---------------------- Forwarded by Elliot Mainzer/PDX/ECT on 01/30/2001 
11:10 AM ---------------------------
   
	Enron Capital & Trade Resources Corp.
	
	From:  "Winston Goodbody" <wgoodbody@hotmail.com>                           
01/28/2001 09:28 PM
	

To: wgoodbody@hotmail.com
cc:  
Subject: Update from First Leg


Hi All,

Here's a preview of a story that should be going up on our site soon.

Win

======

Greater Yellowstone Ski Traverse

Update for Leg 1: South Pass to Cora

By Win Goodbody

The weather gods must have been in a good mood.  Maybe they had a good New
Year,s party.  On previous trips to the Wind River Range I had grown
accustomed to spending large blocks of time in the tent, waiting for storm
after storm to subside.  If one of every two days was suitable for venturing
outside, I considered it a bit of luck.  But this time was different.  In
the middle of January we enjoyed an amazing 18 consecutive days of good
weather for our 130 mile ski traverse of the Wind River Range.

The drive south toward Lander, WY revealed an alarming lack of snow, both in
the mountains and lower down where we hoped to start.  This has not been a
good winter so far in the Yellowstone region, and we wondered what
conditions would be like in the Wind Rivers.  Luckily, with the final gain
in elevation as we neared the Continental Divide and South Pass, enough
coverage materialized for us to ski away from the car.  We had day packs and
70 pound sleds.

Starting out with an approach of several days across lowlands was an
interesting way to ease into the trip.  Instead of driving right up to the
base of the mountains, we had to work a little bit to get there.  Even
though we were on open range with scattered trees, this was some of the
trickiest route finding we would encounter anywhere on the route.
Steep-sided drainages and mini-gorges suddenly appeared in the otherwise
mildly rolling terrain, requiring detours and delays.

For a few days we thrashed across the prairie landscape, moving toward
distant peaks that didn,t seem to be getting much closer.  The 10 or 12
inches of snow on the ground were completely rotten, and our movement was
half skiing, half snowshoeing.  Each step sank to the ground, and ski tips
snagged in exposed sage brush.  When we came upon a perfectly groomed but
empty Continental Divide Snowmobile trail, we took advantage of it to
quickly reach the Little Sandy drainage, our entrance to the mountains.

We were by now settling into our routines: relearning winter camping skills,
dividing repetitive tasks, and adjusting to the cold.  With only about 11
hours of daylight, our schedule was remarkably busy.  It was a struggle to
get moving by 10 each morning even though we got up at 7.  Lunchtime arrived
immediately.  Just as quickly the sun dipped behind a peak and it was time
to make camp.  After eating dinner we scurried into our down bags for a 12
hour sleep.  The days flew by, and we focused on putting miles beneath the
sleds while the good weather lasted, not knowing it would last indefinitely.
  We were comfortable, but every waking moment was occupied and there was no
time for relaxing.  We seemed to be always on the move.

The price to be paid for clear sunny days is clear cold nights, and about a
week into the range, when we were up above 10,000 feet nearly all the time,
we had our first taste of real cold.  It was the night we camped in the
Cirque of the Towers, and we were in our floorless cook tent.  We had
excavated a basement a few feet down to the ice of Lonesome Lake.  Except
for the entranceway, all the sides of the tent were flush with the snow
surface, and with both stoves going it was pleasantly warm inside.

After dinner as we sat reading I sensed some sort of change.  Then I knew
what it was.  Searing cold air was draining into the tent and spilling
across the floor like a poisonous gas.  You could feel it cool your face,
try to get inside your clothes, turn your water bottle into a frozen brick.
I imagined my candle snuffing out, refusing to burn at such an obscene
temperature.  I went outside to check my key chain thermometer under a sky
of blazing stars.  The cheap gadget was maxed out.  It was at least )25 F.
The cold was like a deafening air raid siren.  There was no escaping it.

That same cold was to stay with us most nights and mornings for the next 8
or 9 days.  In the evening before going to bed I would check the
thermometer.  All the red fluid was huddled in the ball at the bottom, too
scared to try for a run up toward the numbers.  It was the same each
morning.  The daily temperature swings were tremendous.  We would go from
)25 F (or lower) to 20 F in a matter of hours in the morning.  The warm
midday sun was always a relief, but it didn,t last.  Our joy at being able
to ski along in just a shirt was tempered by the knowledge we would soon be
wearing every layer of clothing we possessed.  In the evenings, as soon as
the sun went down the temperature headed south with merciless speed.

Deep cold is to the sense of touch what the Grand Teton or Old Faithful or a
radiant sunrise are to the sense of sight.  It is truly an amazing natural
phenomenon to be reckoned with.  We marveled at it again and again, this
thing you cannot see or hear or smell.  It is both beautiful and horrifying,
an undeniably authentic experience that leaves an imprint on your memory,
but with luck not on your toes or fingers.  It might be hard to explain why
it is a fascinating spectacle to behold, but there is no denying that it is.
  As the days went by, we became students of this strange, invisible force.
But of course we still got cold every day.

Our good weather continued, and we knocked off high pass after high pass on
our voyage north.  Some days we even crossed two passes and multiple
drainages.  For mid winter, we were really moving fast.  With so little snow
on the ground, at least we were not delayed by having to worry about
avalanches.  Without consciously deciding to do so, we were in fact
traveling harder during the day, stopping later each night, and spending
less time readying a good camp.  More and more we were going flat out all
day and then just collapsing at night to wake the next morning and do it
again.

Our traverse was imperceptibly developing all the classic symptoms of what I
have come to know as a death march.  Though a death march typically occurs
at the end of a tour when the desire to exit is so strong it can make you go
all day or all night without thinking of the consequences, a death march can
also occur at any time during a trip.  For example, if you discover you
haven,t brought enough food you might need to go full bore for days on end.
Or maybe you hear a storm is coming and decide to turn on the after burner
to reach a safe haven.  Probably the defining characteristic of a death
march is that you never intend to get into one to begin with.  But there
comes a point when, like an investigator, you step back for a minute,
examine the evidence of your daily life, and it suddenly dawns on you that a
death march is in full swing and you are powerless to stop it.  The horror!
The horror!

At the outset of the leg, we were putting in good days because we wanted to
get up into the high peaks where the real trip would begin.  Once we were
there, we wanted to put in some good days while the weather lasted, to make
some progress before the inevitable endless blizzard that would surely
descend.  After we had been going about 10 days and did some math based on
the miles we had covered and what still lay ahead, we realized that we would
not have time to exit as we had originally planned.  In fact even after
cutting off some substantial passes and distance, it was still going to be
all we could do to make it out in the time allotted.  So we decided to put
in more good days.   We always had a reason for not resting, for going hard
day after day.  One night while thawing my foot out over the stove, I
realized we were not going to have a single rest day.  We were going for it.
  We had gotten sucked in.  We were on a death march.

The long days alone would have been manageable, but we had a growing problem
that was interfering with our ability to recover and rest each night.  Our
sleeping bags were filling with ice, which impaired their ability to loft
and hence insulate us.  This is a common problem in extreme cold.  As you
sleep, you radiate moisture and heat.  The moisture passes through your
sleeping bag and escapes into the air.

When it is very cold, however, the temperature difference between the air
inside your bag and the air outside is too great for moisture to pass
through the bag,s outer skin.  As moisture goes to move that last millimeter
from the comfortable 70 F temperature inside the bag to the outside air, it
gets walloped with a 100 degree temperature difference (let,s say it,s )30 F
out).  Instead of escaping, the moisture freezes on the inside of the bag,s
outer shell.  This problem seems to be worse with high tech laminate
materials designed to impede the flow of moisture (usually rain) into the
bag from the outside.

This is a cumulative condition and gets worse each day as another night,s
moisture is added to what is already frozen in the bag.  Unless the bag is
thawed out and dried, there is no solution, and you will reach a point where
all insulating qualities have been lost and you are better of just sleeping
on your insulated pad in your clothes.  We had already taken to wearing most
of our clothes inside our sleeping bags, and this just barely worked.
Still, more and more of each night was spent tossing and desperately
huddling into some new contorted position in an attempt to avoid feeling the
hideous cold of yet another clear night.

As light at the end of the tunnel appeared, our daytime efforts reached a
fever pitch.  Day 12, 8.5 miles.  Day 13, 9 miles.  Day 14, 7 miles.  Day
15, 9.5 miles.  And these were by no means easy flat miles.  They were
trailbreaking miles up and down passes, all above 10,000 feet.  Reaching the
entrance to Titcomb Basin, we veered northwest toward the origin of the
Green River at Peak Lake.  Originally we had planned to go north from
Titcomb past Gannett Peak as far as Downs Mountain, the last peak above
13,000 feet in the Winds, before falling off to the west down Roaring Fork,
eventually reaching the Green River drainage.  But because of time, low
snow, and a desire to live we had altered our course to head directly down
the Green.

Going over the top at Cube Rock Pass, we caught a glimpse thousands of feet
down the Green River drainage.  The end was near but we were still looking
at another two days to get to Green River Lakes campground, where we hoped
to solicit a snowmobile ride for the remaining 20 miles to our car in Cora.
The view down the upper Green as it plummets from near Peak Lake is
shocking.  We silently gazed 10 miles down a classic, deeply carved, thickly
forested valley wedged between impassable rocks walls.  Toward their
northern end the Winds turn into a series of high, broad plateaus above
11,000 feet, and the chief difficulty exiting is finding some way down.
Many of the drainages that cut this plateau are gorges, sheer cliffs, or
other features unfriendly to ski tourers with sleds.  As we had changed our
exit route, we had not gone all the way north to the real plateaus.  But
even here getting down was going to take some doing.

Day 16 was the first time we allowed that most cruel of thoughts to enter
our minds: perhaps this was the day we would get out.  Eating pizza in
Jackson tonight?  Sleeping indoors, not encased in an ice tomb?  No more
holding frozen body parts over an open flame?  Perhaps.  We slowly suffered
up Vista Pass, where the summer trail leaves the Green River for about 8
miles and descends a neighboring creek.  I had got into the habit over the
last few days of proclaiming that some feature or other was &really going to
be the last uphill8.  Usually as soon as this sentence hit the air we would
round a corner to glimpse another uphill ahead.  But I was undeterred by
past failed prophecies and once again suggested to Joe that &this is it8.
He said nothing.

Whereas early in the trip I felt strong and had been happy to break trail
for hours at a time, the death march and lack of sleep had taken their toll
and the wheels were coming off.  I had no enthusiasm for leading.  I felt
like the walking dead and just wanted to follow, my eyes locked on a track
in front of me, legs trudging on automatic pilot.  But as I grew weaker, Joe
became unstoppable.  He was increasingly pulling the boat over the final
days, and I was happy to let him. Especially going downhill though tricky,
steep sections he raced far ahead.  Perhaps it was a desire to escape my
singing that drove him forward.  I sang many pop songs, past and present,
but refused to sing Neil Diamond, Joe,s favorite artiste.  As this disputed
issue festered, Joe seemed eager to put more and more distance between the
two of us.

As it turns out, Vista Pass really was the last uphill, and now it was time
to go down.  After a few hours of easy traversing, we lost the trail and
decided to descend a steeply falling stream choked with enormous boulders.
Seemed like a good idea at the time I guess.  Joe was in front, skiing
straight downstream and stopping only for the most absurd drops.  He was
soon out of sight.  Following his track was a bit of an eye opener.  It felt
like the cartoon where you come upon a set of ski tracks that split around a
tree.  In leather boots and telemark bindings with a large sled, Joe was
sticking 4 and 5 foot drops.  I stared in disbelief at the smooth sled track
that went over the top of a boulder, then straight down for a few feet, then
continued on.  I had more solid AT gear, but there was no way I was doing
that.  I was sure I,d break a ski.

Later, Joe confided that the way he,d been able to descend these boulders
was to surf down sloughs of snow.  As he went over the tops of rocks, snow
would slide off and cushion his descent and landing.  But as the second guy
down the course, I enjoyed none of this extra padding.  It was all gone.
Instead of using the Hartney straightline method, I tried side stepping down
from the top of the boulder, turning my skis perpendicular to the fall line
that my sled wanted so desperately to follow at great speed.

It didn,t work too well.  Shorn of most of their snow, the boulders, it
turned out, were covered with glare ice.  Again and again I would be just
about to take the final step down when my skis would slip.  I fell over my
skis downhill, face-planting in the stream bed.  The sled then crashed on
top of me.  I struggled to release skis and waist belts.  Once I had to get
out my shovel and dig to find a pole that went astray in a particularly
juicy fall.  To make matters worse, I was getting wet from these repeated
snow baths.

Some time during this carefree afternoon I looked down and noticed that
where the solid metal tow bars of my sled connected to the plastic hull
there was a grave problem.  The connection points were tearing away from the 
body and threatened to come off altogether.  When and if that happened, I
would be reduced to fashioning a rope and stick contraption to bind the sled
to my body.  I shuddered to think what such a caveman era contraption might
do to our progress and tried to face plant less often on the rest of my
stream run.

At last the track I was following left the creek, and I thrashed down into
dense woods where I found Joe looking at the map and having a snack.  It
looked like he,d been there for quite a while.  I waited for some sign from
him that maybe the creek had been kind of tough.  Nothing.  I acted
nonchalant:  &That was fun.8  &Yeah,8 Joe said.  &I broke my sled it looks
like,8 I countered.  &Oh really?8  Finally, I had to ask.  &Did you fall at
all back there?8  &What?8  He was looking at the map.  &Oh, no.  I did have
to slow down at one point though.8  Here I,d spent the last hour egg
beatering down the creek like someone just introduced to skis.  And Joe had
to slow down once.  The poor kid.

Needless to say, we didn,t make it out that day.  But we did make it to the
valley floor.  Flat ground at last!  Now I could claim that there would be
no more uphill or downhill.  But all was not yet goodness and light, and we
soon found ourselves wallowing in some of the worst snow imaginable.  Deeper
than the snow we had battled through at South Pass, it exhibited the same
general characteristics.  Deeply rotten and unsupportable, yet dense and
heavy, it was nearly impossible to move through.  We were snowshoeing again,
pulling our ski tips out of the snow at each step and stepping on the
surface, only to sink down a foot.  Pure hell.  Too spice up what promised
to be hours, and possibly days, of fun battling our way out, I decided to
make a quick sight seeing trip to the other side of the Green River.  After
plunging through the ice and almost losing a ski in the swift flowing
current, I reluctantly came back across and started sloshing down the trail
like a good boy.  My skins were now coated with ice which removed any
possibility of sliding on them.  Oh well.  That night we made a fire and fed
it with prehistoric glee, which somewhat warmed our outlook and dried my
boots.  But we still weren,t out.

Day 17.  Joe and I don,t need to verbalize this, but it,s just sort of
understood that there is absolutely no way we are not making it out today.
No chance of not getting out today.  Nope.  I mean zero chance.  We even get
up in the dark for an early start to ensure that no matter what the day may
throw at us (earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, meteors, etc.) we are still
making it out.  As I flee the ice bag, I notice it,s only )10 F down here in
the sultry valley.

Even though he broke trail most of yesterday, Joe is out in front again.
The snow is worse than ever.  Somehow even with a trail to follow I can,t
really keep up.  I occupy myself with bitter, frivolous &Well, at least
we,re not getting attacked by a moose8 kind of thoughts.  I look around for
some small forest creature to curse at.  Anything to divert attention from
the pain in my feet and legs.  Damn pikas.  Bloody chipmunks.  But there,s
nothing about.  Staggering along, I feel almost like a third party to our
plight, like I,m watching it on tv.  Tra la la.  This is pretty fun, I lie
to myself.

But our suffering pays off.  We come upon a lake.  Could this be Green River
Lakes?  We consult the map.  Surely there must be some mistake.  I wait for
Joe to inform me that we,ve made a wrong turn and are actually in northern
British Columbia, hundreds of miles from the nearest road.  But no.  As if a
ramp of light had descended from parted clouds to our feet, the lake lies
there like a highway.  Trumpets are sounding.  Angels are fluttering above
motioning us forward.  Not only will trail breaking be easier, we now have
certifiable proof that we are only 4 miles from Green River Lakes
campground, a snowmobiling mecca.  It,s only about 1 pm and clear and sunny.
  Surely there will be hundreds of people out on a day like this, even if it
is a Tuesday.  We have visions of having to fight back hordes of attractive
female snowmachiners, all clamoring to be the ones who will give us a ride
back to Cora, 20 miles distant.  We,ll probably need flak jackets.

We pick up the pace.  Or rather Joe picks up the pace.  Apparently he thinks
he may still have a good chance of competing in some nordic events in the
2002 Olympics in Salt Lake, because he,s going down the lake like a rocket.
He,s not even going in a straight line.  He,s swerving all over the place,
going like a madman for the finish line.  He doesn,t care because WE ARE
GETTING OUT TODAY!  One thing I do have going for me is that I can plot a
straight course for the point where we will exit the first lake, so I regain
some time.  We cross the first lake.  There are ski tracks in the snow.
Humans!  At the second lake, where the wilderness boundary ends, I am about
as happy as I have ever been to see snowmobile tracks all over the place.
But strangely, ominously, no machines.

At 3 pm we are at the campground.  Snowmobile tracks everywhere.  It,s just
a matter of time, I tell myself.  They,ll be here.  We reach the far end of
the campground where the road heads off for Cora and do some gear
rearranging, readying ourselves for that magic ride.  We scatter things all
over the road, effectively blockading it.  Nobody is getting by here without
picking us up.  The sun is still shining and it,s downright warm.  As a
little joke, I take my sleeping bag out and set it on a tarp to begin the
drying process which, I imagine, will really kick into gear in about three
hours when we,re back in Joe,s living room in Jackson and have turned up the
thermostat to about 85 F.  Just a bit of fun putting the bag out like this.
I mean, it,s not like we,re going to need the thing tonight.

Total silence.  Wonder where they are, these +bilers?  Must be a local
tradition to stop at this time each afternoon for a moment of silence or
something.  We start getting a little upset.  Almost indignant.  Don,t these
people know how to have fun?  Where are they?  A day this beautiful and
noone,s out on their machines?  Where is everyone, off cross country skiing
or something?  Sun,s going down now.  For god,s sake WHERE ARE THEY?!

And then, just as faint as the sound of a mosquito, we hear it.  A little
buzz.  Was that the wind?  No, I still hear it.  Could it be a ( plane?
Buzz.  Buzz.  Buzzzzzzz.  No sound could be more soothing, more friendly,
more welcome at that moment than this: the sound of not one but several two
stroke engines heading our way.

We finally crack.  Screams, high fives, arms raised.  Hysteria, release.  We
knew it!  We knew we,d make it out tonight!  Victory is ours!  We are going
to live!  After a minute or two I realize that maybe if I stop shouting and
set about repacking the crap I,ve strewn all over the road we,ll look a
little more appealing.  A little more like someone these gracious, heroic,
good-natured +bilers will want to pick up.  I lower my arms, wipe the tears
off my face, and start jamming the ice bag back into its stuff sack.

We start cleaning up.  In an instant we are already mentally back in
Jackson.  Back in town.  Back indoors.  As if transported by a futuristic
machine, we are no longer at a remote trailhead 20 miles away from a town of
maybe 200 people in the middle of nowhere in Wyoming.  We are home.  We are
warm.  We are about to have dinner.  Joe,s in the shower.  I,m checking my
email.  Beam me up, Scotty.

For some reason the +bilers (there are 4 of them) have stopped almost a mile
short of our little shanty town and have turned off their machines.  Now
that doesn,t look good.  The sun has just gone behind a peak, and in about
15 minutes the temperature will go into freefall.  We can,t imagine why
anyone would come the 20 miles out here and not go all the way to the lake,
which is on the other side of us.  They,re probably playing a game of
rock-paper-scissors to decide who will be the lucky two to host us on the
ride back, but we are sure not taking any chances.  Maybe they just haven,t
seen us.  Before I can suggest that he,d probably enjoy some brisk skiing
after such a slack 17 days, Joe has stripped off his skins and is skating
down the road toward our motorized friends to make sure all is well with,
uh, you know, the pickup and the ride back and everything.

I get out my telephoto lens to watch and maybe document this historic
meeting.  I,m sure that as soon as he gets the aok I,ll be hearing a lot of
noise from Joe.  I imagine the bilers, responses:  &You skied 130 miles from
where?  Good lord, son, you get on the back of this machine and we,re going
back to my place for a full blown steak dinner right now.  Here, I,ll just
call ahead and get that in the works.8  &Now wait just a minute there, Bill.
  Who said we,re going to your place?  We,re having it at my house.8
&Jimmy, over my dead body.  We,re going to my house and we,re having a
dinner and dance, and then we,re taking them to Vegas for a week.  And if
anyone else tries to contribute one penny to the expense, there,s going to
be a fight.  It,s all on me.8  &Sorry, Bobby, but it,s just not going to be
like that at all.  We,re going to my place, we,re eating for two days, and
then I,m taking them to meet the Governor before we head to Acapulco for a
week.  And I,ll be damned if my two daughters aren,t coming with us.8  I
start to get a warm fuzzy feeling.  These are my people!  I,m determined to
try snowmobiling as soon as possible.  Maybe even convert.  Screw this
skiing stuff.  I want horsepower!  I start singing as I pack up my sled.

The first sign of trouble is when the four riders start their machines and
set off headed toward me.  But Joe remains standing in place like a fence
post.  He,s not moving at all.  I figure he,s just so bowled over by all the
outlandish offers of hospitality we,ve received that he,s wondering how
we,re going to be able to make it out of Cora in less than a week.  What
with all the parades, barbecues, snowmobiling with the mayor, square dances,
and motivational talks at the high school, we may have to push back the next
leg of our Yellowstone traverse by at least a few days.  Here come the
+bilers.  Joe is still doing his frozen in place routine.  This does not
look good.

I reluctantly clear a path to let the four riders through our barricade.
Well, they may be getting to the lake, I think, but they can,t get out.  The
most worrisome thing is that they do not stop to talk to me, and only one
even waves.  No eye contact at all.  That,s alright, I think.  Out of
consideration for us they,re hurrying as fast as they can to get a glimpse
of the lake and then they,re going to zip back and get us.  We,ll talk back
at their place.  They just don,t want us to spend a single additional minute
outside.  How kind of them.  That,s why they didn,t stop.

Then it hits me.  The music stops, the needle goes screeching across the
record.  We,re in trouble here.  Something is terribly, terribly wrong.
This is just not how people who are about to bring us home to feast with
their extended family should be acting.  Joe is moving now at least.  He has
taken his skis off and is walking back toward me at a very slow speed.  I
shout to him, &Well?8  No response.  &Joe?8  &JOE!8  I repeatedly shout at
him as he approaches within 100 yards.  He,s not answering.  God this looks
bad!  I instantly readjust my internal fun meter from being back in Jackson
watching tv to Defcon 5.  I,ve been yanked out of the shower and I,m at the
North Pole having just been given the news that the pickup flight is not
coming and we have to make the 1400 mile trek home by dogsled.  And we don,t
have any sled dogs so we,ll be using marmots instead.  It,s pretty clear we
are not getting a ride back with the boys.

Joe confirms this with very few words when he arrives.  The party consisted
of a Wyoming guide and three clients from Michigan.  The guide mumbled some
bologna about how he could lose his license if anyone saw him giving us a
ride.  Joe kind of tried to laugh this one off at first but then realized
the guy was serious.  He did not want to help us, who knows why.  This
outcome was so unexpected and so incomprehensible to us that we just sat
there at first.  It was like a truck coming across someone in the Sahara
Desert.  &Sorry, I,d love to pick you up, but you might put your feet on the
dash and smudge the leather.8  Would any skier coming across a broken down
snowmobiler 20 miles from the road refuse to help, refuse to lend a hand in
any way?  We couldn,t fathom this.  Where was the back country fellowship,
the shared camaraderie of a couple of hearty souls out in Wyoming,s
wildness?  Sorry.  It wasn,t there this time.  We were crushed.

The previously valiant ambassadors of world peace and brotherhood, now
hateful, bubble-headed practitioners of an idiotic, environmentally damaging
sport, came roaring back from the lake on their gas pigs.  I stared at them
menacingly.  They did not stop.  Good thing for them.  We spent 20 minutes
on tirades and diatribes best not recalled in print, and then we got out our
pathetic list of options.  We had already gone about 10 miles that day.  I
don,t know about Joe, but after 17 straight days of going for it, I was a
mess.  It was 4:00 pm.  Another 20 miles separated us from the car and
salvation.  We could either camp and continue in the morning, or keep going
a little further until dark.  Or, of course, we could commit to the grand
finale death march.

We decided on the death march.  We would eat dinner, pack it up, and go
until we got to the car.  Just another 20 miles.  It wouldn,t be so bad.  A
rational person might have pointed out that we were looking at a 30 mile day
(and night), but our thinking was not exactly sharp as a laser.  From step
1, I knew it was a mistake for me, but Joe definitely had the fire for
getting out.  We set off at nearly full speed with evening coming on and
rich alpenglow coating all peaks in sight.  Every step hurt.  Every minute I
wanted to stop.  I lasted about an hour before seriously considering
stopping for the night.  Another key characteristic of the death march is
that one person wants to do it and the other really doesn,t but just goes
along with it.  It was clear who was in which role.  This was sort of a new
experience for me, for I usually played the guy trying to get the other to
keep going.  Not this time.  I knew Joe was not going to be happy when he
heard I wanted to stop.

For a seeming eternity I heard myself mouthing the words, &I think we should
stop.8  But I held on.  Just another step.  Take another step and see how it
felt.  It felt bad.  My feet were on fire.  My legs were slightly numb down
the sides.  I was hobbling.  I felt about as comfortable on skis as Woody 
Allen.  But the worst thing was that we had no way to measure our progress.
We did not recognize the route, could not assess how much farther, had no
landmarks.  It could be another hour or another 10.  I had myself convinced
we could ski four miles an hour.  By that math, we should be able to reach
Cora in time for last call.  Or at least in time to round up an angry mob of
torch-bearing villagers to go hunt down the four +bilers who were guilty of
crimes against humanity and must pay!

Darkness.  Temperature down to a cheery )10 F.  Real heat wave here in the
shadow of the Wind River Range.  It,s another clear, windless night on the
range as we slowly, painfully make our way out of the mountains.  The ice
hard road crunches under our skis.  Dead silence otherwise.  At last, the
pyschological brutality of simply not knowing how much longer breaks me, and
2 
 hours into the death march, even though I have convinced myself we must
be half way, I mouth the words.  I,m not asking, I,m telling.  As selfish as
that may be, I can,t go on.  I know Joe is severely displeased, but he
agrees silently, and we stop to set up the tent.  In 10 minutes we are
huddling in the ice bags, praying for warmth.

Looking back, I am amazed we survived as long as we did on the trip with our
sleeping bags considering the state they were in.  Usually the bag is a safe
house, a place to go when all else goes wrong, a place to retreat to.  But
in our case it was the opposite.  Because the weather was so perfect, the
days were our sanctuary, the place we could recover from our torment in the
bags and get warm again.  Had it not been for the perfect weather, we could
not have lasted.  But we managed to just barely hang on and tolerate our
sleeping bags as they became of less and less use each day.

Until they were of no use whatsoever.  Inside the tent, we are both
thrashing around in our bags fully clothed.  I put on my down jacket inside
the bag for the first time.  Luckily we both have down pants which we have
been wearing to sleep for more than a week.  The bags are doing more harm
than good at this point, but we don,t really get that.  The thought doesn,t
occur to us to try sleeping without the bags.  It,s obvious that neither one
of us is asleep or headed anywhere remotely near sleep.  For the first time
on the trip I am not satisfactorily warm at night.  I can survive, but it is
not going to be comfortable.  Maybe we,d be better off going for the car.  I
can,t face that unknown quantity.  Another 2 
 hours?  More?  I realize we
are looking at a sleepless night: 9 hours of waiting for the sun to come
back around.

After an hour Joe announces he can,t sleep and wants to keep going.  He,s
wet and cold and getting worse in the ice bag.  We talk about it and decide
he will go for the car and I will stay the night, continuing at first light.
  The thought of getting out of the bag, cold as it is, putting on frozen
boots, hitching up the sled and continuing almost makes me want to get
physically ill, but Joe still has something left.  He departs at 9 pm, back
out into the cold, clear Wyoming night.

I drift in and out of sleep.  I actually do attain some warmth, but somehow
I am also getting wet.  Must have slipped off my pad.  Don,t care.  I am
cramped and crippled, a few limbs need blood, but rolling over acts like a
huge vacuum that takes away any heat I have, so I lie still.  My watch says
3 am when I check it.  Only another few hours and I'll be on my way.  I even
consider getting up right then and continuing but don,t.  I think of Joe and
the brutal death march he must have faced, or might still be facing.  Hope
he makes it.  I drift off again.

4:30 am.  I hear a noise.  Sounds like an engine.  It,s not a snowmobile.
Not high-pitched enough.  Sounds like( a car!  In the space of one minute I
go from sleeping to wide awake and out of the ice bag.  I know exactly
what,s happened, and I am ecstatic.  It,s Joe!  He has driven the car back
down the snowmobile trail to get me!  Bugles are sounding and the cavalry is
thundering over the hill, flags all around.  No time is spent wondering
exactly how Joe got the car here.  Before he has it turned around I am out
of the tent and furiously packing my sled.

We have the tent down and my gear in the car in under five minutes.  I slip
under skis and sled poles into the passenger seat and want to cry when I
feel the heat blast from inside.  Joe,s had the heater on high for hours.
We head off with music playing and Joe hands me a glazed donut.  The
contrast is too stark.  It can,t be real.  I keep waiting to wake up in
northern Iceland with the tent blown to shreds and our bags frozen hard as
coffins.  But I am awake, and we are homeward bound at last.

Joe happily relates his tale like he,s telling me who won the Super Bowl,
and I look for a bullet to bite down on to stop my screams.  He left the
tent to resume the death march at 9 pm.  We figured we were half way, so he
was looking at another two or three hours at most.  More than five hours
after leaving the tent, close to 2:30 am, Joe reached the car.  It started.
Just the thought of going that long, not knowing whether it might have been
another five hours, is too much for me to consider.  Suddenly all my past
death march experiences were transformed into happy jaunts in the country
with birds chirping in comparison with Joe,s saga.

After starting the car, Joe made for a local convenience store and stocking
up on junk food and coffee, then returned to the trailhead.  At Green River
Lakes we had joked how the snowmobile trail was hard enough to drive on.
Noticing there was no gate between the parking lot and trail, Joe eased his
Ford Escort up onto the trail.  The car didn,t sink in at all.  He kept
going and was soon whizzing down the trail.  &So how far was it from the
tent to the car?  Did you measure?8 I asked.  &12 miles.8

With the heater on full and early morning of our 18th day starting to show
itself in the rosy eastern sky, we point the car toward a breakfast of eggs,
bacon, and pancakes.  We had gotten away with murder and we knew it.  Never
in our wildest dreams could we have hoped for such good weather.  We had
done nothing to deserve it.  But with this unprecedented window thrown open
to us, we had breached the Wind River Range,s defenses and squeaked through.
  In January.

Joe pops in a Neil Diamond tape and starts singing along.  I,ve got some
things to learn from this guy.
_________________________________________________________________
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