Four years.
Four years had passed since I last ventured into the Wind River Mountains, with my best friend from college. So much happened, so many things changed in that time. Neither of us were the same people we were when first we plodded up the switchbacks of Doubletop Mountain, and dropped into the Palmer Creek area of the northwest corner of this impressive range. This time, we would be joined by two additional gentlemen, as this was to be my bachelor’s party, before getting married in October, 2018.
I had mixed emotions regarding numerous aspects of the trip. Bigger trips like this tend to make me evaluate where I am in life. Who I am as a person. For weeks, I had been trying to come to grips with the life I lived in Wyoming, versus my life after college in Missoula. I had inadvertently forgotten a piece of myself in the hustle and bustle of life. Moving to Utah, as strange as it is, given our propensity for outdoor activities, had stymied my enjoyment of the same. I was bound to an office desk for sixty-plus hours a week, and felt like growing up required more of that, and less time in the woods. I gave up what I used to enjoy so passionately. I didn’t like that, and I felt as though I cheated myself.
I took the occasional trip into the mountains with these same friends, during my first years in Salt Lake. We would spend an occasional night out, but generally our trips were short, close to the truck, and sparse. I had difficulty in finding the motivation to drive more than four hours to get to where we liked to go, so I went less and less. My self-imposed responsibilities and expectations repressed my desire to be in the mountains, replacing it with a misguided sense of duty to my “adult” life.
Reminiscing brings melancholy. When I think back to my Wyoming, I envision remote peaks draped in cloud and mist. Walking through the transition line of rain to snow in the scrub timber of tree line. Bighorn sheep share the ridge with me, accusatory looks flung my way. My formative years were spent in the mountains of Northwest Wyoming. Not all memories of this time are happy. Most have some pain. I became a man in those mountains, usually learning my role by myself. The weight of memory and emotion weighed heavier as our date of departure arrived.
We chose to leave for five days in early August. Given our experience in this area, we knew this would be a good time of the year to avoid bugs. We knew to anticipate more people on the trail, as it is backpacking season, but we were not overly concerned, as we camp off the beaten path, and never seen anyone too far off trail. The mass of humanity in the Winds is revealed only when on the main thoroughfares.
One member of the party arrived in Salt Lake City on a Friday morning, and we began the drive north. Our companions were taking a different route to Pinedale, as they lived further east into Colorado, and did not need to pass through Salt Lake. Four and a half hours of conversation later, we arrived, met with the remainder of our party, ate lunch at the brewpub, and headed to our point of departure.
Gearing up at the trailhead, I had churning feelings about getting underway. The sense of melancholy developed over the weeks leading to this trip resulted in various breakdowns. Adding to the swirl of emotion, I was starting to get the first wave of nerves about my upcoming wedding. My partner, thankfully, supported me throughout, and provided her shoulders when needed. I had an apprehension that once I started on this trip, once I took that first step, I was walking on the path of the rest of my life. A serious, sombre moment.
Walking around New Fork Lakes, I stayed in my head, barely recognizing others were with me. My pack felt heavy and my legs lethargic. Cresting over the hillside, I saw the headwater cliffs of Palmer Creek, and felt as though I arrived home after long absence. An old friend greeted me, and I was welcomed with open arms. My shoulders felt some relief, as the weight of my worries fizzled off as though dew in the early morning sunlight.
We prefer the Doubletop Trail to following Palmer Creek to its headwater cirque. Both lead to the same place, but via our route, there is only one creek crossing, and the elevation gain is mostly in the first few miles. And oh! The elevation gain. We started later in the day, and the temperature soared to the nineties. The switchbacks departing New Fork Lakes ascend in a burn from about ten years ago. The fire took the forest to skeleton trees and brush. Shade is found only in limited pockets, and water is very limited.
We took our time ascending the switchbacks, arriving at our first campsite around dark Friday night. We made a quick camp, filtered water, ate our dinners, and hit the sack. I slept fitfully, as I usually do on first nights, sharing a tent with my buddy and his two German Shepards. The night did not bring the coolness I expected at 8500 feet. I began to sweat in my bag, tossing and turning, waking every few hours.
At first light, we broke camp and resumed our climb towards Rainbow Lake. We hadn’t made it as far our first day as we anticipated, and I had forgotten how long a slog it was from the switchbacks to the top of the plateau. At least half as long again as the switchbacks, without the benefit of their shallowing the angle of ascent, forcing a steady, laborious climb. Once on the plateau, the heart of the Wind River Mountains pierce the sky. They seem so very close. Within reach. Walking along the plateau, they fall away, like a door in a bad dream. In moving closer to them they appear further distant, the paradox of alpine travel.
Early in the afternoon we arrived at our secluded camping site. Immediately we set up camp, so we could fish for the rest of the afternoon, without worry of eventual darkness. I hadn’t fly fished since our last trip to this area. Before making my first cast, I took a moment or two by myself, reflecting on being back in this campsite, while the rest of the party went down to the lake. I felt like I was reliving the experience of our first trip, watching myself over my own shoulder, out of my body, transported four years into the past, sublimity actualized, standing on the edge of the granite escarpment protecting the edge of our camp.
Swimming in the lake was refreshing, and allowed a boost of energy. I ate lunch, fished a bit here, sat a bit there, and let the slow tempo of camp life take over. After being on the move since the previous afternoon, a moment or two was required to move beyond the elevated rhythm of the trail. We made our destination, now it was time to relax in quiet contemplation.
As night came on, we discussed our intent for the days ahead. During my previous trip into this area, my right knee began to act up on the Doubletop Plateau. Our plan had initially been to continue pushing into the range, towards Cutthroat and No Name Lakes. Given my knee issues, we made camp well before accessing those higher lakes. I regretted being unable to make it into the high country. We decided that it was a necessity, this time. We sat on the rock outcrop behind our tents, watching stars materialize throughout the night, looking downcountry on the Pinedale Anticline.
The morning sun rose behind the mountains, shelter from the world. We three who would embark into the high country had our breakfast, and organized our gear. Fly rods, water, filters, food and stoves, we planned on quick movement throughout the high country lakes, fishing when it was good, and moving on when it wasn’t. Our plan was to visit Dean Lake, Cutthroat Lakes, and potentially No Name Lakes, before dropping down to Borum and Heart Lakes.
From the bottom of Palmer Creek, the eastern ridge is daunting, towering far above the stream bed. After a short hike up a steep, rocky trail, we popped into the Dean Lake Basin, the lake abutting a high cliff face on its eastern edge. We stopped to fish. A short time later we moved on, venturing toward Cutthroat Lakes. In my backpack I had my map, which has been on every Wind River trip I have undertaken, and is about ready to be retired. I have found it very reliable, and accurate, which came in very helpful on this day. We left Dean Lake towards the north, hiking up an ancient glacial moraine, towards the eastern extension of the Doubletop Trail, after consulting the map for a moment.
We met the main trail in an alpine meadow reminiscent of the Beartooth Mountains. Granite cliffs formed a narrow valley running east to west. Small pockets of trees accented the carpet of bear brush and flowers filling its floor. In small depressions, tucked back from the main valley, tarns collected waters in stagnant pools of reflection. The trail wound its way towards the base of the cliffs, where a small break allowed for steep climbing into the Cutthroat Lake drainage.
The extent of humanity in the Winds was apparent at Cutthroat Lakes. The mountainous spine of the Winds is close enough to touch, in a beautiful alpine environment. On one of the main thoroughfares through the range, people squatted in every available spot on the north and east sides of the lake. Their shouts echoed from the walls, and we evaluated our idea of heading further along this main route, towards No Name Lakes. We began fishing around the western edge of Cutthroat Lakes. At the outlet, we agreed to drop into Borum Lake, bypassing No Name Lakes, so we could enjoy more solitude.
Between Cutthroat Lakes is a small tarn. Its surface appeared as though it was raining, ripples upon ripples, as fish fed gluttonously. We were obligated to stop, before heading toward the lower of Cutthroat Lakes. The lower lake was narrow enough I could cast onto the far shore with my fly rod. There was great fun in fishing like this, although we were not catching as many as we did in the small tarn just above. On we went, bushwacking to Borum Lake, hiking off trail, knowing our destination lay somewhere below.
Borum and Heart Lakes were not the best fishing. One of our troop had a spin rod, and had some luck at Heart Lake, but our fly rods were ineffective. Storms started rolling across the mountains, and we heard thunder in the distance. We ate lunch, examined the map once more, and determined that rather than head back to camp on the trail, we could leave Heart Lake to the south and west of a massive point of granite. This route was completely off trail. We would be above Palmer Creek, and would have to find our own way down its cliffs. With little adventure and discussion after reaching the top of the ridge, we dropped into an unnamed lily covered lake, and merged into the Palmer Creek Trail, heading toward our camp and our companion who remained behind that morning.
Stars. So many stars, the rock outcrop held the days heat, warmed us as the evening chilled.
We began our trek out the next morning. Our climb out of Palmer Creek took some time and effort. It doesn’t seem like it should be as difficult as it is to reach the ridge, but as the climb goes on, it gets steeper. Fortunately, we tackled the steepest portion in the morning, and crested over the ridge onto Doubletop Plateau as the temperature started climbing.
Strolling easily, we covered the plateau with efficiency, stopping at an area where we could look into the upper reaches of Palmer Creek, a vast expanse of towering cliffs, hanging alpine valleys, and unreachable plateaus. This was another moment of deep emotion for me. We had stopped at this same place four years ago. My concern at that point was not wanting to return to Salt Lake. I wanted to return to Wyoming, vanish forever into the mountains, never looking back. This time, I struggled with those same feelings, while also wanting the complete opposite, desperately. I wanted to be home, with my partner and our dogs. I never before experienced that. In the moment, it was a spooky feeling.
We hiked to the bottom of the Doubletop Mountain Trail, with the intent of staying on the south side of the creek for the night. However, the grass was very tall in the old burn, and we could not get close to water, without laying our tents in the midst of swamp and tussocks. We elected to cross the creek, fill all our water containers, head toward the north ridge of the valley, and set camp amongst the trees. This led for a short mile, mile and a half hike out to the trucks on our last day. A quick drive took us into town, where we waited for the brewpub to open, and we completed our journey. We scattered our separate ways, and I returned to happy puppies and a partner who missed me as I missed her.
JFL