1000 miles and leaving Yellowstone for another National Park

Just before Heart Lake in Yellowstone National Park I exited the park and the CDT to embark on a side quest: the Teton alternate. Crossing through the Tetona National Park, hit a section of the Teton Crest Trail, then pass through the town of Jackson and hike through the Gros Ventre Wilderness (don’t ask me to pronounce this).

Day 40

Change of weather

Just after I’ve hung up my quilt on a fallen tree, thick rain drops land on my face. I gravy my things and flew into my tent. The rain gets heavier, pounding on the thin fabric. There’s a tiny pinhole above my head and I can feel a tiny rain drop land on my cheek. I turn on my side and watch the rain through the mosquito net. It’s hailing now. Little while balls bouncing off the ground.

And then I hear it: thunder.

Fuck. On the satellite map it had looked like live forest, but it’s all burned and dead. To stay safe from widow makers, I set up camp in the middle of a clearing. But now in a thunderstorm, being this exposed seems like a bad idea. I pull my quilt closer.

I see the lightening through the small mosquito net surrounding my tent floor.

1…I don’t get to 2 before I hear the thunder.

What’s the rule? 1 second for 100 meters, that’s how close the storm is to you?

What shall I do? Tear down my camp and leave? And then go where, stand under the dead trees? lol. I’ll stay right here, on my foam pad, in my tent. It can’t last forever. It can’t last forever. It can’t last forever.

I pull out my kindle to distract myself. Immersing myself in a good book. I actually do feel safe in my tent. I always do. This little green thing is my safe space. The world might be falling apart, but not in here.

Camp visitors

Eventually the storm moves away, I keep counting the seconds between lighting and thunder. Until the thunder stops completely. The rain is no longer pounding, it’s just a steady drumming. Low enough that I hear branches breaking outside. More than one.

Something big is moving through the dead forest. Can I get so lucky on my first day in the Tetons?

I unzip my tent and climb out into the light rain, scanning the area around me. There.

Brown fur. Massive antlers. Not a bear.

Just a giant moose. But he isn’t like the moose I’ve seen before, he doesn’t run away. Instead he’s just standing there, stretching his neck to extend his snout in my direction. Smelling my scent.

I wonder if I smell differently to him. If thru hikers smell different than muggles to the animals? I mean hikers stink, but the aggressive smell of deodorant, sun screen perfume and detergent burns in my nose when I’m thru hiking. I can usually smell day hikers before I see them. So I wonder if the moose categorises me differently than a muggle. Whether he doesn’t know if he should flee or not because I smell like sweat and dirt and unwashed clothes. Kinda human, kinda not.

He doesn’t tell me. For a while we just stand in the dead forest while the rain is falling softly on us, just two forest creatures staring at each other.

Day 41

I turn around in my wet auilt, careful not to brush against the wet tent walls. It stopped raining at some point in the night.

But when I unzip the rainfly, everything is dipped in thick white fog. And it’s cold. Like, my hand hurt from the cold-cold. But that can’t dampen my mood and after stuffing my wet belongings into my pack, I’m headed for the Teton national park boundary.

Heading up webbs canyon, the trail is lined with sweet huckleberries, meaty juneberries and black currants so tart, they make me grimace. Joyfully, I stop to pluck the ripe berries and eat them. Gooseberries and thimbleberries aren’t ripe yet. I’m in no hurry. From time to time I look over my shoulder to see if T is catching up to me, catching me in my sugar frenzy. But the trail behind me is empty.

Day 42

“CDT?” The young man asks. “Yeah, you too?” I had thought so. From half a mile away I was looking at his thin legs and small pack and wondering, could this be a cdt hiker in the Tetons? His name is purple haze, his long silky black hair hangs over his eyes while we talk briefly.

The sun is setting over the Alaska Basin. I spent too much time staring at mountain peaks, taking photos and scrambling carefully over rocks today. It’s getting late.

Another hiker appears in the golden hour of sunset, both of us in the “bad zone” aka within national park boundaries. (The Teton alternate weaves in and out of the NP, in national forest you’re allowed to camp as long as you apply LNT and comply with specific camping restrictions)

“Long day, hey?” I say. We both look tired. He’s wearing sun gloves and a hat with the coat of arms of Wales? I could be wrong.

“Did you take the Gros Ventre high route?” I ask. For last few days I’ve been pondering whether I want to try it or not. A class 5 climb. They say, what does that mean? Class 5? If it’s a scale from 1 to 10, 5 is medium. I should be able to do medium?

The tall hiker knows immediately why I’m asking, he can sense my concern and patiently explains the climb. Explains where to put your hands and feet. What to watch out for. He does so without being condescending, he gives me the information that’s helpful.

“Do you want to see pictures?” I smile and nod. It’s late already and I know he’s also desperate to get to camp. But he takes his time to show me and I appreciate that so much. “If you made it this far, you can do it”, he encourages me and I wish I could give him a smelly hikertrash hug for that. But instead I just grin from ear to ear and thank him. “What’s your name?” – “Christian”.

And then we say goodbye and go opposite ways. The sky has turned from orange to lilac while we talked. And my plan has turned from “maybe” to “I will do it” in the meantime.