29 JAN 2001
By Joe Hartney
Going into this first leg, I had few expectations. Why should I have? I
had never done anything like this and could not even begin to predict what
it might be like.
The longest ski traverse I had ever done was 12 miles and took
a day and a half. This was going to be 10 times the distance and close to
three weeks long. Knowing this, I was still not nervous or worried in any
way. Many people had recently asked if I was nervous, but I've never been nervous about
heading into the mountains.
"As far as I can tell, my partner's entire belief system focuses on an
animistic god he refers to as The Wind River Kid."
For me, the wild places represent peace and
tranquility, the simplicity in life for which I long. I was so sick of talking
about the trip, I just wanted to get out there and go for it.
Win, on the other hand, has spent years doing long trips like this. He even has done much
of this route before. On the drive down to Lander, Wyoming, he suggested "this will be a good
warm up," in reference to the first leg. To me, that understatement was
like saying Las Vegas is a good place to spend a couple dollars.
I was the
gumby new kid tagging along with the seasoned veteran. What transpired over
the last 18 days and 130 miles would quickly become not only some of the
hardest work I'd ever done, but also the biggest accomplishment I had
achieved in the mountains.
Day 1: Packed up with more new gear than most outdoor shops, I must be
ready. The ride down to South Pass from Jackson this morning was a
beautiful sunny day which felt like a good sign to start such a massive
journey. A good day for a ski! At South Pass, the mountains are days away,
which leads me to believe we are truly starting at the beginning, like the
explorers of old. This is the kind of approach you don't get when you drive
into a trailhead already in the mountains. We have started out in the
flat prairie country where sagebrush and small hillocks will eventually lead
us to 13,000-foot peaks along the Continental Divide.
Day 5: These first few days have gone well as we near our entry into the
high country. From South Pass, the snow has been very thin and sagebrush
pokes out to tangle our skis at every opportunity. A maze of small creeks
and rocky knolls obscures our route finding, but after gaining ground via
the Continental Divide Snowmobile Trail, we've made the 30 miles to Little
Sandy Lake. From here it's up and over pass after pass, lake after lake, all
the way to the Green River, some 70 miles to the northwest.
Day 7: Even as we climb into the high country, the fair weather continues.
Clear, sunny days and cold nights with very little wind are the norm. After
passing our first crux at Temple Pass (11,500 feet), we got our first taste of
a downhill today. This was a sweet reward after the "double carry" at the
pass. Unable to bring all our gear up to the pass at once, we first hauled overloaded
packs straight up for 700 feet then came back down for the sleds
and another climb.
Coasting downhill past several lakes and massive granite
walls has brought us to Big Sandy Lake, the base of our second climb. I've
been here before in the summer and the familiarity is comforting, but so much
is new and different.
Day 9: The climb up Jackass Pass proves much easier than Temple Pass at
almost 1000 feet lower elevation. It provides us with another relaxing
descent into the climber's paradise known as Cirque of the Towers. Endless
rock walls cut by steep couloirs glow in evening's alpenglow as we
glide into Lonesome Lake. As the darkness overtakes us, so too does the
cold. Win's thermometer maxes out at 25 below zero this morning. We'll
never know exactly how much colder it gets, but if it's less than negative 25, I'd rather not know. The feel of the sun hitting us in the morning
becomes our salvation — and the only way we can leave camp without shattering
from the cold.
"After
more than an hour of attempted sleep in my ice-choked sack of frozen clumps
that used to be a sleeping bag, I realize that I won't fall asleep in this
condition."
Day 10: I feel I've finally gotten the system down thanks to Win's prodding
at my slow ways. At times, I'm almost keeping up with him, although I'm
still far behind when it comes to the steep climbs. My sled pulls me down
like an anchor on a ship. We have skied over 60 miles and climbed more than
8000 feet in these first 10 days without a rest, but it seems the least we can
do in this unbelievable stretch of fair weather. Win constantly reminds me,
"we cannot waste these clear days."
As far as I can tell, my partner's entire belief system focuses on an
animistic god he refers to as The Wind River Kid. The Kid wreaks havoc on
those who dare ski tour in these mountains. Anytime one is stricken with
bad weather or gear failures, the Kid may be behind it laughing from the
trees, rocks and even the snow at the feeble attempts of us mere mortals.
Apparently, the best way to ward of this mighty being is by constantly
signing cheesy pop tunes, of which Win is in no short supply. He is a
virtual backcountry juke box around camp, singing and humming. Sometimes I
feel like I'd rather face the wrath of the Kid than hear another Foreigner
song, but I sure can't complain about the great weather we've been having.
My addition of Neil Diamond hits are short struggles at best.
Day 15: The last five days have turned into marathons of skiing. We began
pushing seven, eight, even nine miles a day, touring all day, stopping only long enough
to drink water and eat a quick snack, not even sitting down until we reach
camp. I have given up the thought of any rest days or recovery time for
my legs. Though they seem to keep working, I wait for them to seize up like
a car engine that is trying to drive across the country non-stop with no
oil.
More lakes, a few small passes, and we are heading towards the Green River
with great momentum. The sunny skies beckon us each day as we become less
bothered by the sub-Arctic morning temperatures. Jamming my feet into
solidly frozen boots so that I can drag my 70-pound sled all day at
10,000 feet has just become the 9-to-5 routine. We now consider -10°F a warm
morning and anything less than seven miles a short day, especially if there
are no passes to tackle.
Day 16: This afternoon, we make our way through Cube Rock Pass and begin our
descent to the Green River. The pass is a maze of chasms through the rock
with wild snowdrifts eventually leading down to Peak Lake. The traveling is
rough down low in the trees and the snow is heavy and rotten. After skiing
through a gorge of powder-covered boulders resembling a mogul feild at a ski
resort, Win's sled cracks and I feel too tired to even think.
Eventually, we made it down to the river and build a raging fire to lift our
numbed spirits. We know we'll be out soon, but we have 30 miles to go
before the finish line.
Day 17-18: Our hopes for a possible snowmobile ride out from Green River
Lakes are thwarted by the unfriendly machinists we meet whose only dialog
closely paralleled that of our last human contact on Day 3. "Ya out gettin'
some excercise?" It seemed destiny would not allow us to be assisted by the
'bilers, further adding to my love for the sport.
We began what Win calls a
"death march" out the last 20 miles to the car in the late afternoon. By
early evening, we decide to make camp and continue in the morning. After
more than an hour of attempted sleep in my ice-choked sack of frozen clumps
that used to be a sleeping bag, I realize that I won't fall asleep in this
condition. I tell Win that I must continue to the car tonight. He is
somehow warmer and decides to stay, although he mentions that if I find a
ride, he'll take it. "Getting you out will be my top priority," I assure
him.
"I couldn't help but notice how hard the
groomed packed trail was from hundreds of snow machines, cold weather and lack of snow. We had joked about how it might even support a car."
At about 9:30pm, I begin my journey to the car. Dressed in every layer of
clothing I have, I slowly start to ski. I warm up enough to
remove most layers and establish what feels like a decent pace.
Hallucinating from exhaustion through the moonless night, I stumble down
the hard-packed snowmobile trail like a drunken pirate motivated by knowing
that my car would eventually appear.
By 2:30am, I reach the parking lot.
I have some crazy ideas for retrieving Win, but need to sober my judgment at
the nearest convenience store. Two burritos, three doughnuts, and a cup of
coffee later, I drive back toward the trail. Being that it's much too late to
solicit a snowmobile ride for Win, I take matters into my own hands.
During my slog back to the car, I couldn't help but notice how hard the
groomed packed trail was from hundreds of snow machines, cold weather and lack of snow. We had joked about how it might even support a car. Faced
with a decision that would either make for a great story some day or turn me
into the town fool, I take the risk of becoming the fool.
I hop my
trusty wagon onto the snowmobile trail and head 12 miles back to pick
up Win. I drive 35 mph with music blaring and heat cranking along
the same route that just took me five hours of struggling to cover on skis. I
wasn't sure if the events transpiring were reality or the figment of my
imagination. Either way, I figure I'm
going for it.
After picking up Win and driving 100 miles back to Jackson, a welcome back kiss from my
girlfriend was all I needed to know that this was no dream but the ultimate
reality. The massive breakfast we engulfed ensured my belief in fact
over fiction. As our faces showed the effects of 18 days of sun on our
Celtic complexions, my first words were "I guess the luck of the Irish was
with me on this one."
Much like the last time I left Las Vegas, it doesn't seem possible that my
mind and body could have endured the events that just occurred. Not to mention that I chose to undertake them by free will. Never again, will I
ever do that, ever!
Sure. That's what I promised myself the last three
times I combed out my afro for disco night.
[ Top ]
