Jackson Hole Underground

(All photographs © Jim Stanford. Click to enlarge.)

Spring break came, and I did not get very far away: the Gros Ventres, the mountains behind my home.

Most of my winter-loving friends — those who “can’t wait” for the snow to come each fall — had fled to the beach or desert for sun and surf and sand. I, eternally yearning for warmer climes, got invited on a hard-core ski trip.

Bemused by this irony, I gathered my gear and loaded my pack for a two-day trek into the Gros Ventre Wilderness. The weekend weather forecast looked good, and I had never been to the ski cabin by Goodwin Lake, where we would spend the night. Plus, it’s not often you get to explore pristine country with experienced mountaineers.

Strains of Eddie Vedder’s “Into the Wild” were ringing in my head as I set out from the Cache Creek parking lot shortly after dawn. I would rise up and find my direction magnetically, with all my survival gear loaded on my back.

It only took two miles of skinning, when we reached the first significant uphill grade, for me to wonder why I, too, wasn’t reclining on a beach with a fruity drink in hand.

But I persevered, chasing the McCarthy family — Forrest, Amy and Wister — and other guide types and assorted cardio junkies up and over Nowlin and Jackson peaks to the basin that holds the cabin.

The log structure was nearly buried in snow, but the entrance was well excavated and allowed the sun’s powerful rays to stream down. The south-facing wall radiated heat, so much that we peeled off layers and sunbathed as if this were the desert. The temperature on my watch read 84 degrees. Finally, spring break had begun.

The cabin has all the necessities to allow one to live like a frontiersman. We had company, as the first burst of spring weather made the shelter a popular destination. Thirteen of us took turns melting snow for drinking water, cutting firewood, and boiling water on the stove for food, everyone in headlamps or huddled around the gas lanterns hung over the stout wooden table. We were cozy that night, but with several people opting to sleep outside, the cabin easily could have held a few more.

The full majesty of the Gros Ventres isn’t apparent from town. It’s not until you’re back there, in the heart of the range, that you discover jagged peaks, enticing couloirs and a vast chain of ridges stretching beyond the Snake River.

We were on the trail at first light. An orange glow suffused Jackson Peak and the entire basin, and with the snowflakes sparkling like diamonds, the landscape resembled peach sorbet.

We skinned along a bench at 9,500 feet for several hours before reaching the base of Gros Peak. It hadn’t dawned on me until this point that I had signed on for a real suffer fest. For after climbing and skiing Gros Peak, we had many miles of traversing to go until reaching the mouth of Granite Creek in Hoback Canyon, where the McCarthys had left a vehicle.

I was surrounded by tremendous athletes, yet one in particular stood out: Wister.
We have been skiing together since he was practically a pup, and now, at 12, he is an elderly dog, by most people’s standards. But the kid continues to bag peaks by the dozen. Our group likened him to the canine version of Rod Newcomb, still charging hard in his golden years.

Chris McCandless, the hero (or victim) of “Into the Wild,” wrote in his journal of the imperative to “measure yourself at least once.” On this trek I would measure myself at least six or seven times, it seemed, as we covered some 20 miles in wet, difficult conditions.

Every time I would feel fatigued, Wister would be there to bark encouragement or orders to hurry up. At my most difficult moment, ascending the summit of Gros Peak, I would look down at his paw prints and think, This dog is putting me to shame.

I was in too much pain to take photographs or to think, really, as we descended Little Granite Creek and skated the Granite Creek Road to the finish. This was a grueling marathon that made the PPP seem like a breezy walk in the park.

The last few days have been spent recovering; hence the lack of new posts on this site. As I reflect on the experience, I know one thing for certain:

I have earned my ticket to the tropics.

(Click on images to enlarge; use arrow keys to scroll through slide show.)

This entry was posted on Wednesday, April 16th, 2008 at 4:43 pm and is filed under sports, skiing, backcountry. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.