Sometimes, even after a full zero, it’s still tough. The infected blister I got in the Red Desert didn’t heal (shockingly) in one day. But options are low, and mostly the option is forward, northward, ever onwards. So despite green puss and a toe still too swollen to fit in my shoe, we finished up town chores and headed out to hitch a ride.
Part of the town chores involved picking up mail, one of those boxes being our Lucky Bums skis. Dan and I have skied at least once a month since October of 2010. We weren’t about to let that streak die just because of a five month hike. So, after scouring the interweb, we picked these skis, little kids skis (I think they have a weight limit of 80 lbs) with plastic strap-on bindings. With them strapped to my pack, they garnered a fair amount of attention. A gentleman approached us as we stuck out our thumbs as yet another massive truck went whizzing by.
“Those skis?” He asks. I laugh and explain the story, and next thing you know, he’s giving us a ride up to the trail head. Turns out this guy skied for the US Nordic Team from ’76-’84 – quite the long career. We had a lot to chat about as we headed up, picking up TennesSteve (whom we haven’t seen since Chama) along the way.
Soon, we were strapping on our packs, saying goodbye to our ride, and diving back into the woods.
The Winds had a high snow year, and things are still melting out.
The toe, the toe, the damned toe! It’s such a tiny thing, but it was being a beastly little thing, and my speed was limited. We debated going over Knapsack Col on the way up – we had 11 miles to make the decision. The information on it was surprisingly differing: at the Great Outdoor Shop in Pinedale, they told us that a group with crampons and ice axes couldn’t get over it, and a thru-hiker in front of us said another thru-hiker did it with no gear, no problem. Which of the two extremes was true?
Little skis, big mountains.
Heading into Titcomb Basin
Of course, we decided to do it, and so took the turn to Titcomb Basin. As we climbed slowly, once again we were surrounded by the immense Wind River mountains. Some of the tallest peaks in the state towered high over great blue lakes, and finally we stopped, finding one dry spot amongst the swampy tundra to set up.
Titcomb Basin is popular, but we had this whole area to ourselves.
What’s for dinner?
Before drifting off to sleep, the same incredible thunderstorms that we’ve been having at night hit, great violet bolts of lightning shooting across the sky and thunder cracking so hard you could imagine the stone giants tossing boulders around. But the deep exhaustion runs so deep in a thru-hiker that sleep won out before long.
Titcomb Basin in the morning
Up and out of camp the next morning, excited to see Knapsack Col. Soon we hit snow, but it was east facing, and so softened early, and huge sun cups pocked the surface, so traction was easy.
Things warmed up fast.
The last push before the top.
Up and up and up, slipping between two gigantic peaks, and then, one last push to the top, where we met TennesSteve again. We laughed and took pictures before heading down the other side – we saw some lower-angle snow down low that maybe wasn’t as sun cupped.
Happy we took the alternate.
The ensuing moments were filled with hilarity as we strapped the tiny wooden kids skis to our feet (clearly the binding was meant for kids, too, as Dan’s feet barely fit) and skittered around the snow, out of control and off balance, but laughing our heads off. TennesSteve walked by telling us he’d rather keep his streak of non-broken bones. Good point.
Not trying to pursue broken bones
But there were miles to be made, so down, down the valley we swept, past Peak Lake (complete with rock slide to scramble around without falling into the icy depths), over Cube Pass, and down, down, eventually hitting the official CDT again.
The trail around Peak Lake appears to have been taken out
The beauty of the Winds
I poked the trail with my trekking pole when we reached it – a habit I’ve picked up whenever we take an alternate or end up off trail somehow, I jab the trail with my pole when we come back, emphasizing in my mind that we are “back”.
Into the woods
The Green River quickly becomes quite large.
The trail wound through beautiful forest, deep and green and mosquito infested. So infested with mosquitoes that when we set up camp along the Green River, we quickly barred ourselves inside our tent, feeling ever grateful for having a tent with a screen.
Walking along the Green River the next morning was incredible. This hike is full of those moments: I look forward so much to Knapsack Col, and then this little section captures me by surprise with its beauty.
The sections that surprise you.
Getting dumped into sagebrush land.
Soon we were dumped away from the Green River, heading up Gunsight Pass, back in sagebrush land. Both of us, a little traumatized from the Red Desert, rushed past, giving the poor sagebrush some serious side-eye. I don’t trust it. This is not a section that is talked about by hikers, I know not what to expect. Do we go back into the desert? But the land only teases us. The expanses of sagebrush seem like they will go on forever, but we make it to the oasis of Lake of the Woods, which shockingly is not a mosquito nightmare, where we hear our first loon of the trip, and drift to sleep listening to that enchanting call.
Lake of the Woods was enchanting.
North, I think. We’ve walked to The North. I’m feeling a difference here. The bite in the cold, just a little bit, the call of the loon, the track of a wolf print, the shift in Polaris as I stare skywards in the evening. It’s higher in the sky than it was when we started. Much higher.
This wolf print was as big as my whole hand spread out.
Dense fog rolls in that night, and we hike through it most of the morning. Afternoon finds us lucky with no thunderstorms as we bounce along a ridge we will learn burned four years ago.
Charred trees, black skeletons, stand stark against the bright blue sky and a true riot of wildflowers erupt in a flurry of colors at their bases. It is beautiful. Life. Death. The Cycle. We walk back, click click click with our trekking poles.
Fireweed, some of the first plants to come back. They help keep the soil stable while more plants grow.
Hiker hunger: when you find a Snickers on the ground, you smile and eat it.
The next morning is resupply day! We are picking up a package at Brooks Lake Lodge, and we have no idea what to expect. We hear there is nothing there. You cannot eat. I don’t know how this works, as it’s a place people stay (for $350/night, minimum 3 night stay!) and people usually have to eat.
We arrive early afternoon, packs light at the end of a ration. Donna, the nice lady at the desk finds two of our boxes, but not our box with my shoes and more food. We sit down outside and explode our packs, trying to do so in a contained sort of way, while we set the wheels in motion trying to find this box. UPS tell us they delivered the package three days ago. Someone else helps Donna search for the package, and I ask somebody else if I can buy food. I’m met with a crisp no. Finally, because I may be a bit of a freak and want to see things for myself, I ask Donna if I can help look, and we find our box. Happy, we sit back down.
Resupply at Brooks Lake Lodge
I have a slightly shameful moment of begging. I’m hungry. I know Dan is too, but he won’t say anything.
“Is there any way there is any food I can buy here?” I ask Donna. (I may or may have embellished it into true begging.)
Before long, Dan and I each had a bowl of strawberry rhubarb crumble with whipped cream. Slightly embarrassed from my begging, but pleased with the results, none the less, I cherished that bowl of dessert more than just about anything.
It came time to leave, so we packed everything into our bags again, said our goodbyes to Donna, and headed up the trail.
Leaving Brooks Lake Lodge.
Nothing like the moon on the lake and a fire.
We didn’t make it that far, as soon we came to Upper Brooks Lake, and the peacefulness of the area captured us, pulling us in until we set up camp and made a small fire, watching the full moon rise above the mountains.