Snow Stomping: Part 1

The squish of my tires as they rolled through mud alternated with silence as they passed through snow, and I wondered how far I could go before I risked getting stuck.  As a good Georgia boy, I know how far I can push a truck in red clay.  But this white stuff was a new medium.  I kept the six-speed transmission in third as I eased my heavily-loaded truck up the forest road.  So far so good.  Barely a tire slip.

This all came about because of a conversation I had with Maury Young, a Forest Service employee in the Montpelier District.  I had dropped by the “National Oregon/California Trail Center” in Montpelier, Idaho.  I took the tour of the museum, and didn’t learn much from my beer-bellied tour guide who kept calling himself the “wagon master.”  But it happened that the museum shared a roof with the Forest Service.  I wandered over to the Forest Service section to look at an 1850s trail map posted on the wall.

A gray-mustached guy wearing aviator sunglasses came by and asked what I was looking at.  He turned out to be a longtime Forest employee who had worked all over western Wyoming and southeastern Idaho, and he knew the backwoods.  I suspected he was the real deal when I saw the holes in his vest with stuffing popping out.  I knew for sure when I noticed that he had nearly worn the soles off his leather lace-up Forest Service boots.  Those boots are made for one thing – durability – and Maury had outlasted them.

I sat in Maury’s office for a couple hours as he pulled information off his computer and reviewed maps with me.  He showed me Crow Creek Road, a dirt track that connects Star Valley with Bear Lake Valley by following a nineteenth-century ox-and-wagon freighter route.  At his suggestion, I drove that route earlier today.  Maury also showed me a couple Shoshone Indian trails through the Wasatch Mountains, the last major range that Walker would have crossed to get from Bear Lake Valley to the Great Salt Lake.  One such trail crossed Wasatch Range at just the right spot – it went from the northern end of Bear Lake almost directly to the valley on the western side.  The trail went up Bloomington Creek, crossed a steep ridge, came down past Indian Spring and alongside Carter Creek.  Lots of it was drivable, but when the trail neared the ridge, the line on the Forest Service map went from a solid double-track (good dirt road) to a dotted double-track (bad dirt road) to a single dotted line (foot trail).  The single dotted line approached a ridge, then slid over ten or eleven contour lines in the space of about a centimeter.  The contour interval was fifty meters.

I took a glance at the contour lines, hesitated for a second, and told Maury I’d probably drive as far as I could, then hike the single-lined part.  It would be a day hike, I figured.  Arduous, but not impossible.

“I don’t know where that trail goes,” Maury said.  I looked at the single dotted line.  “I see it on the map there, but I don’t know where the trail is.  There’s a few old-timers who have been on it.  But I’m the trail guy, and I can’t tell you where it is.”  He looked back at me.

As I drove higher on the Forest Service road, the tire tracks I was following stopped, one by one, until only a four-wheeler’s tracks preceded me.  Muddy brown tire lines, four of five inches deep, soiling a pristine white road.  I followed the lines, reassured because if the road dipped, or went through a mud pit, I’d see it in the tracks.  I slipped sideways a couple times, but generally traction was good.  And then the four-wheeler turned off.  It was only me and the beautiful, treacherous white blanket.  The snow was deeper.  I drove a little further, but my differential was scraping the top of the snow and I couldn’t see what was under the tires.  Get stuck up here, and I’d be in trouble.  No one to help, no winch, no tire chains.  I killed the engine.  It was 2:30, and about forty degrees.  Time to put some mileage on the boots.

The truck stops here.

Now I was getting excited.  I jumped out in the snow, six or eight inches deep.  Just over the tops of my boots.  The air was crisp and sharp, and the sunlight gleamed of the days-old snow.  I’d hike down what remained of the road, then head off through the dark evergreen forest with its white icing.  I readied my daypack: water, granola bars, compass, extra socks, PLB, backup GPS, light source, extra batteries.  I put Duke out into the snow to get him accustomed to it, then put on the new dog boots I bought for him.  I climbed into the camper to hook my handheld GPS up to my computer and plan a route.

I loaded my truck’s current position onto the computer.  I hadn’t made it as far as I’d hoped in the truck.  Maury had warned me about that.  I traced a line from my truck’s current position around the north side of Bloomington Peak, across the compressed topo lines that marked the ridge, past Indian Springs, and to Thomas Springs, where I’d meet a solid double-track line on the western side of the Wasatch Mountains.  I transferred the route to my handheld unit.  I’d make the descent to Thomas Springs, then turn around and hike back up to the truck.  I’d sleep for the night in the camper.  Later, I’d drive around the Wasatch Mountains and drive up to Thomas Springs from the western side.  That way, by boot and tire, I’d cover all of Walker’s possible route.

Then I checked the length of my hike.  3.8 miles each way.

I looked at Duke, who was wagging his tail.  But it was too far.  3.8 miles, with that much altitude change, when there might be no trail, and I might have to wade through snow, was too much to do in an afternoon.  I doubted I could make it there and back by dark.  And I didn’t want to spend the night out in the mountains.  Worse, I had the descent first – so if I reached a halfway point and had to turn around, the trip back to the truck would take longer than the trip to the turnaround point.  I dislike making prudent decisions, but they have their place.  3.8 miles isn’t even close.  2.8 miles would have been too far.  At 3.8 miles, there was no question.  It wasn’t even worth cursing about.  So I didn't even swear as I took off Duke’s boots and climbed back in the truck.

I drove around the mountains.  I’ll try the hike tomorrow morning with a whole day ahead of me.  I’ll start walking at Thomas Springs on the western side of the ridge, and climb to the spot on the eastern side where I stopped today.  Then I’ll turn around and retrace my steps.  This way I’ll have the ascent first, so if things get too tough, or the hike takes too long, I can turn around and be sure of making it back.

A backup plan.  It’s important to have one if you’re a Georgia boy out stomping in the snow.  Damnit.

The view along Bloomington Creek at lower elevation where it hadn't snowed.

Duke retreiving his tennis ball in Bear Lake National Wildlife Refuge.