2008
I wasn't supposed to lift anything for months after being diagnosed with cancer at 27 years old and having bilateral mastectomies at 28, but I was getting bored with recovery and decided to ask Dad to come on an adventure with me. So he flew out from California and we drove up to Wyoming to see what kind of trouble we could get into in the glorious Grand Tetons. After our warm-up hike up Buck Peak, which took all day and was actually quite strenuous, I went to get cleaned up in the public showers, where I was pleased to be the only woman using them at the Climber's Ranch. I wasn't quite ready to expose my scarred chest, still wrapped in gauze and seeping blood from the taped incisions. I still had shooting referred pain down my chest bone and on my back where the nerves continued to refer from and to nowhere, but I'd heard light exercise helps with healing, and figured as long as I didn't use hiking poles or fall or carry a heavy pack, I wouldn't rip the stitches. I hadn't yet completed the next stages of the reconstruction surgeries, so my chest was still a flat mess of scars, but as long as I kept them taped and cleaned, I figured I'd be fine, if not a bit more sore each day than usual.
The rugged Teton Mountain Range which rises from the plains surrounding the resort town of Jackson Hole, Wyoming, is often mistakenly called The Grand Teton Range. When you stand in the Climber’s Ranch meadow with the sun casting a halo of the day’s last rays from behind the craggy peaks, you can see why. The towering pinnacles are reflected in a series of shimmering glacial lakes at their base which support abundant wildlife, and if you are lucky you’ll see moose, elk, and bison grazing at the water’s edges. If you’re unlucky, you’ll see them in your headlights right before they total your car. Upwards of 80 large hoofed mammals are plowed down by visitors in the Teton National Park each year. Thus a series of signs were added to the scenic highway to remind folks to, well, enjoy the scenery. They read, “That moose…could be someone’s beau…so drive slow.”
A friend who has lived in Jackson for the last 6 winter seasons, says all the Tetons have been skied. I take exception to this claim, as the Grand Teton, the highest in the range at 12,770 feet is too steep to ski at the top, so skiers lower themselves on ropes through the steep sections with their skis on their feet or hitched to their backpack. This method, in my book, should be classified as a winter climbing descent…if there is such a thing. My friend, a Colorado native, has skied quite a few of the peaks, but, as Dad and I discovered on our warm up blistering hike with him to one of the top ten highest peaks in the range, he’s much less familiar with the trailheads in summer.
Unsure about the start of the trail, we bushwhacked through the meadow which approaches Stewart Canyon leading to the summit of Buck Mountain, a stunning perch from which to assess future climbs in the Tetons. Since Dad relishes calculating trail statistics (mileage left to travel, elevation gain, steepness and grade, rate of travel, etc.), he was, I think, a bit surprised to find his tally of people encountered on the trail (when we found it) totaled only seven. At a rest stop where we admired the cross-cut quartz dykes and intrusions prevalent in the large glacial erratics and moraine rocks of the last Teton glacial retreat, a fellow skipped by us saying he was descending without summiting because the weather looked bad. My friend called his buddy in town to check the weather report. Though there were long cumulous ‘hogbacks’ clouds which often suggest a storm front is approaching, the report was still sunny and clear. I considered reminding the skippity fellow of the climber’s mantra, ‘There’s no such thing as bad weather…only bad clothing’ but decided to refrain as any unrequested advice in the Tetons smacks of typical out-of-towner bravado. The local folks climbing the steep lines and sending the hard ascents and descents, are usually not seen unless one is touring the trailhead parking lots at 2 AM where these hard ones sleep to get an early start. An underground club formed in the 60’s called the “Flyboys” systematically ducked under ski area ropes to jump dangerous out of bounds cliffs, until Teton Mountain, followed by others, gave up regulation and opened the entire backcountry, leaving these ‘suicidal’ types to their own devices.
Certainly not among their ranks but familiar with a necessary bit of risk taking in the mountains, we decided to press on to the scrambly and exposed summit rocks which earns a mountaineering rating of Grade 3 (no ropes required, but sometimes one needs an extra pair of underpants, or as the guide we met phrased it, “Don’t fall here!”). This professional guide had two clients, one a bookstore employee in the park and the other a cardiologist from Seattle who was footing the bill. I expressed my condolences for the loss of one of their guides this year who was soloing for the umpteenth time the ultra-classic, but normally not very challenging 5.9 route, the Lower Exum on the Grand Teton, when he mysteriously fell to his death. Another girlfriend from college, who works on search and rescue as a climbing ranger for the park, said the guide community was devastated and the accident had dampened many people’s zest for the sport. Another girlfriend and climbing partner who also guided for Exum Guides said this particular guide had a magnetic personality, a young family and a very safe ethic. The guide on our route said it was indeed a great loss, and bizarre, since most rescues in the Tetons are a result of falls on snow during the descent, not on solid rock. As steep snowfields were prevalent on our route, we decided to play it safe and glissade (boot-ski) only the low grade slopes. We enjoyed the Exum guides’s peak identifications of the spectacular mountains viewed from the summit, but chose to leave his entourage on the way down because the cardiologist dropped his camera somewhere near the summit which the guide felt obliged to retrieve.
Upon returning to the Climber’s Ranch at dusk, we discovered the usual cast of odd characters preparing packaged dinners in the open air community cooking area. The Ranch is a far cry from the abundant full service swanky dude ranches with lace bed skirts and hot tubs for the very wealthy visitors to Jackson. Any member of the American Alpine Club can stay at the mattress-less Climber’s Ranch wooden bunks for only 8 dollars a night, while offering a free bonus of mice chewing on their hair (mine) in the middle of the night.
Owing to it’s prime location at the base of the Grand Teton and the reality that the Ranch makes no profit, it comes up for bids for ownership every four years, and though it continues to be a base for climbers and families from all over the world, the Sheratons and Hiltons of America are hot to place bids. For those who have visited the Ranch for decades, waiting out storms beside the wood burning stove in the library full of mountaineering literature and a complete collection of topographic maps, and who see it as a historic and timeless place of inspiration, rest and renewal, it would come as a shock to discover how tenuous is its fate.
I returned to heat the water on our stove and surveyed the crowd. Three French fellows smoked cigarettes, presumably their dinner substitute in the absence of baguettes, while poring over a guide book and map. A botanist I talked with earlier played some groovy slow tunes on his guitar while a family of curious children asked questions and put in popular requests. The wino petroleum geologist was still there talking loudly about his rich friends to a polite fisherman/pilot for Jet Blue from Arizona who appeared to be making an effort to get away from it all. There were also several computer programmer types who made their own schedules and thus seemed to be having the endless holiday. Several others from Michigan rolled in late from their climbs and reported a rescue was in progress up one of the canyons, and that they had a great day climbing some sweet routes on the Guide Wall, a technical rock wall that requires carrying a full rack of heavy metal gear and ropes up several thousand feet.
Once Dad had washed off the trail grime, we organized our breakfast and lunch for the next day’s early morning climb of the South Teton, which would require hiking and scrambling up nearly 6,000 ft of dusty switchbacks and rocky glacial moraine. We rose at 6 AM, a bit late for such a long day of climbing, and Dad prepared some hot tea to warm our hands in the chilly autumn morning air. In only two weeks, the Climber’s Ranch would close, allowing the animals to return to graze and scamper around the dinner benches. The young manager of the Ranch, known to all as Drew, who has been an installation there for the previous 11 summers, said a pine martin provides company after the crowds leave. The red weasel/fox like creature entered his chimney for 10 days in a row, chased mice around his cabin, and then left via the same entrance. One morning, Drew awoke to find the pine martin sleeping between his feet and, startled, shooed it out. The critter took the hint and didn’t return.
To ascend the South Teton, we climbed several thousand feet up switchbacks in two hours, averaging two miles per hour, which Dad said is good for a steep uphill climb. We reached the boulder field in the infamous Garnet Canyon where the trail splits toward two passes which provide access to the Grand, Middle, and South Tetons. We picked our way through a wide gully, choked with snowfields and snowmelt streams, and navigated through the boulder and scree fields in the wide glacial cirque below the pass. We scrambled the last thousand feet along the unconsolidated boulders and choss of the summit ridge. Finally, with all the glory of the warm afternoon autumn sun bearing down on us, we stood on the summit of the South Teton (12,514 feet), among the highest peaks in the range.
We scampered down the mountain with delays because of some tricky route finding and back to the trailhead after a 12-hour day (averaging almost 3 miles per hour for the last 4 miles downhill As we wandered doggedly into the parking lot, exhausted and proud, we noticed two young lads wrapping their hands in tape, as is the custom for protection when a climber is planning to do a long route on which he has to jam his hands and feet into rough cracks. Since it was dusk, I asked them if they planned to do a night ascent. No, one said. We’re just getting up early. At 2 AM. To do the Grand Traverse. All 9 mountains in the range. In a day. We wished them luck and said, “Better you than me.” As we drove 5 minutes back to our base at the Ranch, Dad had only one comment. “They’re animals,” he said quietly, while looking up at the summits piercing the skyline in the fading light. Having spent months canoeing around the islands off Maine and biking across the country with my mom among other grand adventures, Dad aught to know. We were both tired, and I was a little more sore than normal, but being up in the sky, back on a mountain, back at the Climber's Ranch out of where so many adventures had been based with a simple clear goal of walking uphill until we could go no further, peering out at the 360 degrees of stunning beauty, and then walking down to a fireside and warm soup, filled my soul.