Cloud Peak in 24 hours

View of Glacier Lake from Cloud Peak Summit

 Some adventures are all about going for the big one.

Sure, I’ll wander off into the wild to get to an obscure mountaintop that no one’s heard of or scramble up that random butte for no reason other than the desire to see how things looks like from there. But, like most people I can be a sucker for the big names, the celebrities if you will in the world of outdoors.

Compared to the big shot mountains in the Tetons and down in Colorado, Cloud Peak would be lucky to make the C-list. That doesn’t change the fact that at 13,167 feet it’s still the tallest thing around northeast Wyoming; big enough to have the Cloud Peak Wilderness named after it, not to mention Cloud Peak Energy, the multi-billion dollar coal company based in Gillette about 100 miles to the east.

Almost a year ago, when I decided to move out to that city, the Big Horn Mountains had a lot to do with the decision. If I left, I was going to make damn sure to climb a lot of those mountains. One of those days, I was definitely going to climb the tallest one of the lot.

With the waist-deep snow finally melted, I was looking at an achievable goal. Cloud Peak is not too far from road access and has a gradual ridge for hikers on the Southwest side that doesn’t require technical equipment. Some of the local runners I know have done the whole 22 miles and 4,000 feet of climb from the trailhead at West Ten Sleep Lake in a day: the Cloud Peak Marathon, they call it.

I decided to tone things down a notch and do a two-day trip. I’d hike six miles from the Ten Sleep Trailhead the first day and then camp at 10,000 feet at the shores of Mistymoon Lake. The next day, I’d leave the tent and take a light pack to the Cloud Peak summit, get back to the tent and hike out the way I came: 16 miles.

I lit out from Gillette early Saturday afternoon, It was another 90-degree day in Campbell County. Since there is no A/C in my car, I had the windows down, as I shot down the highway, sweating in a whirlwind of superheated air. Every mile, the mountains grew larger in my view, cool, their cool slopes patched with snow and ice, outside the reach of brutal summer.

 I turned off Interstate 90 in Buffalo, then started up the 9,000-foot Powder River Pass.

While the faithful Mazda made the climb without protest, it was less happy when I turned off the highway onto the bumpy dirt road to the trailhead and the nine rattling miles of abuse to the suspension that followed.

The trail to Mistymoon Lake begins just above 9,000 feet. I got there at 5 p.m. when there was still plenty of light to hike in. The trail was smooth and pleasant, winding through the tall stands of lodgepole pines. Occasionally, the trees would break away into a glen, and I would see the denuded granite sides of mountains up above, decked with snow, exalted in the late afternoon sun.

One of the mountain lakes that I passed on the hike in

I reached Mistymoon Lake by 8 p.m., tired from the ups and downs along the trail. A clouded sky and the fading light dressed the surrounding landscape in dull colors.

But what a landscape! The trees that I had begun my hike with had fallen away with the elevation gain. Mountains thrust upward from the far side of the water in brazen walls of rock. Cloud Peak lurked further back, separated by distance, fortified by cliffs.

Large boulders scattered lay atop the alpine meadows nearby, calling cards of the last glacier. A few other campers had already pitched their tents on some of the grassy spots near the shore. They were finishing up their meals, getting ready to crawl into their sleeping bags as the darkness fell around us.

I chose a spot for myself and heaved the pack off my shoulders, glad to shed its weight.

As I did, the clouds parted in the west. I watched a blush of salmon-colored light spread across the mountaintops, illuminating the land peaks me, even as it stayed dark down below.

A small rock outcropping, a couple hundred feet above the lake looked to be crowned in orange as it snagged the last of the light. Taking a madman’s inspiration, I began charging up the bouldery slope, trying to reach the light before it faded. Alas, I wasn’t quick enough, and before I could reach Valhalla, the stone reverted to the dun shades of before.

The gods denied. But at least I had pictures.

From my vantage point, I could see another luminous corridor that opened over the land to the south, from the forested high country, down to the rangeland thousands of feet below. I watched, Gollum-like from my crouch among the darkened boulders, then scrabbled the rest of the way up to the dim summit.

View over  Mistymoon Lake looking south 

More earthly concerns awaited where I set up camp. I realized that despite my diligence in packing a camp stove, fuel, dehydrated food and spoon, I had neglected to bring a lighter or matches. I was discouraged by my absentmindedness, but not because I was afraid I’d go hungry. I’ve learned that dehydrated mashed potatoes are perfectly edible in cold water, if slightly less enjoyable.

I dumped my canteen over the pot and set to eating. Not bad. Not bad.

After the meal, I got into the tent and crawled inside my sleeping bag. I set my cell phone alarm for 4:45 a.m.. All the better to start hiking early and get down before any thunderstorms started brewing.

I woke to the alarm in the dark and cold and began preparations in the lantern light. This consisted of pouring cold water over some instant oatmeal and spooning it down with some raisins. I put some warm socks over my hands that were thicker than the gloves I had brought, cleaned up breakfast and put everything I thought I needed into the pack.

I turned off my lantern and picked my way along the trail in the predawn light.

There is no trail to the summit marked on the map, but there is an informal footpath up Paint Rock creek designated with cairns.

I wound on and around the trail, through a maze of boulders , scrambling up steep pitches of rock. It was impossible to find all those little stone piles and I frequently wandered off trail. It was easy enough to keep going in the right direction using the canyon as a guide. Eventually, the route started climbing away from the creek. I made sure to fill up both my water bottles and treat them with iodine before I left. It might be a while until water was available again.

As I climbed, I saw the first beams of sun light up the tops of the peaks. In the reverse of the night before, the golden illumination climbed down from the mountains, bringing warmth to the rest of the world.

The tops of the canyon above me blazed with the first stroke of day and I tramped merrily beneath it all, stupefied by the beauty.

A tributary of Paint Rock Creek on the way to the Cloud Peak summit

                          

It's a little cheesy, but I couldn't resist photographing the bright canyon top in this puddle

I started across a small snowfield and sunk in knee deep before I made it the whole way across. Well, it wouldn’t be a trip to the Big Horns if I didn’t posthole at least once.

I passed beneath a few other snow fields. The snow melted steadily into streams going down the mountainside. But instead of running along the surface, they sank down into the boulders. Oftentimes as I made my way over the broken rock, I could hear the water rushing beneath me. It reminded me of the documentary Touching The Void where a wounded climber manages to crawl down the mountain, is desperately thirsty and hears water coursing through the ground beneath his feet  but has no way to reach it. I tapped the canteen in my side pouch, glad that I was stocked for now.

After I spent some time climbing the ridge, the top came into my sites, just another mile of scrambling up the Dumpster-sized rocks. Sometimes a boulder would tip under my weight and I would hop nervously to the next. I found my heart pounding in my chest and it occurred to me that I was probably working harder in the thinner air. Only once did I get a slight dizzy feeling and it passed quickly.

At 8:45 a.m. I came upon the summit. I climbed the highest boulder, and let out a whoop of exultation. To the north I could make out the sharp summits of Black Tooth and Woolsey. Then there were the stony ridges coming of Bomber Mountain to the south.

Most spectacular of all was what was right in front of me — and straight down.

Cloud Peak’s summit stands at the brink of a 2,000 foot cliff. Below lies Glacier Lake, which as the name suggests, is surrounded by an immense glacial bowl. Minerals scraped off of the mountain have colored the western segment of the lake a stunning turquoise color, which seeps into the eastern portion, which is a, darker, deeper blue.

 I could sit above it all and see the world stretch out past my boots. Here was the chain of alpine lakes pouring out of the glacier over the rock fields and watering the piney forest. Here was where the forest fell away and gave way to the dusty rangeland that grew fainter as it went east until, at last, it blended seamlessly into the hazy sky.

I stayed on the summit for about an hour, taking in the views of Woolsey and Blacktooth, daring my way out on the ledge that overlooked the glacier. A brown smudge across the sky marked smoke from wildfires burning somewhere down below. At one point I caught a whiff of burning smell.

Smoke was one thing; thunderheads would be another. In looking out over the sky, I counted myself lucky that I didn’t see any.

I thought about my plan to try climbing Bomber Mountain that day. At 12,448 Bomber is shorter than Cloud Peak, but there was a substantial dip between the two. The wreckage of a bomber plane that crashed there on a World War II training mission still remains.

Looking across the way to the other mountain, I found a ridge that looked steep, but one I thought I could climb.

Getting there from Cloud Peak would be trickier. I decided to do a little scouting on the south side of the Peak. The topo lines on my map seemed to indicate that it would be doable.

I could have butt sledded down one of the snowfields, but they looked too steep and I would risk losing probably control in a very bad way.

Here's one way to get off the mountain really fast

I was walking over an immense, slanted stone surface near the cliff when I put my foot down on a surfboard-sized boulder. Instead of staying in place like a good rock is supposed to do, it slid out. I fell backward and grabbed another boulder for support, this one the size of a VW bug. Thankfully, it stayed in place.

Meanwhile, the rock I had stepped on sped up and then plunged over the cliff. I wasn’t able to see what happened but it must have been pretty epic. One boulder struck another and then another. As I clung there, I heard what must have been hundreds of pounds of rock go clattering down the thousand-foot wall, the echoes reverberating through the canyon. I wasn’t counting, but it probably lasted a full minute, growing larger, more distant and more terrifying. I delicately pivoted my weight onto the foot that was on solid stone, trying not to put much weight on the VW boulder.

I scrambled back onto more trustworthy ground and caught my breath, just as I heard the last stones go clattering down the abyss.

“Fool of a Took!” I muttered, feeling the flutter of panic in my chest, but not a little bit of hilarity at the situation.

It just kept going! I thought to myself.

Fortunately rock has a lower co-effecient of friction than soft human flesh. Even if I hadn’t caught myself, I probably wouldn’t have gone over. The experience was still jarring enough to make me rethink my off trail plans.

I made my way back to the regular trail and started the descent. I saw a couple of hikers going up as I went along and gave them updates on what they had ahead. There were some big white puffy clouds that looked like they could mean trouble, but didn’t do anything.

By mid afternoon, I was back at the tent on Mistymoon Lake and packed the tent and everything else in the bag and headed for the car.

That last six miles left me plenty weary. It was 5:15 p.m. when I got back to the trailhead: just over 24 hours after I had started for the summit of Cloud Peak.

I had earned myself a helluva sunburn, was grubby and tired. Above the fatigue my  chapped lips twisted themselves into a smile of satisfaction. I had got the big one.

Alpine flowers near a snowfield on Cloud Peak 

The Pusher (An Adventure Through Wyoming’s Teton Mountains)

 It’s true: some of the best adventures get hatched over steins of beer.

So it was when my friend Ben and I sat inside the Snake River Brewing Company in Jackson, Wyoming, a pint of stout and an India Pale Ale on the table between us. I pulled out a map so that we could take an informed view of the mountains outside the city.

There, the mighty Teton range reared up out of the land, thrust like stony teeth from the sagebrush plains and evergreen forest.

Usually, a respectable mountain range will provide a set of foothills that build up to the main event. The Tetons dispense with this formality. 

From the 6,000-foot base of the mountains, you can point your eyeballs straight up and gaze upon the dagger-top of Grand Teton, which stands at 13,770 feet. To see the top from below is a far thing from being there, at least if you ask the climbers who have dared that pinnacle of rock and ice.

The brewery was far more pleasant. We were roofed off from the dark clouds gathered overhead, the rain and the roll of thunder. Not only could we quaff our craft beer in comfort; we could also nosh on delicious pizza. It was a far cry from two days ago in Yellowstone where we had hunkered down for a meal at a remote campsite. We had cursed around the pot of rice and bean soup, swatting away squadrons of mosquitoes and black flies.

We were back in civilization, now but couldn’t stay. Not if we wanted to have a legitimate claim to real adventure.

Grand Teton, was a few degrees out of our league, I decided, but there were plenty of other places on the map that looked promising. If the bad weather let up by the end of the day, we would be able to hike out to one of the backcountry camp spots in the national park.

If we started late in the day, we wouldn’t be able to make it far so I selected a place with some of the nearest available camp spots: Granite Canyon. The beauty of that kind of trip trip was that Ben and I could make it as easy or as hard as we wanted.

The hike in looked to only be about three miles or so, and if we made our hike an out and back, we would be able to camp in the same place the next day. That day, we would be able to hike without our backpacks and we could hike a short ways up the canyon before we turned around. Or, if we were feeling more ambitious, we could try to hike a large backcountry loop. My eyes skimmed along the topography, up the contours of the canyon to Housetop Mountain. We probably wouldn’t make it there but…

…But I was a pusher. As soon as I made out the lines of that 10,500 foot summit, I knew the most obsessive part of my soul had locked on it and would have to be pried away before I gave up my pursuit.

As Ahab had fixed his existence upon the white whale, so does my mind brood upon the summits of lofty mountains. 

I pointed out the canyon on the map to Ben, who said he would be willing to start later in the afternoon if the weather cleared up.

“There are a few mountains we could do around here,” I said. My finger grazed along the topographic lines, inching its way toward Housetop.

“—If we’re feeling ambitious the next day.”

Ben, who is less experienced with mountains, and also less damaged then I am, said that he was fine with whatever. He just didn’t want to get sucked into doing something that was too grueling or dangerous.

“We’ll do whatever your comfortable with,” I said and meant it.

I am a pusher, but I like to think that I’m not yet a madman. I’m not an Ahab who would kill himself and others to achieve a goal. I’m not the pusher from the Steppenwolf song who “don’t care, if you live or you die.” I’ve turned around on mountains like Washington in New Hampshire and Anthill in Wyoming’s Big Horns when I felt like time was running out or that the situation was becoming too dangerous.

I do my best to take others’ abilities into consideration, just as I take my own. If I miscalculate, I will step back and reassess the mission.

I wasn’t sure how difficult a mountain like Housetop was going to be, but if it looked unassailable, I was fine with sticking to an easy hike inside of Granite Canyon. If the climb looked doable, I was definitely going to sell it and be as persuasive as possible.

First we had to get registered.

We finished the rest of our pizza and beer and got in the car for the ranger center in Moose, about 12 miles up the road.

The ranger I talked to told me the area was beautiful. We got the all clear for two nights of camping in the lower canyon.

We also got a transparent “bear canister” to put our food and cooking supplies in. The canister, which seemed to be made out of the same stuff as a Nalgene bottle, worked like one of those childproof med locks. No three-year-old or grizzly bear would be getting into my oatmeal!

I also had my trusty can of bear spray attached to a holster on a hip belt. Bear spray is like the stuff you would use for protection in a city, only more powerful. When Ben and I were in Yellowstone, the rangers told us the spray made for better defense than firearms. A bear might back away from the pepper-spray cloud. A puny handgun round might just make a piss him off.

As an added protection against ursine aggression, Ben and I made sure to either talk loudly or make random noises to try to scare bears off the trail as we walked. A few renditions of “Finnegan’s Wake” didn’t hurt either.

I’ll admit to not quite understanding how human noise will frightens enormous bears with claws and teeth, but apparently it works.

Our government-issued bear canister, with my new tent in the background

I let Ben drive the Mazda down through Jackson, across the Snake River and then north past the Teton Village ski area. The pusher rode shotgun.

We rolled up to a gate into Grand Teton National Park, where we got the bad news.

“The road’s closed,” the ranger announced.

Shit.

“Closed?” I asked.

I looked back my map with a feeling of incomprehension, betrayal.

“The road’s under construction. If you want to come back, it will be open tomorrow.”

A fat lot that would do when I had already booked the camp area for that night.

“Looks like we’ll have to turn around and start tomorrow,” Ben said.

He was right, I thought. What else could be done? Another chance to look around Jackson might not be so bad.

but…

“Hey, turn around, I want to ask that ranger a question.”

I got out of the car and showed the ranger the map to ask if we could leave from the trailhead from Teton Village — even though our backcountry permit said we would be leaving from the Granite Canyon trailhead.

The Ranger said we could, but warned that the trail from Teton Village I was looking at was especially challenging with a lot of up and down. We would be hard pressed to make the campsite by nightfall. Night is not a not a time that I wanted to hike in bear country.

“Well thanks for your time,” I said. At least I tried.

Before we left again, the ranger pointed out that we were only about a half mile from the trailhead that we were going to go up anyway. Why not park near here and then walk up the closed road to that first trailhead?

A fine idea!

He pointed out a nearby equestrian area where we could park. We were back in business.

It was hot as hell when we got out of the car and I started packing stuff into the bear canister.

The pot and stove fit with the food that I had. The bowls were tricky. Actually, they wouldn’t fit.

“Hey Ben, do you have any problem with us eating out of the same pot?”

Problem solved and less weight on my back.

We would have oatmeal for breakfast, flatbread for lunch and couscous for dinner. For hungry moments in between, I had packed us some trail mix and a separate packet of dried fruit. Water wouldn’t be an issue as there was a stream running all through the canyon and I had brought plenty of water purification to kill bacteria.

For clothes, I had my quick-dry shirt, running shorts and a warm fleece and rain jacket..

We started down the road, walking toward the snowy Teton peaks.

It wasn’t so far to the trailhead. When we got their the dark pines closed in around us, filling our nostrils with the rich, smell of their needles. The fallen needles formed the ideal, cushioned walking surface. Unlike the dry sagebrush plains in the east of Wyoming, here life ran riot. Bright green leafy vegetation sprang up from the well-watered ground. Small birds fluttered among the trees.

Because the hiking was so easy, we reached the camp area pretty quickly. We were allowed to choose any site along about two miles of trail, so I proposed that we use the daylight that we had and press on.

After a while, it was getting dim enough so we chose a site near the river and pitched tent.

We encountered several moose and deer along the way

Camp eatin'

We felt pretty good the next day as we started up the trail again.

I didn’t have to be a pusher for the first part of the hike. We were both in good spirits. The trail followed the canyon upward steadily into the mountains.

After a few hours, patches of snow began to appear alongside the river.

Then I saw Housetop.

It looked less like the peak of a domicile, more a pyramid of boulders with a plain of snow still clinging onto its east face.

To get there we would need to go off trail. It was only about a mile from there to the summit but it would be steep.

“Are you game to try this?” I asked Ben.

He was.

When we got to the bend in the trail where I had planned we started hiking up a steep gully.

‘Let me know when you get outside your comfort zone,” I told him. 

“Okay.”

After an exhausting pitch I decided, to save at least one of us some energy and go ahead to see if there was a feasible way forward. The going was pretty steep again, and I had to make sure not to stumble on the loose rocks.

It was steep, but I felt comfortable enough. If nothing else, months of fooling around on the Buttes near Gillette,  Wyoming had given me a greater comfort level when it came steep climbs.

I got to a flat face on top and saw the peak again. It wasn’t far. We could climb it.

“Hey Ben! Come on up. I’ve found a way here.”

He looked up skeptically.

“C’mon man. I know you can do it.”

He made slower progress than I did. I could see the steep pitch and the long drop were making him hesitate..

 “That was definitely past my comfort zone,” he said panting as he reached the top. “How the hell are we going to get down this?”

“We’ll get down it no problem.”

I was more interested in how I was going to get up that.

There was one more pitch on the way to that final pyramid, and it looked even steeper than what we had climbed up in the first place.

I tried to think of some easier way that we could both achieve the summit.

Part of the wall was out of view and if we hiked around, I though there might be a gentler routee somewhere I couldn’t see.

But I wasn’t so lucky. There ere a couple of viable routes that I could see to the summit, but they all looked even steeper and more scrabbly than what I was thinking of before.

In between me and the wall, lay an immense bowl of white, glacial snow. At its center lay a lake of striking mineral blue. It was impossible to tell how deep it was.

Housetop summit is on the right

When Ben made it to where I was standing, I asked him if he would like to try going back around to where the slope was gentler. Not too keen.

I wasn’t surprised. The summit was maybe only a half-mile from where I stood, a very steep and treacherous half mile,. Having come this close to the summit of the beast, however, I was loath to give it up and maybe never have a shot at it again.

I asked Ben what he would think about the idea of chilling out by the pond while I went for it. He said he could swing it, but asked me not to kill myself. When this happens, it can be very inconvenient to the other guy. I appreciated this and assured Ben that staying alive and uninjured still had top priority for me.

 Still, by splitting up, I knew I was entering an uncomfortable area in hiking ethics and safety. Most other places, I would have considered this completely unacceptable. Fortunately, he would be able to see me on most of the climb up. I would be coming back soon. The lake was a beautiful place, and probably not a dangerous one.

To make things faster, I decided not to go around, but to attack one of the steeper scree pitches that got to the summit pyramid faster.

One of the many fossils we found in the area

I rounded the lake and began the hard work of getting up that final, treacherous pitch of scree.

I was still the pusher, but I was now only the pusher of myself.

Occasionally, a footstep would send a rock clattering below my boots. The lake got smaller below me, but I still felt its stare going into my back, a serene, unblinking eye that was as cold as the ice that rimmed it.

View from near Housetop summit

At one point in the route up a large overhanging boulder divided the route in two. Left or right? Right was more in Ben’s view so I chose that way. The scree became shallower, and the pitch was steeper.  I clutched feebly at the surface, trying to make my way up an inclined plane of ball bearings. There was a pretty steep drop to my right side, which I didn’t allow myself to look over it. Every muscle was strained, working towards the goal of getting me up the damn thing alive.

DEET that I had sprayed on my hat seeped into my sweat and began to seep into my eyes.

Concentrate.

I made it over the side.

I let out a war whoop to let Ben know that I was doing fine and started up the pyramid. Scrambling over the boulders made for a much gentler climb and was actually kind of fun. In ten minutes, I was at the top.

I made out the summit of Grand Teton above me to the north; The Snake River Valley below me and to the east. To the West, there was the state of Idaho. Time to start climbing down.

I made my descent down the easier, longer way that I had seen before. It was still a rough scramble over that scree.

 I had scratched my mountain itch and we still had several days left to spend together in Wyoming.

“So,” I told Ben. “What do you want to do for the rest of this trip?”

Grand Teton from the summit of Housetop Mountain