Appreciated Accompaniment

I awoke.

As I listened intently, I determined that they were back. Helen lay next to me in the small tent, silently sleeping and breathing easy after the monumental climb of what was now yesterday. They were drunk, or high, or both – sounded like two males. I slipped on my heavy fleece upper and then my headlamp banded about and high on my forehead. A quick button press and the barely illuminated F91W read 4:44am. Fuck that synchronicity bullshit. Finally, just my camp shoes, not boots – light and silent. My vestibule faced away from the fire which was likely still glowing red – five hours since I put on the all-nighter, and we crawled in. I unzipped the inner screen then the rain fly slowly and as quietly as possible. I grabbed the black cylinder from my boot, removed the bear spray from its sheath and slid it into the kangaroo pocket of my well-worn sheep-skin. As I turned to zip the screen back down and around, they came alive.

“COME ON OUT TOUGH GUY! We know yerrrr in there. Our turn for the lovely laaaady. [Laughing… no, giggling – adolescent nitwits.] You come out NOW, or weeeeel rip that fugging tent aaaaparrrt.”

Helen stirred, then sat bolt upright. I stuck my head and shoulders back in to her, my mouth on her ear.

“Stay calm; stay silent; stay in here… promise me.”

“Okay Dave. It’s them again, isn’t it?”

“Yes. This won’t take long, I promise YOU.”

Even in the dark, I felt her nod.

Once again, I turned outward, spun while crouched to zip the screen and then the fly. Outside now, I reached under, felt by location memory, and grabbed one of the collapsed hiking sticks that lay just inside the now closed up vestibule of the tent. Pause; listen. Idiots grumbling reassurances to each other… I believe they were speaking Native. Facing away, I pulled the pin on the safety for the powerful capsaicin activated spray while it was still in the big pocket. I checked the mild breeze and worked quickly around them upwind. Dark. They moved unexpectedly cautiously towards the tent. Fearful, under the big talk. They had only t-shirts up top in the nearly freezing air. Their old lamps barely glowed yellowish light.

Once within striking range I grunted behind them. They almost jumped out of their skin as they spun to meet my sound. Brave One was already swinging MY ice-axe head high. They must have scouted the camp; hmmm, very quietly. But as his eyes came around, I had already reached up and pressed the incredibly bright Defender Strobe on my headlamp. At just three feet from the light, he was startled, and his swing faltered – hand two coming up to shield his eyes – too late. I met the axe with my stick while spinning inward. It clanged then slid down the shaft as my rear was now against his abdomen. He was totally confused as I recoiled the stick, grabbed the rubberized grip with right and upper shaft with left, lifted quickly, and with all my strength brought it down and buried the carbide tipped spear two inches into his right upper quadriceps – stopping at bone. He just grunted, animal-like as Brave Two came in too close with a large and crude single-edge Bowie type knife.

I instantly raised my knee and flicked my left foot sharply into his testicles – he too woofed in some unknown language. As he stumbled backwards six feet, he stood up. I was amazed at his inhumanly quick recovery… the brilliant strobing light didn’t seem to bother him either. The psychoactive drugs only went so far though as he paused then telegraphed his actions and that was too late as well – as my left index finger triggered the pepper spray directly into his face. No matter his addled mental state, the volume of capsaicin from that small distance blasted into his eyes simply burned the corneas… yet he advanced still! He swung the knife-hand wildly and I clamped the backhand side, re-directed the swing towards his face and the other hand grinding into his eye socket for some relief. Somehow, he simply halted my fluid motion but unknowingly forced the other hand into the path of the blade while attempting to use it to break free of my vise grip. The blade cut cleanly through the metacarpals of the center of his hand, and he said not a word as it protruded from his palm, stopped only by the hilt. I spun out undetected just as B1 came back.

He swung the axe overhead with both arms and I simply moved aside. His forward momentum carried him nearly bent to the ground. I instantly pocketed the spray and double-handed the stick once again. As he tried to rise, I jumped up slightly, and came down with body weight and full arm strength burying the sharp stone tip into his left scapula, through the hard tissue into his lung. He hit the ground hard but rolled out. WHAT THE FUCK!?  I re-grabbed the spray, and as he turned to get up, I stuck the nozzle right in his nose and clamped the trigger for a full five seconds, retracted slowly and up into his eyes and face. His body started spasming. B2 rammed into me, knocking the spray can clear.

His weight knocked me to the ground and my right hand grabbed the dropped ice axe… I pushed off and rolled to anywhere. His dim lamp was still on, mine was still flashing. I saw his eyes… I don’t think that he saw me; I don’t think that he could see at all. I scuffed my shoe as I spun upward, and he immediately turned to the miniscule sound. Drugs, Great Spirit… what Thee fuck!? He charged, and I moved away spinning low while recoiling the axe. He staggered and adjusted his stance while somehow realizing that I had moved. As he back-stepped, now from one knee and opposite foot, I swung full-power, unleashing my wound-up core, shoulders and arms, and buried the pick so deep into his biceps femoris that I could pry them out of the leg casing with a follow through of my falling body. I leaned on it, wedged the long shaft on the side of my chest and grabbed the pepper spray can that reflected my scattered pulsating brilliant light. He said nothing… but dropped backwards because of the leverage I had applied. I stood and hooked the neighboring muscles as I ripped upwards… falling away slightly. Incredibly, he rolled out and crouched – unseeingly at me. He leapt! I brought the ice axe up, from my awkward position, now spike forward, as he barreled into it. The spike led the way through his upper pectoralis major and lodged against – I don’t know what – the anterior aspect of the scapula maybe… deep, very deep. He didn’t seem to feel any of that and grabbed with both hands to successfully pull the shaft out as he backed out and slightly away from me. He pulled on the shaft with inhuman strength and ripped it effortlessly from my hands – still certainly NOT seeing me! I backed up three feet as he came again. This time I had the spray ready and aimed right at the center of his face as he continued in. I stepped back as he was about to make contact and stuck the nozzle, still spraying, up his nose. He fell my way, but I side-stepped, and the nozzle made contact with his right eye. His body started convulsing just as B1’s had. Pepper still in hand (now empty), I… ME, prepared for ANYTHING me, was shocked, stunned, and I just stared for I-don’t-know-how-long until something moved in my peripheral vision… I instantly spun while dropping to a squat. There was Helen, with her head lamp on, thousand-dollar phone up, filming the whole thing. I checked the time: 4:55am. Fuck that synchronicity bullshit! I stood and blankly stared at her.

Approaching me, she said, “Are you okay?”

I realized that my light was still flashing and switched it to the dimmest white light angling it downward. “Yeah… just, just stunned… drugs, yes, but meth doesn’t do that. I am not sure. They were clearly possessed… in a different world.”

“Dave, down near Cherokee, in the Smokies, the cheap Rez-made meth has unknown impurities… and of course it could have been laced with old fashioned chems. I hear PCP is actually still around. Who knows.” Long reflective pause, scanning. “Are they dead?”

“I don’t think so, but they will never view the world again with clear vision. They will never again breathe in the mountain air without pain or shallowness.”

“What now?”

“We will check them out. You have a couple of extra mylar emergency blankets within the med kit; find those first. Next, locate their horses – they should be within a hundred yards back the way we came – you’ll smell their unhealthiness easily. Grab any and all clothing or sleep stuff that may be attached. I’ll evaluate and then reposition them for coverage. We’ll pack up immediately and leave.”

“Okay.”

“Hey. Look at me. Heyyy… it’s over, they will not be coming after us… actually, I don’t think that they could.” I moved over and wrapped her in my arms; she was remarkably calm.

Helen went to retrieve the hanging Ursacks for the first aid kit. Without care for their injuries, I dragged both bodies using the armpit backwards pull to the log we had been using as a bench. Not a whole lot of blood, other than a soaked shirt, and upper pants on the other… no puddles. I returned to kick over the knife and pick up my ice axe – I wiped it clean on the not-soaked shirt. I did the same with the hiking stick. Up close now, both were breathing raggedly but rhythmically. Neither had a wallet or I.D. in any of the multitude of big pockets on the military type fatigues. I ripped off the worn leather cord holding each small medicine bag and pocketed both. Helen returned.

“Yep, they were close. You were right, they stank. Skittish too. Only these two dingey sweatshirts and thread-bare blankets.”

“Good. Not that important. They may die anyway; they may die even with emergency care. Third time Helen… crazy.” She paused thoughtfully, and her nodding head made the light nod too. “Give me a hand here, huh.” We pulled on the sweatshirts, wrapped them in their shabby blankets and finally tucked in the mylar about the mummies as best we could. We had tucked in both their filthy long hair and battered hands, and then lay them slanted up onto the log once more. “That’s it.”

She packed up like the experienced veteran she now was… quickly, silently, and properly. We left the fire as coals and chewed down a baggie of breakfast trail-mix. We drank deep. The full bottles meant no filtering necessary in the brisk air and chilling water. I wanted to get us clear of the site ASAP.

Headlamps on low. “Mount up.” 5:37am; that’s more like it. We hit the trail towards an unknown endpoint – Helen silently in front. I reviewed for the hundredth time the possible repercussions of my actions. Eventually, the sun rose beautifully over the easterly humps. Helen saw it too, turned and threw her pure smile and sparkling eyes at me.

From the Beginning

Day 1 – Head Out

I sat in my travel canvas chair wearing full rain gear while under a large umbrella towards the back of the puddling gravel trailhead parking lot. Maybe mid-fifties. The nearby Hondo held my full backpack, and the cooler a pair of still frozen NY Strips wrapped and bagged. The rain had lessened, and contrary to brother Chris, I could get a make on this weather: almost done. I had already packed up my utility tent – wet. Disappointingly no fire much earlier this soggy morning. We had agreed upon 11:00am. Later would be hotter, but also, due to the initial steep miles of the Glacier Trail – the work would seem to be amplified. She was ready, I knew, but there was no need to tax the effort at the onset. 7,600’ here in Wyoming at the doorstep to the Fitzpatrick Wilderness; me coming from a recent hike on Whitney and her from her last training run at around 6,000’ in the heart of the Smokies. My first formal Guide… well not quite “formal” as I knew and had advised Helen for a year now. Actually, she remains my friend, although we had met just once – well after the Bear Incident. 10:43am. I dozed and dreamed. A remarkable woman – putting that behind her. Not buried, no: fully aware, acknowledged, processed, and stored. Physically healed and trimmed up even more capable. Serious. However, the Smokies are NOTHING compared to the unforgiving real wilderness and depth of the Wind River Range.

A nearly new black Range Rover splashed through the last fifty yards and parked adjacent to the Hondo with enough breathing room for all doors to be fully opened. Strangely, ours were the only vehicles in the large lot. Most climbers would be taking the other two common (shorter) routes, that was understood, but it was far too early in the autumn season for the backpackers to be done for the year. Maybe they knew something that I did not. No way. She looked straight at me and smiled. I lifted my hand from my hip in acknowledgement. She put on her jacket over some dark fleece, started the zip and quickly jumped out and closed up. She already had her boots on, but no rain pants. Many, many discussions about proper clothing and gear had preceded this instant. Some things I insisted upon but left many to her. Without a hint, I smiled internally at her beautiful jacket – the same model as mine – a very good start. She hustled over as I stood to admit her under the umbrella and a friendly hug. 10:51am.

“Hi.” Helen was radiant.

“Hey. Ready?” She knew me, and the reasons to get rolling. She had been pampered in the Rustic Inn on the north end of Jackson Hole and had driven the few hours through Dubois after a massage, sauna, full sleep, full breakfast and whatever else the rich pay for at those spas. “Let’s suit up, mount up, and we can chat on the trail… if you can handle speaking while huffing up that (jokingly) – I pointed to the unending switchbacks cut in the tan, orange and red rocks of the high desert (I knew that we’d be turning off before coming anywhere near the top of those). The smell of sage was everywhere. I had been on this section a handful of times, but the last was back nine years – a lot can change up high in that amount of time. “I’m going to ditch my rain pants (while eyeballing the sky to the west over the high humps of Whiskey Mountain). I predict sixty degrees before we get off the switches.”

“Alrighty, Captain. Join me in the huge vehicle while I swap clothing in the back end without getting soaked.” I hooked the big umbrella up top on the central small antenna. Entering from the back doors, the seats had been folded down flat. Her large pack was dress ready; two sticks (Leki Black FX Carbon) already extended lay alongside. I looked closer… a Zpacks Arc Haul 60L – nice – ultralight. Her ice axe was strapped on side – not in a bottom loop or strap (I’ve never seen anyone using those common fixed bottom loops) – same model as mine (Black Diamond Raven Pro), but a necessarily shorter shaft. Sitting, she grabbed a travel bag and dug around for her trail pants. I loosened and removed my boots to the rubberized surface way back. I stripped off my damp pants, shook them out the opened door and rolled them up. She was already down to her underwear (black, I noted) and pulling up some atomic fabric khaki shorts over double layer Smartwool socks. We both re-booted. “You’re so talkative.”

“How was the flight, the hotel, the drive… your travels… how do you feel?”

After some fluff detailing the spa: “All good. I am ready. How are you?”

“Hmph. Could be better… you know… starting in the rain.” I remembered a very muddy trip and brutally laborious slow hike up these same tracks a decade previous.

“Someone once told me: ‘No such thing as bad weather, just improper clothing’,” with a smirk.

“Alright lady, let’s see what you’re made of.” We exited, I grabbed the umbrella, but the rain had lessened even more, and I opened the Hondo for access to stow my pants under my upper pack hood (ready position). One stick set to length, the other strapped on. I reached in the cooler and grabbed the prepared bag for dinner. I tied it off on one of the cross-straps. Helen joined me underneath and she looked over my shoulder to check out my pack – we had never hiked together before, but she had studied my gear list. “I’m set.”

“I’ve been waiting over here forever.” Hilarious.

I moved to the back bumper and put a boot up, “trail tight, but steep up hill (some play needed).” Still smiling at her own humor, she did the same on her Salomon GTX’s (another good choice). “Mount up. And lock up.” I stowed the umbrella and flipped my hood up. Just heavy drizzle. I pulled out the heavy pack, kneed it and spun under the straps. She moved to the opening tailgate of her rented big rig and stood the pack up. She turned around and sat under the shoulder straps and configured all of them loosely before standing for final tightness. Not bad; I think someone showed her that move. It was sized and adjusted quite well – upon my inspection. She handled it without visual or vocal indication of the fifty-five pounds within and on. I grunted at my sixty-five pounds. She had been worried about water and had stated that she was going to use two big 1.5L Sigg bottles. I had countered with the readily available water and here she was with just the two Nalgene 1L hooked on the sides of her pack. Good. After grabbing our sticks, we both closed up.

“I am ready.”

“Hold please.” I snapped an image after extracting my phone from the Ziplock. She took one of me and then handed me her sleek Faraday-caged model. Two more snaps. Both units at the ready.

She looked up the trail with her hood visor blocking the once-again rain. “Let’s go climb that bitch.” Wow.

“You lead; steady as she goes princess.”

“Roger, Governor.” I couldn’t see her smiling face.

We headed up and into the wild, towards the highest point in Wyoming: Gannett Peak, at a glacier bound 13,810’.

History

After the letters about rehab and rebuild from the bear induced injuries and almost a year previous, a metamorphosis had occurred. Hundreds of e-mails, dozens of calls. She already could afford the very best collection of personal rehabilitation physicians, so they greatly reduced the recovery time from her pushing the training. Helen was firm in that she really wanted to backpack – fully prepared – in the wild. Further, in addition to her proficient running, she had already rock-climbed indoor on the wall with gear and suggested incorporating that action too. I suggested learning from a pro… so she traveled to Chattanooga for several weekends straight to learn and climb – indoor and out – from The Dude at Highpoint. All courses completed and tested Proficient. That done, I followed with a suggestion of climbing something real, like the Tennessee Wall (again guided and trained). She attacked with gusto once again. She was driven to excellence and fitness. Can you perform a single pull-up (not chin-up – palms facing face)? Most adults cannot manage a single one; Helen could rip off three sets of ten. Finally, when I did meet her, she was visiting relatives and I joined her outside Wausau for snow climbing with some minor ice work. Self-arrest and toe work with crampons was all I really wanted to ensure. I had reviewed many ascents and had decided against roping up – not even short roping (which is foolishly over-simplified (and performed incorrect) by many). I wasn’t even going to bring climbing rope – ditch the weight (good and proper rope (length & diameter) is surprisingly heavy. I added biking (distance) once per week to her impressive regimen. I had delicately approached the issue of self-defense. She reluctantly agreed to fire-arms training. I selected the serious classes and instructor so as not to ultimately have her own weapon taken away because of lack of confidence. After two week-long courses, she said, “I don’t know what I was scared of.” A good instructor makes a big difference. Finally, I insisted on martial arts. I sent her to see McIntire Sensei [Tom] for authentic Aikido with this instruction: “After greeting respectfully, say ‘Uke Badger recommended that I speak to you’.” Her report was this: “Sensei paused while staring at me; he then nodded and said, ‘We start tomorrow’.” And so they did.

All things considered, she had more training than I had ever received (except martial arts), but few can reach my package of decades long experience, confidence, coordination, finesse, and strength, and I think that that is what she needed most from me. I’m a decent leader and instructor as well – so I’ve been told. I told Helen that I needed her as much as she might think she needed me – I hated being alone out there… of course I could, and have, but no more. That was in Wausau, she stared at me in disbelief. Ultimately, I had suggested a hike that had far less technical climbing, far more load hauling, true wilderness, and a finale for memory.

I changed a few things too. After years of consuming ProBar, they either changed their ingredients, or I was blinded by taste, but I ditched them for fresh homemade bars of nuts, fruit and honey (zero added oils, sugars, or preservatives). I ditched oatmeal even as an emergency hot-fix and added Chomps meat sticks. Supplemental after lunch bar: BulletProof (collagen protein). After almost a decade in the field with my MSR Carbon Reflex, I felt that the 2-man was just too small. Brother Jape and I used it numerous times and #1 Son and I a few times (me solo too). None of us are big, and it was always tight – especially trying to disrobe wet rain gear without soaking everything else. Even the inflatable mattresses barely fit the footprint. New item this time around: a woman sleeping next to me… a friend yes, but I felt that I had to give her at least some breathing room. I didn’t want to haul a second tent, I didn’t want her to haul a tent at all, and I realized that I didn’t want her away from my consolation and protection. It seems that I was not fully buying into her claim of “cured” (bear; lying men) after all. The result of my usual deep target search resulted in the Big Agnes Copper Spur HV UL3… yeah, two people in a 3-man, but still under four pounds (I once carried an eleven-pound Eureka 4-man). My body: older, more finicky with hard workouts, and worst of all: a bitch to repair injuries. Even so, my performance and physical capabilities remain high, and preparations for this time out were severe – I too was ready.

Meanwhile, Up We Go

I kept close, we chatted about all kinds of things. I realized that over that year we had become not just friends, but really good personal friends. It wasn’t just me advising but had been mutual discussions on whatever came up… men and women was a recurring theme.

“A lot of the men bail before date-one.”

“Ah Helen dear, once you start discussing fitness with them, you scare them. However, it could be because you’re so Shrek-worthy. Those pictures… yikes!”

“Bastard.” [She had grown to appreciate my vulgarity – and its practical uses – incorporating terms judiciously.]

“‘Widow’ might bring in the vultures as well, but additionally, the American male is totally pussified. You know this. You won’t get a mental match with a pro athlete, and you’re unlikely to get a physical match with those poindexters you currently hang with. Add in the glut of Mommies Boyz and you’re further removed from scoring (hah). Of course, you could live the lie of ‘beauty is only skin deep’. You’re up there in the 90^th percentile on many fronts lady.”

Silence.

I inspected her legs of course, working at my eye-level on occasion – steel cords.

First milepost was the Fitzpatrick Wilderness sign, then the Whiskey Mountain trail at about half-a-mile. We paused, I looking up at the switchbacks running up out of sight… “Ready?”

“Whiskey Mountain? I thought we were going to Gannett?”

“Just kidding… this way [much more level].”

“Grrr.”

Lake Louise trail cutoff then the Torrey creek bridge at about ¾ mile – pause to admire the whitewater twenty feet below the wooden structure. “There is an ‘old’ Glacier Trail… more direct out of the same flat area near where we parked. Partly to avoid this year-round flow. That trail supposedly still exists, steeper and shorter, but I never saw the conjunction with the newer named route up higher on the big hill.”

“I know you mentioned fording creeks, but we don’t have to cross anything like this do we.”

“Nope. That’s called swimming… or tumbling.” We moved on… the desert gave way to the altitude and some green.

The junction splitting Glacier and Bomber end targets appeared sooner than expected even though it was a tough opening three miles. The rain had stopped completely. At the pause, I shifted around for a decent view through some trees, pointed up, way up and said, “This is where we go up… but first we’re gonna move over there, off-trail, somewhere down by the creek, for lunch.”

“Okay.”

I led as we headed away from the trail through some light grassy ground plants and between a few scattered trees. A hundred yards out I stopped. “Turn around and take a look from where we came… you might need this view later as we return from lunch. See, you cannot even see the trail… note the very big tree to our left – a good marker.”

“Yes, I see.”

Trail Lunch is almost always a hassle – even without a fire… have to dig deep into the perfectly packed gear for food (even if it was staged), stove, fuel, pot (as a group sometimes in different packs), utensils and maybe cups.

“Alright, time for some training – that you did not receive from climbing or eating chips.” Eye roll from the novice. I presented the pot and within it the MSR Whisperlite International (burns any combustible fuel). I also grabbed the Zip-locked MSR fuel (white gas) canister from the bottom back door of my pack. I handed the empty pot to Helen: “Please fill this half-way from yonder stream.”

“No filtering?”

“Boiling.”

“What about the sediment?”

“Be careful. Duh. But what’s a bit of natural seasoning gonna hurt?” More eye roll from the city girl.

There was already a previous camp spot and I selected a brush-free relatively flat spot to assemble the stove, pump and fuel. Deliberate moves and explanation. All set, I primed the stove and explained that some use too little fuel – it must heat the entire burner unit.

“Get ready, the flames will be larger than you might think.” Djeep in hand and a flick; the flames were six inches above and around the stove. Her eyes lit. “Yes, you must be very cautious doing this under a tarp or in a tent vestibule. This is one big reason why some like the all-in-one stove/ fuel models, but the cannisters are not reusable and should be carried out.” However, the white gas may also be used as a fire “helper” in a pinch. The fuel burned down, and I opened the valve – the rocket engine created the expected blue flames. “Just that easy.”

“I see.”

“Now, you might use your gloves, but it’s not cranking hot yet. You put the pot on top and bend the blast shield around the burner and pot base, like so – keeps heat in.”

“Uh huh.”

“Three minutes… maybe four or five if colder water or higher altitude. Meanwhile, prep the food.”

I had Mountain House chili-mac, and she had mac & cheese.

“Make sure you remove the desiccant packet (I dug around in my bag to extract and show). Check the guidelines for water quantity. From my experience, always go heavy. Worst case is you may have to drink some slurry, but that is much better than crunchy pasta or beans.”

“Roger… 12oz.”

“Mine is 14… but with the red beans, I’m going at least 16oz. If we had hiked really hard, I would suggest a kicker bar, but this should be good enough. I outlined all this info in the hike description.”

As always, the food was delicious… nutritious is another thing altogether. She had NOT experimented with the dozens of brands and meal offerings, instead simply selecting mostly from my suggestions.

“That was tasty.” Just a nod from me.

“Okay, the empty pot cools very quickly, and obviously everything must be disassembled and stowed. This is the water filter (Katadyn Guide); this is the supplemental storage bag (Nalgene 96oz).” I extracted and showed both.

“I thought you…” I halted her with a mild palm up.

“We are going up a couple thousand feet to camp in a spot that I have not visited in over a dozen years. I am unsure about the water availability at THAT spot, but it has been raining for a few days. We will be hauling two extra liters after re-filling our bottles and carrying that additional weight just this one time. The lake beyond is close enough not to have any additional concern.”

Full demo and explanation followed. Then the actual pumping at the creek. Carefully repackaged, so as not to contaminate with source water, “This thing now weighs a half-pound more. Easy, right?”

“Yep.”

“Alrighty… that’s it for this spot. Load up.”

A little chit-chat about the frequency of unloading and re-loading commenced.

“Set? [She nods.] Mount up. Take us back to the trail please.”

After just a minute or so, “There’s the big tree.”

“Are you sure that it’s not THAT one?” I pointed with my stick at another very similar one.

“The trail is that way anyway, we’ll run into it.”

“Very good… march on. It’s not always so easy though, remain observant.”

“You do that stuff all the time?”

“Someone must… or at least should. In rain, snow, fog, or simply different lighting, retracing an unmarked route can be tricky.”

“When do you get to enjoy the scenery and stuff?”

“Multitasking; always.”

Back on the trail, back track slightly to the Glacier Trail sign, we headed up on the switchbacks from hell. I hadn’t been on these in a long time… not as steep as some, but a lot of them. Some yahoos claim thirty, probably the same who claim ninety-nine on Whitney – both wrong, but possibly due to trail changes over the years. By the way, I thought the 97 switchbacks on Whitney were some of the best maintained that I have EVER hiked upon. This trail opened up at about 10,000’ and I saw the target area. I grunted and pointed with my stick, “Head thataways, my dear.” She did. The tiny creek flowed… a bit further, within a small stand of aspens and conifers was the remembered camp. Roughly six miles total.

Hunter Camp

We set camp, including the first guided assembly of the tent, for Helen… an easy one as my experience goes.

“Joey wouldn’t let me touch his beloved Hindenburg.”

“Funny you… that’s Hilleberg. They are very expensive, and he was just being cautious as you certainly do not want a novice poking holes or walking on anything but the tub. This one is a bit less money, but I am showing you how to do this without stepping on it for the very same reasons that he likely held.”

“Oh.”

“Unload for your bag and mattress – probably drag in your clothes as well.” She was familiar enough with those items that no commentary was necessary.

Somehow, in all of our miscellaneous discussions, building a fire never came up.

“Yo, city girl… can you set a fire?”

“Hmm, probably.”

“Funny… have you ever set a fire?”

“No.”

“We’re only staying the night, so we’ll use the stove for boiling again, but I have steaks for dinner, AND I like to have a fire – and yes, I don’t give a shit what the enviro-weenies might be crying about when I use ten sticks and a few mid-grade roundies. So, let us begin the process, shall we?”

“Of course, who else would bother to show me?” I believe that I saw a sarcastic sideways head wag.

I gave her the brief version of my classic sermon on wood grades, the completely made-up but reasonable names for all sizes and conditions – all while we gathered the materials. Pine needles, grass, toilet paper, and of course DJeep. I built it up and had the larger material right at the side – ready.

Finally, “Yes, we could go through the flint and steel or a bow and rod for really hard-core basic stuff, but I have two lighters, you have at least one, and I also have waterproof matches… some other time if you’re really interested.”

“Roger; pass.”

“Alrighty then, get down in there and blaze this baby up.” She did, and the dry duff & wood went right up perfectly. I carefully added some mid-grade and a previous visitor had left some small logs that also went on. “Good. Cocktail?” She looked at me to check if I was serious – I was. I had indicated previously that I (always) carry Kettle One vodka. “Yo, teetotaler, I don’t suppose you brought anything decent.”

“Good bourbon.”

“I hope you’re not calling that piss Jack Daniel’s that I once poured in your wounds ‘good’.”

“Pullease: Basil Hayden”

“I can accept that.”

“Ooo, thank you very much booze snob.”

“I am okay with the water we have… for making a drink, do you need anything for yours? Of course, you’re welcome to my concoction if you like.”

“Straight… a little sipping.”

“As you wish.”

I went through my standard routine of adding lemon electrolyte powder to a half-full Nalgene liter then measured in the vodka. She stared at me once again thinking I was kidding about the precise measurement of the booze.

“I know how much gets me rolling… years of experience on the trail of tears.”

“I see,” as she tipped a little bourbon into her plastic mug.

“Here, just try this.”

“Tastes like lemonade.”

“Yep, and it’s healthy too.”

“I’m sure you see it that way,” with an eye roll.

“Alrighty, while we’re getting healthy, next up is that we need decent sized wood to burn down for some coals for the steaks. Also, water in the pot for the broccoli. Last fresh meal for a while – unless we take the time to fish – further down the road.”

The drink was good – and effective. I retrieved the small grill and the spatch. She smiled.

“Okay, more chores.”

“I didn’t think that we’d leave our packs and gear all over the place.”

“Correctamundo. We’ll eventually get the Ursacks up a tree – although unnecessary other than preventing crushed food stuffs by big critters. All stinky stuff goes in those bags – nothing in the tent. We’ll also just hook our packs on a low limb under the canopy; rain at night here is unusual.” While we were finalizing the contents of the indestructible food bags, I retrieved the bag o’ steak from the outside of my pack. “You’ll also need your plate and utensils.” I went out for some bigger wood – which was abundant due to the dead and down aspens. I demonstrated breaking bigger wood by swinging the long logs down upon a sharp-edged rock; she was watching. “We could break out the saw, but this is sufficient and quick.” I poked down the fire and set in a few of the three-inch diameter logs, then grill unsheathed and set atop two rocks spanning the burning logs. All pretty obvious.

“We probably will be in and out of the packs for miscellaneous things – like our headlamps – but for now let’s get them off the ground.” We headed back into the trees and located one that someone else had already pruned for similar use and hung our packs. While we were back there a large spruce practically jumped out at me. “Check out the yard-arm on this baby [pointing up at the stout limb.] That’s definitely strong enough to hold the Ursacks… good.”

“Now?”

“Nah, we might be in and out of those bags… tea, cocoa, toothpaste, shit-kit.”

“Right.”

“Speaking of shit-kits, lemme show you the dig technique… unless you brought a shit-spade.”

“Nope; okay.”

I had cooled down and grabbed my beloved sheep-skin (pull-over, hooded, kangaroo-pocketed, thick-assed fleece) from my bag of clothes in the tent.

At least fifty feet from the tent for #2… urination: anywhere. I will be peeing everywhere close: trees, rocks, especially what looks to be likely entry points to our camp… ‘piss the perimeter’ we call it. Never had a large predator in our camp in thirty years of back-country traveling. Doesn’t prove anything, but I think it matters.” Another nod. We had reached an area of conifers. “Check this out,” as I dug the back of my boot heel easily into the duff and backwards dragged out three or four inches. A couple more moves wider and then deeper. “The Book says twelve inches, but that is commonly unattainable due to the local terra firma. Here though (pointing)… no problemo. There is no bag-your-waste rule here. I also bring biodegradable alcohol enhanced wipes… of all things, I don’t want trail ass, and I certainly don’t want my ditch cooking up enough to wake the dead. Oh yeah, some burn their used TP. Got it?”

“Yessir!”

Great; I may have to tone down my dictatorial explanations.

“Couple more items on the subject: I mark my finished and buried gold with cross-hatched dead white sticks – don’t want to dig into someone else’s dump; and be careful not to blast on your clothes or shoes – it’s a bitch to clean up. I believe everyone in the world who has field-dumped has done it at least once – mine was INTO my [four-piece] rain pants – sweet!” I swept the duff back into the hole.

“Nice.”

I finished off my second cocktail while tending the fire and prepping the steaks with very mild salt and pepper from my minimalist supply. The sun had set, and the temperature was falling as Helen grabbed and stretched into a mid-weight fleece pull-over.

“Here you go,” handing over the stove items, “give it a try.”

She did, with minor adjustments from me… and the burner was blue with flame – pot on top.

“Yes!”

“Indeed. Good.”

Cooking the steaks was nothing new, nor was lightly boiling the little water in the bottom of the pot into steam for the broccoli. We sat upon a long, large diameter log adjacent to the fire and ate at dusk.

“Thanks for cooking; I am not a grill person.”

“Nor am I… just basic stuff – I like the taste of the meat, no need to bury it in designer accoutrements.”

“Helps that you selected a good cut, but even the broccoli was good.”

“Yep. Clean up is a messy necessity. The grill gets burned clean enough – same with the spatch, [leaving both on the fire] but the plates… come on. [Over to the tiny creek.] Use mud, sand, grass, anything. [Demonstrating schmeering.] We have biodegradable soap, but this is just a small surface, and not much grease… besides, even that soap will do damage to the plants.” Back to the fire area. We sat quietly. “Teeth brushing: into the fire. Soap usage: use the pot and bring the water near the fire. Rinse the pot and fling the water wide-spread.”

“Okie dokie.”

We sat quietly, as the fire burned down. I got up to get my headlamp, saying as much, she joined me.

With headlamps on, we strung up the rope, then hoisted the Ursack bear bags without issue. “The Book says ten off the ground and three down from the limb and six out from the tree – if I remember correctly. A limb like this is hardly ever available. Some bring bear-proof cannisters for that reason, but as I said, the Ursacks, even on the ground, would be fine tied to the base of a tree.”

Back to the fire and I set on a large rotten-crotch half-log. “This will keep the coals until morning… just easier to start the fire – and just maybe a reminder to the critters that may pass by – smoky.” It was dark, barely when I announced that I was done and was heading in. She said the same. I turned around and peed on a tree just five or six feet away. As I turned back, she was nearby over by a flat rock peeing. Okay, no problem there.

The tent had two doors and associated vestibules. Our prepped gear awaited. As I entered, I realized that this model was quite a bit larger than my two-man. Yes! It was maybe 50°F and I stripped to t-shirt and underwear… no socks. Helen left her liner socks on. We spent ten minutes arranging our used clothes and bagged clothes.

“I’m betting 30s for tomorrow morning as it is very clear skies, and we are now above 10,000’. I like to have everything ready, including shit-kit, since I normally get up before light… and you might be sleeping.”

“Sounds good.”

We both slid into the unzipped bags while crinkling on the air mattresses.

“About a dozen years ago, I was backpacking in the Winds not too far from here, in the Popo Agie Wilderness, with my brother and then teen-aged daughter. I think that it was the first night, once we had everything set in the tent, we two having hauled a massive load were done and ready for nearly immediate sleep. Swiss Miss sensed this and said ‘No, not yet… this is chat time.’ It stuck, the time of day and setting to review and maybe plan (pausing). THIS, Helen, is chat time.”

“So far, there seems to be a million little things to remember or execute… not bad, but I am surprised at the volume.”

“Yep… but that is part of the draw for me. My brother and I often do not say much about any of those tasks… unstated that we each have our own perfected processes. The stuff gets done very quickly – just experience. How is your body?”

“Fine, but I am tired.”

“Feet?”

“Good; no damage at all.”

“Tomorrow, we have a LOT of miles – if things go as planned. This will be a challenging day, a true fitness check. Seventeen miles… with a lunch stop of course. We have extra days… at any time we can call it a day – there are a handful of lakes and streams to stop at. After just two miles or so, we will hit the high point for the day – a lot of the rest is downhill until bottom, then a much more gradual incline to the potential camp. I have been only to that high point on this trail, my group had ventured off-trail beyond that. So, all will be new to me too. However, I have studied the maps a million times and read many trip reports.”

“That is a long way… I have not trained at altitude.”

“Your endurance running, the bike and overall fitness will make it manageable – I think. I may stop before you.”

“Hah!”

“I’ve crashed before.”

Silence.

“So, we really can stop whenever we want?”

“Absolutely… turn around as well, if needed. Not a single hesitation from me. Adventure, yes; unending punishment, no way.”

“Okay… that makes me feel better. That pack is heavy.”

“It didn’t look like it to me.”

“Pfffft.”

I think that she was sleeping before me. I awoke and the F91W said 12:33am. As silently as I could, I unzipped my bag slid out, unzipped the screen then fly and heard her moving behind me.

“Are you going out to pee?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Okay good, me too then.”

“No headlamps, okay?”

We crawled out to the frigid air and under a billion stars in the sky.

“Whoooooaaaaahhhh!”

“Yeah, this never gets old.”

I didn’t need my light to know that my breath was visible. I moved off five feet to pee. She went the other way.

“What should I do with the tissue?”

“You can walk it to the fire or drop it in the vestibule… no big deal.”

To my surprise she walked over to the smoldering fire and dropped it into the glowing red edge of the all-nighter. I was still standing near the tent when she returned.

“It’s cold.”

“Not all the way down yet, but it will be when we get up.”

The sky was amazing. We re-entered the tent and burrowed in.

“Brrrrr.”

“Yep.”

Silence… and as far as I know: no snoring.

Day 2 – Long Haul

I woke and checked the time: 5:25am – surprisingly late – dark of course. As soon as I moved, Helen did as well. I knew that she had a watch on as well, but had no idea if she had been awake for a while, waiting, or reacted to my very minor motion.

“Getting up?”

“Yep… I don’t usually sleep so long – pretty good.”

“I slept… and dreamt of Atlas Stones.”

“What?? You know Strongman? ‘Lift, Good Lift!’”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Ahhh, no. I guess your pack may be too heavy… how do you feel now?”

“Not bad at all.”

Headlamps on, she saw me putting on my fleece lowers over my shorts, and double socks, fleece upper and shell jacket – even though it was pretty moderate in the tent.

“It’s that cold out?”

“Yeah, I think so, and I am grabbing my gloves too.”

I got out and closed up while she prepared similarly it turned out. After peeing, I was at the fire ring and poking lightly with a small stick… yep, we had coals. I killed my light and waited for her.

“Okay, kill your light,” she did. Check out the fire… you see the coals, right? I am just going to use this stick to drag them carefully into a middle mound, then we’ll build upon that with the lightest material that we saved from yesterday. All this just to keep our hands warm while we eat and then pack up.”

“Good, I am freezing.”

After setting the light-duty material on the coals with mid-grade ready, I got down and blew in the coals for about thirty seconds and it ignited – just like it is supposed to do.

“Now, carefully add in larger and larger sticks without destroying the base structure.”

In no time, we had a nice small fire rolling.

“Nice.”

“We’ll be here for a while, so might as well be psychologically warm while we dine, right?”

“You know it, Chief.” Wow.

“Okay, you bring down the food, and I’ll get the stove rolling.”

“Is it safe way over there?” Maybe one-hundred feet.

I dimmed my light, paused seriously, and looked deeply into her eyes, whether or not I could actually see them didn’t matter.

“Helen, yes, it’s safe. Yes, there are apex predators in this area, but we humans are a hassle to them: unpredictable, loud, stinky, and as I like to think matters: fire-bearers. The bear that attacked you had two things greatly different than normal: it was starving; and it had a diseased brain. Both making it exceedingly unusual to even have allowed it to be alive. Of course, we will be cautious with our food, but I expect that we will not even see a bear. I would guess that as recently as a day or two other people had been through here. The bears stay away from people, wolves even further – they have plenty of their normal food in this healthy wilderness – and if not, they would have moved elsewhere to find it. Okay?”

“Yes… thanks.”

“You may yell out a warning to them if it makes you feel better. ‘YO BEAR, I’M PISSING HERE!’” She laughed. Good.

She brought the bags back to the bench at the fire and I did not joke that she was still alive. The pot was nearly boiling, and the fire was perfect. We went through breakfast; she had taken my advice but had concocted her own green drink (a little of this, a little of that and no more was said). She was a coffee drinker… bags. She had oatmeal. I showed her my homemade nutty-fruity meal bar and a Chomps.

“I hope that’s enough fuel for this tough day. Anything else?”

“Yes, I have a Kind bar ready.”

“Okay. Remember: we will stop when we want – we are not here to kill ourselves. Oh, also, bears love Kind bars.”

Her jaw dropped. “That is just plain mean; I hate you.”

“Humor, Baby… roll with it.” She did. “Pack ‘er up!”

Silence as we packed all… the tent was damp from our breathing and the cold air. Dawn’s first light creeping up.

“That takes a lot of time.”

“That wasn’t bad, under an hour. Scan the former grounds for anything we may have dropped.”

“Nothing.”

“Pee or poo, #1 or #2… whatever.”

“Done.”

“Okay; how’d that go?”

“Steady as she goes.”

“Mount up!”

She did the knee move under her pack with foot on the log. “Set.”

“Lead on… Glacier Trail, for like a year.”

Before sunrise still.

I thought that she had too much clothing on; I went with shorts lower and sheep-skin upper. However, I had to exert some energy to keep up until my oil pressure was stabilized. We topped out for the day in less than an hour roughly before Burro Flat… about 10,900’.

“Can we stop… I have to strip some of this off.”

“Really?” Eye roll.

I watered up while watching her practically disrobe, including boots because of her unhelpful lower shell – shorts and T – and it was no more than 40°F. I had just warmed up my legs – finally.

“Are you sure about that? Might be breezy over the hump.”

She turned her back to me – soaked with sweat – but that was because she had fleece and shell on upper AND her pack of course.

“See?”

“As you wish. Might I suggest keeping the upper something staged under your hood for quick access?”

“Roger that, Major.” What?

As we passed the Phillips drainage at about 4 miles (10 miles total), I believe that we could already see Double Lake.

Along Double Lake for almost a half-hour – water break.

“This is beautiful.” [She snapped a few images – as she had been throughout the trip.]

“Agreed.”

We hit Star Lake at 6 miles (12 miles total) with good energy still. A half-mile later and we could see the immense valley and meadow way down… Dinwoody creek in the far distance.

“Wow!”

“Nice. Okay, get ready… many hikers have complained about the switchbacks coming up… rather down. We lose a lot of altitude and have to reclaim it beyond.”

“Fun times, huh?”

Honeymoon Lake was partially visible as we passed by at almost 7 miles (13 miles total).

We were right on Dinwoody Creek at 8 miles (14 miles total). The previously noted slight upward trend began.

After crossing Downs Fork at 9 miles (15 miles total), we decided on going a little further – looking for a good lunch spot.

We pulled in for lunch in the trees at an existing former campsite near a broad section of Dinwoody – 10 miles (16 miles total).

We had made such good time that we agreed on a casual lunch – fire, no stove. We ditched our packs and began to dig out the needed supplies. Now that it was warm, maybe 60°F, the bugs made an appearance, but not too bad. Helen had some picaridin based repellent that I had never tested nor had anyone that I know. I stayed clean (hah!). The fire went up, the pot went on, and we sat on a log resting. I had spaghetti, and Helen had chili-mac. I staged my protein bar for later, and she still had her Kind staged. We burned a half-hour, but it was beautiful. We pumped more water, just in case. Fire doused, packed up and back at it.

It started to sprinkle and dropped at least ten degrees – jackets out and on – as we examined and passed the Ink Wells rat’s nest of trail intersections at 12.5 miles (18.5 miles total). I explained that this is where the hikers (usually with guides) come in from the Rez.

According to the maps, at about 16 miles (22 miles total) the grade steepened a bit – it was noticeable, we were now tired. We were sitting, and drinking – I was reviewing my map again. Jackets off, temps back up, but still cloudy.

“Gannett Creek should be coming up soon.”

“Good. As beautiful as it is and has been, I’ve had enough.”

Although the creek was braided when we arrived, we did not even have to change out of our boots. Cool. Rocks and logs here and there… some water of course, on accident.

“Okay, maps and memory say that there are only a few good spots with trees left – near water. Stay alert for any signs of existing camps.”

“Okay.”

Dinwoody approached again very close on our left and trees appeared again on our right.

“Alright, enough… let’s drop our packs and scout around a bit.”

This was the area that I thought I had targeted on my maps and plan:  I believe we had made the 17.0 miles (23.0 miles total) – maybe about 10,400’. I said nothing yet… find a camp site – might have to move on with packs (ugh – I was truly dead).

“Dave… over here.”

Not even five minutes; I moseyed over to her call.

“Sweet! We’re done.”

“YES!!!”

F91W said 4:11pm – ugh, ten hours. Helen looked good; I didn’t even want to pick my pack up to bring it over to what would be our camp – I faked ease of movement – pure ego. She too, though, would feel better, more confident, more positive, if I didn’t look like I was about to drop dead. Sure, sure, Dave… you’re good.

I dropped my pack and sat on a log near the established fire area of the site. Helen came over with hers and did the same. I opened up the back door of my pack and extracted my camp shoes, stripped off my boots and double socks, inspected my feet (no damage), and slipped the light-weight old runners on. I must have mentioned this to her in our gear discussions because she had an old pair as well. The sun was out again so I hung my socks in a small nearby tree. I tilted my boots to allow the warmth inside directly. I also hung my jacket. All this Helen duplicated without a word.

I moved on to assemble the tent, and she didn’t hesitate to gather firewood. Ten minutes. I threw in my sleep supplies and moved over to the fire area while she was out and about – it’s a common area, so the wood was a bit sparse and understandably far to retrieve. I had moved around the old ash muck when she dropped down a decent armload of various sized material. She saw the tent up and went to her pack straightaway for the bed goods. When she returned, I had just flicked the fire to life.

“Alrighty then… no more rain today, but it’s always possible tomorrow. Still, I say we hold off on the tarp and get to other things.”

“Such as?”

“Cocktail anyone?”

“Welll, I wouldn’t mind one of your boosted lemonade drinks.”

“Hmm, I dunno, you’re not rated for such things… might be too much bang for you to handle.”

“Hilarious. I would like that effect and flavor right now… plus: it’s healthy.”

“You are now approved. First though, let’s get some ice-cold glacier water.”

We filtered water; the 3-Liter bag as well as our 1-Liter Nalgenes and re-entered our somewhat secluded camp from the upper Dinwoody river visit. Again, the precise measurements, this time two liters. Having already dug out our cups, I filled them with equal volume.

“Cheers. Well done.”

“Cheers. Thanks.”

Same old chores: packs, food, wood, observe… prepare for dinner. My drink hit home in about thirty-three seconds. With a big sip, “Yeah,” holding out my cup to the trail gods. “That’s what I’m talking about,” to no one in particular.

She apparently understood well, “Oooo, that’s tasty – could be trouble,” simulating wobbling.

There was ample wood… some from the river wash a hundred yards or so back down and away from the trail. I broke out the saw for a few green logs from a downed tree. Camp was set and the fire was small but just right. The river-filled pot was on, and the drinks flowed smoothly… all exhaustion was forgotten. Packs were hooked up; food bags were staged; and dinner pouches were examined. Daylight was fading; the sun was already behind the peaks due west. We both had chilled down and dressed up.

“Yes… Beef Stew, one of my favorites.”

“I took your recommendation and brought multiple Beef Stroganoff dinners. I tried this at home – very good.”

“Nutrition is nothing like live food at home, but good enough for a week.”

I noticed that she had “Serves Two” size, her lunch had been One… I was interested to see this trim 125# woman pound that down. Of course, I had suggested too much rather than too little… but don’t go overboard – because of the weight. I had no idea what else was in her Ursack that was as large as mine. Like I said: her choices.

By the time the water was boiled sufficiently, and as the dinner was re-hydrating (necessarily beyond the recommended time), we were wrapping up the drinks. Legally, I probably wasn’t drunk; I was however strongly intoxicated by the Old Demon. Since I had Helen beat by 40# in body weight and nearly as fit, I was presuming that she too was inebriated – unless she had become a pro drinker when I wasn’t looking. I added more wood and grabbed our two remaining water bottles. I checked the time for the tenth time – re-hydration time – and declared dinner ready.

We sat next to each other on the log and demolished the dinner in less than five minutes as darkness came in. Silence, other than the river. I had already peed about fifty times, and she had now, a bit more discreetly, executed and become used to the process of ‘pissing-the-perimeter’. At one point, she returned to the fire after peeing fairly close to the tent, within visible range, and said: “Have to keep those bears away,” with a smile. We drank more water for a while, countering altitude and alcohol… and I grabbed my food bag to retrieve a chamomile tea bag. Scalding, but warmth to my body. I offered, but she declined with a head wag. I put two of the very green logs on the coals of the fire. All that and we eventually headed to the tent by just 8:00pm.

“Tomorrow, mostly rest. It’s not required, but if we feel good, we can stroll up the one to two miles towards our target ascent base without packs – Tarn Camp as it’s called.” No response, so I thought that she might be asleep already. I let it go.

“Okay. That was a hard hike. I considered asking you to stop.”

“Nothing new… it’s hard when you’re already tired. Maybe too far, huh? I would have stopped at any of the lakes or sites we saw – had you said anything. We’ll not do that again; and if I am heading towards something like that, you should speak up.”

“Okay, I will.”

And that was all; and I slept; and she was silent.

Midnight pee again; Helen joining me again; stars brilliant again; chilly again; back in the warm nest again.

Day 3 – Approach Camp

Pre-dawn fire from coals again; pot from the river again; breakfast in the creeping dawn again; pleasant again.

Virtually no clean-up.

“Well, how do you feel today?”

“Like I could hike that mess again, right now. I feel like I wimped out a bit.”

“Huh? No way, that was a long hard hike. With you or superman, I wouldn’t do it again. I’m glad you said as much, and I DO expect you to speak up. I am glad you feel better… probably the nutritious drinks that turned things around.”

“No doubt…” A minute later, “thanks.”

We looked at the maps and images and decided to hike at 9:00am.

No packs; not even our daypacks for summit day; not even water. We drank up heavy, brought along a shit-kit, our jackets and risked wearing just camp shoes. The trail was easy, we felt like air without the big packs and big boots. In only thirty minutes or so, we reached the Tarns Camp – 10,800’ in about a mile and a half – with about a dozen tents scattered between the boulders. No one was around.

“I would guess that they are all up on the hill.”

“Or dead from bears.”

I turned to face her, “Wow… but now they’d have their stomachs full, so we’re set!”

At least I got a smile from her. It seems that that issue had not been healed or resolved satisfactorily. Don’t know what would happen if we actually saw one.

We stared up the meandering path through the rocks. We stared at the glacier. We stared at the snowbound summit ridge. We stared at the summit. I turned to see her expression and commentary.

“Yikes.”

“Exactly… the danger is quantified and to be respected, but you are fit, you have trained properly, and we will turn back at any instant of risk beyond your comfort.”

“Maybe not at all.”

“That my dear, is not an option. We will gear up and hike tomorrow morning in the dark – beyond this point – to the foot of the Dinwoody Glacier. We will mount our crampons when needed and hold firm onto our ice-axes as we step onto and up the snow-covered ice. At any point thereafter we may stop at your request. Okay?”

“Yes.”

We hiked easily, but silently back to camp. Not good.

Coals were still present, and I boosted it up for lunch. Helen sat quietly next to the Ursacks she had dropped from the small tree and carried over. I let her sit and went to fetch more wood.

“Spaghetti again – double load.”

“I’ve got chicken pesto pasta – Serves 2.”

We were quiet until the food was ready, then reported to each other the description as we wolfed it down. Water. Rest. She went to the tent for a nap. It started to sprinkle so I threw some green roundies on the fire and joined her in the tent. She was awake. I flipped off my shoes and laid atop my bag and mattress for a minute or two.

“Fuck it; I was wrong… I shouldn’t have barked at you, and I should make no demands on what and where we hike. You wanted a challenge, yes, but it IS dangerous AND scary. However, it is also truly unnecessary. Up close and personal is different than the pictures and certainly riskier than any Smoky Mountain child’s play. The Man, Ed Viesturs, once said ‘Getting to the top is optional. Getting down is mandatory.’ I’m fine packing up in the morning and visiting the lakes for fish on the return trip. He did also say ‘I believe that, with anything in life, if you have the patience, desire and passion, you can do whatever you set your mind to,’ and I see that in you.”

“No; I want to do this. You were right to remind me. We will at least get on the ice… as you said.”

“Okay. Dinner then set the gear at ready. Bed shortly thereafter.”

“Okay.”

We were in by 7:00pm. I was staring at my eyelids for hours. The phone alarm went off at 3:00am – I had been asleep.

Day 4 – The Climb

It was very cold; thermometer said 26°F. Fire. We retreated to the tent for an extra layer upper and lower – at least while in camp. Quick breakfast. Food secured.

Back to the tent to remove the long underwear. We both had Fjällräven pants on, boots, double socks and gaiters… I saw that she had the same as I: Black Diamond GTX FrontPoint. She had her helmet attached to the back of her light pack along with her ice-axe.

“No helmet?”

“Dying by being hit by a rock is not on my list.”

“Huh? What is?”

“Hmmm, gunshot maybe… car wreck. I’ve given strict instructions to my buddies that if I lose my memory, they should take me out and actually kick me off a cliff high enough to kill me.”

“You’re strange Dave.”

“Do tell. What do you have for food?”

“Two bars… NO, not Kind. Papa Steve’s No Junk.”

“Oooo, good.”

Our crampon sacks hung from the back… they too looked like mine as I pointed my headlamp at her… Black Diamond Contact Strap. We both had two liters of water in the pack sleeves. She had her gloves out, insulated Outdoor Research mountaineering jobbies. I had my simple insulated leather but packed my OR over-gloves. One stick each. I also had DJeep (where we’d use that up there, I have no idea), Leatherman Wave, Nylon reinforced tape, Burt’s Bees lip paraffin, and a small first-aid kit. We both had our shell pants packed in case things got really bad – we were wearing everything else, including Smartwool caps. Pretty light… barely ten pounds.

“I added a couple of those emergency blankets.”

“Good idea.”

We mounted up and tightened up… headlamps on low for now. We looked over each other, then at each other.

“Let’s go; you lead.”

“OK Dave… for now.”

3:53am.

As it was the day before, the first mile and a half back up to the rocky camp was a breeze – even in the cold and dark with gear and boots – fully dressed.

We made our way though the maze of boulders and rocks and arrived at the base of the Dinwoody Glacier at just 5:18am. We paused and looked up. There were lights from the other hikers already far ahead and up. Footprints were visible in our light beams on the hard-pack snow – no doubt from those coming down previous days in the soft melted condition. They went the right way – as I remember.

“Ready?”

“Yep.”

We ditched the stick onto our packs and made ready the ice-axe. She held it properly (as a cane almost), by the center head pick backward. She had put on her helmet and strapped it securely.

“Any reason at all, you stop me.”

“Will do.”

We walked out onto the glacier – me now leading – no need for crampons yet. For whatever reason it felt warmer.

We ascended the easy slope on the left side of the rock buttress at the lowest end of the Gooseneck Pinnacle Ridge. This granite outcrop mound separates Dinwwody Glacier from Gooseneck. We sat to attach our crampons in the dark before the glacier got too steep on the final stretch before meeting the rock for the crossover.

“Still good?”

“Yep.”

Up… in the convenient cut steps.

We left our crampons on facing the rock… it seemed straightforward to me. Helen was right on my ass… a bit too close.

“Let’s separate a bit more, okay? I don’t want to kick a rock right into your face.”

“Oh… okay.”

I have no idea what “class” climbing this was, but it was easily within my ability as I reached the top of the buttress. Helen just thirty seconds after me.

“Well, how about that? Too steep?”

“No, I thought that it would be worse.”

“Wellll, that was likely the easy stuff.”

“I am not surprised; let’s go.”

Sunlight was visible backwards on the distant horizon. I had lost track of time and was paying attention to the slope and to Helen.

We dropped just slightly off the rock and moved out onto the Gooseneck Glacier. As we were angling across and up right, once again in well formed steps, we could see that we had gained significantly on the other hikers – I was shocked – I thought that we were crawling with caution. We switched back left, up towards the buttress once again – this was to avoid a steep section of hard ice – so said the reports. This bit was steeper still, but my guess was well under 45° – but I’m no climber – I used my arm length compared to my shoulder height with vertical back (at least I thought that it was).

The rock of this section looked more dicey to me, but not as steep. The crampons had been clunky on the previous rock, and reports had stated that most climbers had put on and took off their big spikes multiple times – one said TWENTY times (don’t know where the hell his route was). We sat and removed them, this time not bagging them – just securing them dangling on the back of our packs.

“Okay for some rock action?”

“Yes… that snow is… is, not my thing.” Uh oh.

Half an hour, I don’t know, I was stewing about getting Helen out of this. But we easily crested the hump and once again dipped down towards the glacier.

“Gear up!”

Crampons back on… I had to fuck around with mine – the straps got twisted – and I didn’t need any bullshit just then. Remedied easily. The sun was up, and we took off our hats and put on our glasses.

Back on the snow, we practically traversed right again – less steep than earlier. Helen was right with me, so were the decent steps – really well-formed. We easily moved across up, right and around the base of the Gooseneck Pinnacle. I looked down at Helen, and she looked right into my eyes – ready… alive! I knew the dangerous bergschrund was coming up but I was somewhat relieved that the steps continued as I would have gone – hugging the right side of the pinnacle. This was much steeper easily more than 45°. Maybe we were fortunate, not sure, but the chasm was only four or five feet across, and the steps again led to an obvious and fairly wide snow bridge. We used it. I watched Helen look down and in – no reaction – just moved to my position.

“Okay?”

“Not too bad actually.”

This was yet steeper still, my crude body 3-4-5 triangle indicated greater than 53°… I realized that this was about my limit. I turned around slightly and was looking down at the top of Helen’s head… WOW! Steep bitch. I waited for her to glance up… I could not believe how calm and firm she was – fantastic. I didn’t give a shit about the time, and the snow was still hard needing the spike pushed in aggressively, yet we gained more on the other hikers – their red jackets visible miles away – but they were not that far. The grip, the crampons and the steps all seemed good – I felt good after crossing the bergschrund. We made the top of the very steep section of the Gooseneck and again had to swing almost 90° right – onto the rock. We stopped and removed the crampons again. Ascending the rock was much like the earlier sections – manageable.

A rest, then back into the crampons for more snow heading towards the summit ridge. I was much more comfortable with this process now. The next rock looked shorter, or smaller so we left the spikes on. Then some more snow, a short rock rise AND WE WERE ON THE SUMMIT RIDGE! I stopped and waited ten seconds for Helen to meet me. I had a huge smile on my face, and she couldn’t help but to smile the same back at me.

“OK!?”

“YES!”

We rested again and drank again. Neither of us wanted to eat. We looked at each other again… relief, joy, satisfaction… confidence – all. But THEN we attacked the long and variable ridge. Snow, ice, rock, snow, ice, rock – we left the crampons on.

VERY dicey exposure… I slowed dramatically. I had been on Devil’s Causeway recently, Whitney’s west wall… Borah’s 3,000’ feet of exposure, but this seemed much more dangerous – the added snow and ice.

“Hey, make your foot and spike placement SECURE… there is no hurry.”

“Roger.”

And just like that we were at the summit boulders. The other hikers were there – six total.

“YEAH!”

“YEAHHHHHHHH!!!” She said, so loud that she startled the other hikers.

We dropped our packs, sat, rested and regrouped mentally. We got someone to snap a picture of the two of us, and we each snapped each other a million times. We ate a bar and drank deeply. I finally checked the time: 9:25am. I couldn’t believe that we made it up in just over four hours (on the ice). The sun was warm on our faces despite the slight arctic breeze. The view was incredible, but I had had enough and wanted to get the fuck down before major meltage.

“You want to stay for a while?”

“No thanks.”

“Let’s get outta here.”

“Lead on.”

We mounted up and I did. Well, not quite; two climbers were out in front of us. I figured: they summited; they can’t be too bad… we’ll stick close unless they do something obviously wrong. They did what I would have, and we did: used the steps, back-climbed the rock – all very cautiously. Like us, they back-climbed the very steep snow around the pinnacle base and near the bergschrund. They deviated from my plan of complete reversal of the entire route. I glanced at Helen.

“Nah, let’s stick with the route we think that we know. Let ‘em go.”

“Yeah, I agree.”

We paused far less than when working upwards. The snow was already much softer, but the steps had been thawed and frozen more than a few cycles it seemed – they were firm. Mostly facing downwards… man oh man was that shit steep. Neither of us slipped even once. At the last rock buttress crossing, we ditched our fleece and put back on the jacket – for the wind. Helen removed her helmet too just before departing the rock. It started to drizzle from a single dark cloud.

“Want to glissade this slop?”

“Nah… let’s just finish up on our feet, okay?”

“Much drier too; okay.”

It still took hours and maximum fatigue had hit me while on the low ice – maybe we went a little too fast on the up? We hiked parallel to each other until the boulder field. It was much warmer at almost three thousand feet lower. The light rain had ceased. We stripped off our jackets and put back on fleece. We stowed the axes, secured the crampons back into their protective bags, and set our sticks. More water, chewed down another bar, then we were moving through the rocks quickly and easily – adrenaline working in our favor.

At Tarns Camp, two lanky dudes with hardly any clothes on were berating a foursome of well outfitted and colorful climbers – two couples. I zoned in… they were Native, accusing the Anglos of invading their mountain and other mythical Indian claims. I hand motioned Helen and we moved on quietly. I had no interest in helping four healthy young adults defending against two vagabond tribal chief wanna-bes. Since we had not seen them on the trail, it was likely that the hikers came across the Rez – with a paid, expensive, permitted and approved “guide.” The dudes were spouting bullshit at easy marks. We passed two filthy and stinking horses, sore covered and loosely hitched between two rocks. They whinnied at our presence and the voices behind us silenced.

“Hey, shitbags, where do you think you’re going? Get the fuck over here and pay your toll like these assholes.”

I reached back for Helen’s hand, and it was there… we kept moving. I could sense them following. I reversed Helen and faced them… stared at them individually.

“Pay up shitbag… a hundred bucks each.”

“No. You are mistaken; we did not cross your land.”

“The MOUNTAIN is ours, asshole,” while pointing with a limp arm.

They had no weapons, were practically skeletal, filthy, and just not right in the head it seemed to me. It looked like they had each tied a Canada Goose feather in the knotted locks near their faces – strange… wrong.

“I know of no existing treaty stating as much, but since I could be misinformed, I will grant you ten dollars each and thank you for allowing our usage and passage.”

“FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!”

The taller of the two, taller than me, the talker, Brave One, moved in close and I slapped him very hard and very fast across the face.

“You dishonor Chief Washakie! He strove for peace and sharing with all men. These charlatans St. Clair and Goggles know nothing of YOUR true culture, your natural laws. I see you mistreat your own animals as well. You are a disgrace to all humanity. Get away from me, from us, before I remind you what the Great Spirit is capable of.”

What bit of that hit home, I do not know, but he was stunned – mouth actually agape. Brave Two, pulled his Master’s arm back softly with “Come on Windy, leave them alone, they’re dirty anyway.”

“Yeah, you’re right Hawk. Just get off our land white man, before we hurt you bad.”

What the fuck? We were nowhere near the Rez border.

I waited, keeping Helen completely behind me, but close.

They turned around and started yammering at the other four again. I spun slowly and nodded down the trail. We moved on.

“Will they hurt the others?”

“Possibly, but unlikely now… they have been properly reprimanded.”

“Who were you talking about that they recognized.”

The last real Chief, and the two active “Chairman” of the two main tribes based on the Wind River Indian Reservation.”

“And you know this how?”

“I prepare fully when near shaky, unpredictable peoples.”

“I see… those guys were definitely shaky.”

“Correct.”

We made it back to camp in short order. 3:33pm; respectable on anyone’s clock. I dropped my daypack at the tree holding our other gear, and Helen did the same. I snagged a water. I retrieved my camp shoes from the vestibule and walked slowly over to the bench log. Helen headed to the tent and did not immediately come out – leaving the fly open. I first sat on the log to change shoes, then slid down onto the ground angling on the back support. I noticed that it was warm… maybe as high as 70˚F… I was too tired to get up and read the thermo. I started to dream in just a few minutes – I thought. I was awoken by contact with my leg – Helen had nudged me.

“I stink. I’m heading down to the river to bathe.”

I was on the ground she was standing… she was wearing her fleece upper and nothing else – as far as I could see. Shoes on and stuff in hand. She must have already retrieved the soap, towel… and… whatever.

“Careful now, please… your muscles are tired, the rocks are slippery, and the water is ice cold.”

“Yes, I know… I will be.”

I could see her cheeks atop her mile-long legs as she walked away. Just a body you know, we all have one; we’re all adults. Sure Dave.

I zoned out again. I started to dream in just a few minutes – I thought. I was awoken by… a pungent smell… elk… deer… dead animal? An image flashed in my mind – the stinking horses. I jumped up and trotted to the river. I saw no animal but B2 was moving towards a just recently naked Helen, as she was slipping in to her clean underwear (plum colored and matching) while perched on a large flat rock. The white-water creek was loud.

“Hey.”

He spun surprisingly quickly and swung a stout skinned log, larger than a baseball bat in both dimensions, at my head. I tilted way backwards at the waist and it breezed well above my face. The rotational motion carried him all the way around and down. I kicked him in the ass – hard. He flew face forward into the basketball sized rocks but did not make contact with his head. As he rose, I had already jumped way up and came down with my right elbow onto the base of his neck. His face smacked the hard sand and gravel ground. I backed up to let him see me.

“If you continue, I will really hurt you.”

His eyes did not look at me, but to my side – behind. I spun out low with my hands raised but B1 was not yet close. He had no visible weapons; he was still dressed in just a ragged T-shirt and skuzzy jeans over boots with wear through the outer leather of the toe box.

“I suggested earlier that you simply leave us alone. I have no desire to hurt you further.”

He tried a stare at me – that failed, and he glanced at B2.

“Get up Hawk, you useless shit.”

“I can’t Wind… my neck…” He attempted anyway. I knew the shock would likely fade shortly – I hadn’t connected high enough near the skull base.

 I tried again, with words.

“I am familiar with Mr. Shakespeare at the BIA… maybe you know him?” These guys looked like repeat offender material… I guessed.

“Fuck that turd. He can’t touch me.” Obviously, he had already.

And again: I SCORE!

“You would like to be locked up… again?”

He ran at me, with no known attack move… I charged at him, shifted sideways at the last instant, and whaled on his upper chest with an uncoiling arm-bar. His 140# was halted high, and his hips and legs came up into the air. He dropped hard on the unforgiving sand and gravel. He tried to rise, and I gave him a solid palm-heel to his face. He yipped as his nose exploded in blood. Both hands went up and were immediately dark red.

B2 had arrived but was barely standing and his eyes lit when he saw all the blood. He raised both hands in the universal ‘I give up’ posture.

“Help him up. Get on your starving horses and go. Do not come back to me… it will be worse. Do you understand me?”

“Yeah, yeah; okay, okay.”

I turned to face B1.

“How about you… am I clear?”

“Fuck you.”

“Okay.”

I waited. 2 assisted 1 but was pushed away. They hobbled out, off-trail. I heard their horses after a minute.

I turned to locate Helen. There she stood with a fist sized rock in each hand, and anger in her eyes – not fear.

“As we know… ‘shaky’ guys.”

She dropped the rocks and approached.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes Ma’am… I am familiar with the actions of thugs.”

“Yes, I see that. You really know this guy – Shakespeare – what is that Bureau of Indian Affairs?” I just smiled at her.

“Oooo, you smell decent for once.”

“Incredible… you’ve got issues, Dave.”

“Do tell. Grab your stuff and let’s go back to camp.” She did, and we did.

I worked the fire – no coals after thirteen or whatever hours. She hit the tent to complete her clothing… shorts. The fire was burning quickly but we were short on supplies.

“Please locate some mid-grade while I clean up a bit and change.”

“Will do.” I did – creek, soap and wipes.

She was still out when I was about to search, but I saw her coming back. I grabbed the grill bag, my big knife, plate, and my food bag after untying both. Back in, she broke the wood on a rock, and I dressed the fire.

“Alrighty… how about a cocktail? Wait, wait… with this too,” I showed her the Old Wis sausage.

“Why not. Want help?”

“Sure, you peel and slice the meat angularly and I’ll mix a beverage.”

She smiled at the first bite of the grilled fatty meat.

“You know it, Missus: salty goodness. Cheers.” She clanged her plastic on my titanium.

“How can you be so casual?”

“Fuck it. I’m good, you’re good and we just climbed a huge fucking hill beyond our comfort zone. We’ll get to the truth of that shortly.”

“Those guys were serious.”

“Yes, in their way, but really: total amateurs… crazy bullies used to facing weaklings. They’d be very foolish to come back. No doubt ego brought them here, but they are hurt.”

“Key there is ‘crazy’ you know.”

“Fuck it. Let’s eat and drink… I’m dead. Check this one,” [chicken teriyaki – double].

She shrugged and dug. “I’m worse, I’m afraid, my glutes hurt already. Ooo,” showing me Black Bart Chili – double.

“Yeah, that’s a good one, a gut load. Choke it down and blast it out.”

“Wow… too much,” with a big smile.

The sausage was great, the drinks were quite effective – just one liter – plenty.

“I’ll tidy up the grill, would you fill the pot please? We’ll filter later.”

“Roger.”

I cranked the light-duty to burn off the remnant grease and set the kit on a rock in the background to cool off.

The pot boiled, the sun dropped behind our conquest, and we ate every bit once again. We filtered almost the complete seven liters of our containers. I noticed a previously unseen mid-sized dead tree laying behind our water station boulder and dragged that back along with the big bag of water. Helen had the filter and the four Nalgene bottles. I cut that shit up quick… I was too tired to swing the six-inch-diameter tree after stripping it. A lot of it went into the fire immediately.

“Hey Dave… how about a nip… a nightcap?”

“Sure… the last few nails in my coffin.” She smiled.

I used TP to wipe my cup thoroughly for the top-shelf bourbon. She poured in a half-inch to both cups. After a sip, “That’s smooth, is it not?”

“Yes, it is… and I’m not a brown drinker. Let me tell you about that mountain.”

She waited.

“That’s not my idea of enjoyable activity. That will be the last time doing that for me. I hear that that slope we were on is steeper than any standard route up Denali or Rainier. Having done that, I still want nothing more of it. I would not have attempted this at all – alone… thank you. Again, had you said one word, I would have gladly turned around. I remain amazed that you persevered after the shock of yesterday’s views. YOU should be congratulated roundly,” as I raised my cup.

“Wow. Thank you for that. I too have no desire to pursue that activity. I very much like the fire, hiking, the food, the environment we are in… and this booze works magic, but those slopes: no thank you.”

Long silence… fire burning down, glowing red in the cool darkness.

“Alright then… finish this drink, water the woods and rocks, and hit the tent. I’m tired.”

“Agreed.”

I brushed my glop coated teeth, tied off the food bags, threw on the last two green roundies, peed and hit the tent. Helen came in the other door in a few minutes. We stabilized within five minutes.

“So, tomorrow, if I can move, I suggest a casual exit… maybe 9:00am… on to a lake headed out. Can’t fish here, and we do have a long way to go. BUT, play it by ear. If we’re dead, we can stay another day to recover. If we hit the trail, then clean socks!”

“I think that I’ll be the cripple, my calves are sore – on top of everything else. My arms are sore… from the axe use, I’m sure. I now have doubts about my newfound invincibility.”

“A life adjustment, not a negative thing.”

“It will take some time to reevaluate.”

And that was all, a rarity – I was out.

And then the Braves came into our camp and woke me at 4:44am.

And I destroyed them in the final devastating encounter.

And Helen recorded it all.

And then we packed.

And then we left.

Day 5 – Retreat

We motored with renewed vigor – despite the short rest after the monumental climb – but, strangely, I believe that I slept for more than seven hours. Headlamps now stowed, we viewed the scenery differently, but not as I had hoped it would be. On the way in we had pushed the pace to get to the big hill and maybe challenge our fitness. The plan was to relax on the return… take it ALL in. Now though, we didn’t slow… it felt that we had to get out – the pace was stiff, but neither of us said anything. Three recent scenes with the real Dave… might be too much to handle.

We went down a mild grade mostly along the river for almost nine miles – stopping just for water – we hadn’t staged any food. We had long ago stripped off our shell uppers. The water fordings were even easier than four days previous. We could easily see the hard hill coming up once we turned from northeast almost 90° to northwest away from the river. That would be the last of Dinwoody Creek. We stepped easily on the rocks crossing Honeymoon Creek and pulled in for a break. A perfect log lay near the small creek; we dropped our packs. Mine still felt like a million pounds.

“That’s about nine miles already, how do you feel?” Our first real discussion since departure. I dug the big map out of the tube for the hundredth review.

“Not bad. Really, pretty good… but that was all downhill.”

“True, but it’s only… 8:45am… wow. You’re hauling ass. How’s the pack?”

“Wonderful.”

“How are your feet?”

“No pain at all.”

“How do you feel about the Braves?”

“Still stewing… awful.”

“Mm hmmm. No way could they do ONE mile, let alone nine, or more (studying the map). Bad guys, Helen, very bad (looking up from the map). Okay… half-way up this shitpile, five hundred or so in a mile, should be Honeymoon Lake – slightly off-trail to several campsites – so sayeth the dox and my memory. Another mile and up five fucking hundo more should be Star Lake – on the trail and many campsites… plus: fish in the lake. Yet another mile, roughly, slightly back down hill, is the long Double Lake – also with fish. What say you?”

She was digging in her pack and finally pulled out most of the big items to get to her food. She had a bar in her hand.

“Definitely have to keep going. The switchbacks were a chore coming down… going up? Can’t be good… totaling a thousand feet – yuck.”

“Hey, do you have any more Papa Steve’s? I had one in the Grand Canyon, wasn’t too bad – and had good ingredients.”

“Hmmm, maybe.”

“I will trade you one cleaned and grilled Brook Trout for one of those bars.”

“And if you do not catch a fish?”

I tilted my head at her and said, “Do you recognize me?” She laughed.

“Okay.”

While we were eating and drinking, I stripped out of my long pants and put on my rancid shorts.

“I will be cooking as soon as we start upwards.”

“Good idea,” and did the same. “One lake at a time, okay?”

“Of course… any of them are good for water and a camp.”

Fifteen minutes.

“Ready.”

“Lead on… slow and easy, we have plenty of time.”

“Roger.”

It was bad getting to Honeymoon, fifty minutes for one mile. I was soaked., but there was a breeze. I signaled Helen at what looked like a trail towards the now hidden lake.

“Well?”

“I’m good; let’s keep going.”

“Okay. Water first.”

It got worse, much worse, steeper… but only for fifteen minutes or so. We made the top of the hump and could see Star Lake.

“That’s Star. Cabins, concession stand, bowling alley.”

No response as we rested and drank some more. She looked at me, I nodded, and she led on. Just five or six minutes later we were at the shore.

“That’s roughly eleven miles on the day. One more and down three hundred to Double… probably the best – according to reports.” We had stopped at an abused campsite and used the big log to sit.

“I’m gonna pee, then rest.” It was warm and almost 11:00am.

“Roger that… I want to look at the map to make sure… before we kill ourselves.” She gave me a nice eye roll as she exited.

Back in a flash – an expert now.

“Let’s move on… that’s the last one for today, right?”

“Yep, back up nine hundo after that… towards and through Burro Flat, up to that highpoint. All downhill to the trailhead from there – eight miles from that spot. Look at this,” pointing to a spot along Double Lake, “this peninsula would be decent for a breeze… it’s now warm enough for evening bugs probably. And I bet there are good sites because of that.”

“A mile?”

“Roughly… down grade to just under ten thousand.”

“Yeah, let’s get there. I need food. I’m used up.”

“Me too. Not much time… thirty, forty-five max.”

“Mount up!” I smiled at her order.

We crossed its inflow creek, and again, and the shore came to us.

“Not yet.”

Silence.

Then away from the water. Then back on shore.

“Not yet.”

Silence.

Deeply cut fisherman trail.

“Pull in and follow it out onto the peninsula.”

We had to cross a rocky jetty, but the water was low, so not a big deal. Looked like someone may have placed some key rocks long ago. A beautiful scene unfolded before us. The lake, the far shoreline, and a sweet campsite with substantial trees. Silence as she scanned, then moved to a bench log. Glancing back at me, I nodded, and we both dropped our fucking packs.

“That’s about twelve miles. Good work there, Sugarfoot.”

“I feel every bit of that distance.”

“Remember when I said we can stop anywhere you like?”

“Yeah, yeah… I needed to get away.”

“Understandable… but not very much enjoyment.”

“Exactly none.”

“Take ‘er easy. We’re done. I’m going camp shoes, then tent, then wood – plus all those other chores you love.”

“Heyyy, I do like that stuff.”

All things rolled, despite our previous exertion and condition. The mood lightened as the fire went up and the pot went on.

“Let’s pump while we wait for the hot water.”

“Why don’t you use the stove more often?”

“I love the fire, but if you want to set it up, be my guest. You know how easy it is.”

“Nah, just curious.”

After pumping once on the trail, we still had two full liters. We refilled the two empties and the bag. Brought over the food bags.

“What have you got?”

“Adobo Rice & Chicken – double.”

“Creamy Mac & Cheese for me. Double.” We filled the bags and checked the clock. “More wood and look for a hanging tree.”

Again: easy. We sat and ate at the dwindling fire – it had to be 70°F – but we were shaded nicely. I added a bundle of light-duty and we set our empty bags up top to burn out and down. I shifted down to the dirt to lean my back slightly on the log. Helen did the same.

“Fishing gear is next. I don’t want to bother with the tarp… we’re probably going to get out of here tomorrow morning early – if it starts raining, we’ll just hit the tent for a while. Okay?”

“Sounds good. May I see the map?” I smiled.

I grabbed the tube and extracted the large 7.5 minute quadrangle topographical map for her and assembled my rod. Reel, lure, and I was set in ten minutes. I parked it at the pack tree.

“So, up first thing, passed Phillips, Burro Flat, the high hump… and whatever afterwards.”

“Yeah… gradual though. Water up at Phillips.”

“I’m going to lay down for a while.”

“Sure; I’m going to take my daypack and go back to Star Lake for some hotdogs… want one?”

Silence. She headed in and opened both fly doors completely.

I sawed up some larger logs. A nice breeze came in… so did some clouds, then a drizzle. Our packs were well under a canopy, and all our soft junk was in the tent already. I threw on a big flat plank to protect the fire and went to the tent. Helen was sleeping. I retreated around to her side and closed the fly. Back to mine and I kicked off my shoes, tried to zip down quietly and moved in up top my bed mess. The rain was light… a soothing sound. I fell asleep but woke soon; 3:13pm. As I exited, she too woke up.

“Did you hear the rain?”

“Nothing… I was out.”

“That’s better anyway; it stopped after just fifteen minutes or so.”

“What’s the plan?”

“I was thinking about a cocktail. Get a little buzz going, snag me a fish… possibly cook it up for Trail Lady. Hey… you need a trail name… a handle. You remember mine, right.”

“Yes, Mr. Badger.”

“Yeah… a few drinks, and I’ll come up with something sweet for your name.”

“I can’t wait.”

I went out, she stayed back. I headed out for more wood; I thought the evening might finally last into full darkness. When I came back with a huge armful, she was sitting at the boosted fire with a notebook.

“We will be telling someone about those guys, right?”

“Of course. That would be Fremont County Sheriff Ryan Lee. His office is in Lander.”

“Just… why do you know that?”

“He’s the top man in the area – outside of the Fed Zones. If things go south, he will be the one against, or with me – either way, his name matters. I’ll forget him as soon as we drive away.”

She was writing… probably his name but continued with more.

“What’s your story?”

I brought out the vodka, Ultima lemon, and two cold liters. I poured off half of one into the pot and evened up the two.

“The video of course… and a simple affidavit. I have no intention of playing games with his crew. The Braves may be dead, and I will not be around to hear about it… nor will you. Your lawyer that assisted you with Joey’s death, etcetera… you know her name, correct? [She nodded.] We will list her as legal contact and simply hand him the package – which includes reference to and the actual personal medicine bags plus the close-up photos you took. All friendly: ‘We were assaulted by a Native, are okay, but you should look at this. I am going to drive Helen over to the hospital now for a checkup on her wounds.’ We will lie and say that we are staying in the Holiday Inn Express for a few days to wait for his instruction. You are beautiful and I am mature confident Dave Klausler to him: direct, serious, and completely believable. [I added a scoop of the powder, shook both vigorously then measured in the vodka.] Where’s your cup?” [It appeared in her hand.]

She stared at me. I poured.

“Once he reads it and views it, or his Deputy, or his assistant… whatever, they will realize that they have a Tribal Issue – it will not have been the first… they may even recognize those idiots. He will debate contacting the BIA first; there is heat between the two – always. Meanwhile, if they got out, they are likely almost blind… they’d have to lie about an attack ON them or shut up completely and live that way. I have no doubt that they are drug users… maybe producers as well. Similarly, I have no doubt that because of what we saw, they are repeat offenders, and the authorities probably know of their historical antics – both the BIA and the Sheriff. They will not be going to either officialdom… they might try the hospital and lie about a chemical spill or some such… blinded, they fell, blah, blah, blah. Given probable colorful history, it is unlikely that anyone would believe anything but some bullshit accident – knowing that it was probably drug-related. Hospital might notify BIA and/or Sheriff. [I paused and drained half of my cup.] Now then, if they are dead, hikers or their buddies in wait WILL find them and report that. Hikers to Ranger then Sheriff. Natives to BIA or Tribal Police. Days. By the time either agency sorts that out and decides to act on the matter we will be gone but will have made an honest effort to inform. Our camp was not right on the trail, but their horses might be visible. The foursome will walk right by on exit. NEW hikers appearing are more likely to find them, (if dead) while they are scouting a campsite. Native friends, if there are any, are probably of low caliber… they may not search for days, if at all.”

She drank as deeply as I had.

“The Sheriff will let us walk away?”

“Yes. He will believe me, while looking at you. The bandage on your forehead and big bandage on your arm will further convince him.” I smiled… and drank the rest of my cup.

“Then we just drive away?”

“To the hotel in your car and my waiting truck. You to Jackson and me to the southeast – immediately out of anyone’s sight. If we don’t do this, and he watches the video while we are there, he will probably physically retain us, and we could be held for a day while they try and find them – attempting to interrogate us further as well. It’s just messy – we are not lying about the incidents. Let the Sheriff and the BIA haggle. The video is indisputable. The letter will mention the foursome, of course.”

She drained her cup.

“I’m scared.”

“Yep; but we are good. There will be no penalty for telling the truth in this case. Your lawyer will have copies of all. IF anyone contacts her, she will suggest that as unpenalized repeat offenders, a negligence suit may be forthcoming, targeting both the BIA and Sheriff’s Office. [Pause.] Should I have not explained this? Just walk in and endure the unpredictable wheels of injustice?”

I poured again. I added wood.

“What else might we do?”

“One other really easy way. Dump all the shit on the Ranger’s Office desk and walk out. ‘Guy out there handed this to me’ with a thumb move. We leave. Same ultimate result probably.”

“I like that one better.”

“Cheers. We could also call your lawyer straight away and let her handle it all. E-mail everything. No one knows us… you aren’t even visible. Come on, bring your notebook, we can talk while I wet a line – as a test.”

“Okay.”

It was just beautiful out… the clouds had cleared, and it was maybe 60°F. Over to the shoreline boulders. Helen sat – distressed – for no good reason; I checked my gear. The drink was excellent… I felt good, despite the miles and despite the manslaughter. I walked back to her.

“You did nothing wrong; they are criminals. I defended my life… and indirectly yours. They made a grievous error; all concerned will see that. You’re a nice person, THAT is why you feel bad… that’s normal – I am not.”

She nodded solemnly.

“Get ready, we’re due for some bingo.”

Four something in the afternoon, on just my third cast, I hooked into something substantial.

“Here we go Helen. Come on over.”

I brough it in with a real fight on my ultralight gear.

“Whoa.” It was very large and meaty. “I am going to keep this one. I must kill it quickly.” I held it up for her to see. “This my dear, is a mature male Brook Trout. About eighteen inches long and almost two pounds, I would bet. Is he not beautiful?”

“Are those blue dots? And red? The orange, the dark black back. Wow… I had no idea.”

“This will be crude; do you want to watch me kill it?”

She stayed put. I removed the Mepps-2-silver from its mouth with a flick of my tool set at needle-nose.

“Thank you for this food – gods of the fishes and water.” I clamped hard and swung its head viciously and accurately onto the nearby edged rock. I am strong and quick, and that was it. “Do you want to watch me clean it? No fillet this time.”

She stayed put. I switched up the Wave to the pointed, serrated blade.

“Ready?”

Silence.

“Here we go… anus to gills,” and slit it open cleanly and easily. I removed everything and tossed the guts into the water. Rinsing as I worked the spine and ripped out the gills. I pulled the Zip-lock out of my big pocket and the fish did not fit completely into the gallon bag. I set it in the water and rinsed my hands thoroughly, then the bag. “That’s it. To the grill.”

She followed.

“Are you okay?”

“Yep. If I am eating it, I better be able to handle the process.”

“Affirmative.”

I reworked the fire, retrieved the grill kit, moved around some support rocks. I selected some good dry mid-grade and laid it in. I also retrieved some heavy-duty aluminum foil from the sheath that I had brought just this time for this task. I poked the fire around again.

“I am not going to season this, (the foil wasn’t long enough so I cut separate sections to enclose the entire fish) because I’d like you to taste it fresh unaltered. (I made multiple slices into the meat angled along its back; both sides.) After that, I have some salt, pepper, generic mixed-bag Italiano and MAYBE the lemon Ultima for an experiment.”

“Sure… sounds good.”

“This is thick meat, and I am not an expert… if it were for me, I would have thrown it right on the grill and ate it indiscriminately… but here you are. This will take some time,” as I reached for my cup.

“That was fast action, why don’t we carry less food, and eat more fish?” The mood had lightened significantly. She had her cup… and small notebook.

“Hah! That was good fortune… I had no idea how good this lake might be. That might be the only one I catch all trip. I feel that fishing, even with good fishery data (and shoddy management), is too risky to be relied upon for food. I have been to some spots multiple times… a million fish one time and zip the next. Weather plays a big part – the bugs upon the water… clarity. Also, we do not know how many people were just banging the water with lures or rocks… how much exposure to other fishermen and visitors. I consider this a fine treat, and usually only keep one. I am very careful to return the small ones back to the water quickly. This is a very big Brook Trout for these parts.”

“Thanks, I get it.”

I adjusted the coals yet again, and set the grill atop the designated rocks, then the packaged fish onto the grill. I also poured the last of our pre-mix into the cups. Of course the drinks were working as designed.

“Even with this large fish, we might get just 8oz of meat each. No way is that enough when hauling around that huge pack, or climbing mountains, or freezing… we’ll be eating a freeze-dried bag in addition to this. I have some that are less than 2-Serving, do you?”

“Yep.” As I had suggested to bring along.

We sat quietly, sipping. I carefully flipped the fish, with my head conducting the usual million things.

“You hiked the shit out of that trail. I could barely keep up… ‘Rock-Kicker’.”

“Huh? No… why?”

“I see everything from behind you. You kick twice as many rocks as I have ever seen… way more than even Gerald hauling 80# of Tanqueray at 45˚incline after four hours up – in the desert heat.”

Silence.

“Really?”

“Yes… but those were some grueling hikes. Nevertheless, there it is. We still have time to alter it. It’s not officially locked in until we depart the trailhead.”

“You and your retarded rules. Okay.”

The drinks were done, the fish had been checked twice and resealed both times. We had retrieved plates, utensils, and water.

“Okay… it’s ready.” I moved the foil package over to a recovered plank.

I opened the foil flat and with my fork removed the skin easily and then held it on edge (like swimming position) and proceeded to delicately fork the meat down from the spine while holding on with my gloved hand. A large section came off perfectly, almost half the length on one side.

“This is good… yeah, cooked well.”

The tail was even easier. I dished off the entire bone-free half to Helen’s extended plate. The fins came right out. Slightly different for my side. I laid it flat and held the head in glove and fork pinning the meat… up came the spine and all the ribs down to the tail fin. Into the fire.

“Nice.”

“Okay… let’s try it.”

“Light. Mild taste… not fishy at all.”

The mild spices were within reach… I waved my hand at them.

“Help yourself… I am going to try the lemon powder. Freshly squeezed lemon juice is a common condiment for trout. (I pinched a bit and rubbed my fingers together to dust a section.) Hmm, not bad.”

Helen selected the pepper… just a bit onto a small bite. Then the Italiano similarly. Finally, the salt.

“Oooo, that Italian stuff is perfect.”

We savored that for all of three minutes.

“Thank you, the trade has been completed.”

“You’re welcome. I’m glad it turned out so well.”

I added wood to burn up the foil and make sure the grill was clear. I put the lake-filled pot on. We took the gear down to the lake for a little muck cleanup. Back at the fire, I had my shit-kit out. I worked on my face, neck, ears, hands then nose with a wipe. It had turned dark gray from my residual sludge. A new man. I offered one to her and she did the same. Dusk came as we filled the meal bags with extra boiling water. The wait, then delicious as usual.

“Let’s get some more wood.”

I grabbed the saw and my leathers.

“Yep, okay. Now, about that bourbon.”

I turned around to look at her smiling.

“Wood first… see if you can stand up, booze-head.” Altitude and alcohol – recommended by all psychotherapists.

Again, I chose to saw… no breakage acrobatics – I was tired – from many things. I finished up with plenty for the night and morning. I stowed light-duty under our rainfly. We secured the almost empty packs, staged the food bags, and sat at the fire. Darkness fell as she cleaned both our cups with TP, then poured in some fine brown BH.

“This stuff is still decent.” She shakes her head slowly at me.

“So, we visit the Ranger’s office – I don’t suppose you know him, too?”

“Funny. I did check of course, but he is irrelevant. Unusual name… ‘von’ something… maybe ‘von Kiss’ – not sure.

“Irrelevant?”

“A bureaucrat; likely never leaves the office; no real enforcement authority.”

“Really? Don’t those guys now carry sidearms… shotguns?”

“Pfft; what’s he gonna do, shoot me for not pulling over my backpack?”

She waited for more… sipping the smooth bourbon.

“Okay, try this scenario out. Ranger comes by and walks right through our campsite; this one.

‘I’m going to have to give you a citation for improper campsite – you’re too close to the water. Identification please.’

‘Well sir, we can debate the merits of using an established site versus me ruining more ground on a new site all night. We can discuss the damage done here, repeatedly, and previous to our arrival, and the lack of enforcement by you and your agency that led to this condition for some time, too. This is now a de facto established campground. You can try and make her and me pay for your mistakes and incompetence, but I will not help you. This site will be cleaner when we depart than when we arrived. Get lost or shoot me… if you try and kidnap or assault me for what would not even qualify as a misdemeanor, I will first defend myself, her too, and I will then sue you personally. Understand?’

What do you think he would say to that?”

“You would do that… say that?”

“Fuck those egocentric revenue agent crossing guards. They have the means to cordon off this site – yet did not. They have the means to measure, this site, right now, yet they would not. Yes, I know that we are too close, but I am not going to ruin even more of the environment. They are bullies after the fact, and they know it. If he wanted to, he could ride out, call for backup and then what, imprison us for camping? If this site wasn’t here, you and I would smash down greenery worse than using this existing dirt. Actually, this site in particular is rock and sand, virtually indestructible – more details sure, but the same ‘rules’ apply here as they would to a site in a grassy meadow alongside a stream. How about a little common sense?”

“Their rules.”

“Yep… and I would make them fight to justify their inconsistent behavior. I did explain that once and the two trail monkeys said sternly: ‘don’t do it again.’ We were on a sheet of granite. Oh yeah, sorry, back to our pal in Dubois; yes, our assigned District Ranger is based there.”

“We just stroll in?”

“Of course… it’s a public facility. Everyday occurrence. What’s bothering you?”

“Just concerned still.”

“We’re on the up-and-up… they’ll do their jobs eventually – including your attorney.”

“Yes… okay. Sorry; I am not used to such things.”

“Neither am I. Check the sky.” All clouds.

“Night rain?”

“It would be unusual.”

“Very long day… I just realized. My watch says 8:55… a new record for us.”

“Lots of action.”

It had stayed warm… the cloud cover. We closed shop as usual and headed in. Thirty minutes of silence – I was just dozing.

“I guess I wanted to keep this positive trend. I don’t want to face the music – however mild you might think that it will be. Can we camp some more before ending it?”

“I truly believe that no one will have heard about this for a day and will not act on it for another day at least. IF anyone approaches, it will be from Ink Wells, the shortest entry – The Rez. Sure, we can camp… I love to camp.” I could feel her smiling.

“Where? The Hunters Camp again?”

“Nah… there are better sites along Torrey… where we had lunch the first day?”

“Ahh, yes. Wait… eight miles? Up Burro Flat first, then the hump, then down to the former camp then the long switches down?”

“Wow… not bad. I make it seven miles, but planning for a bit more may be judicious if we go off-trail in search of the perfect spot.”

“See… I’m getting there.”

“I had no doubts.”

Zzzzzzzzzzz.

Midnight whizz; Helen jumped at the zipper sound… joined me anyway.

“Take a look… feel it?”

“It’s still warm. I was hoping for big-time stars again.” In the dark, she walked off to pee. Quite a difference from Day 1. I hosed a tree; I was rewarded with some fine splash-back on my bare feet. The fire still glowed.

“Strange… it may rain.”

“Pack up wet… fun times.”

“Might as well experience everything – already have manslaughter covered.” I could feel her shrug.

“Dave… that doesn’t really help.”

“Yeah, that was a bad one – sorry.”

We crawled back in. Far too warm to zip the bags.

Day 6 – Down (River Camp)

Up in the dark. Good: 5:15am – I slept again. I turned my head, while seated, to face Helen. She was awake.

“Please tell me that you slept.”

“Yep. All is good.”

The usual morning – except – Helen had a bag for breakfast. Smiling into my light.

“Whatchoogot?”

“MH Breakfast Skillet! Double.”

“Never had it. Any ‘meat product’ in there?”

“Let’s see… ‘crumbled pork patty’. I sense gold.”

“You’re crazy. Hooves and snouts. (She scrunched her face at me. It hadn’t rained.) Thermo says 48˚F. That’s twenty higher than summit day.”

“Pack ‘er up!” I just tilted to look at this lady.

“May I finish my tea please Ma’am?”

“Oops; jumped the gun.”

“Pack ‘er up!”

Sigh.

I thought that I heard her humming while we did our things… something had changed. She was gone as I finished the tent… momentary panic. She appeared from the mainland trees.

“Uh, you know, that real meat, fresh fish, made a difference.” Now commented on crap, it seemed.

“I’m sure that it had nothing to do with the booze. You better have mopped up good. If you’re not bleeding, then you didn’t wipe hard enough. We’ve got miles and miles and miles, oh yeah.”

“Ugh. Where do you get this stuff?”

“Years of practice and continued reinforcement. Hey, I’m going straight to shorts, fleece up top and jacket staged.”

“Yep, me too.”

“Double stinky socks.”

“Hey, I have some of those too.”

“Should have done some laundry yesterday… on top of everything else.”

“There’s no hope. Mount up!”

“This bitch actually feels lighter… after five days and off-loading ten-plus. I secretly gave you the extra water. (I hadn’t… the creek at Hunters Camp had the trickle if we needed it, which was doubtful.) Set sticks!”

Out by 7:00am.

“Lead on Rock-Kicker. Hmmm: maybe just ‘RK’?”

“Zzzzzzzz. Huh, what?”

Up… a great start, but not too bad. The sun came up around Arrow Mountain. On Burro in just over an hour. The hump in another half plus. Beautiful. Warm.

“Break time. Looks like it rained here. I’m ditching the sheep-skin.”

“It’s so green now. I’m a bit warm, too.”

Beautiful stroll downward. Noticeable bugs came out to greet us when we toured the Hunters Camp. We moved on quickly. We dropped our packs at the top of the Switchbacks From Hell. Very friendly bugs… I lubed up neck, triceps and back of my legs with certified toxic DEET. Helen covered every bit of her skin with her doesn’t-work-beyond-city-patio product.

“Nothing like a little rain to wake up the skeeters.”

“Where’s the breeze?”

“Must be sixty already.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Lead on RK.”

“Roger Badger.” She smiled at that, of course.

We watered up, loaded up, sticked up, and headed down to [East] Torrey Creek. No stops and no talking. An hour. It was noticeably warmer.

“I don’t like adding miles, but let’s go up the Bomber route to get away from the common use areas. I’ve been in there before… should be something good within a quarter mile.”

It was reasonably flat at about 8,600’ and we parked just off the trail within fifteen minutes.

“Let’s drop this junk here and search. Remember: stay alert and look at the landmarks. I’ll head slightly upstream; you go slightly down… slightly. If you can’t find me on return, for whatever reason, stay visible near the water and I’ll find you.”

“Okay.”

I had nothing remarkable and headed towards her. She turned back around with a wave to guide me. Helen had found a beautiful site, off the water a bit, treed, on level ground with a sandy shoreline section of the creek nearby.

“Yeah… perfect. Let’s get the packs.”

Back at the packs in a minute.

“Are you sure you want to stay? It’s just three miles out… almost exclusively downhill.”

“Yes, this is beautiful.” As she swatted another bug.

I nodded, we mounted up and headed to the site. 10:45am. Standard procedure ensued. Completely set by lunch. Camp shoes. I was glistening, and probably stunk. Helen stood next to me smiling at the easy set.

“Stove for lunch, huh? It’s gotta be 75˚”

“Okay. Tarp or under that big tree?”

“Nice. Tree. I’m chewing on this delicious bar for an appetizer. Compressed Sawdust is the named flavor… all-natural brown coloring.”

“Yummy. Nothing for me… I’ve got Beef Stew on my mind.”

“Can’t, that’s dinner only.”

“Screw your rules. DOUBLE!”

“Chili Mac according to my few remaining LUNCH entrees.”

Helen filled the pot from the meandering creek while I assembled and then fired up the stove. As the pot cooked, we headed over to filter cold water.

“Better bring the bag. (She gave me sideways eyes.) You know… finish up the medicine.”

Easy lunch in the shade, empty bags to the fire area. Bugs humming. Temp still rising. The chili went south on me quickly. Fucking great!

“Not good… that slop blew right through me. Happened before… some bullshit spices probably. I’ll be blasting the needles for a few minutes.”

“Wonderful… thanks for the update.”

Blown clear in three seconds; no splash-back. Back to camp. A wind had cranked up. She had gathered some wood.

“Thermo says 78˚… wow.”

“In the sun it feels like a million. Wind blew the bugs out… mostly. I’m going to bathe; why don’t you too.”

“Has my 48-hour deodorant stopped working?” I don’t carry it… weight, and it makes no difference against the work, dirt, fish, and fire chores. Add heat to the mix sometimes.

We gathered supplies and headed to the beach – Hah! – crazy that, up here in the mountains… backpacking. The soap was a shared item, so we stayed close. Helen stripped, and for only the second time in my adult life, I stripped outdoors and entered the (slow bending cold creek) water naked. It was maybe two feet deep. I dunked and retreated to load my t-shirt with soap as a scrubbing towel. I tried not to stare… this was way new territory with me. Helen was obviously very comfortable with her nudity. All adults here Dave. After a minute though, I became absorbed in cleaning the layers of filth from my body. Why didn’t we just bathe at different times? I’m no prude. That’s why. Sure Dave, sure. I dunked again and glanced over; she was under water completely on the rinse-cycle. I retreated at the same time as she and grabbed my camp towel. I moved to a rock and dried off enough to slip on my utility shorts. Helen sat on a rock in the sun to dry off. I occupied myself with soaping up my underwear and washing them thoroughly old-school style against a rough rock at the water’s edge. Retreated again to the common area and sat to dry my feet. I used the uppers of my dirty socks to clear the sand from between my toes and soles. Camp shoes on. She simply stood up and walked over, calm as can be. Uhhh, yeah, that’s cool. Ye gods… absolute perfection. The wind had grown brisk.

“I’m heading back (maybe fifty yards), you good?” Casual me to this naked model.

“Yep… I’ve got to clean my underwear too. Ten minutes.”

I nodded.

Back at camp, the wind really picked up and the temp dropped quite a bit. I hung my shirt and underwear.

“Ahhh, this junk says down to 50° already.” I glanced to see what she had on. Looked like bootie shorts and the relatively porous fleece.

“Bugs are gone. I am going to put some clothes on.”

I retrieved my back-up softer shirt, complete shell and sat to get the lowers on. It started to hail. No transition from rain or to rain… just ice pellets.”

She came out, zipped it up, and declared: “SWEET!” Nutcase.

She was wearing her full shell though. The ground was covered in five minutes… white. “Is this normal?”

“It’s actually not all that uncommon, but usually warmer with the ice from up high. Crazy-assed mountains.”

And just like that, the hail stopped. Five minutes later the wind had completely stopped as well, but the temp stayed down.

“Okay, definitely going with a fire now. Probably need some dry bones from under the canopy. (The hail had already melted on the formerly warm soil.) We are departing tomorrow, right?”

“I thought that was the plan, yes.”

“School time… gather ‘round children.” Smirk from the girl.

The stove was still set up, so I disassembled the entire thing… again, slowly, indicating caution with the depressurization from the pumped fuel cannister. I stowed all but the tank and cap into its designated travel sack. I capped the red MSR cylinder and carried it over to the fire area.

“First: same starting materials, but a generous amount. Second: even more mid-grade. Lastly: more mid-grade at the ready and a log or two. DJeep in an easy access pocket – as it should be ALWAYS.”

She assembled it all as I nodded and watched.

“Okay, now the dangerous part.”

“Yeah, I saw this coming a year ago.”

“This (long stick in hand), is the wand of power.”

I opened the fuel cannister and carefully poured a liberal amount on the entire set fire-to-be. I poured some fuel onto the end of the stick.

“Back up please. Okay, go low, in case too much fuel was applied. Light the stick. (I did this.) Stay fucking low.”

I touched the burning Wand of Power to the nearest material in the fire ring.

Whoooomph!

“And there you go… fire. Lesson over. Let us pray,” as I bowed my head.

“You’re something else.”

“Now… about that medicine…”

“Yes, I’m in.”

I still had my light utility shorts on… I went to the tent and retrieved my sheep-skin, fleece lowers too, and brought them back to the fire. I added some wood to the settled down blaze. I removed my shoes, stripped off my shell and replaced it with fleece. I warmed my feet, slipped the shoes back on and hung the shell at the ready. Then on to the cocktail supplies.

3:33pm according to F91W. Fuck that synchronicity bullshit.

“Hey Dave, this fire is way too small.”

“Work it.”

“We may need more wood.”

“Let me get gassed up first.”

“Of course.” I’m at the fire mixing.

“Where’s your cup khadammit, I don’t have all day over here.”

“Right here.” Pushing it into my face.

“Finally.”

“I sense that this is going to be an interesting evening.”

“Maybe.”

I had forgotten that we had hiked pretty hard… speed. And the day before, and the mountain before that. It was a miracle that I could even stand. I was certain that vodka would help.

“Cheers, Sir. I will remember these decent drinks.”

“Cheers to you; I know you will. A damned fine cocktail,” as I drained about a third straightaway.

I zoned out… thinking about my tactful approach.

“What are you stewing about Badger?”

“On top of what we have done out here, you my dear, are a beautiful woman – in case you didn’t already know. Your casualness without clothing on is remarkable.”

Despite her comfort with nudity, she blushed deep red.

“Umm, you have seen me before if I recall correctly – much closer than creek-side today.”

“Hah! Prone; near death; bloody; bones protruding; flesh shredded… hardly the perfection of this day.”

“You are not so bad yourself, you know, regardless of age.”

“Hah! I am well aware of my wrinkles and white hair.” 62yo vs. 39yo occurred to me immediately – I despise my aging body sometimes.

“Pffft, come on.”

“Okay, now that we are done patting each other on the back… more wood. No saw… this area is clear enough to burn some longer broken stuff. Maybe we can find some dead aspens. Glove up!”

I hammered the drink. We located plenty, as we were well off the trail, and not a frequently used spot. I dragged a very long six-inch diameter dead beauty with branches, and she broke off a bunch of mid-grade from a huge dead and downed spruce. On return I broke the branches off the aspen first and then segmented it into roughly two-foot logs whaling on a large rock near the camp. No boots, so I was careful, breaking up the smaller stuff.

“Let’s stow some of this for the morning… I may be incapacitated shortly. Need some more light-duty. Then let’s pump enough water for the remainder of our stay.”

“Okay. These drinks are good.” Smiling.

“And healthy. Refill?”

“For medicinal purposes only.”

“In. Compressed Sawdust bar? I have an extra it seems.”

“Okay.”

“Dave, this is not bad… very chocolatey. But yeah, strange texture.”

It stayed cool – low 50s – but the fire… yes, gold. After water, we prepped our final dinner and waited for the pot while sitting on some very old rotting stumps someone had long ago rolled in.

“This is what I enjoy most… winding down at the fire in the cool evening. I was speaking with #1 Son recently, at a fire very much like this one… ‘I like the feeling of a good buzz’ I said. Not even a week later he very uncharacteristically had a few drinks at a buddy’s wedding and reported to me: ‘Pop, I see why people like this poison.’ ‘Hah’, I said, ‘in moderation My Only Son.’ Tis true.”

“I happen to agree. This altitude though… quite a difference in effect – especially time to feel it.”

“The workload might have something to do with it.”

“When I was still recovering, and in therapy (forever it seemed), I saw some druggies… addicts. I am very careful. I don’t know why, but I feel vulnerable to such things.”

“Yet here we are.”

“Big difference.”

“Exactly. You have the necessary controls.”

Silence.

“Fuckin’-A… Beef Stew. The old recipe, as we read back in 2000, way out in Alaska, had about a million grams of sodium. We all laughed when we compared meals. They toned that down, it seems. Still tasty as hell. Hmm, why would ‘hell’ be tasty? Stupid fucking language.”

“Look at this one, a random pick at REI… Thai Chicken Coconut Curry – DOUBLE!”

“Risky. Read closely… ‘reacts violently with vodka.’”

“What’s that favorite line of yours? ‘Choke it down and blast it out!’”

“Adult accident is imminent.”

“Funny stuff Dave.”

I don’t know how she could pack away those doubles… Mr. Fusion working in there probably. Eaten up; cleaned up; burned up; drank up… all good. Breeze came in down the chute from Bomber – frigid. More wood as darkness fell.

“It matters who you are with, of course. I’ve been on trips, when I wanted to walk away. Hard to do when you’re ‘A Million Miles Away’.”

“Plimsouls.”

“And how exactly do you know that?”

“PT was a good guy… helpful; genuine. He liked music; he plugged me in.”

I moved out to pee again, and it was cold away from the fire.

“This junk says it’s down to 44°… gonna be cold tonight.”

“Why do you call that precision thermometer ‘junk’? Many things, actually, I’ve noticed.”

“Simple: I doubt the accuracy of those many things… people especially.”

“Huh?”

“It’s easy to lie.”

“Is this what you are like when you drink?”

“Yes. The statement is true nevertheless.”

“You speak the truth?”

“I believe so. I have no reason to lie to you.”

“And if you had a reason?”

“You wouldn’t know I was lying.”

“Fucker.”

“Mmmm; is this what you are like when you drink?”

“Yes. The statement is true nevertheless.”

“I like you.”

“You’re alright.”

Silence.

I spun in my head for an unknown period of time. I came to and Helen was adding wood… in a decent arrangement – no correction needed. Good.

“You hid your concerns, did you not? Your doubts?”

“Wow. Pretty vague, but I do that every day. Did you mean the big hill?”

“Yes. You could have told me.”

“Yes, I could have, but we, you, would not have summited had I done that. I knew you were capable. My doubts were solely with me.”

“Yet you did it.”

“Fuck it, I hide many things… scars, from long ago, that affect my view of me.”

Silence.

“It seems that I am able to address… to assess other’s fears… mine often get in the way. I told you that I would have bailed had you said one word – that is the truth – subconsciously I was looking for a way out.”

“Yet you still summited… leading me with support… you are crazy, aren’t you.”

“Damaged… yes.”

“Is that how you were able to demolish those Braves?”

“No. I have decades of disciplined training, they did not. They tried to hurt us. I simply denied them that avenue. How I feel now may be a result of the damage that I mentioned.”

“That must take effort.”

“You have no idea.”

Silence.

“Will we really be okay?”

“Yes. I am actually sorry; you may have nightmares. It was vicious. Does not affect me the way it does you.”

“I am seeing that more clearly now.”

“You may avoid me going forward, it would be lamentable, but understandable.”

Silence.

She moved off… presumably to pee.

“It’s really cold.”

“Check that precision thermometer.” She tilted her head at me.

“39°”

“Check that sky.”

“Oooooooooo.”

“Billions and Billions, if you believe that guy.”

“I have no reason not to.”

“I do… but, but, just look… fucking incredible on anyone’s standard.”

“Awesome.”

“Agreed.”

“My junk says 9:15pm… a new record.”

“Perfect, RK… I still like it.”

“If it’s true, and I still can hike like you, I accept it.”

“Pffft, you could bury me.”

“Your transparent modesty is bullshit.”

“More gold.”

“Tent?”

“We forgot the food bags. This is Grizzly Country.”

“Great. Withholding more info.”

“Not on my list: death by bear.”

“Let’s go string them up.”

“Yep. Hang on, let me brush this sludge off my teeth.”

Brushed up. Strung up. Logged up. Looked up.

“Beautiful,” says she.

“Agreed,” says me. The tent was a welcome change… a comfort. I undressed and burrowed in.

“This is nice… when clean, and it’s cold outside… burrow in.”

“One of the best nights of sleep I ever had was in the mountains near here. Atlantic Lake in the Popo Agie Wilderness. I believe that it was sub-thirty before we even hit the tents. I was dead, and sore – my spine at the time was problematic. The guys stayed up for a bit after I retired. We had had a few drinks, you know. I hit 600mg of ibuprofen and went in. I closed up, zipped in and zoned out. I barely heard my buddy come in. I awoke at around midnight and went out to pee. Holy shit, was it cold. On my return to the tent, I fucked up the zipper, and embedded the fly material – deep – while still outside. I had on just underwear and a T-shirt and was already shivering. I summoned everything that I had, and bull-moosed that motherfucker through the snag. I thanked the gods of whatever and entered. The bag was like a cocoon, and I melted into it. I emerged a monarch hours later and knew that I had dreamt fine things… couldn’t recall a bit though.”

“Chat time.”

“Yep… she knew what she was talking about.”

“Goodnight Dave.”

“Goodnight Helen.”

Day 7 – Out and Good Bye

Awake early. The lower temperature was obvious even though I had a rare night without peeing – and calibrating. We both put on full gear while still in the tent. Double socks and boots loose at each other’s vestibule.

“Whoa: 24°”

“Fire up.” The lighter aspens had burned to nothing… just a few coals remained under a knotted former log. Slight delay with breakfast while we mobilized and warmed up.

Helen was back to oatmeal.

“I miss my oatmeal – on days like this – only the heat of that food matters, otherwise practically no nutrition.”

“Must you dampen my bliss?”

“Trade you a Compressed Sawdust for that last envelope.”

“Pffft, no way… suffer with your cold rocks.”

“Must you twist the blade?” At least I received a smile.

“Pack ‘er up!”

“KHADAMMIT, jumping the gun AGAIN! But I know you like to say it RK.”

“Last night when I was reviewing, I realized how much I like those little commands.”

I had finished my double-scalding tea.

“Pack ‘er up!”

“Roger Badger.” Snickering still.

Headlamps on the whole time. Gloves on the whole time. Tent fly frosted thickly. Ursacks just about empty. Water full from the late pump of the big bag.

“Please return to the beach and check for dropped items. I’ll scan the camp.” I flipped my light to maximum.

“Okay.”

At her return, “Anything?”

“Zip.”

I held out my fisted hand at arm’s length, she took off a glove and put her palm under it. I dropped in a dull quarter that my very bright light had revealed out in the needles.”

“I’m rich!”

“Check the date.”

“Oooo, do you think that this has been moving around here since 1947?”

“Nah, I think a coin collector came out here to trade with the Grizz.”

Silence.

I doused the fire with the water remaining in the big bag and stowed it in my back door.

“Mount up!”

“Yes Ma’am! Stick up!”

“Oooo, a new one.”

“Take me to the trail RK.”

Lightness appeared in the east… still behind Arrow Mountain.

“Even in the dark this place is scenic.”

“Three miles, all downhill, let’s get outta here and go see Deputy Dawg or Dudley Do-Right – whomever is handy.”

“I have no idea who they are.”

“Not important; Chief Wiggum then.”

“Which Tribe is that?”

“Western Moron, I think.”

“What?”

“He’s the chief on the Simpson’s for fucks sake.”

“You used that name and title to purposely confuse the current situation, you bastard.”

“Fun times.”

Not surprisingly, she picked up the pace. East Torrey creek left us to the north and in about one mile we stopped to take off the shell lowers. The land opened up before us approximately where West Torrey comes in – unseen – now three-hundred feet below us.

From up high, we could see that the parking lot had only one vehicle besides ours. We made the trailhead by just 7:50am in early light – the sun behind the orange mounds to the north and east.

We walked over to the vehicles, passing the one from Montana, and dropped our packs.

“Not bad, huh?”

“Not at all. Still cool… nah, it’s cold without that pack warming my back and everything else.”

“Okay, let’s load these things up. Are you going to change clothes?”

Lifting her arms in disgust, “Onto this body?? No. way.”

“Nor I. Well then, Ranger, Sheriff or neither and Attorney? It’s Friday, all should have somebody available – in person.”

“I don’t feel right not telling someone local… maybe for a rescue??”

Waiting.

“I don’t want to go to the Sheriff.”

Waiting some more.

“Ranger.”

Waiting more still.

“Call attorney. Yes. What’s next.”

“As I mentioned, our District Ranger’s office is in Dubois, it’s a normal workday, so someone should be present – anyone. We need an affidavit – or simple letter, copies of the video and photo files and a large envelope. Write the letter on your tablet, visit Walgreens, Walmart, Staples, Office Depot, FedEx, USPS, or UPS… for supplies, the Chamber of Commerce for info and I’m sure the library will print a two-page letter for us. You can use your Cloud of choice to save the files. Put the files… including the letter file onto a memory stick. Sometimes in small towns the library will have a Notary as well (if you want) – the Chamber might know that… Google probably will. Shouldn’t take long. We drive in both vehicles, I drop the package, you call your attorney.”

“This is what do you at night, isn’t it?”

“Constantly.”

We did just that. Google saved much time. Library, 24/7 Notary Dubois, Family Dollar, and USPS Dubois. Two packages, one for local use labeled:

IMMEDIATE ATTENTION

Shoshone National Forest Wind River District Ranger Jeff von Kienast

Fremont County Sheriff Ryan Lee

Bureau of Indian Affairs Wind River Agency Superintendent Leslie J. Shakespeare

And the other Helen’s attorney – which we mailed from USPS. Helen also e-mailed all the files to her right from her phone. While I dropped the other envelope (containing the personal medicine bags) at the desk person in the Dubois Ranger’s office with my bullshit story, adding “… he said it was an emergency” to our agreed script, Helen called and spoke to her attorney. While we drove back to Helen’s rental in the Holiday Inn Express lot temporary drop-spot she relayed that her attorney was not happy with her, thinking that Helen should not have offered anything of herself and dumped it all on me – which is fair. She had already read the letter but had not yet viewed the video.

“She will do nothing until the Sheriff contacts her – no one else has any established authority yet.”

“That’s expected Helen… she wants to protect you, I do not factor into that. All good… really, I am not concerned.”

“I am… hang on, that’s her again (phone ringing). ‘Yes Mary, he’s here… speaker phone’, now.”

“No, just you Helen… please.”

“Okay, speaker off.”

A minute of Helen listening.

Finally, “Yes, okay. Please re-read the letter. I’ll call you later. Thanks, bye”

Silence.

“Come on Helen, you’ll not surprise or offend me, I assure you.”

Silence as we parked.

“She watched the video and viewed the photos. Shocked would be an understatement. She asked, ‘Who is this crazy guy?’ among other commentary to the negative. She suggested that I drop you off at the Sheriff’s office or visit myself. I will not.”

“Again, not unexpected. You could do that if you want… if it would make you feel better. I am truly unconcerned. Those agencies have a real mess to sort out; I will be fine. She does realize the imminent danger to both of us while out there, doesn’t she?”

“Sounds like SHE is in shock.”

“She’ll review… call her from your spa in Jackson. She’s a smart lady… not many can take that kind of assault easily… she’ll dial it in – I am certain.”

Silence.

“I don’t like ending this trip like this.”

“Nor I, but there’s not much we can do now. Unless you want to pursue the Sheriff route.”

“No.”

“Then we’re done. Hop out,” I did too.

“I have to get out of here – just in case.”

I moved in to hug her, and she wouldn’t let go.

“It will be fine, really. I’ll call you when I am at a rest spot.”

“Okay.”

Afterwards

Unfortunately, there is no happy ending.

Nearly two months have passed.

No authority has yet called Mary Reichert (Helen’s attorney) on the subject.

No authority has yet called Helen on the subject.

No authority has yet called Me on the subject.

Of course we spoke, and still do. She remains my close friend… maybe closer now.

Two wilderness adventures in a little more than one year and two horrific results. She has to live with this latest traumatic event not knowing the finale – adding to her bear memories. She has told me of no nightmares – which is surprising. On our last call I suggested the most likely scenario is the simplest:

“The Braves woke up and somehow managed to crawl or ride out. They then used the Rez Services for whatever repair they could and told no one the truth. The agencies did nothing since none of us three pursued anything – as we stated in the letter. They let it drop – they’ve got better things to do than advertise ongoing conflict. All this time, we certainly would have heard something from one of them. They have the video.”

Anything is possible with the proper training – so sayeth me.