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