A Break From the Teton Rush: Wyoming’s Wind River Range

By Ted Alvarez, 9-04-06

	Caption: Photos by Ted and Jeff Alvarez

Many Rocky Mountain travelers will tell you nothing out west compares to the majesty of the Grand Tetons, and they have a sound case. From Jackson Lake, the famous profile of those peaks is etched into our consciousness -- they've been enshrined in magazines, postcards, and (thanks to Brokeback Mountain) film posters.

But Grand Teton National Park is a park with problems -- overcrowding and preservation issues kept it from breaking the top half of America's best national parks in National Geographic Traveler's 2005 survey. In the summer, these problems can worsen exponentially.

But in lieu of the National Parks, where can ramblers turn to find equivalent scenery and experience, but without the itinerant hassles involved in sharing hiking space with the No-Nameski's from Schenectady?

May I humbly suggest the Wind River Range: If you detour Southeast of the Tetons, you'll find yourself in the heart of Wyoming's impenetrable Winds, home to the state's tallest point (Gannett Peak) and the largest glaciers left in the U.S. Rockies. The Bridger-Teton and Shoshone National Forests cover nearly 7.4 million acres of the range, and much of that land enjoys extra protection from the Bridger, Fitzpatrick, and Popo-Agie Wilderness Areas. Since roads only intrude at the northern and southern termini of the 140-mile long mountain chain, there's a helluva lot of roadless real estate to explore.

But choosing a destination within the Winds can prove daunting: couple the distance from the safety of civilization with the relative difficulty of its offerings (Gannett is for experienced climbers only), and a first-timer could get intimidated out of the whole excursion. I usually have volunteers scrambling to accompany me on my "West Less Traveled" trips, but the steep, stony crags featured in overview shots of the area scared off a few prospective companions. Luckily, I can always count on this clown to spice up the proceedings.

My brother Jeff and I resolved to find the place within the Wind River Range that would come closest to replicating a Grand Teton experience. This meant the chosen locale had to match the Tetons as closely as possible in terms of 1) accessibility, 2) do-ability for the average national park visitor, and 3) scenic wow-factor. While Jeff spread out the maps on the family dining room table, I fired up the laptop and we got to work.

After much Diet Pepsi and deliberation, we settled on the Cirque of the Towers, a round hole of an alpine valley ringed on almost all sides by thousand-foot spires of granitic rock. If the Grand Teton is America's Matterhorn, perhaps the Cirque is our Eiger: the area is famed for remote, difficult rock climbing, and the spines and fishbone fins that crown Lonesome Lake look like serious business. Even the individual spires have intimidating names, like Shark's Nose, Warbonnet, Warrior Peak, Wolf's Head, and Lizard Head.

Our trip to the Cirque took us to the southern end of the Wind River Range, where we could camp on the banks of the Big Sandy River. Pinedale and Lander are the nearest towns, but at least 40 miles of twisty dirt and gravel road separates them from the Big Sandy campground. Per usual, we ran late, and by the time we'd reached the turnoff from the last no-stoplight town, only the jackrabbits were awake. As we skidded and dared the Jeep to roll on the curves and dips of the Forest Service road, what seemed like thousands of these hares popped in and out of our headlight view, like little ghosts taunting us to try and run over them. Though the odds were against their survival, we never quite heard that telltale thunk against the chassis.

The Forest Service road climbed and the spindly pine trees grew taller and denser as we gained in elevation, and even late into the night we could see the sawtooth edge of the Winds backlit by the moonlight, until finally the Bridger-Teton National Forest swallowed us up completely. We arrived at Big Sandy to find mostly empty parking spaces, so we chose what looked like a choice spot underneath a small canopy. I stepped out to hear the sputtering of the Big Sandy River right next to our site; it was almost bright enough to explore a bit, but nagging exhaustion and the Wind River's small population of grizzlies sent me packing back to the car, where we passed out before we could even pitch a tent.

I'm a firm believer in the idea that the best way to work out a crick in your back is to start a 17-mile hike as early as possible. Jeff, despite a little grumbling, was generally amenable to the idea, so we each bent our lumbar vertebrae out of their car seat-imposed C-shapes, and we began our march to the Towers before 8 a.m.

Once on the trail, we spotted a few students from Massachusetts getting primed for their research trek, but they soon turned off and were never seen again. The first seven miles of trail toward the Towers gains only about 500 feet of elevation, so it rises gently as it follows the Big Sandy River into the mountains. For the first few sections, we could only see gentle slopes covered in pines, but after three miles or so enormous, bald domes of solid granite started to pop out over the treeline. Some sections looked smooth as concrete, almost unmarred enough to skateboard on.

The domes got beefier and taller until we reached Big Sandy Lake, where the peaks suddenly sharpened and overtook the horizon. Big Sandy Lake was an idyllic alpine pool, green and clear and evidently home to a population of tent-ransacking bears, according to several guides. We weren't stopping for more than a brief rest, but peering through the sun into the shadowed forest, the imagination easily conjured images of them looking right back at you with greedy eyes, planning and waiting patiently to stalk you for your cashews on your return trip, when you were tired, sluggish and fixated on the dream of a hot shower.

After Big Sandy Lake, the trail shot straight up over a ridge towards Jackass Pass, the entrance to the Cirque of the Towers. The route to the Cirque at first lulls you into a relaxed daze with the easy pace of the first six miles, but it then promptly smacks you awake for the last two-and-a-half: These two-and-a-half miles would host 3,500 feet of elevation gain over steep pitches littered with boulders, tree roots, and remnant ice and snow pack. Make no mistake: The Towers make you work hard to share the pleasure of their company.

Once we adjusted to our newly grueling pace, we made solid progress over the ridge without too much difficulty. Occasionally, we'd break our lockstep tromping, and when we did the Winds rewarded us handsomely with panoramas of the areas we'd left behind and beyond. Twinkling, arrow-shaped lakes of glacial melt filled the gulleys down the slope from us, and thick bands of ice draped the peaks both near and far. Something about these mountains felt older and more severe than others I'd visited in the Rockies.

On one of these "Scenic Overlook" breaks, we turned to continue and found that we'd somehow lost the trail. We could still see the little cairns we'd been following, but they were now strewn indiscriminately through a vast boulder field. Weaving in between the van-sized chunks of rock was great for a momentary diversion, but soon our ankles ached and we felt like we weren't making any progress. We could clearly see up to Jackass Pass -- we could even see what might be the tip of a Tower -- but the correct path wasn't obvious. The boulder field finally split at the tip of a high alpine lake. The fork created by the lake left us to guess which way to continue -- the steep final lip of Jackass Pass was 1/4 of a mile or so beyond, clearly lit by canted shards of afternoon sun. But we had to choose whether to go right and pick our way through an icy, scree-littered incline or choose the left path along the lake, which would leave us clambering over more large boulders, this time with pockets of snow forming tenuous bridges between them. We headed left and chose snow over ice, using the sketchy reasoning that it "looked" shorter and we "might" have seen a discernible route.

Within moments, we regretted our decision. These boulders had broken off the mountainside and piled on top of each other, making it impossible to walk or even crawl between them. We had to leap from one perch to the other, hoping that we gauged the distance correctly and praying against a slip; given our situation, a broken ankle would qualify as a mild penalty for failing at a jump. The gaps eventually became so precarious that we had to rely on the snow bridges formed in between the rocks; without a proper ice axe or pole, we had to tentatively test the snowpack with a gingerly placed toe. More than once, a stout looking trail of snow collapsed into a deep hole filled with sharp talus after no more than a light toe tap.

As we made slow progress, I looked up and recognized that these godforsaken stones were the children of Warbonnet, the first tower in the Cirque. We rounded Warbonnet and the profile became grander, and I began to recognize it from pictures. Despite our stupid decision, knowing that we were at the foot of the Cirque of the Towers goaded us on, and the excitement helped us redouble our efforts to make it around the lake and over the pass. The boulders grew so treacherous that the quickest way now was to hew close to the lake's edge, which was only a marginal improvement, as now, upon error, a fall into a hole would now be slowed by a pool of fifty-degree water.

When we neared a shallow edge of the lake, Jeff yelled and nearly jumped backward into one of these hypothermic pools. "Holy -- a skeleton -- a body!" he shouted. Though Jeff can be given to fits of exaggeration, I peered through the clear but shadowed lake, and I could clearly make out the spine, ribs, and femur of what seemed like a human curled over in a frozen rictus, about three feet down. Had this been a hiker who had also chosen our much-maligned path? Would this be our fate? Had his or her hooves been entangled -- wait, hooves? OK, fine, so we're both given to fits of exaggeration and gullibility…it runs in the family, I suppose. We recognized it for the unidentified ungulate it was, paid our respects, and prepared for the final stretch up Jackass Pass to the Cirque.

The tumbledown boulders forced us into scrambling along a narrowing lakeshore path, but as the cliff grew higher than 25 feet and the water shot deeper than ten, we knew we had to move in and up. After a few precarious skin-the-cat maneuvers we found ourselves a short hop away from a steep knoll that led directly up to the Cirque. It wasn't very technical, but at about a 50% grade, it was a long slog, and we used fistfuls of tussocks as handholds to pull our way past several false ridges until we finally crested the pass.

Jeff and I rose to our feet, warmed by the sunlight as it cut the edges of Warbonnet and streaked across the Cirque of the Towers, setting Lonesome Lake below to shimmering. Thirteen steep peaks over or near 12,000 ft. high surrounded us on all sides, simultaneously stretching up and bearing down on us with their hulking gray mass. Wolf's Head, Lizard Head, Pingora, Warrior Peak, Mt. Mitchell -- they were all clearly defined, distinct and evocative of their namesakes. Wolf's Head, a long fin of rock corrugated like lupine fur, looked especially ferocious and alive; Pingora's sheer and near-vertical walls pricked the hairs on my forearms even at distance.

Unfortunately, our blunders in the boulders cost us a lot of time, and long shadows were already spreading out across the Cirque, darkening the pockets of snow on the flanks. We had it all to ourselves, but only for a few more minutes. Jeff struck an Apollonian pose for a photo as the last rays shot above Warrior II, and after a refueling break, we spent silent moments staring out at the Cirque, saddened to have to leave so soon. Jeff finally stood up and took the first steps back towards Jackass Pass, but I heard his feet grind against the dirt as he stopped sharply. I stood and turned in time to hear him mumble a Reeves-ian "Whoaaaah…"

Looking back over the pass, a long view of the glacier-cut Winds lay out before us, reclining into the horizon and mesmerizing us with their burly flanks and sinuous couloirs. On the way back, until the sky finally went dark and we had to race against the cold to get to shelter, this new, reverse view would keep us silent and enraptured, even long after we'd left the Cirque and our hike started to feel like the Bataan. Though the Cirque of the Towers may be the centerpiece of the Wind River Range, wherever trekkers go in this most remote corner of the American Rockies they will be swallowed by staggering vistas and rugged terrain. The Winds may not have as iconic a symbol as the three Tetons jutting into the sky, but perhaps that's because there are just far too many to choose from.

Author's Note: We tackled the Wind River Range in early October, just before heavy snow effectively ended hiking season. Temperatures should be less extreme in the summer months, though there will be more visitors -- but not nearly as many as the Tetons. Expect more green, more flowers, and perhaps more wildlife than these photos betray. Pinedale and Lander are your last chances for services, and they're at least 25 miles from any campgrounds, so gear up ahead of time.
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