Experiencing the Grand Tetons

Issue: 9/29/05
By Greg Roberts
Versus Magazine Online [Image based format]

I still don't know what the woman in the red dress wasdoing on the trail. She was fiftyish, blonde, and had white sneakers to go with her blazing red dress. It was not a modest red, but lipstick red, red enough to make her a garish eyesore in Grand Teton National Park's landscape of greens, grays and browns. But there she was, strolling along the hot, dusty trail to Taggart Lake. And the oddest thing about her was not that she was wearing a long red dress to hike on a hot summer day, but the fact that she did not think she was odd. She was oblivious, to me and to everyone else on the trail, oblivious to how she clashed so magnificently with her surroundings. She was clearly absorbed in her own world where it is normal to wear a long red dress and white sneakers to go for a ramble in the mountains.

But as I walked this last mile of my three-night backpacking trip, it became clear to me that she was an ambassador of sorts, sent to welcome me back from the wilderness. She was the ambassador of all the weird quirks in the human race, the ambassador of "civilized" society. I wanted to run away right then and there, off the trail and up into the mountains from which I had just emerged-back to the uncivilized, where there is nothing so absurd as this woman in a red dress, where everything makes sense and has order and is as it should be. But I did not run, and I walked on past her. She made me sad in an odd sort of way, because it was so apparent that she just doesn't know. She doesn't know, and neither does the family struggling to push their umbrella-shaded stroller down the bumpy trail, nor does the portly family that asked me between short breaths how much farther it was to the lake when they were only ten minutes removed from their car. Most of the tourists hiking that mile and a half to the lake simply don't know what is back there beyond Taggart Lake-the explosive fields of wildflowers, the snowfields that are still to be found in August, and the brilliant blue bowls of water nestled beneath the craggy spires. And it strikes me with a sort of melancholy that they do not know of these things.

I can say this because I know a thing or two about these summer vacationers. As a ranger, I stood in a booth at a park entrance station talking to them all summer. It was my duty to greet the endless stream of "visitors" (we weren't supposed to call them tourists) to Grand Teton, checking their passes, taking their money, and answering their questions. Brilliant questions, like, "Are the salmon spawning right now?" and, "Is that salt on the mountains?" and the perennial favorite, "Are we in Yellowstone?" Often I simply had to orient them on Grand Teton's complicated road map, which essentially consists of two highways. I have been a tourist numerous times in my life, and now that I have dealt with them as an insider, I never want to be one again.

So as I finished up this hike I was dreading the fact that I would be at work later that afternoon. It is hard to go from sleeping under the stars and seeing maybe a dozen people in the course of a day to confinement in a cramped booth and seeing a dozen consecutive carloads in the span of a few minutes. But I really can't complain, even if a thousand women in red dresses and white sneakers who could barely hike up a hill came through my gate each day, because that was my ticket to a summer of backpacking in the mountain paradise of northwestern Wyoming. And I had three nights worth of bliss to sustain me through the next five days of work before I would rejuvenate myself all over again the next weekend. It was a weekly cycle.

This trip in particular still stands out to me, not just because it was my first real off-trail adventure, but because it was punctuated quite unexpectedly at the end by the lady in the red dress. My buddy Stew and I planned to do this trip of 20 miles over three nights, starting the afternoon we got off from the 6:00 a.m. shift at work, and this really was not strenuous mileage considering that we had day-hiked 21 miles together earlier in the summer. But it was far better this way, because it allowed us time to stop and admire things, such as the black bear that wandered up the trail behind us that first evening on our way up Cascade Canyon. I enjoyed this black bear more than most of the others I saw that summer, because Stew and I had this one to ourselves. Not another hiker passed by on the trail while we watched him; that bear was ours and ours alone. He was not mine and forty other people's, as is usually the case during the massive bear jams that pile up along the highway when one is spotted. With such sightings, you have to share the bear with a bunch of frenzied families running around trying to get a picture and endangering their kids in the process. Out on the trail, you are completely free from such madness.

There was also the pair of moose munching away further up the trail on the grassy, willowy island in the middle of Cascade Creek. I must have seen a few dozen moose in the three months I spent out there, but I never became jaded enough to tire of watching them. And as much as I enjoy having an animal to myself, I pointed the moose out to passing hikers because it is a wonderful experience to sit and contemplate such whimsical creatures. We all may know what a moose is supposed to look like, but until you actually see one, you don't realize that it is basically an enormous deer with a very curious rack of antlers and facial features more like a camel's. A moose makes you realize that God or Mother Nature or whatever you believe in must have a sense of humor to make something so ridiculous seem so majestic at the same time. After two encounters with the local fauna in as many hours, I couldn't help wondering how many of the roadside tourists ever got to experience an animal in the wild with no one else around.

Before long, we decided to leave the moose alone because the sun was sinking lower behind the mountain skyline that surrounded us, and there is nothing worse than cooking and setting up camp in the dark. After all, in the wilderness, nightfall means night, not just a darker time of day when the street lamps come on. It is an inky darkness that makes you wonder where your feet are and makes a city-dweller appreciate for the first time the luminous brilliance of a full moon, when it is truly a second sun. Sure, we had headlamps, but that is only for when nature calls in the middle of the night; such artificial lights ruin the beauty and mystery of total darkness. I thought what a shame it is that most of the tourists who prefer their cozy log cabins will never know what it is like to immerse yourself in the utter darkness of the unknown.

That first night we landed somewhere right below the massive bulk of the mightiest mountain in the park, the Grand Teton. The more I stared at it, the more its 13,770 feet seemed to loom larger and larger, until I felt small and insignificant. Beneath such enormity, I was helpless to stop that sense of smallness from creeping into the very core of my being, until I soon accepted it as truth. Now acutely aware of our puniness, we pitched our tents at a site near the creek, amidst a landscape of rocks and stunted evergreens, with wildflowers strewn about. Our proximity to the water reminded me how wonderful it is to camp next to cascading water, and not just because it is easier to fetch our meals. Rather, the steady music of running water plays in your ears all night; it lulls you to sleep and courses through your dreams, washing over your soul without you ever knowing. I wished longingly that all the tourists who lined up at my gate could learn to take the time to appreciate small wonders such as this.

The next day we had to climb, but I no longer dreaded carrying a 30-lbs pack 2,000 feet up a mountain pass, because by now I could breathe deeply of the oxygen-depleted air as if I was back home at sea level in Florida. Such a climb only gave me a sense of well-being and accomplishment. On the way up to Hurricane Pass-as happens every so often on the trail-I was reminded of that dirty, crowded world outside the park boundaries. I was reminded by the sad face of Schoolroom Glacier. It was melting and dirty, and had a desperate look about it as it sat helpless beneath the noonday sun. The trail to the pass switchbacked right by it, allowing me to walk right up to the glacier and touch it. And it was almost like touching a dinosaur, because it is not only massive and ancient, but also almost extinct. It still clung to the mountainside, but when I looked at the hollowed bowl of turquoise water a few hundred feet beneath it, I thought of how it probably once extended all the way down into that rock-rimmed bowl, or even beyond. I was further saddened to think how Glacier National Park just 900 miles to the north is supposed to lose all of its remaining namesakes within the next 30 years. More importantly, I wondered then how many of the millions of people who visit these parks each year really care.

At the top of Hurricane Pass, however, it was impossible not to feel good, even giddy. You could look back and see a trinity of peaks-the Grand, Middle, and South Tetons-all lined up across from you, soaring above the surrounding landscape like a cathedral, and indeed they were my cathedral in that moment. From the pass you could look out into the distant farmlands of Idaho, and also spy the southern reaches of the Teton Range, with new peaks beckoning to be explored. And this is why I love mountain passes so much; they are the crossroads of the old and the new. They put everything into perspective, showing you both where you came from and where you are going. I could indeed see the splendor of where I was going, that big beautiful crater of contrasts called Alaska Basin. In late summer, all the space that is not occupied by lingering patches of snow or bare glaciated rock is filled by the most amazing displays of wildflower imaginable-more beautiful than any garden-and it is all encased by canyon-like walls of rock.

I could try to describe how amazing it was to camp there at Sunset Lake in such surroundings, but that wasn't even the highlight of the second night. The best part was talking with Stew after dinner, standing in an open meadow at sunset. We talked about things that mattered, like what we wanted to do with our lives and how we might find fulfillment. I found it infinitely refreshing to have a conversation of such substance, one that was thought-provoking and not merely idle chatter. I realized then that there is a dearth of such conversations in my life-and just about everyone else's. This made me even gladder to be on the trail, where you talk a lot less about useless things and fruitless gossip, because the beauty around you does all the talking. It is only worth interrupting if there is something that needs to be said. The clarity of the pristine environment enabled me to wrap myself in thought and make some sense of certain big questions that have long puzzled me. At the same time, my pensive mood led me to wonder if we have become so used to wrapping ourselves in mindless conversation that we are afraid to hear ourselves think.

It was not until the next day, however, that the real fun began, when we finally left the familiarity of the designated trail. Our planned off-trail route took us up a scree slope to the top of a shallow divide about 1,000 feet above us to the east. From there we would drop down to Snowdrift Lake in Avalanche Canyon, right below an awesome rock face simply known as the Wall. So we began climbing up towards the divide, slipping frequently along the way, because the slope was steep and scree by its very nature is quite loose. I distinctly remember at one point-about two-thirds of the way up-looking to my side and realizing that the slope angle was a solid 45 degrees or worse. It was unwise to be there when there were just loose rocks and gravel for footing, and I am forever indebted to my trekking poles for saving me from a long slide. Once we did make it to the divide, lo and behold, there was a huge, sheer chunk of ice awaiting, blocking our passage like a beached whale in a tiny lagoon. This was slightly disconcerting after our struggle to get there, but such concerns quickly took a backseat. We were simply too awestruck by the giant panorama of rock that is the Wall, and I was delighted by the brutal simplicity and accuracy of its name. I was also overcome with gratitude that I was not bound to the beaten path in the manner of most tourists-then I could never marvel at this awe-inspiring sight.

Since we certainly weren't going to turn back, we just went around the ice, skirting its edges and butt-sliding (I would call it glissading, but that is a term reserved for snow) down the loose rock. Our initial goal was the splendidly teal Snowdrift Lake, which glistened below us at 10,000 ft. Now the only thing worse than ascending a scree slope is descending one, and we quickly grew tired of feeling like we were going to start an avalanche with every step. So as soon as we reached a snowfield with a mellower grade we sat on our butts- packs and all-and glissaded down several hundred feet, letting our own barbaric yawp sound over the mountains. Stew had carried an ice axe all this way, so his glissading was nice and controlled, but I was without one. I flew down more like a kamikaze, having only my feet for brakes, and I wouldn't have it any other way. By the time I reached the bottom, there was snow in every crease of my pack and clothing, my butt was slightly numb, and I was laughing giddily from the rush.

Our final obstacle for the day was to scramble down the boulder fields to Taminah Lake, which lay 1,000 feet below Snowdrift. Boulders fields are one thing, but they are something else when most of the 1,000 feet is lost in a half-mile. I am convinced that if I had to negotiate that punishing drop-off everyday, I would need a knee replacement by the time I was 30. But we made it nonetheless, our wobbly legs the only sign of wear. We camped that night on the lip of Taminah Lake in the most torrential downpour I have ever weathered from inside a tent. It was a tempest complete with tropical storm-force winds and the kind of lightning that is so close it makes you jump out of your skin with each crack. The buffeting gales caused me the great inconvenience of having to leave the comfort of my sleeping bag and-in just boxer briefs and a shirt-re-stake my tent so that it wouldn't flap away in the wind. When I emerged from my flimsy shelter, the frigid drops were pelting me sideways, and as I went around securing each stake I envisioned myself as one of those sailors you see in movies, struggling with his ship's rigging in a fierce storm. When I got back in the tent, instead of feeling cold and wet, I found myself feeling alive as ever, invigorated by the fury of the alpine weather. I reflected then on my day and the joys of off-trail travel-how much fun it was to slide down snowfields without skis and how fortunate we were to have not taken any undesired tumbles. Then I thought of how most people were sleeping soundly in their lodgings while the storm raged around me, and I pitied them.

Yet there was also a bittersweet feeling in my heart because it was the last night of the trip and-despite my best efforts-visions of the long lines of cars at work kept creeping into my head. Fortunately, I had more to look forward to on the last day, including another marvelously daunting stretch of scree and boulder fields, which gave way to the unkempt trail leading out of Avalanche Canyon. After we were done having fun on the slopes, I found a new revel in tromping through the mud near the lower elevations. Our waterproof boots were unable to keep out the copious amounts of water that had pooled along the path and were clinging to the brush. We also had to duck and hop over fallen trees on the way back to the maintained trail, our feet squishing gleefully in our boots. I am not being facetious in calling these experiences the joys of hiking off trail-there were none of the tourist families and odd couples, with their bear bells and fanny packs, that I eventually found myself surrounded by on the Taggart Lake trail. I couldn't help but feel out of place carrying a heavy pack down this trail where a bottle of water is sufficient, smelling of three-and-a-half-days-worth of sweat while half the women on the trail were wearing makeup.

But I realized that I was not terribly out of place when the woman in the red dress confronted me. She jarred me back to the absurd reality of the world we live in, so that my fresh recollections of wildflowers and summer snowfields and towering peaks were pushed into the recesses of memory. This is always a depressing thing, but instead of resentment I felt a sort of compassion for this woman, because it was so clear that she didn't know what I had realized while backpacking. Now maybe she is not physically able or simply does not care to know, as is the case with so many of the people who visit the park-I am not foolish enough to think that everyone should like what I like. But she and all the other visitors to Grand Teton are there for a reason, and in most cases it is because they appreciate the beauty of the place. But they only look at this beauty, and this is the cause of my secret sadness at journey's end. I want to grab them, shake them and somehow impart to them what they are missing, so that they can know what I have experienced. There is such an enormous difference between venturing from your car for a few hours and immersing yourself in the totality of such beauty. And so I cannot help but lament the fact that more people do not choose to put aside their red dresses and allow themselves to be bruised and battered and fatigued and refreshed and nurtured all at the same time, in the way that only the mountains can do.

The ABCs of Backpacking

It's "back to school" time once again!! This fall, more than 40 million students will head off to class with backpacks slung over their shoulders; about 20 million of them will be carrying twice the recommended weight on their backs. Improperly used and overloaded backpacks can lead to painful neck and back problems that may last a lifetime.

According to a recent survey conducted by the North American Spine Society (NASS), www.spine.org in the past year 42.6% of NASS member physicians have treated children or teens suffering from back pain or spine trauma caused by overloaded or improperly used backpacks. The diagnoses range from cervical, thoracic and lumbar strain to spondylolysis, a stress fracture in one of the vertebrae that make up the spinal column.

The North American Spine Society offers the ABCs of Backpacking tips for parents and students in backpack injury prevention.

Allow wheels - 31.7%of those surveyed recommend using a backpack on wheels. This type of back pack is helpful if a child is already symptomatic or if parents anticipate that he/she will be carrying loads more than 25 lbs.

Back to basics - 20.8%of the spine specialists polled recommend the traditional style backpack. If you opt for this style, make sure the pack has two thick, padded straps along with a waist strap for added lumbar support.

Comfort counts - 30.7%of NASS members recommend that parents don 't buy the . rst back pack they see.It 's important to make sure the backpack feels comfortable to the child and the straps can be adjusted for a tight fit.

Don't overload - Whatever backpack style parents choose for their children, it 's important to remember that what 's inside that really counts! In fact,64%of those surveyed claim that overloading the pack is the number one way children and teens improperly use their backpacks. All of the doctors surveyed agreed that the size of the pack should be proportionate to the child, NOT to the size of the items he will be carrying.

Everything is too much - Pack only what you need! NASS members recommend that the pack should weigh no more than 10-15%of the child 's body weight.

Fit your frame --Always use both straps and adjust them snugly on your shoulders.

Get organized --Organize the pack so the heavy items are closest to your back. Use smaller compartments to help store loose items and distribute the weight evenly.

Heavy hurts!- Don 't carry more than you can handle. Make frequent stops to unload the pack. Encourage your child not to carry all the books they will need for the day.

NASS Vice President Dr.Joel Press, a leading physiatrist at the Chicago Rehabilitation Institute, says: "When used properly, backpacks are a great way for kids to carry their schoolbooks and supplies they need throughout the day. Parents should be sure and ask their children if they feel any pain in the back or the neck. And, if a child is experiencing discomfort, be sure and take it seriously and see a specialist." If parents are concerned about the heavy school loads children and teens are carrying on a daily basis, they can also:

# Contact the school and work with teachers to identify ways to lighten the load.
# Purchase two sets of books - one set for home and the other to be left at school ((another cost effective option is to make photocopies of the week 's book chapters at the library.
# Encourage children to be active and to strengthen the muscles in and around the back and neck to protect and aid in injury prevention.

The North American Spine Society (NASS)is a multidisciplinary organization that advances quality spine care through education, research and advocacy. NASS members are MDs,DOs and PhDs in 22 spine-related specialties including orthopedics, neurosurgery, physiatry, pain management and other disciplines. Nurse practitioners, physician's assistants, chiropractors, physical therapists, practice administrators and other allied health care professionals involved in spine care are also represented in NASS as af .liate members.

More Safety Tips from Lands End

After finding the perfect backpack, observing a few basic "pack and carry" guidelines can eliminate even the smallest safety woes parents may have. Following are some helpful tips for kids from the American Physical Therapy Association:
# Loading the pack - Pack heavier objects toward the bottom and near the back of the pack. Also, make sure any pointy objects are packed away from the area that will rest on the child's back.
# Don't overpack - Make sure the child's backpack weighs no more than 12% of his or her body weight. If a child is leaning forward from the weight of the backpack, he or she should lighten the load and re-evaluate the contents of the pack.
# Wear both shoulder straps - The positioning and wearing of both shoulder straps of a backpack are essential to ensure safety and comfort. By wearing both shoulder straps, the weight of the pack is evenly distributed and the stronger torso muscles "carry" the weight of the pack. Wearing both shoulder straps enhances proper spine alignment.
# Perfect positioning - Physical therapists suggest that shoulder straps fit comfortably on the shoulder and under the arms. The bottom of the pack should rest in the contour of the lower back. The pack should also "sit" evenly in the middle of the back, not up toward the shoulders or "sagging down" toward the buttocks.
# No names, please - If you're considering a monogram for your child's backpack, don't use full names. This prevents strangers from addressing your child by name, which can give kids a false sense of security.

For more information visit www.landsend.com

Joel M. Press, MD. Dr. Press graduated from the University of Michigan in 1980 with a B.S. Degree-with distinction, Microbiology. He received his Doctor of Medicine from the University of Illinois College of Medicine in 1984, and did his Internship at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, Northwestern University Medical School in 1984-85. He completed his Residency at Northwestern University Medical School, Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago in 1988. He has been an attending physician at Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago since 1988 and in 1989 he founded and directed the Sports Rehabilitation Program at Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago. In December of 1994, Dr. Press was instrumental in the opening of the Center for Spine, Sports, and Occupational Rehabilitation, with Dr. Press as its Medical Director. He has published numerous articles, edited a textbook, chaired numerous courses, and been invited to lecture many times. Dr. Press is an Assistant Professor of Clinical Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation, Northwestern University Medical School.

Dr. Press is a Diplomat of the National Board of Medical Examiners and board certified by The American Board of Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation and American Board of Electrodiagnostic Medicine. He is the current Vice President of the American Academy of Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation, past President of The Physiatric Association of Spine, Sports and Occupational Rehabilitation, been an Oral Board Examiner and Written Board Examination-item writer. He is currently the 1st Vice President of the North American Spine Society.

For more information visit www.spine.org.