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I pushed eastward along the steep-sided drainage, ducking under branches and weaving around trees. How Walker did this on horses was beyond me. I started working down to the bottom of the drainage, hoping the going would be easier. The brush got thicker. I guess that’s why Walker stuck to Indian trails. I checked my GPS to make sure I was on course, then continued the westward struggle. I was making about half a mile an hour, I estimated. At that rate, I’d have to turn around well before I reached the spot where I stopped the truck the day before. I kept going. Maybe conditions would improve.
Really, Walker’s travel and mine aren’t comparable. He rode horses, while Duke and I ride on our own feet. He probably stuck to Indian trails, and in this part of the country, there were likely good trails to follow – the Shoshone and Bannock Indians (who were closely related) traversed these mountains often. They’d fish and hunt around Bear Lake in the summer, then head northwest to dig camas roots and other plants in the plains during the fall. So they crossed the Wasatch mountains. And when they did, they’d have a dog pull a travois, a trailer-type device consisting of two poles dragging the ground behind the dog with a robe or sheet fastened between the poles. The Shoshone or Bannocks would place their personal belongings on the robe. The travois likely left fairly wide and recognizable trails as the dogs carried gear across the mountains. I looked at Duke, who was running through the woods ahead of me while I carried his pack.
After a lot more brush-bucking, the aspen and evergreen woods thinned enough to permit a meadow. I broke into the open. Cattle tracks were everywhere. I’d forgotten this was open range country. And cattle trails led off in several directions, including the direction I wanted to go. After bucking brush for an hour or so, that pattie-marked trail was a pretty sight. Never was I happier to share the National Forest with our bovine brethren. I stopped to take a breather.
I looked up and around. To my left, a medium-sized ridge ran east-west. It was tall but manageable. On its western end, the ridge petered out into the relative lowlands through which I was hiking. On the eastern end, however, it intersected something much larger. There, the medium-sized ridge intersected a big, snow-capped ridge - the very spine of the Wasatch range. It ran north-south. The big ridge was steep and gray, and I could see that the pine-aspen forest I was hiking through gave way to sagebrush on its lower slopes, then low brush and interspersed evergreens in the middle, and at the top, there was only rock, snow, and a few bent trees that spent their lifetimes snarling at unrelenting wind. I had to cross one of the ridges. I figured it was the medium-sized one. I pulled out my GPS to check. I was wrong. I was headed for The Spine.
Looking up at The Spine.
The nice thing about hiking is that no matter what your problem is, the solution is nearly always the same: put one foot ahead of the other. It was to this time-worn remedy that I turned. If it got too late, and I couldn’t make it to where I had stopped the truck the day before then back to my truck’s current location before dark, I’d just turn around. No shame in that.
The cattle trail was broad, so I clipped Duke’s pack back on him. It led up the medium-sized ridge, and I followed it. I would climb the medium-sized ridge, I planned, then walk east along its crest until I hit the spine of the Wasatch. Then the real climb would start. At first the cattle trail was soft and dark like beaver fur as it led through the aspens. As it hit the ridgeside, the dirt turned lighter and loose rocks covered the trail like dried horse dung.
The trail got steeper and I got winded. I remembered another trick to backcountry travel: when in doubt, slow down. I started double-stepping: bring your foot forward, tap the dirt where you’re about to place it, and if the dirt is firm, rest your boot there. Bring your back leg forward, repeat. Most folks double-step for unsteady terrain – and the rocks were a little unstable – but for me, it’s a pacing device. Duke trotted past me and on up the trail. The time you spend tapping your foot lets you catch your breath. You go slower, but can hike lots longer. Duke ran on ahead of me, neither tired nor unstable. He turned to check my progress. Cocky dog. Quadripeds have some serious advantages. I stopped to catch my breath. That’s probably why Walker had the sense to ride a horse.
Duke waiting on me.
And so it went. Up the medium-sized ridge; up the face of The Spine. When the medium-sized ridge met The Spine, the cattle trail became a deer and elk trail. It was steep. The deer and elk trail wound too narrowly between sagebrushes to admit Duke’s pack, so I carried his pack on my arm as I double-stepped through the sagebrush. I stopped for some pictures. Upward through the sagebrush, winding through isolated copses of evergreens. I stopped for a waterbreak, guzzled half a nalgene and stood there gasping. Upward through some shorter, scrubbier brush I couldn’t identify intermixed with patches of snow. Stop for more pictures. I lost the deer trail, and hiking through the scrub brush got harder. Stop to breathe. Upward through ankle-deep snow and a few scattered, gnarled evergreens. Stop to put on gloves, a jacket. Deep breaths. Solution is simple: one foot ahead of the other. Upward through the snow and rock.
The tracks reveal trail usage by deer, possibly some elk, and one domestic dog.
Another beautiful truism about hiking: if you take enough steps, you will eventually get somewhere. It took the evil of man to invent treadmills. And so it was on this day – eventually, Duke and I reached the top. Gloved and jacketed, I looked west to admire the view. I could see the medium-sized ridge, the road where my truck was parked, the canyon I had driven through, the flats containing Preston, Idaho, and the Malad Range behind it. The scene was dabbed with some of the best colors nature offers: dark evergreens, vivid yellow aspens, sombre gray rock, brilliant red mountain maple, limitless blue sky behind pillowy cumulus clouds. The scene was more beautiful than any that you will ever see from a car window.
Top of The Spine.
But the hike wasn’t over. We still had to reach the tire tracks where I’d stopped the truck the day before, and we had to get there with enough time left over to get back to the truck’s current location before dusk. Preferably with a margin of error. Duke and I crossed The Spine and headed down the eastern slopes, which were much gentler. But the snow was deeper, and the forest thicker, and I couldn’t tell on which side of an offshoot ridge I had stopped the truck the day before. I descended the back of the Spine to the north of the offshoot ridge. Snow was deep, well over my boot tops, and moving though the evergreen forest wasn’t easy. It wasn’t as thick as the aspens below, but logs under the snow nearly tripped me several times. My GPS said I was heading in the wrong direction. I started back up the slope of the offshoot ridge. Snow on the bottoms of my Carhartt pants froze, and the ice was heavy enough to weight the hem down so that my pants didn’t ride up as I stepped into the snow. But still, some snow got into my boots. The warmth of my boots melted the snow and my socks got wet. I needed gaiters, I knew, but I hadn’t been able to find any in Preston. I had bought extra socks, a cheap plastic drop cloth, and some electrical tape. When I reached yesterday’s truck tracks, I figured, I’d change socks and make some gaiters. For now, walking kept my feet warm. I thought about the extra socks. If I hadn’t brought them, and I had to stop for a long period, I’d be in trouble. If I got snowed in without dry socks, frostbitten toes might become a best-case scenario.
At which point I noticed that I was hiking through falling snowflakes. I looked up. Despite a clear forecast for Preston, a gray cloud lurking over The Spine was releasing a few flakes like flour falling from a sifter. Not enough snow to cover my tracks, which would make things easier on the return trip. Good luck there. I didn’t have my rain jacket, but had brought along a white garbage bag in case of an emergency. I stared at an evergreen and watched the white snow drifting in front of it. Just a few swirling flakes. Unless things got a lot worse, I wouldn't need my white trash poncho.
At the top of the offshoot ridge, the snow was shallower and the terrain flatter. I followed the ridgeline east, heading toward yesterday's truck tracks. The trees were thinner, and I could see that the ridgeline curled around toward where the truck tracks lay. Indian trails, I had read, followed ridgelines instead of drainages. Now I saw why. I made good time atop the ridge, and wondered if I should have been following ridges, not creeks, through the aspen forest back on the western side. Following ridgelines is probably how Walker got through the terrain on horseback. No doubt what I had just learned was second nature to the seasoned members of the Walker Expedition. I dropped down from the ridge I was following, then picked up another.
As I neared my truck, I descended on the north side of the second ridge. The slope was steep and the snow deep. I half-walked, half-skidded down a few yards, then stopped to gather myself. It was a little like skiing. I could descend this way. I step-skidded some more, and stopped again. I looked at Duke. He was bounding through the snow with his nose at the surface, following deer trails and kicking up a white spray. The animals' scent, I guessed, held well on snowpack. Duke’s feet had to be wet and icy, but he didn’t care. His wagging tail swept the top of the snow behind him. He turned to follow another trail, and I noted with admiration that his enthusiasm remained undimmed by the fact that the snow was, in places, testicle-deep. He saw me watching him, and came toward me.
Deep snow.
I took a step to scratch his head, then stopped and listened to the woods around us. Quiet. Wind whirred through the treetops. I had dislodged a fist-sized snowball with my step, and I could hear it patter as it rolled over the snowpack and came to rest against an evergreen. Then, no sound but the wind. It was silence a man could listen to. I listed for a few seconds, then kept moving.
The truck tracks.
When we reached the truck tracks, Duke sniffed around them. Probably surprised to find his scent and mine, I thought. I knocked some snow off a sawed stump, spread some plastic dropcloth over it and sat by the road. I took off my socks and rested my bare feet on my boots, letting the wind dry my skin. Cold but necessary. The granola bars and jerky I’d brought tasted good. I looked back at the slope I had just descended, which faced north. The evergreen boughs were heavy with snow, and the ground covered with white. But across the drainage, the trees and ground of the south-facing slope were nearly bare. Snow heavier on north-facing slopes – I had known that, from when I used to ski. Too bad it took trial-and-error for me to remember. Another lesson, I thought, that the members of the Walker Expedition would not have had to learn on the fly. Although they passed through here in July or August, instead of early October, so they probably didn’t have to contend with snow. I put my socks and boots back on. I wrapped plastic dropcloth around the tops of my boots and the bottoms of my pants, then made a few passes over the plastic and in across the stirrup of my boot with electrical tape. Presto – redneck gaiters. They looked serviceable. Too bad I hadn’t made them before the insides of my boots got wet. I stood up off my stump. At least I’d have them on the hike back. I scratched Duke’s head and we started.
Disposable gaiters.
Hours later, standing by my truck on the western side of the mountains, I felt like a halfway accomplished snow stomper. The brush at lower altitudes had shredded my gaiters, but they had worked well up high. I had followed a ridgeline through the aspen forest on the way down, and had found the walking much easier. The only problem was some pain in my right knee that started during the descent, but I could tolerate it. Likely a problem to which my body would adjust as I continued to get into climbing shape. I thought about the contents of the camper and tried to decide what to eat first.
A baby-blue Jeep Commanche – a pickup truck that Jeep built in the late 1980s, and stopped making in 1992 – came bouncing by with the windows down. I flagged the cowboy-hatted driver down to ask for a picture of Duke and me.
“Oh, sure,” he said. He stopped the truck and unfolded out of it. Tall and skinny, he wore dark blue jeans overhanging black cowboy boots, a gold Harley-Davidson belt buckle, a Harley-Davidson tee shirt, and a Harley-Davidson sweatshirt. His wide-brimmed hat had sunglasses resting on the brim with their earpieces clamped on either side of the crown. The face under the hat was long but jovial. He walked toward me. He leaned forward a little bit as he walked, so it his long face and broad hat brim with eyeglasses jutted toward you as he walked. It looked like he had two sets of eyes.
He stuck his hand out. “My name’s Curly,” he said.
Curly took a few pictures, then asked what I was up to. I told him I’d just hiked over the mountains, and told him about following the Walker Expedition. Curly said that was great. He offered me two Pepperidge Farm cookies, which I consumed immediately. He lived just down the road, he said, so the mountains were right in his backyard.
“It’s beautiful up there,” he said. I agreed. “I’m a horsepacker. I don’t hike. But I horsepack up there. I use the old trail that the Shoshones used. The one that they carried the mail on.”
I paused. “There’s a trail?” I asked. I knew that there had been a Shoshone trail, and that it had been a freight route in the nineteenth century, but I hadn’t heard of any trail that was usable today. “I just climbed all the way up there following a deer trail some of the way and then bushwhacking it the rest," I said. "But you’re saying there’s a trail all the way to the top?”
Curly was, in fact, saying that there was a trail all the way to the top. A trail that horses could use. A trail that he packed on regularly.
I have got to start learning these lessons sooner.
Google Earth route.
Top of The Spine, heading back and looking west.
POSTSCRIPT. I took Duke to the vet, which was probably unnecessary, and got him some medicine in addition to the anti-vomiting medicine I already had. He is doing well.
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