Editor's note: this adventure occurred mid-April, and I've had the story written for a good bit ... just been so busy playing in the mountains that I haven't gotten around to posting it until now.
It wasn’t altogether practical to leave at 5:15 p.m. at night for a bike and ski, but that was half the point.
My friend Karen and I decided we wanted to do something random and slightly ridiculous, and somehow that translated into spending the better part of the day packing practically every single piece of gear we own, and then driving up to Grand Teton National Park to figure out how to use it.
Throughout the day our friends had received staccato and haphazard text messages.
“Headed to the park. Want to come?”
“Going on a bike and ski. Maybe a beer later?”
“Turns out we’re just now leaving town.”
These short notes raised a few eyebrows. After all, Karen and I have a bit of a reputation for magnificent blunders.
In the Taggart Lake parking lot at Grand Teton National Park we found ourselves overcome by giggles, as we laughed at the sheer amount of stuff we planned to carry and the sheer absurdity of our plan to make it all the way up Cascade Canyon – a plan already dialed down from our initial goal of heading up Lupine Meadows.
Folks around us just starred – some amused and some quite confused.
Eventually, with beacons strapped to our body and bike tires inflated, we hit the pavement.
This time of year, the road through the park is plowed and open to bike and foot traffic, but closed to motor vehicles.
As we cruised along the length of the Tetons, the sun dropped behind jagged peaks, creating a spectacular silhouette – and sending the slightly ominous message that nighttime was just around the bend.
It was a message we failed to heed, or rather one we really cared less about. That’s what headlamps are for, our logic said.
We stopped every few minutes to take photos, take in the view, or just plain take a break from sitting on those uncomfortable bike seats.
An hour or so later we arrived at the Jenny Lake parking area. We peeled on and off gear. Bike shoes and shorts off, ski boots and pants on.
We leaned our bikes against a sign post, and started skinning out toward Jenny Lake.
Not surprisingly, given the super warm daytime temperatures, conditions were mash potato-y. I let Karen, with her “fat” tele skis, lead the way. Donning thin, old school touring skis, I followed her tracks.
We crested a hill, and below us a dense forest obscured the lake.
Now, in this position, it would have been logical to continue along the small embankment circumventing the water’s edge until we came to an opening.
But that would have been far too logical for day rife with irrationality.
Instead, I shouted to Karen, “I see a line.” And before she had time to object, I plunged into the snow-laden spruce saplings.
Using a combination of sidestepping and “pointing it,” I managed to find myself dangling from a branch with one foot below me, caught under roots, and the other one yanked above my head, snagged in a snow mound. Wow, was I glad we had practiced the splits in yoga class just that same day.
Being the good friend she is, Karen peered down at me and ordered me not to move; the camera came out and the pictures began to snap.
Eventually, I extracted myself, and Karen found her own line down to the lake – one far too unobstructed, if you ask me.
A vast white horizon fanned out before us. The two of us stood on the banks of Jenny Lake, starring at Cascade Canyon shrinking away on the other side. We assessed ice conditions and decided that even though it had been a warm day, the lake seemed frozen enough for a crossing.
Again I let Karen lead the way, but this time not so much because she had the wider skis – she was the one who was the most confident that the lake would support our weight.
Spaced a good bit apart, we strode into the great void of peace and quite. Not even a breeze rustled our pony tails.
Clouds above the Grand Teton feathered, spiraled, whisked, puffed and mingled with ever softening sunlight. I looked like a Picasso on the largest scale.
We shuffled along for awhile, but the opposite shore didn’t seem to be in any hurry to come closer. My stomach, meanwhile, was growling for food, and for the first time I became aware of the fact that it was 7:45 at night.
Karen and I make great adventure buddies, because we know how to be ridiculous without being dangerous.
We decided it would be wise to eat our picnic dinner, aka a foot-long Subway sandwich that miraculously survived my backpack, and then head out. We at least wanted to be at our bikes by the time it became pitch black out.
We devoured the Italian sub, along with some chocolate, and then retreated the way we came – this time exiting the lake via the boat ramp.
We got back to our bikes just as a perfectly crescent moon poked above the Grand Teton.
We spent several minutes taking photos, precariously using ski poles as monopods (turns out we didn’t bring every single piece of gear we could possibly need), and then pulled back on all of our bike gear.
We flipped on our cell phones to send a few quick “all good, we’re OK” text messages.
The clock read 9 p.m.
With headlamps shining bright, we pedaled out of the park. The moon continued to glow over the mountains and the stars sizzled in the sky.
When we got back to the parking lot, there was one car there – ours.
For all of our impracticality, we reveled in the fact that we had one of America’s most popular national parks entirely to ourselves.
Labels: Adventure, Amy, Arpil, Bike, Grand Teton National Park, Karen, photos, Skiing
