The Tiny Teton Trip

This is a repost from my entry on Outdoor Women

---

Post-midnight arrival in the mountain town

There were just two of us heading into the frozen world of the Tetons late on a winter's eve. It was a spontaneous trip fueled by a desire to head north into the wild country of Wyoming, a little bit of cabin fever, and twenty-two gallons of 89 octane. Departure time: 10:45 p.m.

These kinds of trips generally have no rules other than to enjoy the moment. We took backroads and stopped at every state sign (three to be exact). We turned up the hip hop and pulled over to video the hilarity of the Mazda-turned-discoteque. We played songs on repeat. We took pictures on repeat. We took two hours over normal travel time to arrive.  Eventually the dark silhouette of the jagged Tetons loomed before us and we entered—rather irreverently—while Outkast on full blast asked us to shake it like a polaroid picture.

It was hovering near 6 degrees at Jackson Lake when we exited the car. We set up to photograph the night sky which was reminiscent of an oreo milkshake in negative. Chips of stars were scattered in a curvature clearly visable to the casual viewer. But we were no casual viewers: we were drinking in the frozen air, visually consuming the glittery inkwell overhead and feeling so alive for 4:30 a.m. Our hands stiffening in the cold as we set up for long exposures, we grinned at how giddy we were.

 Every star is a shooting star when you bump a long-exposure...

While our cameras did their thing, we spoke in hushed tones about the magnitude of the sky and the meaning of it all. We took shot after shot, adjusting f-stops and shutter speeds, admiring and critiquing each other's work as deemed appropriate. We quickly found, however, that our photographic skills were dwarfed in comparison to the competition (read: reality).  Not being sore losers, we gave the beauty overhead a proper high five before searching out a suitable spot to car camp.

Car camping- in the literal sense of the term. Catching three hours of sleep in seats that don't recline to a true horizontal does not lend itself to a full sleep-cycle. But the sun was relentless in rising and as the bone-chilling cold in the car heated with the force of solar rays, we groggily stripped off down sleeping bags and pulled on snow pants and fleece-lined beanies.

We were not alone. As we came to a realization of day, we glanced around our once-empty parking lot and found ourselves among dozens of similarly suited-up fellows, skis slung over shoulders, shovels strapped on packs, dogs prancing impatiently around owner's legs. Stepping from the relative comfort of our car cabin into the sparkling crispness of the morning air, I felt a smile rise from somewhere deep within. It landed full-force on my face. "This is... awesome." My first words of the day; never a bad sign.

Oh, good morning, Tetons. Oh, good morning, "Sign We Didn't See Last Night."

Strapping on our hydration packs and snowshoes and donning eyewear to protect against the blazing sun, we crunched through the hardpack toward the lower hills southwest of our campspot. The destination was generally decided to be a lake somewhere at the end of some trail we might end up on.  It being a Saturday, sunny, and living off the remnants of road-trip excitement, it mattered little if we made our destination. In fact, I think both of us would have been content to sit on the snow bank on the side of the parking lot with a couple of sandwiches; the views were mighty fine there, too (wink, wink)...

We crunched on, noticing tracks of various animals: dog, bird, chipmunk, humans on skis. We climbed up to admire views, snapped photos of broken-down fences, nodded at the occasional passerby. The peaks of the Tetons were almost unobstructed from our view- a rarity- and either our awe of being so close to them or the sleep deprivation we harbored seemed to keep our mouths quiet during our trek. Squirrel chatter punctuated the rhythm of the crampons perforating the snow- other than that, our world was silent. The discoteque of last night's trip was a forgotten memory...

 Can you spot the mid-jump furry friend?

A couple of hours brought us to the end of our trail and we looked around questioningly. The lake was frozen over and unspectacular; in fact, we weren't sure of it even being a lake until one of us tripped over a small wooden marker that hardly rose above the surface of the snow. Feeling only the slightest twinge of regret for the loss of a potential photographic opportunity, we dropped our packs on a bare-faced slope and settled in for a long lunch break. We tore into tangerines, peeled delicate layers of string cheese and dropped mouthfuls of home-made granola. Hunger satiated, we succumbed to the warmth of the sun radiating from above and reflecting from below, dropping back onto our hydration packs for a little more sleep.

At higher elevations the sun is surprisingly strong and the mounting heat across my nose and cheeks woke me from what felt like a very deep sleep. Surprisingly refreshed, I threw a snowball at the still-sleeping Maria who casually rose to her feet without protest. We turned our backs to the Tetons and looped towards the trailhead. The return trip was contemplative, quiet and, other than being stopped briefly by a mink who ran deftly across our path and a couple who wanted advice on snowshoes, quite uneventful. The sun was a little past its crest in the winter sky as we neared pavement and, the parking lot being less spectacularly populated by this time, there wasn't much reason to be leisurely about heading home. Stripping layers down once again until at a comfortable travel-level, we climbed back into the mini-club and headed home to the bustle of our little city. Arrival: 7:30 p.m., less than 24 hours of road-trip time.

Lesson: fit the adventure in.