When we were in our thirties I had the brilliant idea of backpacking in the Tetons where we had hiked before, and adventurous Bill went along with it. We thought that we were in pretty good shape and never even gave the altitude a thought. We should have. Indianapolis is 797 feet above sea level. Jackson Hole, Wyoming, is 6,200 feet above sea level, and we hiked higher than that.
Picture this: I’m trudging up a mountain path next to Cascade Creek in Grand Teton National Park. “Pant, pant, pant . . . wheeze, wheeze, wheeze . . .” I stumble a short distance, sit on a rock and then repeat the process. The rules require backpackers to go at least six miles before setting up camp, and we still have over a mile to go.
Seven-year-old Vicki who carries only her Raggedy Ann doll stuck under her belt asks more and more frequently. “Are we there yet?” “Pretty soon,” I grunt. (Oh God — please let it be soon, or I’m gonna’ die right here on this mountain.)
Doggedly, Bill tromps along 50 feet in front of us. His load is worse than mine because he has our sleeping bags. A hiker says to his companions, “Ohmygod! Do you see the size of his load?” We thought that we couldn’t afford new lightweight sleeping bags, tents and the prepared, dehydrated food that experienced backpackers use.
Bill wore his combat boots from Army days, and I wore sneakers as I had no hiking boots to fit my size 11, 5A feet. Sneakers aren’t recommended because you may slip on loose stones. Indeed, I did slip while getting water, soaked one leg and nearly fell into the boulder-strewn creek that was rushing down the mountainside. Had I done so, I would probably have died. As it was I had to go around with a plastic bag on one foot until my wet shoe and sock dried. On the other hand, we saw people going barefoot as they hadn’t broken in their boots and had blistered feet.
Our individual tents were oversized, open-ended plastic bags that we had to anchor to a tree to keep from sliding downhill. Vicki asked where the restroom was. “You dig a little hole behind a bush.” We concocted our own meals. Cuppasoup and homemade jerky were a mainstay of our diet, and the eating was mighty slim pickins’. Bill said as we headed down after two nights, “I am having steak for dinner!”
Dr. Stuhldreher said that he’d make the trek up Mount Kilimanjaro again. “You must never give up,” he said. We kept our backpacks for a few years and then sold them at a garage sale.
Why in the world do people put up with such discomfort? We wanted to get away from the crowds and do something unusual. Dr. Stuhldreher and his wife, Pinky, are busy physicians. Their adventures give them a respite from the stringent, everyday demands of their profession.
I understand his enthusiasm about seeing flowers, wild creatures and birds in their natural habitat. We hiked through meadows of wildflowers and watched water ouzels flying in and out of Cascade Creek. They’d sit on a boulder, shake their feathers, and then dive into the creek and come to the surface 20 or 30 feet away. When Bill woke up one morning a pica was peering in at him. A pica is a tailless, little, grass-eating mountain animal that makes a “meep” sound.
Whether manmade or natural, we cannot have too much beauty in our lives. It enriches our deepest emotions and becomes imprinted on our spirits for as long as we live. Our friend, Jean, left us a tearful message when she and Bill were looking at the Tetons for the first time: “This place is so beautiful that it makes me cry.” Amen to that! wclarke@comcast.net