Early fall is, by far, the best season. This is an authoritative, universal fact, and ought not to be questioned. The last of the previous winter's snows have finally melted, the bugs have died off, a yellow hue begins creeping through the aspen grove, and on the shady sides of the highest peaks, there's just a trace of snow. A month ago, I had to fight swarms of bugs and swarms of people. A month from now, I'll be huddled in my sleeping bag as an early-season snowstorm rips through the mountains. But this - this is perfection.
The nights are chilly, no doubt about that. But still, the cheery sunshine boosts the temperatures as soon as it peeks over the horizon. The frost accumulates thick at night, but is burned away within minutes of sunrise. Time flies though - it's the upper elevations' last hurrah before winter.
Inexplicably, I had lived in Utah for the better part of four years, and had never climbed any of the peaks in the upper part of Big Cottonwood Canyon (Patsy Marley and the Honeycomb Cliffs don't exactly count). For one, none of them rise above 11,000 feet, and thus don't fall on the list of classic Wasatch giants. For another, the top of Big Cottonwood is the hub of ski-area activity. From some peaks in the area, six different resorts are visible, and three more are hidden just behind ridgelines. I prefer my wild places a bit... wilder.
But I had been looking at the lake country just on the east side of the Wasatch crest for some time now, and had been eyeing a couple nice-looking lakes to camp at. And just adjacent to the lake region was the string of peaks that surround Brighton ski area - a string of peaks I'd never explored.
I expected nice fall scenery. I expected a bit of melancholy over the degradation of wild places. But I didn't expect to be blown away.
It's always a thrill to get out of work and camp two miles above sea level just hours later. I parked my car in the Brighton parking lot and explored the surrounding slopes. Before the area was purchased by the Forest Service, several generations of people had built cabins in the upper Cottonwoods. You can find many quaint/grandiose/ramshackle cabins grandfathered in, including several dozen within ski area boundaries. I wandered around, looking at the architecture and wondering how much, exactly, these places sell for. By and by, a few friends showed up, and we carpooled up to Guardsman Pass, head of Big Cottonwood.
We parked at Guardsman and descended a few hundred feet to a couple of very well-used campsites at busy Bloods Lake. We opted to bypass the lake and climb up to the ridge on the other side of the lake. By this time, it was getting dark and we set up camp on a grassy ridge overlooking Park City. It was a gorgeous (albeit chilly) evening and I camped under the stars for the first time in a couple months (mountain weather has a funny way of making that a very bad idea most of the time). The frost was thick and heavy, and I dreamed about soaking in a steaming hot tub - and plotted modifications to my gear for the winter season. But the amazing sunrise over the distant Uintas made the cold night worth it, and the sun soon bathed everything in warmth.
After lazing over breakfast (an amber ale, a bag of gummy bears, and a handful of pretzels, just like they teach you in Home Economics), we all set out on our ways - they headed back to the car, and I bushwhacked steeply uphill, toward the day's first objective - peak 10,420.
10,420 is a pretty dull name, not only because it looks weird at the beginning of a sentence (sorry for that brief foray into recursion), but also because it's a neat little peak and deserves something a little warmer than a clinical-sounding moniker. I paused for a few minutes on top and took in the mountain views. One peak down, seven to go.
Down into a dip, up to another summit - Clayton Peak, elevation 10,721. Beautiful yellow leaves, a hardcore lady in her 70s hiking solo. A half mile of trail. A minor peak covered in nasty scrub oak (Preston, 10,315). Down again - past the top of the ski lift I frequent on dark winter evenings. Ahead, the terrain grew steeper.
I climbed over another minor peak, this one unnamed. A bunch of loud ATV's roared past on a jeep road below. The ridge turned downward briefly before ascending further to Pioneer Peak. At 10,420, Pioneer is the exact same height as the first peak I climbed (we'll call it Recursive Peak, just to complete the Möbius loop), and even less prominent. Yet somehow, Pioneer has the honor of a proper name.
Pioneer Peak marks the mental halfway point of the ridgewalk, even though it's a little bit more than that distance-wise. From Pioneer on, it's constant steep ups and downs the rest of the way. The rock turns white and sandy, almost chalk-like. After a short but steep downhill to a saddle, I climbed up to Sunset Peak, where a group of loud townies were perched, having climbed from Catherine Pass. I hastened off the summit and down to the pass, a bit perturbed at how obnoxious several people were being. Don't get me started on the subject of yelling in the mountains. Ditto for playing top-forty hits over speakerphone.
[takes several deep breaths, counts to ten, regains composure]
Once past Catherine Pass, the ridge ascended steeply to Mt Tuscarora. Tuscarora isn't really a peak of its own, merely a shoulder of Mt Wolverine. I traversed the ridge and reached the highest peak on the route, Mt. Wolverine. Coincidentally, the Michigan Wolverines football game had just kicked off, and yes, of course I checked the score (they were losing early in the first half, but came back to win convincingly). Seven ought of eight peaks done.
The last peak, Mt Millicent, only stands at about 10,400, but it's by far the roughest. Large, steep talus litters all sides of the mountain. Getting to the summit wasn't too bad, however the descent down its north slope extremely slow and tedius. The boulders were unstable and steep - perfect ankle-twisting terrain. With an appropriate amount of caution, I slowly made my way down to a trail. After having hiked off-trail (or on faint/skethy trail) for hour, I felt relieved to have terrain pass under my feet at three miles an hour. Despite the ski lifts, the clear-cut ski runs, and the ever-present hum of ATV's, I had wandered through a truly beautiful place. I arrived at my car, thoroughly impressed by the fantastic vistas, the cheery fall colors, and a corner of the Wasatch that I'd previously written off.
In the Beartooth Range of southern Montana, there's a hiking trail called the "Beaten Path". It traverses the range from north to south. From all accounts, it's a lovely trail. But I wasn't interested in the Beaten Path, metaphorical or otherwise. You may insert the appropriate Robert Frost cliché here. The alternative? A "High Route" of sorts. The "High Route" craze has been sweeping the backpacking scene in the past few years - it eschews trails to follow the main line of a mountain range or other geological feature. It aims to show the "very best" that a place has to offer.
Unfortunately, like everything else in the human enterprise, High Routes tend to become an occasion for people to bicker on the internet (note - these people would be much better served by getting off said internet and actually go outside). Everybody thinks their special unique little snowflake hiking route is worth of the designation "High Route". And when other people offer contrary proposals for the same area, they're quick to take up arms. And that's just silly. When my buddy Zippy and I did a traverse of the Wind River range last year, we called it a "Fun Route". And when I did a traverse of the Beartooths this summer, I again called it the "Beartooths Fun Route". Hike off-trail, stay high, see as many beautiful things as possible. Don't worry about the mirage of ideological purity.
I had a 7-9 day trip planned. From the get-go, I knew that weather was key. It's simply impossible to navigate, above treeline, hopping over washing-machine sized boulders, when it's socked in, rainy, and windy. If the weather deteriorated, I knew I'd have to bail.
I drove up Friday evening after work. It was a long drive, around eight hours, and I finally made it to the trailhead around midnight and crashed in the back of my car. As a side note, any outdoor-minded person should lay down in the back and make sure they can fit prior to purchasing a new vehicle. I'm 5'7" or so and I fit - but I wouldn't fit if I were 5'10".
The next morning I got up bright and early and started hitchhiking. The plan was to hitch to the start of my route, and hike back to my car. I had a little trouble getting a ride, but eventually a lady with three overly-friendly dogs picked me up. Obviously sensing my great love and affection for canines, a border collie cozied up to me and I ended up riding shotgun with forty pounds of fur snuggled in my lap. Utterly Impractical Hiking Item of the Week.
It was a beautiful day up Beartooth Pass, where the road crested. I hopped out and began walking. The Fun Route immediately revealed its colors - a short but very steep uphill, followed by endless talus hopping. Travel was slow. But the scenery sure was worth it. I hiked thousands of feet below innumerable glacial cirques, past snow-covered peaks, and past turquoise-colored lakes. While I wasn't moving quickly, the ridgetop travel would actually turn out to be some of the fastest hiking I did on the whole trip. But whatever goes up must come down, and soon I encountered a glacial valley that I had to descend into in order to get off the ridge. It was hard hiking. The talus was steep and not particularly stable. I crept downward gingerly to avoid disturbing any of the rocks, poised to tumble downhill. After a while I made it down to a small stream, that I would follow downhill to the lake where I planned to camp for the night.
Just one little problem though - the stream, at some point, turned into a waterfall, and I was again scrambling gingerly down boulders. At long last I reached my campsite, ate supper, and set up my shelter. I crawled into my sleeping bag, and browsed the day's pictures...
...and boy, am I glad I did! They all had a nasty, orange tint to them! What happened!? I turned over my phone, and found the offender - an orange gummy bear shard, stuck to the camera lens. Not ideal, but at least I was able to remove it and save any upcoming photos from the affliction of the orange haze.
The next morning dawned bright and sunny.The first half of the day promised relatively easy hiking - small ups and downs as I followed a long chain of lakes westward, beneath the main crest of the range. The afternoon turned out to be harder - the route went up and up. I hiked on a little lingering snow, and detoured around a small glacier that wasn't marked on the map. I'd call it a snow field, but when it has its own moraine and crevasses, I think it's graduated to "glacier" status.
Around 5PM, the clouds obscured the sun, the wind picked up, and the clouds built overhead. A little late for the afternoon instability to start up, but nonetheless it quickly grew very cold and started to rain. I set up my shelter in a hurry, and spent the evening at the inlet of an extremely remote lake, in an obscure corner of the range. It wasn't loneliness, it was aloneness. And not the bad kind, either.
Some time during the night, the rain stopped and the wind died down, and the morning dawned brilliantly yet again. I got up and hiked over a pass to Red Rocks Lake. My route led along the north shore of the lake, where I'd climb another pass to another, higher lake. When I was sitting on the couch planning it, this seemed like a great idea. However, as I stood there on the lakeshore, I realized that the north side was completely impassible. Sheer hundred-foot cliffs guarded the north shore. I'd have to circumnavigate almost the entire lake to get to the other side of the cliffs, just a couple hundred feet away. The circumnavigation was no small feat either, requiring numerous small elevation gains and losses to navigate around cliffs and steep terrain. But with time I made my way around, up to another lake, up to yet another lake, and so on. Eventually, I topped out. And then came the descent.
I though the descent was going to be worse than it was. It was about a thousand feet (perhaps a bit more) and the top 500 feet was very, very steep. I had no beta on the route and frankly wasn't sure whether it was doable. But thankfully, I found a series of grassy ramps all the way down the steep part. Just a couple scramble moves sufficed. From there on, it was a less steep, bouldery descent all the way to Fossil Lake.Fossil Lake is the lowest point on the Beartooths Fun Route, and the highest point on the Beaten Path, just on the fringes of treeline. I briefly followed the Beaten Path for less than a mile.
Soon enough, it was time to leave the Beaten Path for the more comfortable environs of trail-less terrain. I stopped for a while and set up my shelter at tiny Oly Lake, as threatening clouds billowed. Of course, it didn't end up raining. Finally I decided to press on toward Lower Cairn Lake and camp there for the evening. My delicate Achilles was starting to remind me of its existence, and progress was slow over the rough terrain. But finally I arrived at the the lake, and was blessed with an absolutely perfect campsite. I set up my tent under threatening skies and distantly booming thunder. Perhaps ten seconds after i finished, the storm broke overhead and skittle-sized hail started pounding. I waited out the storm for a half hour, and to my amazement, the weather cleared up shortly thereafter. I grabbed my still-too-heavy food bag and my phone and sat on a rock, reading the Bible as the sun set in the beautiful and rugged basin.
That evening I made an important decision Originally, I was planning to cut across lower Sky Top basin, head west, and circle back several days later to hit upper Sky Top and Granite Peak, the highest in Montana. However, my most recent weather forecast had indicated that the weather was supposed to break down in the next couple days. I was fairly confident that 1) the weather would flake out, forcing me to shorten/modify my trip and 2) I would have cell service on top of Granite Peak to check the weather. So I decided to detour slightly and climb Granite on the front end. It turned out to be a wise choice.
But first I had to get out of Cairn Lake Basin. Easier said than done, as the walls of the basin were steep and numerous cliff bands dropped into the lake. I ended up side-hilling on some very steep terrain, but with a little grunting and groaning on rock-hopping, I eventually made way up and over the ridge into Sky Top basin. I kept hiking at a pretty good clip, eager to start the climb as soon as possible. My six-day-old forecast seemed to indicate that today would be stable weather-wise, but I know better than to trust a mountain forecast, much less one from the better part of a week ago. So I kept moving all morning and reached the base of Granite Peak around 11AM. The face looked sheer and vertical - simply undoable - but there was supposedly a route.
While I was stashing my stuff under a rock and preparing to ascend, I heard a crashing sound - somebody had kicked a rock. It bounced and rolled at terrifying speeds all the way down the steep side of the mountain. I was content to wait a few minutes and let them get out off the ramp prior to starting my climb.
Ah yes, the ramp. Among the 50 state highpoints, Granite is typically ranked anywhere from #2-#4 in terms of difficulty. The standard route is high-end class 4 climbing and merits the use of ropes, however there's a route on the southwest face that's rated class 3. This was the route that I climbed. The route climbs through some very steep and loose talus and rockfall danger is not something to be taken lightly. The route climbs up a "ramp", essentially a weakness in the cliff-like southwest face. The climb itself didn't take as long as I thought - the route ascends very steeply. It was a mixture of slogging through unstable talus and scrambling on solid rock. The scrambling was fun, but the talus slog was a little scary. Although I was fairly confident hat nobody was below me, I was still paranoid about sending rocks crashing on their heads. Near the top, I met a couple guys - the same ones who had dispatched the rock I had seen tumbling earlier. They were the first people I had seen in four days.
The weather on the summit was simply gorgeous - clouds were building very slightly, but nothing to worry about. The views were stunning - glaciers, high plateaus, milky-blue lakes, and distant horizons. But despite the beauty, I wasn't entirely relaxed - I knew I had to go back down the steep, loose, unstable ramp. Fortified with more than a little prayer, I began my descent. It turned out to be fine - the difficulty had been more a result of my mental state than anything else. Soon enough, I arrived back at the base of the mountain, grabbed my pack, and headed back down the way I came into lower Sky Top basin.
Smoke moved in that afternoon, the result of a wildfire burning to the southeast. The sun grew dim and red and everything smelled like campfire. I made camp behind some rocks next to a lake and hardly had energy to eat supper before falling asleep. I heard the chewing of mountain goats on the local grasses in the middle of the night, twice getting up to throw some rocks at the shaggy white creatures to keep them away from my camp.
The morning dawned bright and clear, once again. Atop Granite, I had taken advantage of unlikely cell service to check the weather. And the decision was made for me. The next three days were supposed to be cold, rainy, and windy. There was no way I'd be going anywhere, not above treeline and off-trail, in that kind of weather. I had to bail. So I headed over one final off-trail pass to the absolutely beautiful Aero Lakes, a pair of huge alpine lakes situated beneath picturesque rock spires. I made my way around the lakes. This is where the Fun Route ended. It would be seven miles, on-trail, to the highway just outside Cooke City.
Once at the outlet of the lakes, I lost my way - I couldn't find where the trail picked up! I wandered around for at last 45 minutes trying to find a trail. After having hiked without a trail for 5 days, it was jarring to have to find a designated footpath. Finally I found it, and headed down the trail. The miles passed quickly and my feet, not used to the repetitive motion of walking on a smooth trail, started complaining. Strange how that happens! I walked through some burn areas, dead tree corpses everywhere, and ended up at the highway. From here it was a fifty-mile hitch back to my car.
Overall, the Beartooths Fun Route was amazing - simply outstanding. For the experienced adventurer, one of the most enjoyable things is to chart one's own course through a beautiful, harsh, wild landscape. I had five days of very good weather, and a route like this can only be undertaken in good weather. I saw more mountain goats than people. I camped in sublime locations. I crossed glaciers and skirted lakes. It was truly the trip of a lifetime.
Sometimes you don't have time for a full-blown adventure. No matter. Follow these seven easy tips and begin your journey toward outdoors expertise.
1) Preparation, preparation, preparation. Dig up a couple apples, a bag of sausage crumbles that's been sitting in the fridge for a suspiciously long time, and a half-eaten, half-stale tube of Pringles. Throw them in your backpack and pack up the rest of your gear. If you're doing this while half asleep at 4:30AM, all the better. Don't worry, you won't forget anything.
2) Scout out your route. Do exhaustive research on the area you're heading to. Namely, grab your map while filling your car with gas and look for places you haven't been before.
3) Don't forget about the red tape. A true veteran never carries cash, and tends to forget about the permit fee. No problem - just don't get caught. You'll pay double next time. Probably. Moreover, the trailhead is so busy you have to park a mile away and roadwalk to where the trail starts.
4) Choose your campsite carefully. Hike past the crowded, and beautiful Wall Lake. Climb over a beautiful pass and survey your kingdom. Throw down your shelter in a marginal spot right right as it's getting dark. Make sure you're camped close enough to the trail so night-hikers can wake you up with midnight conversations about laissez-faire approaches to dog training (see Tip #5)
5) Sleep soundly. Conveniently forget that you've had a giant Slurpee two days in a row and probably have developed a mild caffeine dependency. Wake up at midnight and toss around for a couple hours with a throbbing headache. Sleeping at 10,000 feet is great for ones head anyway.
6) Pay attention. As you saunter down the easy trail, be sure to stare off into space and miss the turnoff to a trail that may or may not exist. Neglect to realize this fact until you've gone a mile up a different trail. Stand there for fifteen minutes trying to decide whether it's worth a heinous bushwhack down a steep slope.
7) Respect the law. Hitchhike back to your car within eye-shot of a USFS ranger. He's too engrossed in his conversation with a tourist to care. Hopefully.
Sometimes the adventure isn't perfect. But at least it's an adventure. A micro-adventure.
In the summer of 2014, I hiked the Uinta Highline Trail, an elegant line traversing the Uinta mountains from east to west. We scaled snow-covered mountainsides, enjoyed amazing vistas of alpine basins, almost got blown away by a strong thunderstorm, and created a ton of great memories.
Over time, several different route options have developed. On the western end, some people end their hikes at the official trailhead, while others end at Mirror Lake. This is a fairly insignificant difference though, as the two are separated by just a couple miles of trail. Things are a lot less clear, however, on the eastern front. Some people hike west from Chipeta Lake - a 70-mile hike. Others head west from Leidy Peak - an 85 mile walk. Others begin their hike at US 191 - just south of Flaming Gorge - a 100-mile trek.
When Corona, Sherpa, Griz, and I hiked in 2014, we hiked from the Chipeta Lake trailhead. We enjoyed it greatly - but I always wanted to check out the Leidy Peak area.
Fast-forward to 2016. My pack is packed, I've got my well-loved (read - DEET-smeared) High Uintas Wilderness map with me - but I don't know where I'm hiking this weekend. I'm sitting at work when I come to the realization - this is a perfect time to hike the easternmost section of the Highline Trail.
But I'm not really interested in the Highline Trail per se. I've found the Highline Trail to be a bit overhyped - it often stays in the trees, well below the ridges that form the highline of the Uinta Range. So I decide to do a little experiment - can I find a better line for the westernmost section?
My objective is simple - scout a line between Leidy Peak and Chipeta Dam, staying on the ridge for as long as possible. On the way back, explore some of the other ridges in the area, and hike the Highline Trail itself, just for comparison's sake.
It rains on Friday evening. I turn off the pavement, onto dirt. The trailhead is 25 miles down the dirt road - and the Subie is up for the challenge of some sloppy roads. An hour later, I arrive at the trailhead, car smeared in mud from bumper to bumper. Just what she likes! It turns out that my adventures in slop are just beginning.
I hike in perhaps half a mile through thin forest just son the edge of treeline. I set up camp under a couple pines and fall asleep. Sometime during the night a few patters of rain fall, but I'm content in my nest.
The next morning I awake, and staring me in the face is a 1200 foot climb up to the summit of Leidy Peak. Leidy, in my opinion, is the "proper" starting point for the Highline Trail - it's the easternmost 12'er in the range, and the easternmost point above treeline as well. It's a pretty gentle ascent - but I'm huffing and puffing anyway. Nothing is easy at 12,000 feet - somebody stole all the oxygen!
From here, navigation is easy. I cruise westward, over various bumps on the ridge. The so-called "Highline Trail" is 2000 feet below me, in the trees - and I'm enjoying life up on the ridge. There's one easy scramble section - but nothing that can't be solved with an adventurous spirit and some careful foot placement. The south side of the ridge is gentle, while the north side is punctuated with a half dozen glacial cirques. It reminds me that this range could be glaciated once again - if ever the climate cooled by just a few degrees [adjusts tinfoil hat].
The clouds are starting to build. Nothing major, but I definitely want to get down off the ridge. The forecast for these few days is pretty spicy - it sounds like there will be afternoon thunderstorms each day. I descend down a talus slope to a tarn above Chipeta Lake. As I near treeline, a few sprinkles begin to patter around me. By time I reach Chipeta Lake itself, moderate rain is falling, and a little thunder growls in the distance. I timed it perfectly!
I wait out the storm while eating my lunch in the trailhead privy. I must admit, neither the food nor the ambiance is all that great, but at least it's keeping me dry - and away from the ravenous hordes of mosquitoes waiting for me. After a few hours, it has cleared up and I'm on my way - covered head-to-toe in DEET...
...which brings us to my favorite schtick, this week's Utterly Impractical Hiking Item. Remember this bit? No? Well then, you much have better things to do with your life than devote a rank amateur's blog posts to memory. My congratulations. Anyway, this week's Utterly Impractical Hiking Item is Ben's 30% DEET bug spray. There's nothing wrong with Ben's, and there's nothing wrong with DEET (except for, you know, its toxicity), There is, however, something very wrong with bringing 30% concentration into this jungle. The 30% will not cut it, folks. Mosquitoes are biting me on areas that I DEET'ed fifteen seconds age. First hatch in the Uintas is no joke. Next time, I'll read the packaging more carefully before purchasing.
Anyway, returning to the story at hand: I scurry down the trail, smacking myself silly in an attempt to kill the kamikaze mosquitoes that are dive-bombing me. The problem is exacerbated, of course, by the standing water and wet, nasty, spongy marshes everywhere. I'm on the official Highline Trail now, but it seems more like the Highline Lagoon. This paragraph has been brought to you by the Utah Board of Tourism.
Things do improve, though. I arrive at Whitehead Lake and find a delightful little campsite in some soft forest duff. I set up my shelter and dive inside. I only have to kill about three dozen skeeters who managed to join me inside. Insect foes vanquished, I eat some food and fall asleep.
The next morning comes entirely too early, and I laze over breakfast for a half hour before getting going. The day starts with a climb up to a ridge, overlooking Deadman's Lake. Cheery name, right?. From there the trail dips down to the Lake, at the fringes of treeline, and then climbs right back up to Gabbro Pass, at 11,500 feet. But I'm not going to Gabbro Pass. I leave the trail and climb southeast, skirting unnamed peak 12011. I cross above a lingering snowfield and a beautiful alpine lake. There's supposedly a trail around here, but I don't see it anywhere. No matter - above treeline, it's all hikeable.
I cross a few bumps on the ridge, each one a little higher than the previous. The big obstacle is an unnamed peak at about 11,900 feet. It's steep and I find myself panting, taking frequent rests. The clouds are building a little bit, but it's nothing of concern. I'll be down below treeline long before the weather breaks.
The grassy ridges have turned to talus. My pace slows. As much as I'd like to hurry, up here, progress is slow. Between the talus (I certainly don't want to sprain anything up here) and the the thin air, I'm not going anywhere fast.
And then the clouds start to build. Fast. I've only seen storms pop up this suddenly once before - and it involved dodging lightning atop Mt. Adams in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. That's not a situation I want to be in. I stow my phone and put on my rain gear. There will be no summit photos today.
Hail starts to fall. The wind begins to whip. And yes, the thunder starts to rumble. It's only 10:30AM.
I've got no good options. There are only two ways off the ridge - two miles ahead, over Marsh Peak (12,200'), or five miles back to where I came from. The choice is obvious, but it means climbing the highest peak in the area in a thunderstorm. It's only going to become more dangerous as the day wears on. I might as well make a break for it. I grit my teeth, say a prayer, and keep trudging.
Eventually, I reach the summit right as the hail stops falling. Nonetheless, I'm not enthused about being the highest thing around. I don't even pull out the camera to take a photo. Ahead. Downward. Toward safety.
I reach treeline, and immediately it starts pouring. I set up my shelter and clamber inside. I'm content to destroy my food bag while it storms outside. Thank you Lord.
Eventually the rain stops, the sun comes out, and after waiting for an hour to make sure the weather holds, I'm on my way. But about fifteen minutes down the trail, another cloud comes out of nowhere and it rains for hours. But I almost prefer the rain - because every time the rain stops, the mosquitoes come out to play.
It's a wet, sloppy slog through the jungles of the Lake Shore Basin. The trails are faint, poorly-maintained, swampy, and generally unpleasant. But that's ok. I've explored some interesting new terrain, I've experienced the rewards of planning my own route, and seen the Highline Trail, or at least my Highline Trail, live up to its potential, high on the ridge.
Another wave of storms rolls through. It's storming an hour before sundown. I've seen this movie before: tomorrow will likely be a washout. I power-hike the last few hours to my car and sleep in the back seat.
Higher is better. That's why I go to the mountains. I revel in the big alpine views, the lakes, the ridges, and the lingering snowfields. Mission accomplished.
There seems to be a certain consternation these days in the hiking community. It's a fear that our favorite trails are being overcrowded.
And it's completely true. The Pacific Crest Trail kick-off event now runs two sessions to accomodate more hikers. Baxter State Park is considering implementing a quota system for thru-hikers aiming to climb Katahdin. Even the Hayduke Trail will probably see several dozen hikers this year, more than at any time in the past.
But backpacking is not increasing in popularity. The long trails are increasing in popularity, but backpacking as a whole is not. So what gives? I think it's fair to say that backpacking usage is being increasingly concentrated along a few key corridors. The Wonderland Trail. The JMT. The Triple Crown. Meanwhile, other areas of the backcountry are more deserted than ever. Many national parks actually issue fewer backcountry permits, for example, than they did several decades ago.
These days, there's abundant information available for a litany of named routes and trails. It wasn't always like this. Before the internet, there was very little information available about many deep, remote wilderness areas. Aspiring adventurers had no choice but to take a small leap of faith when setting off on a trip. If they had topo maps, they certainly couldn't look up each pass on the internet to see whether or not it was doable.
It's not surprising that usage is becoming more concentrated on nationally-renown routes. People are fundamentally lazy, and planning a trip is a lot of work. So when someone creates a canned trip guide (print map, bake for ten minutes) and posts it on the internet, it's probably going to be popular. And for good reason - many of us have limited time, and a having a one-stop-shop allows us to spend time in the outdoors, without having to do months of detailed planning. A canned trip will hit the highlights - be it Cirque of the Towers, the Tower of London, Paintbrush Divide, The Louvre, Eagle Rock, or the Statue of Liberty. The highlights are cool, but they're only surface-level. Truly getting to know an area requires a greater investment of time and research.
Most of us don't have time to spare. Most of us engage in backcountry tourism, racing from highlight to highlight to see as much as we can in our precious vacation time. Most of us use canned trip guides - somebody else has done the work, collected the information, drawn the maps, and assessed the water sources. Most of us end up as camera-toting tourists at the Taj Mahal.
I freely admit that I engage in backcountry tourism. Most of the hikes I do are on established routes. At the minimum, I know somebody's done a successful trip in the area before. Oftentimes there are maps available. I can find water information without too much trouble. If not for all this information, I would only have time to prepare for a handful of trips per year. I love my canned trips.
But at least once this year, I'm planning a trip off the beaten path. I'm working on putting together my own route. I'm mapping a course that I'm sure isn't easy, and might not even be passable. I won't know how stable that glacial moraine is. I won't know whether the next section is a grassy field or a boulder field. And the only way to find out is to keep hiking. But at the end of the trip, I will know the mountain range quite well. After pouring over maps for months, studying the climate and geology, and, most importantly navigating my way through the range, I will have a deep understanding of the range - far deeper than if I had just downloaded somebody else's map pack and followed their journey.
Hiking someone else's hike is fine. Visiting the Great Wall of China is fine. But many of us look for something more adventurous than the well-trod paths that other people have taken. Many of us look for more than a journey or a vacation - we look for adventure. Perhaps it's the American ethos of the mountain man. Perhaps it's the thinly-disguised hipster in all of us. Perhaps our modern lives have grown too soft and easy.
But no matter why we thirst for adventure, we find it not in replicating what someone else's journey, but in crafting our own.
And as we explore the frontiers of wilderness, we simultaneously explore the frontiers of our own experience. It's a old way of doing things. It's a new way of doing things. And it's a more intense, rewarding way of doing things.
I'm setting out on an adventure. Won't you do the same?
After lazing over breakfast (an amber ale, a bag of gummy bears, and a handful of pretzels, just like they teach you in Home Economics), we all set out on our ways - they headed back to the car, and I bushwhacked steeply uphill, toward the day's first objective - peak 10,420.
[takes several deep breaths, counts to ten, regains composure]
