The Hat Factor

Rescue rangers climb and roam Grand Teton National Park on a daily basis, poised to pick up the pieces of accidents, many preventable, some not. The day I joined a ranger on patrol he was called back to base fifteen minutes after we headed out. A skier on Ellingwood Couloir had lost control and fallen 800 feet. It was serious. I went on walking alone.

Another day I joined my friend Drew. We went off-trail toward an area favored by late-season skiers. We bumped into some local backcountry skiers, early risers finishing their day long before noon. In other words, capable. But another guy was making his way solo, with precious little gear or experience. Still, he had managed to climb a remote ridge and have a great time of it. Drew chatted with both parties about the weather, their gear, what they thought of the conditions.

I thought it must be stressful to see people unprepared in the wilderness, but Drew quipped maybe that's what it's for. I took that to mean that there is a lot that can be said for living by your wits. Risks let us find our potential. And we hope it ends well.

Also an avalanche forecaster, Drew commented how his job was not to police the backcountry but to encourage good decisions. Avalanche reports can predict conditions, but they can't anticipate prudence. On one day, he said, avalanche conditions were tricky, which didn't make a trip into the backcountry impossible, just worthy of extra consideration. His report went something like this.

With a cowboy hat a meticulous fit is crucial. It should stay on in a gallop: snug enough to stay put and loose enough to not pinch your brains. This is your perfect hat. But even then, one day a big gust comes along to blow it right off.

Therein lies the point. Lose your hat and it's time to take stock. A cowboy who straps it to his chin with stampede strings never takes that risk, but neither does he find the moment to get off his horse and reevaluate.

I live in a time when warnings come in pithy slogans or written in block letters on danger signs. So it took a while to chew on this old notion--guidance by parable. But (as any English major would) I liked it.

Soon after we hit patches of snow and the going got harder in my trail runners. Though I wanted to keep on going, I knew I might feel differently later. So I reluctantly called it a day.

Sky of Blue, Sea of Green

It was a huge grizzly that we never saw. But we were always certain of its presence (the air got electric and putrid). Claire and I were finishing a loop trail at the north end of Wyoming's Grand Teton National Park. And I had dragged her there.

We had already celebrated the beauty of lake, craggy Teton views and a pornographic explosion of wildflowers. We spotted crusty discs of bear poop and sweated from our ascent to a panoramic viewpoint. Coming down, tall shrubbery walled the trail which we found blocked by a steaming pile.

We had arrived even before the flies, which told trouble. Then we saw the big clawed paw print. Steps beyond the odor sharpened. Now I know. Grizzles smell like a landfill in a heatwave.

Besides the bear spray, my only recourse was to launch into a pathetic chorus of Yellow Submarine (so strong is the survival instinct). Reader, you have never heard such an unsteady, wobbling and adrenaline-laced version of that tune, clapping, we beat it to tatters until we found the car. Later, my ranger friend surmised that the pile-maker had likely been a grizzly--the black bears in this sector had long fled from their invasion.

In telling the news, Claire would call it our bear encounter. I insisted that it wasn't an encounter without a sighting. And statistically, these encounters were not always grim. What we had was probably worse--those wretched smells and rustlings put to our own imaginations.