A Week in Wyoming's Wind River Range

Sojourn at Peak Lake

A small glacier must have recently retreated from the north face of Stroud. A prominant moraine lay at the base of the mountain, the rocks pushed aside by the snout of the glacier. We worked our way back up the trail toward Cube Rock Pass, veering off short to circumvent Stroud. The southern flank of the mountain offered an easy path to the summit blocks. On the very peak, I lay on my belly and peered over the edge. Whoa! Twelve hundred feet straight down. I gingerly wriggled back to a more comfortable perch.

The clouds rolled in, dark and angry. Carl decided to go down but Patsy and I were toying with the idea of traversing over to Sulphur Mountain and decided to wait out the storm hiding under a rock just below the summit. It wasn't too bad but in the end we opted to head down also, leisurely working our way down the ramps. At one point we came across a clump of wild garlic. Tempting though it was to carry this home to supplement our dinner pot, we opted to leave it be, the only wild garlic that we saw on the trip.

Peak Lake is fed by a multitude of small springs. We stopped at one to fill our canteens on the way back to camp. We had never seen so many wild flowers; it was incredible. A menhir, a stone monolith, stood close to camp. It could have been carried there by Obelix himself. We decided that this was going to be our shower "cubicle". What a view this would afford to anyone descending the trail! The trick was to get the shower bag up on top of the menhir. This was a fun rock climbing exercise; climbing on to the menhir in bare feet. But it was ultimately worth it; there was nothing else around high enough to afford adequate hydrostatic pressure, let alone head clearance. Finally we were able to persuade Carl to take a much-needed shower.

Day 5

The trail to Knapsack Col winds around the northern end of Peak Lake, contouring a talus slope, until the trail, forced downward by vertical rock, almost enters the lake itself. As we peered into its depths, it stared back with a glazen face. What lay hidden in those depths?

The trail gradually climbed alongside the northern bank of the river, although here the Green River was little more than a brook that wound lazily from pool to pool. The trail started to climb more steadfastly and we strung out. I went on ahead, anxious to reach the summit of Winifred Peak before the afternoon storm arrived. Just below Knapsack Col, the rock was loose and steep and I had lost any vestige of what might have remained of a trail. I toiled upwards, two steps up, one slide back. Resolutely, I reached the summit of Winifred and waited for an hour before Patsy and Carl finally arrived.

But what a view! Mountains and glaciers all around. We were sitting on the apex of two major cirques, Peak Lake and Titcomb Basin. Everywhere around us it seemed to be raining but we were safely ensconced in a window of sunshine.

We started heading down. From somewhere off in the distance, we could hear barking - or was it braying? I swore it was barking. Carl swore it was braying. This didn't seem appropriate terrain for either dogs or donkeys. Through my binoculars I could make out another party descending Twin Peaks, the peak to the north of Knapsack Col. Gotta be dogs. They looked like they might even be Golden Retrievers. Patsy had spent one night in Joshua Tree camping with Eric Beck and his old Yosemite climbing buddies. Amongst these was Joe Kelsey, who brought with him his two Golds, Ruby and Toby. Since Carl had the most stentorian voice, he took charge of the yelling. "ARE YOU JOE KELSEY?" "YES ... WHO ARE YOU?" We managed limited communication across the glacier. What a strange coincidence.

On the way down, we passed through an area between two cliffs shoveled so clean by the glacier that it looked like a Roman road. Cobblestones laid perfectly flat; the surface was better than that of many roads I have driven on.

We enjoyed the descent, lingering here and there to take a photograph, explore, look at the wild flowers, or just sit by the side of the stream, the not yet mighty Green River, and enjoy the sound of the birds. The sun was reflected by ripples on the surface of the river. This is truly a magical place.

That night we strolled along the shore of Peak Lake, taking sunset photos of Stroud Peak. Carl and I finished off the last of our hot toddies, all the less to carry the next morning. We were saddened at the prospect of having to pack up and leave this spot, our private Shangri La, although none of us admitted to the fact, perhaps fearing that this would break the enchantment of the moment.

Part of a Los Alpinistas story. Text and photographs by Richard J. Hughes.