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Jen
Expedition Leader
1384 Posts
Jennifer
Calico Rock
AR
USA
1384 Posts |
 Posted - Apr 23 2007 : 07:36:55 AM
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My friend Connie Grant asked me to post this story about her work as a backcountry ranger. Enjoy!
UNDER A JAGGED SKY
by Connie R. Grant
"One of the best-paying professions is getting a hold of pieces of country in your mind, learning their smell and their moods, sorting out the pieces of a view . . ."
from On The Loose, by Jerry and Renny Russell.
It snowed last night. I was beginning to get rather sick of it back home in northern Idaho, but here below the Grand Tetons it gave me a chance to see winter in its pure form—an abyss of silent grace. When I arrived the night before, I caught only a quick northerly glance of the range as I made my way into Jackson, Wyoming. The serrated sky line soon disappeared into the dark shadows of night, and I had to wait until the next day to greet my new surroundings. It was early May, and the entire summer lay before me, beckoning like the blinking lights of Jackson. I was hoping that some of those lights were indeed friendly. That funny nervous feeling gnawed at my consciousness again, and my pulse raced as I thought of the many new adventures that I would have as a first-time park ranger. Some adventures may be good. Some may be not-so-good. Little did I know that the mountains would become my ceaseless companions.
The next day I awoke to the muted plop of big flakes of snow falling in heaps around my trailer. As I traced a path from the front porch though the silent forest, my thoughts traced a path back to my first year in college. I was in my mid-thirties, and not so sure of myself as I embarked on a career with an unknown future. After fifteen secure years working for Corporate America, spending the next half-decade as a “non-traditional” student seemed a free-fall into nothingness. Could I really do this? Will I find my special niche in life? How will I know when I get “there?” Quickly, I tossed my doubts aside and surveyed the scene around me.
Nature’s shroud covered the high country, yet the white earth below revealed traces of life. Snowshoe hare, deer, and bird tracks were everywhere. Tiny springbeauties lifted their petals to the sky like eager children waiting for birthday prizes. They seemed so brave growing there next to the dunes of snow. I inhaled the redolent odor of warm soil. Everywhere I walked colorful round stones stuck up out of the ground. The valley floor of Jackson Hole is made of many quartzite cobbles deposited by the Pleistocene glaciers nearly two million years ago. Just thinking of the massive force used by thick glacial ice to roll and smooth the surface of so many rocks made me feel humble. I rejoiced in the quiet shelter of the lodgepole pine forest, where trees had shed their gowns of white onto a fading drift. Next year they would once again dance the arctic waltz, but until then, they would rustle and sway with the music of spring. I meandered on while taking in the utter beauty of the place. Abruptly, the sun broke free, and the mountains presented their majesty. Whenever they peeked out of the clouds I had to gasp for breath at their stately grandeur. During those moments of clear weather, they just seemed to loom there above us “lowly” humans, ready to dislodge anyone that dare to conquer their guarded spires. I hear that many have suffered when scaling the almost vertical trails without proper preparation or knowledge of mountaineering. Even climbers with many years of experience have perished in their ascent. I would be sure to get a chance to hike many pleasant valleys this summer, but I would leave the craft of climbing those granite peaks to professionals.
The remainder of my first day was spent exploring my new home and meeting my colleagues here at Grand Teton National Park. Some were veteran rangers—raucous with laughter and quick wit. Others, like myself, huddled anxiously over our assigned schedules—wondering if we could ever survive the summer. My roommate, Lori, also new to the park, paced nervously back and forth in the kitchen while I stared bewildered at a pile of government forms. Although we were both anxious about our first ranger-led programs, two weeks of intense training would give us a chance to grow more accustomed to the area. Once the tourists began their journeys of discovery, we would be ready. Yet, for all the encouragement we gave each other, jolts of fear would perforate my thoughts. I could only hope my first “customers” would be understanding and considerate . . .
The new dawn broke clear on the first day of June, with a sun that was warm on my face. Today I was to give my first ranger-led program—a short interpretive stroll along the shore of Colter Bay. I mustered all my courage as I walked towards the visitor’s meeting place. Nobody was there! Perhaps there would be no stroll today. Did this make me happy or sad? I couldn’t decide, and as I was looking around in nervous anticipation, someone behind me spoke a gentle “hello.” I turned around. There stood two of the kindest faces I have ever seen. They were an elderly couple from Florida whose demeanor put me quickly at ease. We introduced ourselves and started a leisurely walk down the path. Her floppy straw hat seemed to enhance her grandmotherly features, and his smile exposed an agile sense of humor. As I led them to the first stop near the water’s edge, I pointed out the breathtaking “jagged sky” in the distance.
That first program set the stage for a season of new experiences—for myself, and the visitors I encountered. Once I started talking about the many exciting things to do and see in the park, the fear of being before large audiences soon faded. The area was an inspiration, and that inspiration could nourish itself until I could feel the lifeblood of the Tetons course through my own veins. The summer surged on, and programs I led varied from campfire talks to museum tours, to boat tours, and three-mile hikes. My subject matter involved geology, Native American women, park safety, fire ecology, plant life, wildlife and the “mastermind” of the beaver. One of my favorite programs was called a “field day” in which I could roam anywhere in the park (in uniform) and communicate with visitors—spontaneous roving interpretation. For my first outing I elected a hike into Cascade Canyon on the north side of the Grand Teton—a 13,770-foot sentry that keeps a steadfast vigil on the trails below.
Cascade Canyon is a wondrous valley carved out by relentless alpine glaciation always present in the Tetons. This annual onslaught of ice and snow bulldozes rock and vegetation into an interesting U-shaped gorge with amazing sights around each bend in the trail. Sights such as the fairy-like Colorado columbine gracing either side of the path; bright green carpets of alpine foliage swooping up to meet the valley walls; a big gangly moose snorkeling down the middle of Cascade Creek; blocks of granite and gneiss chipped out of the mountain tops that seem to “sigh” in their final resting place; talus slopes strewn with more granite, gneiss, and glimmerings of schist; and the Grand Teton itself with its guardian spire beckons me farther and farther along. I get a feeling of reverence when I hold a piece of mountain rock in my mortal hands. It amazes me to think that the earth once held this stone fast between its teeth, then suddenly it’s mine to do with as I wish. I said to myself, “I’ll turn back after I see what’s around the next corner. Well, the next corner. Okay, the NEXT corner!” It was a wonderful day on the trail, and meetings with visitors kept the pace leisurely. Topics of discussion ranged from bear safety to natural history, with the most common question being asked, “Where am I?” As I pointed out landmarks and distributed maps to help people on their way, I noticed another “jagged sky” to the northeast—the continental divide.
Two weeks later I embarked on a five-mile hike to Jade Lake to explore this mysterious landscape aligned on the backbone of the continent. East of the Tetons the divide slices through the Absarokas. These mountains are made up of an angular rock known as breccia, which was blown out by the ancient Yellowstone volcano. Erosion has worked the geological formation into incredible pinnacles with layer upon layer of gray ash, and drab pieces of exposed, gritty pumice. It’s peculiar how volcanic soils can be so fertile. The alpine vegetation here is rich and varied, considering the dull rock that gives it life. The trail winds through a mountain meadow bordering Brooks Lake, then rises straight up into a forest of white bark pine, spruce and fir. Wild flowers adorned the slope with a vibrant haze of colors that early summer day. Breezy songs played in and out of swaying branches as a southeast wind buffeted against the mountain. Far below my resting place, I could see tiny fishing boats floating on the lake. I had this funny urge to dip my finger in the water and make them swirl.
Once I reached the grove of trees, I became bewitched by the scenery. However, this was also the home of grizzly bears, and I noticed many piles of odorous scat. The idea of meeting a grizzly made me nervous, but curiosity kept me going. The natural beauty was unbelievable. I saw a waterfall leap right out of meadow to fling itself into yet another meadow. I saw a Common Goldeneye duck with her fuzzy babies paddling in water so clear I could see their feet. I saw a multitude of native flowers—columbines, Indian paintbrushes, wild dandelions, sunflowers, buttercups, and lavish lupines. I was so captivated that my hands shook in awe as I pilfered photographs with my camera. Then I scolded myself and held my breath to get a re-take. I even got mama Goldeneye to cock her head as I teased her with my “bear-deterrent” harmonica. The day was pure and dear to my soul. I went to bed that night completely exhausted, yet could not sleep for all the sights and sounds of the day that invaded my mind.
Before I knew it, August crept up on me, and that nervous feeling plagued my consciousness once more. Yet this time it was a different type of anxiety—that of a sad departure from a place I did not want to leave. The delicate wild flowers were drying up into wilted tendrils. Uinta ground squirrels were starting to hibernate, and I could feel the presence of fall on my skin. The visitor’s migratory automobiles became fewer and fewer. I began to miss them already—their curious behaviors, collective mannerisms, bold opinions, and loyal smiles of appreciation. Soon it would be time to journey home to north Idaho. I had to somehow prolong the agony of good-bye, so I made one last hike through Granite Canyon.
Granite Canyon offers hikers diversity in plant communities if you hike the length starting at the top of the tram at Teton Village. This is what I did in a desperate attempt to fill my senses with one last dose of Teton landscape. At 10,450 feet above sea level, the elevated terrain on Rendezvous Mountain reminded me of the fragility that we often encounter when walking on alpine tundra. A hedge of tenacious little firs clung to the talus for dear life in grotesque windswept shapes. Tiny shrubs and sedges fluttered helplessly in a bitter wind and seemed to strain under the fierce attack. The haunting tower of Grand Teton slowly disappeared as I dropped in elevation to an amphitheater bowl below. This glacial cirque held a small puddle that reaped the snowmelt from a patch of white up above. A duck gleefully bathed his feathers in the Teton tub. I could hear a pika protest my trespass into its domain. I hurried on . . .
A trek over the next ridge revealed a big pile of bear scat. It was time for bear precautions. I dug the harmonica out of my backpack and used it accordingly, albeit without much fanfare, as I didn’t want to scare off other wildlife. The bear had been eating berries, as the seeds were visible throughout the mass. I started tuning in to my surrounding plant life and checking for more berries on bushes. After a mile or so traipsing through subalpine fir, I dropped into upper Granite Canyon meadow. A cow moose lay in the grass under a tree keeping watch over the swaying sea of green that spread out below her. Flowers here were still in bloom—lupine, Indian paintbrush, aster—an inviting sea of mountain color. I plunged into its depths and emerged at the bottom near a forested ravine. A female mule deer browsed in a patch of sunlight under some trees. I started snapping pictures of her while she plucked and chewed noisily on tender shoots of grass. She remained where she was, so I stepped closer . . . closer . . . closer. It should be a great photo, as she never once gave up her claim on the lush turf that she was devouring. I said farewell to the doe and moved away.
Once I crossed the stream, a new plant community of Douglas-fir and lodgepole pine offered a different type of aura on my journey. Understory became a little drier with the flower stalks standing naked without petals, and the colors of fall was taking charge of the landscape. The fine talus slopes that I had seen in the alpine zone above now became huge rockslides with granite-gneiss boulders looming on the trail. If these monstrous rocks could speak, I know that they would demand a toll for passing by, and I would gladly pay it! My feet gained momentum as I scurried past. The main fork of Granite Creek idly meandered through an emerald meadow that spread out below the trail. Downstream outcroppings of irregular granite on either side of the valley grabbed the stream by the throat and sent it into a dizzying cascade towards the mouth of the canyon. Another couple of miles went by as I moved into and out of the lodgepole community until aspen made its appearance. A few more miles later a sparkling waterfall splashed down from its perch on the north slope. I was tempted to scramble up for a shower, but I still had at least five miles to go. I’d best keep moving, as I was certain I would be using my flashlight during the final stretch of trail.
Farther down the path, broad cottonwood trees unveiled their presence along with olive colored sagebrush. Near the canyon mouth I found an old log cabin and snapped one last photo. A feeling of nostalgia swept over me. I thought about my first visitors from Florida, and silently prayed they were safe and happy, with fond memories of Grand Teton National Park. Behind the aging cabin, the valley of Granite Canyon gapped open mouthed—ready to swallow those willing to explore its essence just as I had done. As I said good-bye to this place of quiet charm, I turned on my flashlight and started for the trail’s end. The gallant jagged sky sheltered its personal heaven. Far off in the distance familiar lights of Jackson Hole twinkled—sweet and kind in eternal friendship. The summer adventure was over…I drifted along and allowed the Teton darkness to consume my peaceful thoughts.
The View From My Boots: www.bovesboots.blogspot.com
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Story: Grand Teton National Park Ranger
