Yellowstone: The Spirit of the West (cont.)

Under the grass, animal tracks crisscrossed in all directions.  The massive skull and moist skeletal remains of an elk lay at the far end of the meadow, where the creek ran through trunks and boulders deposited by flash floods; a stone-throw away we found fresh grizzly tracks. The area was thick with trees and perfect for an ambush; so we hustled back to the camp and took extra care in stowing our food.  From that moment on, a palatable sense of uneasiness stuck with us.  As dusk hit, a long, bellowing howl came from the hill behind us.  A second, closer howl responded from the other side of our tent.  As they continued back and forth, the sound became oddly soothing, and I relaxed remembering that wolves generally avoid people.

After three days in the wild on the crest of the Absarokas, we had reached the peaks. The topological map showed our route crossing elevation rings unnervingly close; we had a brutal day of climbing ahead of us. We decided to keep the meadow as our base camp and to leave our packs behind. We hauled our food up on the bear pole and pinned a note to our tent: “Gone to the mountains. Be back soon.”

The first eight miles of the route stayed flat until we reached an abandoned log cabin around noon. There, the trail diverged from the creek and shot up a near vertical hill in unrelenting switchbacks. By the time the forest fell behind us, we had gained two thousand feet of elevation in one mile.  

Above the tree line, a meadow opened up along the backbone of a ridge, bald and wind-beaten. Higher ridges lay ahead, separated by wide gorges. We started in their direction and quickly lost the trail. We combed the entire area, and there wasn’t a trace of hoofs or human feet.

Faced with a heavy climb on a now uncertain route, four hours remaining before sunset and black clouds hanging ominously overhead, we had a decision to make.  And after some deliberating, we decided, in light of the fact our warm clothes and cover were back at base camp, to turn around.

Nine miles later, we returned to find that a pair of cowboy outfitters and a half-dozen horses had taken over our campsite. Their clients, two couples, had paid two thousand dollars a head to be brought out here.

The clouds that had chased us finally caught up, and it began to pour rain.  All evening, confined to our tent, we snacked on M&Ms and drank iodine treated water. When our candy supply had been depleted, I went to retrieve the food bag from the bear pole, and ran into one of the cowboys en route.  He asked where we had been.

“I’ve heard about folks trying to make it into those parts,” he said.

“You ever been up there?” I asked him.

“Not all the way,” he said.

Then the rain hardened, and he went to pull the tarp over his clients’ tent.

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