Snowy Range- Burps, Barks and Bugs
I was taking my first “clients” out for a test run. A cousin and a friend had made the trip from the Midwest to be willingly dragged into the mountains for a backcountry adventure, the first official one for the business. I was nervous, despite knowing my two clients well. We had packed our bags in my basement the night before, saving time in the morning so we could hit the trail as soon as we reached the trailhead.
We pull up to the trailhead after spotting a moose on the drive in, with Brown’s Peak looming above us and snow still clinging to its crevices. There are a fair number of cars parked, and the campground was full. We tumble out, our butts numb from the three‑hour drive. We stretch—loosening our hips and getting our circulation going. I look around at the other cars as hikers strap on packs and tighten their boot laces. Most of the hikers are men, but here we are: three women strapping our massive packs to our backs and applying bug spray in what has always been a man’s world.
We walk to the trailhead and take a brief look at the board displaying the rules, regulations, and warnings for the area. Then we’re off. I take the rear so as not to set too quick a pace. It’s a gradual climb to our first water crossing, where we pull out the water filters and each filter a liter of water before continuing on. The trail meanders through pine groves, offering glimpses of the distant hills from which we’d driven in. The sun beats down on our necks, sweat dripping down our backs. A patch of lingering snow appears; my friend whips off her pack and lies down, spreading out like an eagle to cool off, a shit‑eating grin lighting up her face.
As we descend into a valley, our first lake appears, and we stop for photos and to swat a few mosquitoes. Our next stop is my favorite spot on the trail, a view of Medicine Bow Peak after which we amble back up as the tips of the peaks begin to appear. Wildflowers dance in the wind as we pass, and a few mosquitoes continue buzzing in our ears. As we reach the viewpoint, we pause for a snack, lounging next to a tiny alpine pond as a gentle breeze ruffles our hair and crinkles the wrappers of our trail snacks. I take a deep breath and soak up the quiet. We all take in the views, and the peaks leave us speechless. I love how the mountains make me feel small and insignificant, they put everything in perspective.
I get up and groan as we sling our packs back on; my stomach gurgles. I tell the girls, “I’m about to shit my pants,” and beeline for the small clump of trees that exists at this elevation. I barely have time to dig a cathole and take care of business.
Then, onward we go, up and down as we hoist ourselves over boulders and brace our knees on the downhill stretches. A marmot yells at us from a grove of trees. Trekking poles click over the rocks as we move toward camp.
We start down a decline, my comrades trudging along behind me, dragging their feet as we near our resting spot for the night. We come upon two men, one casually meandering with a chunky yellow lab while the other is fully engaged with the dog. They wear no packs, and I can’t see any gear on them. I notice our campsite is just 50 yards up the trail. As we approach, I keep my head down, intent on avoiding eye contact and giving a simple “Hi” (my usual response when I run into a man on the trail). One of them shouts, “Hey! Didn’t we see you down at the lake yesterday?” I continue walking while replying, “Nope, that wasn’t us.” The hair on the back of my neck stands up. “Yeah, you were filtering water,” he insists. We slow down despite my attempt to keep us moving, and I say, “No, we just started today.” He shrugs and goes back to throwing the stick for the waiting dog. The other man approaches and looks around. “Wouldn’t it be cool to hitchhike out here and disappear for a week?” he suggests. One of us nervously laughs. Alarm bells go off in my head. “Well, have a great hike,” I add as I move us along. I’ve never felt so uncomfortable around two men in the outdoors—I often run into men on the trail when solo hiking (I’ve even shared camp overnight with two in the past) and have never felt unsafe until now.
The trail winds around a corner and leads up to our planned campsite. I tell the girls, “Wait here...I’m going to check it out.” If I can see these men from camp, we’ll set up somewhere else. I walk around, looking for the men, but I don’t see them. I shuffle into the trees, reminded why I chose this spot: the camp cannot be seen from the trail. My shoulders relax; I drop my pack and return to the girls.
As we set up camp, the mosquitoes move in at full force, biting at any exposed skin peeking through our thin leggings. I pull out the bug spray, and we each cover ourselves in a cloud of potent mist, keeping the bugs at bay, frustrated that their dinner is now repulsive to them. Tent poles click into place as three tents form a semicircle among the trees. We arrange our sleeping accommodations cozily, inflating sleeping pads and setting out our bags and pillows so we can pass out when we’re ready. Then we move down to the stream to collect water, each trying out the various water filters. It’s time to cook dinner and enjoy a beverage.
The last dregs of daylight leech from the sky as I doze off. My body settles into my sleeping pad and I snuggle into my bag. A deep, guttural burp suddenly echoes in the distance, and I sit up, eyes wide. “They’re coming for us!” I whisper to no one but myself. I hold my breath, listening for footsteps and voices, and reach for the bear spray next to my pillow. Another series of burps rings out. “Oh my god, it’s bullfrogs in the swamp,” I murmur. Realizing I’ve been holding my breath, I exhale, take a long inhale, exhale again, and lie back down. I listen for several more minutes as the bullfrogs maintain their chorus of burps in the marsh below.
I awake several hours later; I can hear the river below us and the snowmelt making its way to the lakes, yet no sounds emanate from the direction of the swamp, the bullfrogs have gone to bed for the night. I glance at the clock, it’s 3 a.m. and wonder why I woke up. I adjust my sleeping position and begin to doze off again when a bark/bugle pierces the quiet. I freeze in my sleeping bag. “What the fuck is that?” I think. It happens again, every few minutes, the call echoing through the little valley we’re nestled in. I mentally list the possible animals that might inhabit the Wyoming backcountry.
Mountain lion? No, they usually scream; I’ve heard them before.
Bobcat? No, they scream as well.
Marmot? I don’t think so, they’re not nocturnal, and we heard one earlier.
As the sound continues through the night, I decide it must be an elk or a deer. Thirty minutes later, it stops, and I drift off to sleep again, only after my breathing evens out.
I awake once more when the birds start their morning announcements, lying in my bag, warm and content. I hear the girls shuffling in their tents. I peek out of mine and see a bright blue Steller’s jay, its jaunty crest bobbing in the tree above us. My cousin pokes her head out to my right and surveys the scene, her eyes wide as big smiles spread across our faces. A groan escapes my friend’s tent, and I hear the unzipping of a sleeping bag. We make a slow start, stretching, layering up against the brisk morning air and the relentless bugs, and recap our nights. Each of us had our own experience, despite being just a few yards apart the entire night. K mentioned hearing something large sniff, snort, and huff around her tent in the middle of the night. As we investigate around our camp, we find fresh moose tracks at the periphery of our tents. B heard K snoring and thought it was a wild animal until recognizing he cadence of breathing and lack of movement. We all recalled a strange barking sound and the bullfrogs; later, I searched YouTube, for elk barking ,and discovered that the sound was indeed that of a female elk. The more you know.
We retrieve our bags of food that we hung the night before and fire up the stoves again. Breakfast and camp coffee are consumed, dishes are done, and packs are repacked. Then we head back down the trail, another six miles to the car. We’re moving slowly this morning; the packs feel heavy and chatter is low. Other than spooking a mule deer, we see no one and nothing else except for mosquitoes. As we make our way out of the trees, we keep climbing, there’s one more ascent before we descend back to the car. We stop to take a break, drink some electrolytes, and have another snack. The last few miles are always the worst. As we head into the trees again, the wildflowers are in full swing, and I can feel my calves and back protesting. We’re a mile from the car, and I’m dreaming of what I’ll eat at the restaurant. As we pass the final little lake along the trail, a family comes up, the kids’ eyes widen at seeing three people with such large backpacks. With the car now in sight, our pace quickens as the thought of removing the load from our backs becomes a reality. I pop the trunk; the packs plop in place, and audible sighs escape as we slip on our sandals, exposing our toes to the fresh air.
I think, “I did it,” as we hoist the packs into the trunk; I’ve led my first group into the backcountry. I don’t say it aloud, but a wave of accomplishment washes over me. I’ve done it, my first group of women has been led through the backcountry.
