Words: Griffin Post. Photos and Captions: Fredrik Marmsater 2021-09-09 12:39:07
Leaving our camp and heading to our boats stashed up Soda Creek. ThAe start of a very, very long day. “Stop. Those are bears,” I say sternly, trying to keep my calm while motioning toward the two brown masses 50 yards to our left. The pair of animals lumbers to their feet, humps on their backs and dished faces on full display—distinct features of adult grizzly bears. The four of us group together tightly in order to appear as large as we can, each taking out a can of bear spray and slowly backing away. The two beasts sniff the air and begin to circle one another. They know we’re here. For the first time, I’m thankful for our big packs—full of skiing, camping and packrafting gear. Oars are strapped alongside A-framed skis and jackets draped on top, a moving façade known as a “bear crow.” For a moment, I debate ditching the packs in order to be more agile, but immediately doubt any of us could outrun several hundred pounds of muscles and teeth. A split second later my doubts are confirmed. The bears break into a full sprint, first parallel to our group and then veering directly at us. Watching the massive animals open up their strides is both beautiful and horrifying. The lightweight bear spray can in my right hand doesn’t seem sufficient—a garden hose against a forest fire. Holy shit, I think to myself, I’m going to get us all killed on the first morning of the trip. The trip was never going to be easy—a late-season combination of hiking into Wyoming’s Teton Wilderness, one of the most remote areas of the lower 48, camping for three nights and making turns in relatively unexplored terrain before rafting out. A bear mauling, however, was not part of the itinerary. As quickly as they come, the apex predators curve away in the opposite direction, but still on alert. We breathe a collective sigh of relief as they disappear into the timber. Moving quicker toward snow in the distance, we check our sixes every few seconds. I think of a local hunting outfitter’s response after I asked about the area we were planning to ski: “Are there bears? Man, that’s where bears come from.” Designated in 1964, the Teton Wilderness accounts for a slice of the 20-million-acre Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem and has the distinction of containing the most remote location––in terms of distance from a road––in the lower 48. The Absaroka Mountains in the Teton Wilderness lack the dramatic valley-to-summit relief seen in the Grand Tetons to the west, and most of the range’s high peaks are hidden from any thoroughfare. Maybe that’s why the range sees only a fraction of the visitors of the surrounding national parks despite ample peaks, crystal-clear rivers and abundant wildlife. Perhaps, like me, few see the need to explore further afield. Embarrassingly, after more than a decade spent living in the area, I’ve rarely backcountry skied outside the Tetons. But the Teton Wilderness has another appeal for the adventurous: Its rivers offer a means of one-way transportation in the form of packrafting—lightweight inflatable kayaks that pack down to the size of a sleeping bag. In a season marked by record lift lines, crowded trailheads and an influx of backcountry skiers, untouched wilderness promises a much-needed respite from the human herd. While a crew for such a trip needs a semi-specialized set of technical skills, if I’ve learned one thing over years of concocting half-baked adventures in remote areas, it’s that location always takes a backseat to who you’re with and their senses of humor. Sometimes, to ensure the right crew, you need to master the subtle art of providing enough beta to make a trip attractive, while only alluding to—or omitting entirely—the more brutal details. This is known as “sandbagging,” and I’d like to think I’m a master at it. Accompanying me on my May ski expedition is Utah-based skier, ultra-runner and oncology nurse, Mali Noyes. She’s an easy choice for the journey not only based on her skiing and fitness background—she was a four-year Division 1 Nordic skier at the University of Utah—but also her seven years of river-guiding experience in Idaho. Spencer Harkins, Mali’s longtime boyfriend and self-appointed fashion advisor for the trip, is a staple at Alta, UT, regularly outfitted in denim, jorts or, at times, nothing at all. Rounding out the crew is photographer Fred Marmsater, a former biochemist and one of the few photographers I’ve met that will pull away from the group while setting the bootpack. After stashing our packrafts as high up the river drainage as is comfortable for us, we continue to gain elevation through the burned-out forest. Storm clouds build at our backs. The 2012 Bear Cub Fire had scorched the area, leaving only the skeletal remains of lodgepole and white bark pines in its wake, many of which are now downed across the trail. Travel becomes a constant puzzle, finding the path of least resistance through a maze of downed timbers with packs that still weigh heavily on our backs after ditching our rafting gear. As the wind increases, trees start snapping under heavy gusts, crashing to the ground with impressive explosions we first mistake for thunder. If the bears weren’t threatening enough, the forest itself has become a serious hazard. Our goal of establishing a camp near the snowline between the 10,000-foot summits of Soda and Smokehouse mountains no longer feels safe, let alone feasible with the approaching storm. Rerouting, our only appropriate camp seems to be a clearing around a small Forest Service patrol cabin that a crew of hotshots protected during the fire. Despite being out of the way, it offers the luxury of an eave that might shelter us during the storm. The fading affect bias is the psychological phenomenon in which people tend to forget negative emotions associated with experiences while retaining the positive feelings. Researchers have asserted this is an evolutionary benefit for survival, leaving humans programmed to be open to new experiences regardless of what happened last time. I find it to be especially useful in the realm of backcountry skiing. The memories of the storm are still fresh as we hit snowline. Thirty-six hours of on-again, off-again precipitation had dropped months’ worth of rain and sleet on our cabin camp. We’d woken up in a meadow that had turned into a lake, moving our tents to high ground in the deluge to spare our remaining gear. Now, drying my feet on a damp buff after crossing an ice-cold creek and jamming cold toes into ski boots, I wonder what we’re doing. Although my thoughts aren’t spoken aloud, they’re reflected on the crew’s faces and in their body language. Spencer unsuccessfully shields himself from the sleet under a tree, Mali has gone unusually quiet and Fred already has his skis on while trying his best not to look impatient with the rest of us. Yet as our skintrack climbs, so do our spirits. Sleet turns to snow and crust to powder. By treeline, we’re walking on six inches of fresh snow with deeper, wind-loaded pockets. Although it’s closer to summer than winter, one wouldn’t know that. The burnt pines, with their meandering trunks stripped of bark and most of their branches, offer ample skiing lanes and a stunning contrast between earth and sky. We transition and make casual, carefree turns down through the forest, leapfrogging each other in spring powder. After transitioning in a narrow creek, we veer toward an east-facing cirque in search of steeper terrain. Snow continues to pile up. Even though temperatures are rising, we still have one or two laps before wet slides become an issue. We make quick work of a couloir that tops out in a narrow notch overlooking the entire Soda Creek drainage. The snow affords just enough give to ski confidently and milk some of our last powder turns of the season. Mali and Spencer embody pure enthusiasm. Despite having only a handful of years under her belt as a skier, Mali looks as honed as any seasoned veteran. Spencer skis as cavalierly as he looks, and I’m actually half-surprised when he doesn’t strip down naked at the top. Strangely, it will mark the first time we’ve skied together that he hasn’t schussed at least one run in the buff. We link every last patch of snow on the traverse to our makeshift base camp, until spring finally wins out and we reluctantly put our skis on our backs. Our little meadow and cabin come into view, and we happily walk the muddy trail to our adopted stoop. The fading affect is already at work. The plan to float back to the trailhead was not only built out of convenience, but also as a proverbial adventure hedge. I knew that, at worst, rafting back to the cars would be a decent consolation prize if the skiing was subpar. At best, it would serve as an exclamation point to our adventure. Now, sitting next to the river, assessing a portage that will take hours around a rapid that’s flowing well above our pay grade, I’m not sure what purpose this portion of the trip is serving. I suppose even the best sandbaggers, at times, sandbag themselves. Our exit starts according to plan: The slow-moving river carries us and our 80 pounds of gear around oxbows and through pristine meadows. As the river narrows and steepens, the reality of paddling that much gear through consequential rapids and avoiding river-wide downed logs begins to come into focus. Mali is one of few women to run a sweep boat on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River; she’s earned her stripes operating a 22-foot gear-hauling raft with only left or right steering and effectively no margin for error, and done it solo. But even she starts to see the precariousness of our situation. The menacing choke in the river, courtesy of two landslides on opposing riverbanks, seems to be the crescendo of the struggle. Before that crux, Fred and I ferry across the river, opting for the heavily treed, but seemingly more stable landslide to portage. As Fred pulls his boat to shore, he loses his footing on the unstable riverbank, tipping over backward into the water in a Looney Tunes fall that might have been funny in any other situation. What follows is a very warranted series of profanities. Knowing that sometimes the best help is to give someone a moment alone, I leave Fred to collect himself as I scout the portage. What had seemed like a relatively straightforward route from the river is in reality a convoluted mess of lodgepole pines, trees collapsed atop one another like a pile of several-thousand-pound, barbed pick-up sticks. But there is a way through, and a bright orange can of bear spray on the riverbank reassures me that at least someone had done this before. That comfort is short-lived after I realize the can has its safety off—its contents half-used. By the time I get back to Fred he is in better spirits and Mali and Spencer have joined him. I relay that the route hiking around the rapid is pretty straightforward (it’s not), is only about 100 yards (it’s 200, easily) and should take about five minutes to walk (more like 10, each way). When facing a foregone conclusion, it’s sometimes best to err on the side of optimism rather than accuracy. While we must break our gear into several loads, we make surprisingly quick work of deflating the boats, derigging our skis and packing up, then completing the process in reverse. Back in our boats, things seem to be looking up. The river is mellowing and, with some luck, we’ll be at our cars before the next round of rain hits. Or at least before dark.
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