A long day of driving brought me to Beartooth Lake Trailhead on the evening of August 24th. Driving across the Red Desert of Wyoming is tedious, until the Wind Rivers spring into view, rising from the flats. Pulling into the Big Horn Basin, I saw all the old familiar landmarks, memories long left behind, feeling as though they were part of another life. Cody was never my favorite city. But, the mountains all around, stretching into the Park… those were what I truly loved. As I left Cody behind, climbing up the switchbacks to Dead Indian Pass, I waited in anticipation for the dropping into Sunlight Basin, and the Clark’s Fork of the Yellowstone.
I stopped a couple of times to relive memories as I continued moving toward the trailhead. So much of my early life was informed by being in this area. I had forgotten too much, but I was there again, now. Pilot and Index Peaks, my two favorite mountains, rose up to meet me as I found myself along the Clark’s Fork. Pilot was always my guide, much as the explorers who first came to this area. Leaving the peaks behind me, I turned east, climbing out of the river bottom, bound for Beartooth Butte.
I slept very little in the back of the car. Generators whined at the campground directly behind me, and I was too excited to be setting out the next morning. My gear rested in the front seat, everything laid out, ready to go as soon as I woke in the morning. Reality… my trip, something I had planned for about a year, was about to begin.
I woke early the next morning, did one last check of gear, laced my shoes, and began my journey. Working around the east side of Beartooth Lake started the day crossing numerous streams and bogs. The brush was thick. Wildlife could be five feet away, and never be seen. I made much noise, hoping to not startle a moose or bear. Twenty minutes later, I was beginning the long climb along the east shoulder of Beartooth Butte, heading for the high country. I found the trail I would be coming out on about halfway up the Beartooth Butte Trail. I made mental note that five days later I would stand in this very spot, having completed my planned route. Onward!
When finally around Beartooth Butte, I began working through the huge rollings granite hills and banoliths of my youth. The trail began to deteriorate, as horses had cut switchbacks, stomped the ground to powder, and kicked loose rocks into the trail. Horses can really do a number to a hiking trail. I took my first break at Native Lake, and shortly thereafter, continued on my way.
Getting to Green Lake was a slog. I remembered this from my previous trip, as we ended our expedition at this lake. This part of the Beartooths rollercoasters up and down. Gain 150 feet, lose 100. Gain 200, lose 175. Up and up and up, down and down and down. It is beautiful hiking, but the constant changes in elevation begin to wear on the knees. Dropping down into the Hidden Lake drainage, I could see how far down I would have to go, and how high I would need to climb to regain the elevation I gained the last miles. It is the only way. I took a long break when I got to the creek, and prepared for the uphill slog to get out the other side.
Miles passed in similar fashion. As I got closer to Green Lake, I began to feel the cumulative effects of the day’s hiking, and finally, seeing Green Lake, I knew I was ready to be done for the day. I descended into the lake, and worked around the north side to Sierra Creek, finding a cold campsite which would put me in good position for the next day’s hike. Storm clouds boiled to the west, and I hastily set up my camp, hung my bear bag, and prepared for the storms which were bound to hit me. The rains fell.
During a short break in the rain, I scouted my route for the next day. My original plan had been to go directly up the bottom of Sierra Creek. This proved to be impossible. Cataracts and cliffs to the water’s edge in the first 100 yards made me realize I would need to go far higher on the shoulders of the drainage, through timber and granite outcroppings to progress toward Castle Mountain. My plan to summit the next day was already called into question as the storms continued to roll through. I couldn’t see the high country anymore, and was unsure if it was raining up high, or perhaps snowing, given the temperatures I was experiencing at my low camp.
I ate a quick meal just before dusk, and prepared for the night. I missed my wife terribly. I had sent her a message on my InReach, which was a lifesaver throughout the trip. Through that, I was able to have some, albeit abbreviated, contact with her. I wrote page upon page in my little journal, and a letter to her. She had stowed a letter to me in my gear the night before I left. Reading it brought tears to my eyes. I wondered what I was doing, why I was out here… Why wasn’t I content being home with her? Why did I decide to be out here, cold, alone? The justifications I had made for the trip were unravelling, and I was seriously contemplating heading out the very next day, right back the way I came, simply to be home with her.
I let that thought filter through my brain as dusk settled into my little lake valley, maybe giving such thoughts a bit too much agency. Dark settled in, while I curled into my sleeping bag, preparing for a long night alone. I slid off of my backpack constantly, which I was using for a sleeping pad underneath my knees. My hips constantly fell into whatever gap they could find, and I thrashed all night. Around two in the morning, I entered that realm of rest which occurs in the mountains, as I wasn’t exactly asleep, but wasn’t exactly awake, shivering through the night, waiting patiently for day to come.