Take What You Need

The graves of some old cowboys with Big Horns in the background

Now, let us praise the utility of the simple kitchen spoon. Whether it be silver, aluminum or steel, the spoon is unmatched in its ability to plumb deep into a jar or peanut butter and deliver its precious sustenance to hungry mouths.

At 3 a.m, I awakened with a rumbling stomach, a jar of peanut butter and nothing to eat it with. I was in the driver’s seat of my ancient car, having parked for the night at a 7,000 foot parking lot in Wyoming’s Big Horn Mountains. It was cold. I really, really wanted a spoon.

I had packed everything else it seemed — cross country skis and boots, extra hiking boots in case I didn’t want to ski, layer upon layer of breathable fabric tops, an impermeable raincoat. Somewhere in the dregs of my backpack, I had squirreled away my new Patagonia parka, which is rated to 30 below and shimmers like a radioactive orange ghost in the moonlight. Oh yeah; I ‘d also brought my crampons, an ice axe, sleeping bag, gaiters and a tent.

I was planning on climbing Ant Hill. Don’t let the modest name fool you. This particular hill stands at 10,980 feet at the edge of the Big Horns, where it towers over a hundred miles of brown Wyoming rangeland. I had been there in December, but after hours of climbing in waist-deep powder, I’d bagged the mission at 10,000 feet.

 Now at the end of March, I was hoping that the warm weather had melted enough snow, or at least made it solid enough to trod on without the need for snowshoes (didn’t bring ‘em. Draw your own conclusions).

An early start was a key part of my plans, which was why I had parked at the turnoff. I planned to split the journey into two days, with the second day reserved for an early morning summit push. With any luck, the snow would still be frozen from the night chill by the time I started hiking.

The plan seemed pretty solid to me as I sat in the driver’s seat, shivering under my blanket. I unscrewed the peanut butter and plunged my fingers in, plucking up big gobs of the stuff to eat.

Beast of Burden           

Even without the weight of a spoon compressing my spine, I still had a heavy mother of a pack to haul  into the mountains.

Over-packing is a persistent concern of mine just as it is a persistent source of mirth to friends who see me heading out the door with what looks like another hiker grafted onto my back.

I’ve tried to get better. I’ve read Ultralight Backpackin’ Tips which is a fine book by outdoor instructor Mike Clelland. The read (with cartoon illustrations!) includes everything from tips on how to make pillows out of ziplock bags to sewing your headlamp to your hat to cut the weight of the strap.

While I admire the Zen of only trying to bring what is absolutely necessary to the outdoors.

I’ve also read plenty of stories of poor bastards, dead of hypothermia for lack of that three-ounce layer of polypropylene insulation.

Taking less stuff could be a Zen way to enlightenment, but bringing more stuff is a fun, American way of defying common sense. I recently discovered how awesome it is to have ice axes and crampons, and using them to scramble up steep pitches of ice, even slippery mud slopes, with no problem. Look at Lewis and Clark bringing that damn collapsible boat with them up through the Louisiana Purchase. Then there’s David Breashears, who hauled oversize IMAX equipment up the ice so that he and his crew could film atop Mt. Everest. Nuts? Sure. Awesome? Definitely.

Cold Toes           

The two things I obsess about on any trip are managing cold and managing moisture.  I’ve been to the Bighorns several times now, and I have stayed warm and dry zero times. This is despite my responsible layering; my careful attempts to seal off the inside of my boots from snow with knee-length nylon gaiters. A thigh-deep plunge through a thick crust wriggles away the protection so the snow rushes in. Then it melts into frigid puddles of water that tortured my feet.

On this trip, I wrapped Gorilla tape around my pant cuffs and around the top of my gaiters. Even then, it was no match for the deep, nasty stuff that I encountered up the trail.

It started with almost no snow and I soon ditched my skis. I was hiking with what felt like an oversize child on my back.

I didn’t hit the deep stuff until Soldier Park, a massive field in the midst of the pines and in view of several snowy peaks.  It was about an hour and a half into the hike.

I could see that the wind had blown a lot of snow off of Ant Hill, giving me hope that I might be able to finish the job in one day. Before I got there however, there were still miles of pines, still filled with deep snow.

Eyeballing the mountain, I thought that I had maybe a half-mile of the really deep stuff until I could reach some bare rock. I took my compass out and set a bearing for the nearest stone outcropping and plunged on ahead. 

The crust was a nightmare. It would tease me into thinking it would hold my weight, then plunge me into the icy powder.  I would struggle to lift myself out, but the snow around me wouldn’t hold my weight. Soon my feet and legs were soaked and freezing. My heart was pounding and my morale was sunk. I had gone off course and couldn’t even see where the damn mountain was.  I had been out there for about two hours. Disgusted, I turned around and followed my footsteps back to Soldier Park.

The sun was high in the sky, warming the air to the mid-60s. It was a beautiful day to lie in the grass with the splendid mountains all around, shimmering in the bright light. I set out my boots and let them fill with warmth. As they dried, I crawled into my sleeping bag and stared up into the blue for a while then napped.

I would go back and get my skis. I would try in vain to push myself through the deep snow and set up tent that alongside the trail that night. I kept my wet boots inside the sleeping bag so that they wouldn’t freeze. When I woke up that morning shivering with icy feet, I realized I didn’t want to try anymore. Ant Hill had won again.

My stuff resting in Soldier Park