Artistic rendition of the Hoodoo Basin from our September adventure. Photo by Nathan Varley.
Yellowstone Country is, perhaps on many levels, no different than any other large tract of wilderness when it comes to executing a foray into the backcountry. There are trips and there are adventures. Our mid-September journey to the Hoodoo Basin represented the latter. In my over-analytical mind, a trip is a get-away, an escape to the mountains, desert, ocean or river; whereas, an adventure more often than not represents a longer stay with many uncertainties and a certain degree of childlike anticipation and enthusiasm.
Maybe it is the mentally and physically arduous 80-110 hour weeks that I have been putting in the last few summers, the lack of weekends and vacation time, or perhaps it is simply the wild splendor of shouldering a pack with sleepless nights and adventure on the brain; but any extended walk in the backcountry seems to pump a little something extra into my blood, giving that lively bounce to my step, even when weighted down with a heavy pack.
I arrived home from another long guide day in the field tired and exhausted, but with two hours of packing for our next day’s voyage still necessary. Guiding in Montana is a chaotic four months of family upheaval, a marathon of sorts, so I hadn’t been on a personal backpacking trip that I was not leading since my pre-guide days. As a result, my minimalist packing skills were a bit rusty, to say the least. But at 2 a.m. on the eve of our boots hitting the trail, I knew I was in for an adventure and a nervous excitement filled my overly active, sleepless mind (I have now divulged enough about my mind’s hyper activity level) as I envisioned what soon awaited.
The window for non-ski aided backcountry adventure in Yellowstone is short, made even shorter this summer by historically high snowpack and river flows, so it had been too long since I had given myself the time to take a few days away from the nonprofit, guiding and speaking engagements that consume my time. Now I was about to journey into the heart of some of Yellowstone’s wildest country with a friend and mentor by my side, someone with as deep a sense of place in my beloved Yellowstone—a place that speaks to the meaning of sense of place to so many—as anyone I know.
I met Nathan Varley in 2001 on a cold winter day while exploring Yellowstone’s Lamar Valley with my newlywed wife. We were on Christmas break from North Idaho College and had come to observe wolves in the morning and ski in the afternoon. I was immediately attracted to Nathan’s quiet confidence and willingness to share his knowledge with an eager-to-learn young student, who was not one of his wildlife viewing guiding clients for the day. While I have shared this with Nathan since—as he now serves on the board of directors for Yellowstone Country Guardians—his kindness and “can do” attitude when I told him about my goal and dream of becoming a ranger in Yellowstone was an early catalyst for helping me believe it was possible.
Yellowstone is so full of magic and power; but its ability to inspire people to dream big, and make those dreams come true may very well be the greatest gift that “Wonderland” has to offer. Thus the dream for an adventure was born. While I had seen it on the map and had heard rumors of its wild and eerie charm, it was during one slow day working the Visitor Center desk with another Yellowstone dreamer and longtime summer employee, Terry Ward—who in later years became a dear friend and supporter of my next Yellowstone dream, Yellowstone Country Guardians—that the seed of my need to visit the enigmatic Hoodoo Basin was planted.
“Need” may seem too strong a word for some who wish to visit certain places, but for a lover of Yellowstone, there are a few places and trips that are on the “need to see” list. Walking the length of the Bechler from Cave Falls to Lonestar Geyser, the Thorofare, Eagle and Electric Peaks represent just a few adventures on every Yellowstone dreamer’s check list. And while I have experienced many of these adventures, some on multiple occasions, there is something about the Hoodoo Basin, call it a gravitational pull if you will, that I have never been able to get off the brain—or perhaps the heart.
In some ways it had almost become an obsession. Every summer I tell myself I am going to take some time off the water, away from guiding, and the daily grind of putting people into fish while running a growing nonprofit, speaking, and leading programs such as our River Guardian Fly Fishing School. And then every October, the guide season comes to a close, YCG’s next big program looms, and before you know it the mountains and passes are once again locked up in a restless state of chaotic sleep as winter takes firm grip.
But this year would be different. Call it fate, or perhaps just bad luck, but just before our move to Livingston, the last week of August, I injured the tendons in my right wrist. After rowing for an entire day on the hurried waters of a river that will go unnamed—as my father and I will continue to selfishly try to keep the love and passion we feel for this wild Wyoming fishery to ourselves—my wrist was in bad shape. So we cancelled day two of our annual float so that I could rest my wrist on ice until the next day—when I had to row for an eight-hour guide trip on a blustery day on the Yellowstone River. That was all she wrote. My guiding from a drift boat had come to an end for the year, I was in a cast and it was time to get creative.
I realized there was no better time to make this Hoodoo dream a reality. Take a negative and turn it upside down. So I called the bearded man who had inspired me in the Lamar Valley ten years ago, and who has become one of my best friends, a brother of sorts, and asked what he thought of taking an adventure to Hoodoo Country. Never one to pass up an opportunity at a Yellowstone backcountry adventure, Nathan was immediately on board. But as is the life of a Yellowstone guide, the calls for trips kept flooding in, and both Nathan and I spent the first three days of what was supposed to be our Hoodoo adventure leading wildlife tours through the Lamar. Bound and determined to still make it happen, we plugged away, gave our clients all we could, and then we creatively niched a window of time—three days and two nights—to get ourselves unplugged from the chaos of a Yellowstone summer and plugged into something a lot more primeval.
On the 13th of September, I awoke to a cool but bluebird day, excited to finally be on the road. The Paradise Valley was radiant, and I rolled into Gardiner, my home of the last 10 summers and seven years, just two weeks after making the big move 51 miles to the north, with a large grin on my face, only to be one-upped by the look of mischievous delight on my boy Nate’s face. Nate is known for a lot in the Yellowstone community. His PhD in ecology and 30+ years of Yellowstone history, mountain goat and predator prey studies and solo experiences in the wilds certainly add to the lore. Yes, he has climbed over 80 peaks in the Yellowstone Ecosystem, has pounded out thousands upon thousands of backcountry miles, knows the eatable berries and Latin names that go with them, and brings a uniquely Nathan vibe to any trip or adventure. And while this all greatly enhances what he brings to a backpacking journey into the mountains, it is perhaps his uncanny ability to create magic in a pot with his gourmet backcountry meals that makes him indispensable after a grueling climb over a steep and unforgiving pass.
Though we knew our time was limited, we were like schoolboys fresh off a reading of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. It didn’t matter that a five-day saunter had been shortened to three, we were living in the moment, rolling through the valley filled with guides, clients and wolf watchers, with a sense of peace that we were off—time off from guiding and off on our own adventure. Traveling with Nathan has a calming effect on me, and while my excitement at what awaited pulsated through my body, a quiet joy overwhelmed me on our nearly four-hour drive to the trailhead. After an unhurried stop at Beds and Buns in Cooke City, where Jan, the owner cut my bunless hamburger into small pieces after watching me struggle in my cast, we slurped the final leftovers of our milkshakes, said goodbye to civilization and journeyed through some of my favorite country in the world.
My great-great grandpa pushed cattle up the Chisholm Trail into Wyoming and my roots run deep, with three generations of Wyoming and four generations of Idaho, Montana, Wyoming history in my family. And there has always been something about the drive from Cooke City to Cody, the Clarks Fork, Sunlight Basin and Dead Indian Pass that has captured my fascination for place. It seems whenever we get a random weekend to go throw up a tent with my three-year old, my wife and I find ourselves out along the banks of the Clarks Fork or North Fork of the Shoshone. It is a rugged and wild country shaped by a violent volcanic past 50 million years ago.
While Nate and I were tempted to start at the Lamar River footbridge trailhead in the park, the idea of beginning our hike in the parking lot where we set up scopes for clients all summer long, with hoards of people around, simply didn’t have the same appeal as twisting through the Sunlight Basin for over an hour on a dirt road en route to Painter Cabin. Having driven past the turnoff to the Sunlight Basin road dozens of times in my truck and even on my road bike, I could hardly contain my enthusiasm as we began bumping our way down its long dirt road.
This would be Nathan’s third or perhaps fourth trip to the Hoodoo Basin so he had taken this route in the past and knew of two pretty stoic stream crossings we would have to make with the truck to reach the unofficial trailhead. With water and steam spewing out of the tailpipe, and the hitch grinding against the steep embankment of the creek, it wasn’t easy as pie, but we jubilantly hooted and giggled as we inched closer to shouldering our packs. Looking at our watches—it was getting to be late in the afternoon—we knew we had a solid 10-mile hike, most of which was vertical, to reach our designated campsite for the night, so we pushed it a little further than we likely would have otherwise, and finally gave up when the road narrowed to more of an ATV track. Then we killed 30 minutes backtracking, and clearing brush along the way.
Finally, we found a small pullout we had passed 45 minutes before that was large enough for my truck. We shut off the engine, listened to the songbirds and hurried waters of Sunlight Creek, and put the finishing touches on our packs. And then we hit the trail. The first few miles of the trail are a gentle saunter through a thick, almost Pacific Northwest-style forest that is transitioning from lodgepole to spruce and fir. The berries were abundant, and we enjoyed the sweetness of currents and Vaccinium, in way of whortleberry and huckleberries, in plenty. Soon after our first creek crossing, the gentle stroll in the forest gave way to a steady and steep climb which continued for several miles until we reached the park’s east boundary, on a big sprawling ridge overlooking what I firmly believe is the wildest section of Yellowstone.
The Thorofare receives more attention than the Hoodoo Basin for being the most remote part of Yellowstone, as there is a point near the southeast boundary and the Thorofare ranger cabin that is farther from any road than anywhere else in the lower 48. However, the lack of human presence and sea of mountains dominating the Hoodoo Basin horizon, such as the tri-fecta of Saddle, Hague and Little Saddle mountains, surrounded by the ominous presence of Castor and Pollux, Grant and Notch, clearly make the Hoodoo Basin area the most rugged and perhaps wild country in Yellowstone National Park—at least in the opinion of this young man, who was wild-eyed and awe-inspired watching the sun set on another summer day in Yellowstone.
We probably stayed and soaked in the view from the ridge for too long considering we still had a two hour, several mile walk across a big, expansive and open meadow that tightly hugged the ridge we stood upon. I will never forget that walk on that incredible summer evening in Yellowstone. Here I was, away from everything that always seemed so consuming, with little on my mind but the raw and inspiring beauty that extended as far as I could see, walking with a backcountry messiah of sorts, and I couldn’t have been happier. Further indication that this was not a heavily used trail, there were several sections from the ridge to camp where we lost the trail under the now deepening and darkening sky.
If Nathan had not been to this site and been so observant in years past, there is no way we would have found 3M7, a site he spoke of glowingly. After an hour of walking in the dark, we finally reached our basecamp—seven hours after setting out on foot, and 14 hours after leaving the comfort of my house, wife and radiant little girl. And while there was no place I would rather have been at that moment—perched above the goblins that represent the Hoodoo Basin, which I would be exploring early the next morning—my mood (and angst) quickly shifted when, after pumping water for the evening, I discovered a fresh grizzly scat, full of whitebark pine seeds, dead center of where we would have liked to have set up our floorless shelter for the next two nights.
I have often written about the “night factor” in Yellowstone country, but for some reason, while I don’t think of grizzlies much while walking by day, grizzlies become very present in my head when I am readying to crawl into my sleeping bag at night. This certainly had the makings of being another restless and sleepless night with grizzlies on my mind. Nate on the other hand, who was empty handed when it came to bear-spray, opting to go with less weight in his quest to find the lightest set-up possible, would sleep like a meat-drunk dog all night, hardly moving. After a five-star meal, I climbed into my mummy sleeping bag, my belly warm and full with the most amazing backcountry meal I have ever experienced. Being that guy who typically opts for the light, quick and easy freeze-dried backpacking food, I was more than a little impressed when Nate busted out the dethawed elk meat to add to our creamy pasta delight with freshly cut red-peppers—which I diced while wondering why we were sautéing elk, of all critters, within ten feet of where a grizzly had recently shat his stomach full of seeds. But these thoughts slowly wafted away with the smoke of our fire as my body warmed and my taste buds celebrated what would have been a notable dish at any restaurant in Gardiner.
I slept better than I had anticipated that first night. I’ve never slept well in the backcountry with the featherweight pads providing little support for my achy back, but it was clear that change was on the wing while we rested up from our long and hard push that day. We went to bed on a beautiful summer evening but awoke to the first day of fall. Things change that quickly in Yellowstone. The day that was supposed to bring 16 hours of off-trail hiking in our summit attempt of the hard-to-reach Indian Peak quickly morphed into an adventure of another sort. The temperature had dropped thirty degrees overnight, now ranging in the mid-to-high 40’s, and the sky, which hovered around us in a claustrophobic, fog-like stupor, clinging to the mountains and threatening to rain, held little promise for a day in the mountains.
Knowing our time was limited before the storm descended upon us, we hurried down to the Hoodoo Basin for my first look at the enigmatic, goblin labyrinth that had haunted me for nearly a decade. Knowing we would be back later in the day, still dreaming of summiting Indian Peak, we forged ahead to the ridge of Hoodoo Peak where we got our first good look at the massive outcropping that we were going to attempt to climb. I’m a huge believer in believing making the impossible possible, but this climb was clearly not possible in one day. So we regrouped, looked at the sky, which was getting darker, lower and more threatening by the minute and opted for a summit of Hoodoo Peak, followed by a dash to Parker Peak.
We were on the summit of Hoodoo by 11 am. Short of breath after hustling up the steep slopes of the 10,563 ft peak, a quick hug and a photo was all the time we had before the already hasty winds whipped into a raging torrent. Finding shelter from the wind on the leeward side of the summit knob, we took in some calories, as the fog and rain continued to roll in until visibility was barely 20 feet. Wet, cold and restless, we began our slog down the southeast ridge of the peak abandoning Parker Peak in hopes of finding a shorter and less exposed route to camp.
After an hour and a half of scurrying down steep talus and meandering through wet grasses, we found camp, made a quick lunch to warm the bones and by 1 pm were forced to seek refuge in our floorless tarp of a shelter. It wasn’t until 5 pm, when the storm started to lighten up and my antsy desire to explore the goblins became too much, that we finally emerged from our sleeping bags and decided to saunter down to the Hoodoos. Restless and ready to explore, I took off ahead of Nathan and spent thirty minutes alone, inspired and empowered to be navigating through the labyrinth of the Hoodoos, an eerie and unforgiving landscape with only the company of my throbbing heartbeat.
For an amazing few hours, we climbed and slid and discovered goblins and hoodoos that we liked to imagine had never been seen before. While this surely isn’t the case, for a dreamer and Yellowstone romantic, these thoughts of grandeur only added to what was already an amazing experience. While dark clouds and a dampness lingered over the basin, muting the browns, greens and oranges, something about the Hoodoo Basin felt alarmingly alive on that first evening of autumn 2011.
The final morning of any adventure or trip that has been anticipated for any length of time always seems to bring a little extra weight to the heart. Typically I would find it difficult to leave a setting so remote, rugged and wild. But all night long we could hear the storm brewing and feel the condensation and pounding of our tent. By the time we awoke early on the morning of the 15th of September, wet and heavy snow had accumulated around the skirt of our shelter, we were cold and damp and itching to get moving.
It had snowed five inches overnight. Looking to the north of our camp, in the shadow of Hoodoo Peak, the clouds raced violently across its summit. Breaking down camp in these conditions is a finger numbing and unpleasant process, but we were ready to get on the move. So after lighting up the stove one last time, we began the wet, slog through the meadow and up to the pass. Though we were cold and wet—I was wearing grocery sacks over my socks and under my trail running shoes, which had let in so much water the day before that my heels were torched with blisters—we still yearned for adventure.
We knew the hike out would be messy and full of mud. We only hoped that a horse crew hadn’t traveled the trail before us, but who else would be crazy enough to be in these mountains in the midst of what we labeled Equinox Storm 2011? After a long two-hour march to the pass, we ditched our packs and summited an unnamed 10,000 ft+ peak just for prosperity, and then we began our long and slippery walk back to the truck.
Even though the weather remained fickle most of the day, we still carried the smiles on our faces that adversity and challenges such as these bring to a grand and memorable adventure. During one of the short windows where the clouds parted, giving way to a brilliant blue sky made even more striking due to the fresh white snow delicately sprinkled atop the cavernous mountains of the Absarokas, we broke for lunch and laid for over an hour beside a swift little stream. We barely said a word for the entire time we rested and ate, lying on our backs, relishing the warm sun’s gentle caressing of our only exposed flesh, on our necks and cheeks.
We were fulfilled but hungry at the same time. The journey had filled our spirits but had not entirely quenched our thirst for adventure. I hope that this thirst is never quenched as long as my legs keep working and my back supports a pack.
A beautiful friendship that has been growing, transforming and changing like the dramatic seasons of Yellowstone was strengthened by this journey. That is the power of sharing adventure, hardships and challenges. This really brings out the character and resolve in people and while perhaps a little disappointed that we didn’t get to spend the entire time pushing ourselves physically in search of another view from a summit, I don’t think either of us would change a thing about this truly epic three day adventure.
Back in the truck, the rain started to fly yet again. I turned on ESPN radio to hear how Boise St. and the Pac-10 teams faired through the course of the day, but our quietness, which seemed so content and natural along the stream, now seemed less comfortable. I turned off the radio, not wanting the adventure to end, not ready to return to the hustle and bustle of the world, knowing we still had an hour of dirt road left to travel.
After the last of the stream crossings, whether purposefully or not, I took a little weight off my pedal foot, slowing us down just a bit. I think Nathan recognized that I was not driving as fast out as I had on the way in, but he didn’t complain; he simply gave me that big glorious grin and we began talking up and planning our next adventure, and the one thereafter.
The journey truly is the destination. And the planning for, thinking about and dreaming of adventure are in many ways more important that the adventure itself. What is life without the ability to hope and dream? This is the ultimate gift of adventure. It helps make the hope of a dream become the possible.
~Michael Leach, Director and Founder 
Michael Leach cresting the ridge on day one of the Hoodoo Basin journey. YNP, WY.
The outcropping of the unnamed summit we climbed on the final day. We called it Mount Reginald. YNP, WY.
