Climbing in the Grand Tetons with a Yellowstone postcript

Henrique, Andy, and I arrived at Grand Teton National Park to climb the Grand of the Teton Range. After doing some last minute grocery shopping in Salt Lake City, we hit the road, making our way though "rush hour" traffic. All I can say is that rush hour elsewhere is like the Bay Area at 9 a.m. on a Saturday morning.  Finding all of the hotels in Jackson Hole to be ridiculously expensive, we stumbled late that night on to BLM land to pitch our tents.

The next morning, we started hiking up Garnet Canyon to the Lower Saddle (11,600 feet) with all of our camping and climbing gear. The 6,000 feet in total elevation gain would have been difficult under any circumstances, but I had been sick the three weeks before, so the hike seemed particularly difficult. And to top it off, our campsite was at the highest elevation, at the Lower Saddle. I enviously watched the hikers peel off to set up camp. It was like passing five different You Could Be Home signs along the freeway.

I tell this story from a distance of nine months of perspective (it's May 2017, I'm backdating my post to when we were actually there), but at the time, this story felt very different to me:

We woke up to wind and darkness for our summit attempt. By the time we got to the start of the trail that marked the beginning of the climb, we could see the bobbing headlamps of all of the guided groups that were turning around and coming down. One guide said that the wind was blowing an unusual way and she had seen thunder, so it was too dangerous to continue climbing. There was a heavy mist/light drizzle. We hung out in the dark dampness, and decided to wait it out a little. It seemed like it was a no go. As the sun rose, it was still wet and gloomy.  Even so, we decided to head up the trail a little, to get beta for the next time and check it out. We'd come so far. Halfway up the trail, it was still misty and the rock was wet. The three of us huddled and finally called it off. The weather just wasn't cooperating.

"Let's just scramble up a little more." Henrique said.

We followed him. After a few minutes, I started to see little value in risking injury scrambling over wet rock when we had already decided to turn around. Henrique was far ahead of Andy and me.

"Hey Andy, I think I'm going to head back. It's too slippery," I called out.

"Okay, he said. Do you want to wait for us at the striped rock?" It was wet and cold, so I didn't feel like standing in the middle of the trail waiting for them.

"No," I said, "I'll just meet you back at the tent."

I went back to the tent and waited. And waited.

The sun came out bright and clear. The longer I waited, I realized they had done the climb without me.

Over the next eight hours, I had no phone reception. I couldn't call them. I couldn't do anything other than read every single "Saved For Later" article in my New York Times phone app. I was furious at being left behind. And then I grew increasingly worried as the hours passed. The estimated climb time was around four hours. So at hour six, I was both angry and worried.

Eventually they stumbled back. I remember Henrique's first words, "Linda, you shouldn't have turned around, the climb was great!" I could have strangled him.

Andy knew exactly what had happened and why I was upset, and immediately apologized.  I was still furious. I descended by myself, not wanting to hear anything about how amazing it was. I didn't even want another apology.

Looking back, I can see past my anger and disappointment. I can't say that I wouldn't have done the same. Tempted by the summit and suddenly good weather, would I have left my friend behind to bag a summit that I'd come all this way to climb? Was this just the way climbers do it? Because we had collectively decided to turn around, should they have turned back even after the weather cleared? Was this bad communication and they got lucky?

I don't know. But I do see both sides better now.

The American Alpine Club Climber's Ranch

That night, we checked into the American Alpine Club Climber's Ranch, an amazingly clean set of dorm beds in wood cabins with an outdoor picnic area at the foot of the Grand. 

I'm not sure I said more than a few words to them that night. 

The next day, we tried to find some single pitch climbing, but the weather didn't cooperate. I got about two pitches of climbing in. After one more night at the beautiful Climbers' Ranch, I dropped Henrique and Andy at the bus stop and headed for Yellowstone solo. I was less angry by this time, but hadn't quite starting to wonder if maybe I would have done the same.

The sun rose as I drove to Yellowstone, casting morning light on the mountains and lakes on the way.

The next couple of days, I took in the sights of Yellowstone at my own pace. It was actually the first time I'd ever camped by myself. I was so paranoid about crime (humans, not bears) that I locked my tent with a padlock from the inside before I fell asleep and took out some mace! And other than a small mishap when I descended a different trail to Mt. Washburn than I ascended and ended up at the wrong parking lot, miles away from where I wanted to be, it was a great couple of solo days completely at my own pace. I dawdled at each stop, snapping photos at a rate that would have annoyed even the most patient travel companion.

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