A Walk in the Winds

After a seven-mile climb into the steep New Fork Canyon and two tricky river crossings, we ascended to a meadow, exhausted and desperate for a site. Fording the river again to a heavily-used area with a lot of horse manure, probably the spot the wrangler had mentioned, we moved far enough away, pitched our tent and cooked dinner just as it started to drizzle. 

The 10,500-foot terrace on the west side of the Winds is a country of clustered pine and spruce scattered through expansive meadows of wildflowers, meandering streams, and countless lakes where one could walk for miles without losing altitude.

We were fulfilled by a welcomed dinner when a storm suddenly descended, shaking our shelter, causing the rainfly to balloon and beat against the tent. Our discussion picked up after the outside became less of an issue and we segued into our perpetual conversation on wilderness. Why was wilderness so strong in our lives?

“I love a primitive life with no amenities,” Roanne said. “The mountains force you into it. I love hot baths but love bathing in cold water, to carry everything on my back and rely on nobody. It has taught me to trust myself. No mirrors, no peer pressure. I don’t like the familiarity of social life where everyone is polite, putting up façades. In the mountains all that is dropped. I just like being in the wind, the trees, amidst the rocks. That’s where I feel most natural. Being with you, you’re just the closest to nature, I can spill my heart out. There’s nothing to judge, nothing gets in the way. Time is very different here, something felt and lived. Actually there’s no time—just morning, day and night. The mountains are soothing, a visceral cushion. That’s why I go with you.” 

I couldn’t have put it better myself. A mother needs time, with no distractions, to tell her daughter about her own life. There is nobody else but me for her out here. I wish my mother had told me more about her life. I knew very little and didn’t know then that I would have liked to know more. 

The next two days slipped by, hiking over passes, swimming in icy alpine lakes, roaming under light clouds floating in a basin of blue. Some ginseng tincture warmed us as the temperature dropped.

Rather than hiking the Highline to the New Fork Trail that crossed a divide to Lozier Lakes, our next campsite, we decided on a diagonal off-trail “route”. While apprehensive without a compass or topographic map, we were enticed by a new way out rather than retracing our steps. (Next time the compass would go into our packs first!)

Heading west on the Doubletop Mountain Trail, we searched for cairns. We kept Finis Mitchell’s (the late WY-based forester) description in our heads: “As long as Glover Peak, the highest summit west of the Highline Trail, was to the northeast, keep going around it.” 

With eyes on Glover, we headed north, passing lakes and climbing ridges that approached like ocean waves. Thunderheads in the distance roused my concern and figuring them to arrive by late afternoon, I hoped to be off this high plateau. We were above treeline and could see for miles except what was over the next ridge.

The sight of a footprint in the gravelly earth helped allay our burgeoning fear. Roanne ran ahead to see beyond the next ridge while I rested. Another ridge. I was getting worried; if near the cliffs, then we were too far west. But then I heard a yell. She could see the trail far below. 

Finally finding a break in the escarpment, Roanne dropped down while I lowered my pack over the edge into her waiting arms. As the slope became more gradual, a creek surfaced and, following it to the New Fork Trail, I humbly got down on my hands and knees and kissed the earth.

It was late afternoon when the lakes appeared. The storm front was moving in quickly. No level ground. We hastily pitched the tent, cooked dinner, and climbed into our bags with not a moment to spare. The tempest descended in all its fury. Thunder shook my insides, lightning crackled, warning of another blast, and I waited, preparing myself. On and on into the night, the turbulence even woke Roanne who usually slept through everything. Not all high mountain storms get me this worried.

As the hours passed, the storm moved eastward, making room for its aftermath—driving rain, more lightning, and wind. 

At first light I peeked out into the silence to find us buried under a heavy layer of snow. We packed up during a lull and headed down where we would be less of a target. The sun peered out periodically, warming our chilled bodies and melting our frosty boots as we descended into the trees under a light snow. Our footsteps were muffled in the hush of falling flakes and the stillness sensitized our awareness and slowed our mindless hurry home. 

Switchbacking two-and-a-half miles down a steep forested canyon, we traveled dreamlike through a soft veil of crystalline mist, hardly speaking. We reached the canyon floor, passed through New Fork Park, our first campsite a century ago, and as the day cleared, emerged from the trees to view the lakes in the far distance. Wet boots and soggy sweatpants made the fifteen-mile hike out uncomfortable. 

The completion of yet another walk in the wilderness, and as always, I had mixed emotions upon leaving. The time with my daughter was very precious. Able to be silent with a full understanding of our feelings made me aware of our secure connection and love in a world fraught with alienation and suffering. These walks were our private time to lower the dam and deal with emotions held in check when apart. The feeling of survival gave me an independence and strength that I could live by my own wits. We drove back with a deep calmness, satisfied that we had taken the time to renew our mother-daughter bond once again.