The mercury on the car signaled five degrees above zero when we shut off the engine. Through the snow-stacked douglas fir the sun peeked out just above the western horizon. We pulled on heavy coats, wrapped woven beanies over our ears and strapped snow shoes to our boots.
Our hike began at nearly 10,000 feet in elevation along a dirt road that was now covered in three feet of fresh powder. In a single-file line with heavy packs over our shoulders we passed the “road closed” sign, within the rut of a solitary snowmobile track. I led the migration with Dell directly behind me, followed by Quinn, Jordan, Eric, Colter, and the other adult in the group, Dave, at the tail.
Cumbersome sheaves of snow weighed down the branches of pine in a forest that spread far and wide on either side of us. To be sure, we trekked UP hill, and as we gazed through that spacious forest, we watched the sun disappear and the clouds change into hues of pink and orange, silhouetting the crooked branches of trees.
The mask I wore covered my ears and came down to cover my chin and mouth when strapped. By now the air had turned even colder and I worried that breathing it in would burn my lungs. But when I would cover my mouth, my breathing would fog my glasses and I couldn't see. It was a constant battle of deciding to stay strapped or unstrapped, to breathe or not breathe cold air, to have or have not foggy glasses.
Not long into the trek we learned that some of our boys were fighting to keep up with their heavy loads. We at the front would frequently have to stop and wait for the tail to catch up. Colter, in particular, struggled to take anything but the smallest of steps. At the one-mile mark, at a hair-pin turn in the path, it was decided to take Colter's pack from him and divide it up. Quinn took the sleeping bag, someone else a detachable fanny pack, and I was left to carry the rest of his pack, which proved to be very heavy and burdensome. This was in addition to my own heavy pack.
The shades of sunset had disappeared by now and the fog on my glasses had now frozen into a miniature sheet of ice. I was miserable. Not only did I struggle to see any portion of the path ahead, but the second pack was difficult to carry. I kept my glasses on the tip of my nose and peered over the rims to see.
Darkness nestled into the mountains and finally I was forced to strap on my head lamp, which cast a beam over the snow. For those with better vision, a half-moon shone overhead and cast eerie, but beautiful shadows over the white powder. But I focused my attention forward, putting one exhausted leg in front of the other. Once I tripped over my snow shoes the way someone would trip over shoe laces. I fell knees first into the snow.
After two and a half miles the boys spotted the yurt. It sat nearly camouflaged against the black forest with a small trickle of smoke coming from the chimney and dim light emanating from inside.
The man that drove the snowmobile and left the tracks for us to follow was the man inside the yurt. He had split small rounds of cedar and had piled them next to the wood-burning stove where a blaze now burned and glowed through the flume. He wore a yellow Patagonia parka and his breath reeked from cannabis. After giving instructions he hopped back on his snowmobile rode back down the mountain to his condo.
The yurt wasn't as big as I had imagined. Two sets of bunk-beds flanked adjacent sides, each with a single bed on top and a double on bottom. Counting out spaces, that meant that one kid would have to sleep on the floor.
Next to the stove was a small shelf with a couple pots, dish soap and spatulas. Four totes with sundry items such as frying pans, paper towels, toilet paper etc. stacked alongside the bed. Hot pads hung from a clip on the wall. A bucket next the the shelf held a hand-saw and ax.
The yurt was circular in shape with a wooden frame of 2x4's and a lattice frame work. A heavy plastic-like canvas pulled over the frame work with a hole for the chimney and a transparent “sun roof” over the middle. The floor was made of wood with a large rug covering much of the area. A shorter than normal door with a knob and latch faced south and just outside this door was another pile of wood. Not far from the yurt was a makeshift outhouse using tarps and plywood. We were instructed that the outhouse was only to be used for “#2.” Otherwise we were to use the space just beyond the toilet.
We were all worn and tired from the hike, and all were anxious to unroll their sleeping bags and hang out in their own territory. Colter pulled out a game out called “Fact or Crap,” and spent much time reading suspicious trivia from the cards.
Soon we could hear sizzling coming from within the foil and the aroma of potatoes, onions and bacon filled our tiny quarters. The boys ate their dinners on their laps, the foil unfolded and steam rising from their meal.
We said a prayer that night and before going to bed I shared with the boys the story of a Polish man who was sent to the Gulag camps of Siberia in 1940. He walked nearly 1,000 miles from Irkutsk to Camp 303, handcuffed to a thick chain pulled by a lorry. This was in the bleak month of January, during blizzards and sub-zero temperatures with nothing more than one pound of bread and two cups of coffee for his daily ration. I felt, perhaps, that this small gem of history would be more likely to be impressed upon their minds after having a brief, but similar situation themselves.
Our best estimate is that the temperature dropped to -10℉ that night.
The seven of us slept in tight quarters, close enough to hear every snore, cough, roll and shuffle. The mattress I slept on wasn't as soft as it appeared. It must have been an inch thick with a piece of plywood beneath it.
Our challenge that night was to keep the fire going. The wood stove was only large enough for a few wedges of lumber. The frigid air just outside our canvas covering prevented any cozy temperatures. Instead, we enjoyed comfortable warmth when the fire was going, yet chilly conditions when neglected. Dave woke up several times to stack the stove.
Every time someone got up to use the bathroom I could hear their footsteps on the plywood floor and the the door closing shut and the squeak of the hinges. Often when they returned I could hear them handling wood from the pile, opening the door of the cast-iron stove, and tossing the wedge into the flames. Then they returned to bed, creaking the board as they laid down. I didn't get much sleep that night.
At midnight it was my turn to go outside and urinate. I quietly attempted to slide my pants back on and tip-toed across the floor to where my boots sat by the shelf. When I stepped outside, all the night was silent. Quickly the hairs in my nose froze to a bristle. The half-moon shone down brightly, illuminating the snow-draped trees. I was happy to finally be able to see without my glasses fogging up. The only noise I heard came from a slow, but steady drip of melting snow near the chimney. A very soft glow issued from the yurt.
The rest of the night was much of the same. Pure exhaustion, but no sleep. That seems to be par for the course when I camp out. But I knew I would survive.
Shortly after rising I stepped out the door of the yurt with my first daylight look at our surroundings. The deep blue sky contrasted with the bright white snow that draped everything with a heavy blanket. As far as I knew, we were the only people for several miles. If it weren't for the boys chattering away inside the yurt, there would have been a grand feeling of solitude and isolation.
I always wonder how many animals are in the high forest during a bitter winter. I know the deer and elk migrate to lower elevations, but what about the squirrels and birds? Where do they go? Up to this point I hadn't seen any animal tracks, nor had I heard chirping.
Dave and I pulled out a pot and frying pan and began cooking sausage, ham and pancakes on a propane grill. We forgot to bring oil, so the pancakes became somewhat scrambled.
After cleaning up we attempted to melt two pots of snow to add to our water supply. I filled my water bottle and took a drink, hoping it would taste as fresh as a high mountain spring. To my disappointment it tasted bearable, but like dirty snow. At least, I told myself, I have a bottle of Powerade sitting on the passenger's seat when I get back to the vehicle.
Our stay in the yurt was short-lived. After cleaning up we strapped on our snow shoes and began the 2.5 mile walk back to our starting point. I will admit that I enjoyed the walk down much more than the walk up. For starters, I could see.
We took a small detour to a small lake that I had found during the summer. During that time it is quite colorful, with moss and reeds growing in abundance. Now, however, one can hardly tell it is a lake. The entire body of water was frozen over and two feet of snow covered the surface. Had I not known better, I would have guessed it was another small valley or open meadow.
After two hours of trudging over deep powder, we finally arrived at the vehicle. Everyone was anxious to unlatch the snow shoes and once again walk on pavement. Dave unlocked the doors and with a rabid thirst I grabbed for my bottle of Powerade . . . only to learn it was frozen solid! ♠
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