That One Time We Almost Died in the Tetons

A short drive from Yellowstone National Park, is one of my favorite national parks. The mountains in the Tetons are like nothing in the Rockies. Sharp, jagged, rugged, yet with trees and wildflowers spilling down their shoulders. Ryan had never been in the range before, and I knew when we started planning this trip that I wanted him to have as intimate an experience as possible. So we decided on a two-night backpacking trip through some of the prettiest areas of the park.

Except that we reserved a tad too late, and we didn’t get quite the ideal campsites we wanted. Instead, we decided to haul about 12 miles the first day over paintbrush pass so we could still see the views we wanted to, then head down to Trapper Lake for our second night.

Trouble was, we didn’t get on trail until about 12:30 after driving to the visitor center, obtaining the permit, and packing up all our crap. Being as I’m from Colorado, I should have known what that meant, but we started uphill anyway.

The first eight miles or so were wonderful. We were headed up Cascade Canyon, which was aptly named as waterfalls poured down from the upper snowfields, watering lush moose habitat and gorgeous wildflowers like Columbines, Mountain Bluebells, and Indian Paintbrush of dark red, orange, and pink. The “Grand,” the largest peak of the Tetons, loomed above us, though it’s peak was

shrouded in swirling grey clouds most of the day. A couple miles in we came across our first moose, though he was so buried in the bushes he was munching on, we couldn’t see much other than his antlers poking out. We had our bear spray with us should we encounter any unwanted attention from our furry friends, but the trail was so heavily used, we figured they were probably well scared off.

There was a point when we ran into two Teton rangers who checked our permit, looked at us kinda funny, but didn’t actually tell us how bad our idea was. I guess they assumed we’d figure it out for ourselves.

By four o’clock, we’d reached the first camping zone, North Cascade Creek, and began our ascent of the pass to the canyon next door, where we were supposed to camp. Between the race against nightfall and the oncoming clouds, we both started to get nervous, and as we continued to climb the cloud shrouding the Grand turned nasty. Thunder started ringing across the canyon, but we weren’t too worried yet, that system was a ways away. We continued climbing.

We were about two thirds of the way up the pass when it started to get really bad. The grey clouds to the south went from light grey, to dark, to purple and the blue sky above us closed up as the system built above us. We stopped in an area with the last strand of clumped trees below the ridge, weighing our options. On the one hand, the lightening seemed mostly cloud to cloud. On the other hand that could change easily. Maybe the clouds will pass, but they could also build further as they slammed into the mountains we were trying to get over ourselves. Going down involved just as much exposure as going up since it was mostly exposed ridgeline, but spending the night where we were would be impossible with the steep pitch. Moments like that are when the real strength of a couple is tested, and we talked through the decision carefully. We decided to keep going up.

At about 10,700 feet we were about 100 yards from the descent and the relative safety of the far side of the pass, but a highly exposed ridgeline meant those last 100 yards could also be the last of us. Rain mixed with sleet and whipping wind kept our heads bowed, but Ryan turned in time to see a bolt crash from the sky to meet rock about a quarter mile from where we hiked. We ditched our packs and scrambled down the ridge a ways, squatting into lightening defensive position, keeping our distance from each other should one of us be struck. It was decision time again. Do we make a dash along the ridgeline and seek the safety of the canyon next door? Or do we wait it out below the ridge where we were and hope for the best? Going back where we had come was not an option and the storm wasn’t moving. Fortunately we hadn’t seen another cloud to ground strike in some time. We decided to push for the descent on the far side of the pass.

I haven’t been that scared in a long time. Nor have I moved that fast uphill with 35 pounds on my back. With the wind howling, the rain screaming, and the lightening threatening our lives every step of the way, we booked it across the ridgeline. We had eaten Cliff bars a couple hours ago, but that energy had long burned up. We were running solely on adrenaline. 

God, or whatever force you may believe in, was the only reason we made it safely to the far side of the ridge and down the trail to the safety of Paintbrush Canyon next door. The remnants of a rockslide slowed us a bit along with the snowfields that still blanketed parts of the pass. Soaked, we arrived in the Upper Paintbrush camping zone, which was technically higher than our camping permit allowed (we were supposed to be in Lower Paintbrush) but we knew we couldn’t go on. We set up camp quickly in the rain, thunder booming from across the pass where the clouds hadn’t gained the elevation to cross into Paintbrush Canyon. The wind hadn’t let up though, and with our adrenaline subsided and nothing left in our bodies we started shivering violently as we cooked our dinner in the subsiding light. After eating what we could and cleaning up camp to what we hoped was enough to deter bears, we clambered into the tent to try and get warm. It took a bit, but hugging each other we finally got warm and thanked the Lord that somehow, we had made it.

That is until we woke up the next morning when the severe dehydration caught up to me. The aches were what I first noticed and the fuzziness in my brain. After breakfast, moving became a serious chore, and it took me a while to clean up camp and pack my stuff. My stomach wasn’t happy either. My breakfast was unsettled, and I soon realized my lower intestine wasn’t happy either. I took some Ibuprofen and told Ryan we’d evaluate when we got further down, hoping the decrease in altitude would help my symptoms subside.

The hardest part of any climb is not going up, it’s going down. The impact of each pounding step downwards is far tougher on your joints and muscles then the upward climb is on your heart and lungs. Add to that a 35 pound pack and shooting pain from body aches and I was struggling to hold back tears. After lunch it was obvious. I wasn’t making it to Trapper Lake. No way.

It was slow going down to a place where we could reach the car. At one point Ryan was carrying both our packs to give me a break. Once I had cell service, I called my parents to help us find a motel in Jackson. It was a Friday night in the height of tourist season and I was worried we would be out of luck. A bit later though, Mom called with a reservation and it was just a matter of getting the car and getting to the motel. A painful 1.5 miles later, we came to a picnic area where Ryan left me with the packs and hiked another 4.5 miles to our car before returning to get me. Knight in shining armor moment I’d say.

After that, it was dodging government vehicles, moose traffic jams, and tour buses and we finally arrived at our motel. I was in bed not half an hour later, feverish and freezing. Ryan braved the crowds to pick up bananas and vitamin water plus a pizza for himself. I ate little and slept a lot. I don’t think Ryan minded the real bed either.

Fortunately the past two days have been very low key. Just driving mostly and camping at national forest campgrounds. Between the night in the motel and our two slower days, I’m close to fully recovered, and not a moment too late either. We’re on our way to Glacier National Park now, where we’re supposed to embark on another two night backpacking trip in the wilderness. Stay tuned for updates on how that goes, though we are certainly going to be more cautious about storms and hydration. Live and learn I suppose!