COLD IN THE SAWTOOTH

How cold was it? So cold that the water in my Army-style canteens froze solid, top to bottom, front to back, side to side. So cold that my wet boots were blocks of ice in the morning. So cold that my fingers were still numb and tingly a month after the trip.

Why didn’t I put canteens and boots in my sleeping bag to use body heat to keep them from freezing? Because I had too much other stuff in there that I was trying to keep warm.

In short, cold, and its sibling snow, were the central ingredients of a late September backpacking trip into the high country of Idaho’s Sawtooth Wilderness Area. A winter backpacking trip had not been the plan. No, the plan had been a pleasant fall stroll into the mountains, with warm days and cool put not disagreeable nights.

More specifically, the plan was an eight-day sojourn exploring the southern and western portions of the Sawtooth. I was to enter at Alturas Lake in the southeastern corner, work my way west and north, perhaps going as far as the western boundary, and exit at Pettit Lake, which was just a few miles north of the starting point. Thus I would be making a loop, a loop that could be as short as 30 or so miles if I took the most direct route or much longer if I was ambitious and had good weather.

Fortunately, I was mostly, but not completely, prepared for cold, wet weather. The synthetic sleeping bag was rated to zero degrees. In addition, I had a military poncho liner that in essence was a blanket of nylon and polyester. It had proved its usefulness many times in the past in a variety of conditions. Clothes-wise, I had rain gear, an outer shell coat of heavy nylon, two fleece inner garments, military pants and shirt, several long and short sleeved tee shirts, medium weight long underwear, two knit hats, and one floppy-brimmed hat. The major inadequacies in the clothes department turned out to be socks and gloves or mittens: I only had two pair of wool socks and not the best collection of hand warmers.

Shelter was a three-season tent that survived the snow in part because I kept the snow from accumulating on it.

The first three days were cold but relatively uneventful. The trailhead was a little beyond the western end of Alturas Lake, at approximately 7,100 feet in elevation. The trail went up Alturas Lake Creek (yes, “Lake Creek”), over an 8,800-foot pass to Mattingly Creek, and down the creek to the Boise River. On the afternoon of the third day, I followed the river north for about three miles, making camp at an old campsite on the bank. Firewood was relatively abundant, indicating that even during the summer the area did not see much traffic. A good fire and a starry sky made for a pleasant evening, the first, and last, on the trip.

Pleasantness ended the next day. The old nautical saying proved true: “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight; Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning.” The early morning sun reflected red off clouds moving from west to east. The trail crossed and recrossed—several times—the Middle Fork of the Boise River. Each crossing required taking off boots and socks, putting on wading shoes, and working my way gingerly, with the aid of two walking sticks and under the bulky backpack, through the water and over slippery rocks.

Rain arrived in mid-afternoon. It was steady and occasionally heavy. The campsite was at the junction of the Middle Fork of the Boise and Flytrip Creek. The elevation was 7,500 feet. Rivulets created by the rain flowed through the campsite, making selection of a specific location for the tent no easy task. I finally located a spot that, with a little trenching and damming, avoided major water. With difficulty, supper was prepared—that is, water boiled for the dehydrated food—just outside the tent door, under the small vestibule.

By morning the rain had stopped, but the wetness was pervasive. I debated whether to continue on or to backtrack down the Middle Fork of the Boise. Ahead was high country—8,000 to 9,000 feet—four hard climbs, and uncertain weather. Back was an outlet at the southern edge of the Sawtooth. The journey would not be as long, the elevation not as great, and the margin of error a bit lower. I decided to tackle the high country. The only rational part of my reasoning was that my pick-up-person, my daughter, expected me at Pettit Lake. We had reconnoitered the trailhead. If I took a different route out, I would face the problem of notifying her of the change
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So I headed north, into the high country. It was only eight or so miles to the last pass, 9,200-foot Sand Mountain Pass. If I did just one climb a day, I would be in the high country for four days and three nights. The major risk was getting snow bound.

The first objective was Spangle Lake. It was 10:30 a.m. before I got started. Packing in the cold and wetness was time-consuming. The route was up. . . , and up, and up. The distance was only two and a quarter miles, as the crow flies, but it took four hours. Initially, my hands were so cold that I had tears in my eyes. Note to self: next time, heavy mittens. Boots and socks became soaked in a poor effort at crossing a small stream. Fortunately, the afternoon and early evening were clear. I had a large fire, a roaring blaze actually—much too close to the tent—and dried out myself, boots, and soaks. The warmth was the last I was to have for two days.

Snow fell during the night, a heavy, wet snow that built up on the sides of the tent. In spite of the zero-degree rated sleeping bag and the Army poncho liner, I woke up cold and miserable. The thought of packing up was more than unappealing: it was down right scary. But I had to move. Shivering in the tent would accomplish nothing, and would have to end sometime.

Skipping coffee, fumbling with totally numb hands, I broke down the tent, stuffed stuff into the pack, struggled with buckles, straps, and snaps, and got underway at about 9 a.m. Again, the trail was up, only a mile, but it was stairway-steep. On the other side of the highest point, the trail was a switchback down an open mountain side and hidden in calf-deep snow. Gingerly, I made my way down, arriving at Ardeth Lake around 1 p.m. For the second day, it had taken four or so hours to cover a bit over two miles.

The choices were to stop for the night by the lake on which a cover of ice was beginning to form, or to go over the third of the four passes that separated the high country from warmer temperatures and civilization. I decided that the quicker I could get to lower elevations, the better it would be. Thus I set off for another climb. It was steep and snow covered but relatively short. By 4 p.m. I was over the pass and near Vernon Lake. I got the tent set up just as a heavy thunder snow storm broke.

Inside the tent I watched as the snow accumulated. The sides and top were, of course, not transparent. But the areas of accumulating snow on and against the tent were darker. I spent the remaining hours of daylight kicking and pushing the walls and top to keep the tent from collapsing. During a lull in the storm, I got out and packed down an area around my abode.

Sometime after dark the snow eased up. But a strong wind blew the cold air through the tent walls and into the far depths of my sleeping bag. And the temperature fell as the night wore on. In the sleeping bag, I had on a layer of clothes and the poncho liner wrapped around my neck, shoulders, and upper body. I did not feel I was dangerously cold, but only portions of my body approached warmth, and I was distinctly uncomfortable. It was a long night.

The morning dawned bleak and discouraging. Outside the tent, the snow was up to calf deep. I had one only more pass to cross, but it was the highest, and the previous night’s snow meant the way was more uncertain. I was not in the best of spots. Maybe it was even a dangerous spot. Dire scenarios ran through my mind. I hoped that if I was not at the trailhead at the appointed time three days hence, my daughter would call search and rescue pronto. Our usual plan for such wilderness endeavors was to give the overdue party some leeway before calling for help. But this approach ignored a troubling realty: if the overdueness was caused by real difficulties, pausing before calling for help would not be good, indeed could be tragic.

For a second morning, I forwent coffee, struggled with unfeeling hands to pack up inside the tent, broke down and packed the tent itself, and finally got underway. I had cleared one hurdle: the simple act of getting going. Now I had another hurdle: 9,200-foot Sand Mountain Pass.

An annoying problem soon developed. The ends of the boot laces and the draw strings at the bottom of the pants were somehow manufacturing ice balls. The ice balls formed around the ends of the laces and strings, reached the size of baseballs, and banged into my legs with each stride. I had to stop every so often and spend considerable time bashing ice balls. Tucking in the ends of the laces and strings only partially alleviated the problem.

I struggled upward. Once out of the treeline, the switchback trail became obscure. The steep slope was just an unbroken, smooth white blanket. I gingerly poked the walking sticks into the snow ahead of me, finding the trail a step at a time. The altitude was exacerbating the fatigue from the climbs, the cold, and the nights of fitful sleep. I was close but concerned about loosing the trail, running into an unnavigable section, or taking a tumble down the steep slope.

Fate was kind, however. About 1 p.m. I reached the top of the pass. I was elated but it was a subdued elation. Fatigue hindered exuberance. The first thought was that the need for rescue was now unlikely. Eight or so miles and a day and a half lay ahead, but it was mostly downhill.

The trail followed the contour line for a while and then started sharply down. The snow soon disappeared. I camped for the night at Toxaway Lake. It was still a cold night, but certainly better than recent ones, both physically and mentally. The next day—finally a sunny day—I encountered my first humans in a week, several small groups. I also encountered the pleasant fall day that my trip had anticipated. It was Saturday, and day hikers and overnighters were exploring the edges of the Sawtooth Wilderness.

I had that disconnected feeling one gets when, after a draining, challenging experience, communication is attempted with others who were not involved. I was on a populated trail, the day was warm and sunny, and I was wearing just a shirt. A day earlier and a few miles to the west, I had been alone in near winter conditions, dressed in multiple layers, and harboring concerns about basic survival. Small talk with those I encountered did not come easy.

DSH