In the Spring of 1998 my 78 year-old father and I were on a road trip through Wyoming and Montana. We picked up a rented car in Bozeman, Montana and stopped the first night in Chico Hot Springs. The next morning the two of us continued down Paradise Valley to Yellowstone Park.
Buffalos grazed the new grasses in the low valleys and my old man marveled at Old Faithful's punctuality. He had never been to this part of the West.
"I wish your mother was with us." She had passed away in Boston from previous year.
"Me too." My mother loved to travel.
We spent a night near Inspiration Point and headed south in the morning.
Snow tipped the jagged high peaks of the Grand Tetons, but my father didn't talk much of the long stretches between towns. His thought rested on his dear Angie.
When I was behind the wheel, we listened to the country-western stations. My father switched to his classical CDs during his driving shift. Sometimes he cried during the opera arias. My mother had a great singing voice.
On our journey's fourth night we stopped Pinedale. The mountains to the south were painted pink by the setting sun and the clear evening sky shone with the cosmos. My father marveled at the remote beauty and I told him, "Back in the 1830s mountain men hunted beaver in that wilderness."
"Doesn't look like it's changed much since then." My father had fought Maine's Great Fire in 1947. He knew his woods.
"Probably not."
There was only one way to find out and during our steak dinner at the hotel restaurant I pored over a map of the Wind River Mountains and plotted out a day's hike across the range from south to north.
"What are you thinking?"
"That tomorrow I might take a hike." I pointed to a trail crossing the mountains. "I calculate the distance to be about fifteen miles."
"Distances in the mountains are different from distance on the road," my father cautioned with the wisdom of a Boy Scout leader.
"Walking two miles an hour should take no more than ten hours to cover that distance. You drop me at the southern trailhead and pick me up at the northern end." I was in good shape for a man my age.
"These aren't the White Mountains."
Back in the early 60s our family had climbed Mount Monadnock, whose summit was a little over 3000 feet.
"I know." The Wind River Mountains' highest peaks towered above 12,000 feet.
"That could end up being a long fifteen miles." My father didn't walk anywhere. At Yellowstone I had to drag him to view Old Faithful's eruption of steam. "You're not as young as you think you are."
"None of us are." I finished my wine and refilled the glass with water. I didn't need to start tomorrow's trek with a hangover. The trail crested two 9,000-foot passes.
"I don't like you doing it on your own," My father liked playing it safe, but he was only in condition to talk me out of attempting this hike and not accompanying me.
"I'll be careful." Only two years earlier I had hiked in the Himalayas.
"It's your funeral, so please don't take any shortcuts. That's how people get lost."
"Yes, sir."
The next morning we woke at dawn and ate quick breakfast.
"The weather report predicts clear skies," I said getting into the car.
"The weather here isn't the weather in the mountains." He gazed at the peaks.
"There isn't a cloud in the sky."
"Now."
"I'll be fine."
My father dropped me at the southern trailhead north of Pinedale.
I checked my bag for my map, compass, knife, water, food, whistle, matches, flashlight, an all-weather jacket, fleece, and camera. It was 7:34 AM.
"Good day for it." Sunset was ten hours away.
"I'll be waiting on the other side."
I set out on the trail and soon was surrounded by wilderness. Bighorn sheep danced on rocky tors and elk herds groomed the alpine meadows. Indians had hunted these animals and trappers had caught beaver in the glacier-fed streams back in the early 19th Century. I fell into a good pace. No other bootprints marked the trail.
Within an hour I reached a bald promontory two miles from the trailhead. Mountain peaks barricaded the western horizon. My mother would have loved the view and I toasted her in heaven with a sip of water.
I took out the trail map. The path divided into three directions. I took the northern fork to the nearest col. The distance to my destination was thirteen miles and I anticipated seeing my father in seven hours.
Light clouds obscured the steep pass. A sharp wind swept chilled air across the bare rocks and a strengthening flurry obscured the peaks. I put on my cap, fleece and jacket, then trudged down into the aspen forests, where the sun broke through the overcast and I took off my jacket to eat an early lunch of salami and cheese.
Reinforced I followed the trail up-and-down over several aretes, then switchbacked down to a creek.
The spring melt was flooding the path and I swam from one side of the torrent to the other somehow losing my way, so I backtracked a mile in soaking clothes.
Cold and exhausted I sat on a flat rock and dried my boots in the sun.
Thirty minutes later they were merely damp. The map had me barely halfway across the continental divide. I had only covered three miles in the last two hours.
A family of moose wandered across a boggy swamp. They were thin from a long winter. The wind carried my scent to them and they trotted into the forest. I pulled on my boots and tramped over a 9000 foot high pass. The air was thin and my heart was thumping a rapid beat.
I hadn't seen anyone all day and wondered whether I was on the right trail.
A sign post confirmed my suspicion.
I had missed my turning.
Correcting my error would take another hour at least.
I gazed at the wet ground. Bear tracks marked the path. The paw prints were three times the size of my feet. People died in these mountains and died easy from cold, starvation, and animal attacks. I counted my blessing and ate my last chocolate bar. At least I wasn't lost anymore.
At 5 O'Clock I was five miles from the northern trailhead. All of the path was downhill.
I made good time and arrived in the darkening parking lot, where my father was waiting with two rangers. The two rangers shook their heads, thankful that they didn't have to find my body and returned to their pick-up truck.
I must have looked a wreck, but better than a bag of bones wrapped in tattered clothing.
"Twelve hours on the nose." My father checked his watch.
"Better than thirteen." And certainly better than twenty.
"You hungry?" My father opened the car.
"You bet." I hobbled over to the passenger side and threw my bag on the floor. My legs were noddled al dente.
"Thirsty?" My father started the engine.
"And then some." I unlaced my boots. The smell was wretched.
"I got a six-pack of beer and a half of a cold pizza." My father cracked the window. "I thought you might need some nourishment."
"You know me all too well." I popped open the Coors and drained the can in one go, feeling every seconds of my 47 years. The pizza had an extra topping of pepperoni. "You don't know how good this is going to taste."
"Back in the Great Maine Fire of 1947. After the bulldozers stilled the last flames my crew and I had celebrated putting out the blaze with a pizza in Portland. It was the best thing that I ever tasted outside your mother's cooking."
"Same as this pizza."
"You know it."
Neither of us were mountain men.
We were simply a father and son on a road trip.
My mother would have liked that.
In the late-18th Century Marie Antoinette' coiffeur sought to camouflage the queen's baldness by upsweeping her thinning tresses to cascade over her ears. The femme fatales of the ancien regime imitated 'le bouffant, until the royal coif lost its popularity with the Marie's final haircut by the guillotine.
