Sojourn

Standing at 13,804’, Gannett Peak marks the highpoint in the state of Wyoming, surpassing the far more popular Grand Teton by 34’. Named for Henry Gannett, the chief topographer of the Hayden Survey and later in charge of topographic surveying for the United Stated Geologic Survey, Gannett was first climbed in 1922 by Arthur Tate and Floyd Stahlnaker. Ironically, Henry Gannett likely never actually set eyes upon his namesake mountain which may be a testament to the peak’s shy and secluded nature. Not visible from any road, Gannett entails the longest approach of any high peak in the lower 48. This, and the presence of continuous snow cover and five flanking glaciers, has earned Gannett the reputation as the most Alpine Peak in the American Rockies. One typical approach to Gannett Peak entails over twenty miles from Elkhart Park above Pinedale to the Titcomb Basin south of the peak. The approach is a series of trails linked together and is a continuous struggle over ascents to passes followed by descents to high lake basins. After reaching the remote Titcomb Basin, climbers must ascend Bonney Pass at 12,800’ only to subsequently lose most of their elevation gain in descending onto the Dinwoody Glacier before making their way over to the final approach up the Gooseneck Glacier on Gannett’s northeast aspect. Climbers approaching from this southern route typically give themselves five days to summit the peak: two days to pack into Titcomb Basin, one day to summit, and two days for the return to Elkhart Park. Likely due to youthful ambition, Zac and I planned three days for one summit bid in August of 2003. This really wasn’t considered a super-human feat however, as the peak has been climbed via a continuous 26 hour push, trailhead to trailhead. For years my approach to a trip such as this could be fairly easy to predict: I would push too hard for too long and wind up paying a heavy price. Zac and I fairly raced through the trails to the Titcomb Basin, rarely even pausing to either eat or drink. By the time we reached our high camp at the base of Bonney Pass late on the first day I was severely dehydrated and utterly spent. Zac cooked us a meal of some kind of pasta and sauce which I attempted to eat, knowing I needed some nourishment. About half-way through the meal my body rejected it and everything came back out. Despite desperately needing food and water, my body couldn’t deal with the digestion on top of attempting to care for the effects of my dehydration. With much cajoling, Zac convinced me to finish the second half of my meal and finally keep some liquid down. One of my favorite pictures to this day is a photo Zac snapped of me staring off into nowhere, looking pale and miserable as I sat with a pot of tomato covered pasta in one hand. If the hard push of the first day and the personal wall I hit late in the day weren’t bad enough, we had to rise early the next morning and begin the arduous ascent to the top of Bonney Pass only to discover how far the drop was onto the Dinwoody Glacier. All of this had to be finished before we could even begin to make our way around a rock escarpment just to get on the Gooseneck Glacier where the actual climb of Gannett Peak would begin. I was already shot, and the thought that we would have to again make this climb back up the pass on our return already weighed on my mind in the early morning hours. Before long Zac and I found ourselves on the glaciers on Gannett’s north side negotiating small crevasses and searching for a likely route up the Gooseneck. Finally, with the summit ridge in view, we had only one final steep couloir to ascend before we could stand on the highest point in Wyoming. At the base of this final gain, however, we found ourselves stopped by an enormous bergschrund which was a gaping hole from cliff wall to cliff wall this late in the season. A bergschrund consists of a large crevasse which is created when a glacier pulls away from the vertical rock sections of a peak. Wanting to travel fast and light on this attempt, Zac and I had left ropes and anchors behind and were now stopped cold within sight of the summit. Somewhat dejectedly we began our long slog back over Bonney Pass to retrieve our gear and begin the long trek back to the vehicle. All of those miles, the self-imposed suffering, the ascending and descending and negotiating—only to return home without having reached the summit. As we have talked about that trip through the years, however, there is never a hint of regret for either Zac or I. Zac found those areas of the Wind Rivers reminiscent of his time in Nepal. I continue to count the Titcomb Basin as one of the top two places I have had the privilege to visit. As with many hard trips we’ve taken, Zac and I emerged believing every step was worth the experience—not because of a summit we could mark off and probably even in spite of an arbitrary foot of land we might call a summit. Those trips, we realize, are worthwhile precisely because of their difficulty. They tend to add substance to life through the suffering. The hard things tend to grant a substantial weight to our existence; a weight necessary to be able to experience and enjoy a full life. Whether we spend any time in the backcountry or not, our tendency is to approach life like a seasoned backpacker or accomplished alpine climber: continuously seeking to lighten our load; to travel with as few encumbrances as possible and so to live light, fast and free. While this certainly doesn’t apply to our consumptive lifestyle and thinking about possessions in America, it does apply to what we allow to weigh on our hearts, minds and souls. We want to be carefree and stress-free and therefore we find ourselves not all that attached to the issues and lives of other people or important events or crises in our world. We often lack empathy for our neighbors and probably even the pain in our own extended family. In seeking to lighten our load through life, which has taken on a form of virtue in our culture, we are required to detach from our world behind closed doors and gated communities. When I was leading backpacking camps for high school and college students in the 1990s I would typically carry an ancient and oversized external frame Jansport pack purchased for $1 at a garage sale—apparently its previous owner had tired of carrying this behemoth into the backcountry. As is often the case, I tended to fill every nook and cranny in the enormous pack simply because I had the space. I felt largely responsible for the groups of thirty or more who would show up, often with little or no backcountry experience, so I would load up this mammoth pack with everything I thought might be missed or left behind. I spent weeks and countless miles bent under the enormous weight. Things are much different now that I have availed myself of ultralight gear and more often than not travel into the wilderness solo. I still find myself learning about weight all the time, though. For years the only rope I carried to descend Utah’s slot canyons was a 60m, 11mm dynamic dry rope—it was the only rope I owned. When I met four guys from Wyoming headed into a slot I was planning to solo and joined their descent I experienced the joy of carrying and rappelling off and 8mm static rope. Those kinds of trips to wild places make considerations of “weight” vital. Unlike a backpacking trip or an alpine climb, when we seek to “lighten up” in life it’s likely we’re missing something crucial. To move through life as light and unencumbered as possible is not the virtue it is for a climber. We require a certain weightiness because with weight comes significance. In the Hebrew Scriptures the word for one of the most fundamental characteristics of Yahweh is “cabod”—literally, “weight.”