summit, just shy of 14000 feet, obscured occasionally by a scudding wisp of cloud. The canyon itself is hemmed in my walls of ancient granite, rubbed smooth by the huge glaciers of a forgotten age. A peak whose name I do not know cleaves the sky at the canyon’s end like the prow of an ancient ship. It is where the canyon forks, my destination. I pass and chat with a couple of other rangers. One of them if obviously miffed that I am passing him and I assure him that I’m not really this fast (a lie) and that I am simply trying to get back in time for a BBQ (true). Mollified he let’s me pass and I am soon out of sight. The trail is winding through an ancient glade of spruce and fir, their boughs all but covered with wisps of old man’s beard, lichen that closely resembles Spanish moss. The glade is still, sound muffled as if time has stopped, yet as soon as I step out of it, it immediately starts rushing by again. I come to the forks and eat some dried fruit before hiking above it to a place that the other rangers had told me about. It is a view of a tumbling cascade that rushes hundreds of feet down a narrow, boulder-strewn canyon.
It takes me only an hour or so to cover the 4.5miles back to inspiration point; the going is slower here as I have to fight my way through the horde of tourists recently unloaded from the boats. I finally make it to the boat and ride back to the visitor center. I call home to get directions to my BBQ and watch a small armada of Brown-headed cowbirds (♂) trying to impress a lone female who eventually flew away.
The house is easier to find than I anticipate and I drive aimlessly through the neighborhoods in the riverbottom behind the airport. The people I’m having dinner with I have never met before and actually was first contacted by one of them several weeks prior via the Abbeyweb, an old style email forum devoted to Cactus Ed. After posting a hello from Yellowstone to everyone, I received a reply from a Kim Johnson who told me he lived in Jackson and that I should meet he and his wife if I’m ever down that way. Several emails later here I am driving through a maze of cottonwood trees waiting until I’m comfortably on time rather than a little too early. I turn into the driveway and park in front of a little log cabin where I am enthusiastically greeted by a small border collie. Kim is there as well and we shake hands. He’s a tall man in a baseball cap with a beard and ponytail and smiling eyes. His wife Charlie waits inside and I meet her as well; she’s blond, lovely, and according to Kim, about 3 or 4 months pregnant with their first child. I bring in my drinks that I had picked up in Jackson the day before and we get to talking. We talk about Ed and his work, the mountains, politics, and his next door neighbor who is apparently completely batshit. We have a lot of common ground, a love of the Eagles and Jimmy Buffet, as well as having the same obscure favorite movie (Jeremiah Johnson). Charlie watches in disgust as we recite various move lines to each other.
We sit on the deck in the sun with a great view of Tetons towering over us. In the distance I can see Cascade Canyon. I smile at the thought that I was deep in that canyon only a few hours before. The BBQ is wonderful, great potato salad, burgers, and baked beans. We continue to talk and clear dishes. Charlie goes inside out of the sun and turns on the hockey game, yelling the scores to Kim who stays with me. Time flies and soon I’ve been there for 3 hours and it’s time to start back to Yellowstone (home). I thank my gracious host and hostess for an excellent time and take my remaining drinks for the BBQ tomorrow night back at the South Entrance. They wave as I drive off and I wave back before looking next door to see if I can catch a glimpse
of the batshit, dog-hating neighbor.
The sun is setting as I drive home and the roads are all but devoid of traffic. Jackson Lake is mirror smooth and reflects the mountains on the opposite shore. I cross the Snake and make a left into the South Entrance complex and pull into the drive in front of my bunkhouse. A good weekend draws to a close. Can’t wait for next time.
-Snake River Ranger Station, Yellowstone
