Bridger Teton National Forest: In Which the Author Leaves the Bridger-Teton National Forest

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In Which the Author Leaves the Bridger-Tetons National Forest
Thursday, August 13, 2009, 11:00 a.m.

Leaving Jackson, Wy. yesterday, having gotten water (I’m using about 4-5 gallons a day, just for cooking, drinking, washing hands, etc.), PBRs, gasoline ($2.47—not bad), posting yesterday’s blog entry, gotten batteries and postcards (my one souvenir weakness), checked into the Visitors Center, which was staffed with nice retired folks, eager to chat and offer assistance. I finally headed south at about 3 p.m., enjoying the drive of vast, rolling canyons, dotted with trees, dirt, grasses and sage, and jagged rocks and following the Snake River. Had I been slightly more organized, I would have found the location of Evel Knievel, whose daring “motorcycle” jump I watched on the news back in the ‘70s. (There was a 3-day blackout, as it was one of the first ever pay-per-views). Although I’m sad to know that he’s gone, having read two biographies of him, he lived, both literally and symbolically, a “rough and tumble lifestyle, a modern cowboy (on a steel cycle he rides…). I, did, however, still hold a grudge of Knievel for two reasons: 1. My Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle Van (with those, thin, vinyl slabs slid into a plastic “van” frame—Barbie had a similar, albeit more feminine, feel), and had come from the Sears store with a missing piece—the bottom of the plastic tool box. Now, granted, there was no real need for this piece, as I was not actually performing any work, but, still). The second reason occurred much earlier, at the age of 10-12. My family had attended the “carnival” at the Atlanta Fairgrounds. The spectacle housed the old-school sideshow on the midway, complete with barkers inviting one to see killer sharks and their devastating rapture that they had inflicted on mankind. I was greatly into sharks, thanks to Peter Benchley, yet could not, in my early frugal stages, commit to giving either .50 or .75 for the admission fee to the small tents. The fairgrounds were later torn down, coinciding with Burt Reynolds’s filming of the devastation fro Smokey and the Bandit film (or was it part 2>). In any case, there was also a parade involved (if, in fact, I’ve not melded these two events together), and Evel Knievel was the feature, on a Harley. I had brought the Evel Van panel down for an autograph and was coaxed by my dad to approach Knievel during the parade. I meekly walked onto the Atlanta street, pen and panel in hand, and was told by the great, and often out of control King of the stuntmen, “Kid, I gotta’ keep both hands on this thing. Meet me at the end of the parade.” Alas, there was “no end to the parade,” of Evel didn’t wait for me, and such was my first brush with a famous person.

I wanted to make some distance from Jackson, to trim the time in the truck today, as I’m leaving this spot within an hour or two to drive to St. Lake City. Jennifer is arriving tomorrow night, and I need a spot for tonight and tomorrow night. Unfortunately, Antelope Island, on the Great Salt Lake, is on and home to many western birds, the focus of Jennifer’s nature experiences, is not an option, as the causeway to the Island closes at 9:30 p.m. I hope to find something in the (not too far back) Uinta Mountains.

So, only 12 miles south of Jackson, at Hoback Junction, I go west and south on Hwy. 89. Passing about 4-5 National Park campgrounds (on the Snake River), I was waiting to enter the Bridger-Teton area, as there are a number of dirt roads indicated on the Atlas that bisects the entire range. South of Alpine, I took a left into the National Forest and was pleasantly surprised to find a spot with creek (river) access. The road is very busy, much like last night’s Teton road turned out to be as well. As mentioned, in most National Forests, the good views/spots have been long-established and used; most are complete with a semi-smooth sleeping surface, even showing evidence that someone had taken the time to construct them), a fire pit, with stones piled up to protect the area in case of high winds, and trails that run down to the river. The past two and a half days (since leaving Yellowstone) have been rain free, and the temperature of the afternoon sun was in the high 80s, making it the perfect time to hit the water.

Out west (or in any different area), it’s interesting to learn how others choose to define things. This “creek” I’m at is a very fast moving (i.e. it would be very difficult to cross without floating/swimming). It obviously carries mountain water runoff directly to the Snake River, only 2 miles to the south. The river, which beads out a short distance upstream, and will be the site of our early afternoon swim before the drive, provides a relaxing and constant loud sound of rushing water. Large rocks at my campsite house at least 8 trees jammed up, creating a huge, deep swirling pool. It felt so good to be camping down near rushing water, and I flipped and flopped in it like a kid. I found the comb and gave Sophie a good brushing as we were drip drying after coming back to the camp. Dinner was Indian food with the mountain climbing disaster book that I’m reading. Afterwards, Sophie, gloriously off-leash, and I walked north on the forest Service Road, picking up trash. I had spent a fair amount of time gathering all trash from the campsite, including cans (do they still make Fanta?!), fishing Styrofoam, fishing line, and the casings of at least 10 bullets, including a 30-30 shell, rather large. Up the road, I quickly realized that my small trash bag was too small, and was glad to find a grocery-store sized bag to contain at least 20 cans, feminine products (like birds, I can only tell the “family,” not the specific names), a section of muffler, and the tread of an old dirt bike. The “freedom” of places such as the National forests must also inspire some sort of rebelliousness, the result of which is an “I won this land, dammit!” mentality.

For breakfast, I had cashews and raisons (Trader Joe’s), along with my 30 ounces of hot coffee. A woman suddenly approached and asked permission to fish (she didn’t want to “ruin my experience.” Certainly, the land is as much hers as mine, so it was fine by me. We chatted about litter, the fact she’s lived in Wyoming 47 years, and the fact that this is a popular swimming and fishing hole. After disappearing over the hill to the water, in which she remained for 2 hours land caught two rainbow trout, I read more of my book and then got started typing (I had spent last night, after dark, since much computer work, especially pictures and even me typing now) is very difficult, as I’m running on ultra-low power to save battery time, and the screen, with the soaring summer sun makes the screen almost unreadable due to its brightness.

Once again, I had found the perfect campsite. I’ve been camping for at least 20 days straight, except for Sophie and I sleeping in the hippie van after emerging from the hike (too late to snag one of the “first come-first serve” campsites, which refill by 8 a.m.). My hands are dry and cracked, but I’m full of coffee and now, since the morning, dark clouds had broken up by 10:30, precisely as predicted by the fisherperson, It’s time to hit the water again…

Thanks for reading! Chicago Dave and Chicago Sophie

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Photos

Bridger Teton Nat forest swim hole
On a 50 foot trail from campsite

Bridger Teton National Forest log
Ancient turtle?

Comments

[Dan Nixon]

Thanks
Thanks Dave for the pix and informative wilderness writings. It must be difficult to keep all of this coming. Yeah, Evel was great wasn't he? No fear whatsoever. I did in fact own an Evel metal lunchbox as a young lad myself. Keep up the saga. Take care