The analogue to that is my insatiable need to journey to an unknown area, which is much more rewarding when I am able to fully immerse myself in the remembrance of the moment. Again in winter, in my trusty Jeep, with sleeping bag, skis, food, water, chains, shovel, auxiliary lighting, radios, et cetera, I crept up freshly snow covered roads, driving by the vibration of my outside wheels hitting the rumble strips, migrating to the portal of the North Fork.
I had no particular reason to be on the roads, simply moseying for its own sake; they may have officially been closed. I knew I would recognize my purpose in being out there when I saw it. So I careened up the road until I stumbled upon “THE RIDGE”, on the North side of the highway. I parked where I knew digging out would be in the realm of possibility when, not if, the passing snowplows buried the Jeep. Escape plan established, I embarked upon the spine of the ridge, with a backpack full of gear in case something happened: cold weather gear, ice axes, rope, pitons, compass, map, and other necessities.
I broke every rule of backcountry travel; no one knew where I was, nobody knew I had gone, much less when I should be back, armed with bear spray and firearm, because of griz and mountain lions, ready to solo ice climb to gain further distance into the mountains. At this point in my life, this behavior was routine. Certainly I did stupid things, but by my rationale, my youthful pride, they were unlikely to cascade down a chain of poor decisions leading to a very negative outcome, most likely death. The mountains require enormous respect for what could happen, and I conducted myself accordingly.
The sun occasionally broke through misty cloud cover, shimmering off innumerable snow crystals, as the Earth warmed. As happens around Yellowstone, in rare perfection, immense clouds of steam emerge from the mountains and streams, then immediately freeze, clouds born. Witnessing the transformation from vapor to water to solid in such a visceral way mutates perception. These clouds push into the mountains, billowed in updrafts, forming sheets of ice crystals as they fall on the leeward side of ridge lines.
As I head up the ridge, miles further into the backcountry than I anticipated traveling, venturing the line between mud and frozen earth is a demarcation of beautiful insignificance, yet perceptually feels like crossing into a new dimension. It then diffuses, as microclimates surrounding particular trees, or openings in other stands of trees, change the temperature enough to slightly thaw the ground. Higher up, with the clouds blowing through me, I see individual water globules get sucked past my face, screaming by in the wind. The ground lives up to its definition of kitty litter. Frozen ground sheds this stuff like ball bearings on a butter covered cooking sheet.
Where there is mud, the bearings can sink, displace earth, and allow a less uniform service, providing a good degree of traction; when the ground is frozen, there is no displacement allowed, and the loose grains simple skid over the ice. Fortunately, this ridge is not too steep. Additionally, it is rather open, and fairly narrow, because up here the storm continues to roil. I stand in the war path, as I am surrounded by the streams of clouds the ridge is tearing apart. Visibility of about forty feet, on the very high end.
Once I reach a main saddle, and seeing a very dim sun through the clouds, I found myself slightly puzzled. I started on a ridge running north to south, but that same ridge was now going roughly east and west. It marched along, gaining elevation out of sight, behind an immensely steep, rough outcropping, which rose from it. I took shelter in the hollowed out remnant of a lava tube, and waited. For what, I’m not entirely sure, even now.
As the storm started to break, I saw another, parallel ridge right in from of me, a quarter mile off. It made sense. I was getting closer to headwaters, so seeing into two source drainages should not be surprising. It is an otherworldly experience to have an entirely new, unknown headwaters emerge from behind the curtain, witnessing the complexity of the range firsthand.
Among about every other type of track, I cut a bunch of cow elk tracks on the ascent. Recent tracks, indicative of their proximity. They had not yet quit the country. On the way back down the trail, still wanting to go onward, but my internal timer screaming to turn around, cow calls echoed through the mists, air heavy with their smell. I was eavesdropping on them. they had no idea I was there, until I made myself known.
Again, raw nature, simply existing as it should. Human influence at this particular moment? Negligible, unless I forced it. Such life events provide extremely useful information, if we appreciate the difficulties in our own understanding, and think upon things in more realistic and honest terms. Experiences such as these occurred constantly while I lived in Cody. I was molded, just as the land was, as the elements bounced off me, for so many years.
JFL