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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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Jan 23, 2012 - 08:06pm PT
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hey there say, jim... oh my, as to this quote:
That may draw a chuckle or two now. But at the time our hearts went out to her. We didn’t know if she would ever walk again or not. Both her ankles where crushed.
you know--it just goes to show... folks easily fear more of what they know on hand at that instant,than what the current situation is leading too if they don't deviate FAST when the unexpected happens, while NOT have a full picture in mind of what they are dealing with... :O
i hope she is doing well now... whewww... :(
glad she lived through that...
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BASE104
climber
An Oil Field
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Jan 23, 2012 - 08:35pm PT
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There is a writer named Nick Jans who wrote a couple of really good books about living in Ambler. Short stories that are very Alaskan. I bet you can find them on Amazon.
Onion Portage has been happily supplying the inumiat with fresh caribou every fall for something like 2 or 3 thousand years. The NW arctic herd almost always crosses the Kobuk there. The locals shoot them as they are swimming across. Don't worry. That is their grocery store, and has been for milenia. You would go broke in a week living on store food up there.
I have never been on the Kobuk, but have flown over it on the way up to the Noatak. The Kobuk Sand Dunes are huge and can be seen from about fifty miles from a bush plane.
I would love to hear some old Tetons stories. I started driving up theree when I got my drivers license. I turned 18 at the Moose Bar with Chuck Pratt quietly sipping wine a barstool away. I was kind of in awe. I was about 10 or 15 years younger. Can you believe we are now old farts, Mussy? I had always imagined some unnatural early death, but here I am with two dogs bugging me in a house that I actually own.
Check out "Last Light Breaking." That is the best book of hilarious stories of life on the Kobuk. From a white dude, anyway.
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Mighty Hiker
climber
Vancouver, B.C.
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Jan 23, 2012 - 11:11pm PT
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Well, perhaps this is the right place for a history question, for the Tetons aficionadoes here. About the beginnings of bouldering in North America.
Chris Jones' Climbing in North America reports that "(Jack) Durrance was a keen boulder climber when few others indulged in such an extreme form of the art. He worked out regularly at the Jenny Lake boulders." The period referred to being the mid to late 1930s.
And? Perhaps there's more?
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JimLangford
Mountain climber
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Topic Author's Reply - Jan 23, 2012 - 11:12pm PT
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MH, the CHP probably knows that. That's why they also outfitted their cruisers with AR15's.
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Mighty Hiker
climber
Vancouver, B.C.
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Jan 23, 2012 - 11:48pm PT
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Thanks!
The NPS site reports the establishment of the C Camp at the south end of Jenny Lake, on the site of the former CCC camp, in the mid or late 1950s, and its adoption by climbers. So that doesn't narrow it down much - although it seems improbable that eastern establishment types like Durrance would stay at a CCC camp in the 1930s, it's not impossible, and he might have bouldered but not stayed there. (Where did Teton climbers camp before the war?)
John Gill reports that: "In Grand Teton Park in Wyoming, a few climbers had practiced on the three Jenny Lake Boulders (Falling Ant Slab, Cutfinger Rock(1987), Red Cross Rock(1987)) from the late 1940s through the mid 1950s, when I got started there." Also: "And it's possible that climbers like Jack Durrance (died November 7, 2003 at the age of 91), Hank Coulter and Paul Petzoldt had "practiced" there as well in the 1930s." Jones' sources include an interview with Jack Durrance.
http://www128.pair.com/r3d4k7/Bouldering_History3.2.html
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Jennie
Trad climber
Elk Creek, Idaho
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Jan 24, 2012 - 02:23am PT
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Thanks for posting the thread Mr Langford.
Photo of Ken Weeks and Yvon Chouinard camped at the incinerator. I’m not sure of the year.
Teton history posts are always appreciated. I was curious if the incinerator was at the old CCC location?
Snooping around Lupine meadows, I found the location of the old climber’s/CCC camp that was closed in 1967. There’s not much physical evidence left…some remnant concrete…
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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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Jan 24, 2012 - 03:52am PT
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hey there say, jennie... thanks for sharing a neat old pic for us all...
:)
looks like the kind that writing contests use, when they say:
write a 500 word story, to go with this... ;)
:)
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Jennie
Trad climber
Elk Creek, Idaho
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Jan 24, 2012 - 04:30am PT
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Hi Neebee...yes, probably more than 500 words for this one. There's a similar photo of the pair in the Glenn Exum biography, Glenn Exum: "Never a Bad Word or a Twisted Rope" by Charlie Craighead ( 1998)
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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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Jan 24, 2012 - 04:37am PT
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hey there say, jennie... wow, all this history... :)
thanks again... *neat title...
wow, got to run now, it is 4 in the morning over here...
i reckon i been doing the 'night shift' lately, here with
little projects... some how, i just do them better at night...
no interuptions, i reckon...
well--except for the cats running all over the place, :))
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Toker Villain
Big Wall climber
Toquerville, Utah
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Jan 24, 2012 - 11:27am PT
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I'll have my lunch, but can you bring me one of those lazy azz signs?
More stories please.
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jogill
climber
Colorado
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Jan 28, 2012 - 05:06pm PT
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Do you remember Pigpen? I called him Piltdown. A math major from Reed College (a sanctuary for the unusual), who had tufts of hair sticking out all over. I recall him curling up on a recently expired campfire in the C Campground late one night and falling asleep. At some point a woman who was camping in the Jenny Lake Campground complained to the rangers about "some gnome-like character" picking through her supplies on the picnic table and making off with a few cans. The rangers instantly knew who (or what) she was talking about and escorted PP out of GTNP. Or so I remember!
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JimLangford
Mountain climber
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Topic Author's Reply - Jan 29, 2012 - 08:45pm PT
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“The Lady with the pretty fingernails” -- Jody
The details are somewhat vague to me now, but Pete Sinclair, Dave Dornan and maybe Fritz Ermath could vouch for this one. I believe it was the summer of ‘60 when three young ladies, employed at the Jackson Lake Lodge, decided to hike up the shoulder of Mt. Moran following the CMC approach route. They were not equipped for serious climbing, “just doing some scrambling.” The lower slopes of Moran are steep and strenuous with a lot of talus, but the girls got somewhere just above the CMC high camp and below the West Horn. There two of them attempted to pick their way along a narrow ledge near the top of an 80 or 100 foot cliff. One girl found herself spread-eagled, unable to move. After much coaching from her companions, she lost her footing and began sliding upright down the steeply sloping face, rapidly gaining speed and finally smashing feet first into the jumbled talus below.
In describing the accident the other girls said they yelled at her to “grab the rock, grab the rock!” But she held her arms in the air to the bottom. The rescue team arrived well after dark. She was in an awkward position, wedged between large talus blocks, which made it difficult to administer the proper aid. We waited until dawn before attempting to evacuate her down the mountain. (For some reason a helicopter was not available.) In talking to her enroute she said, “I thought sure I would stop. I didn’t crab the rock because I didn’t want to break my fingernails!”
That may draw a chuckle or two now. But at the time our hearts went out to her. We didn’t know if she would ever walk again or not. Both her ankles where crushed.
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Jennie
Trad climber
Elk Creek, Idaho
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Jan 30, 2012 - 07:24am PT
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Nicely preserved photos from the sixties !
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couchmaster
climber
pdx
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Jan 30, 2012 - 09:53am PT
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Great stuff, thank you for sharing it!
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mastadon
Trad climber
crack addict
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Jan 30, 2012 - 09:57am PT
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Jim-do you remember Dick and Pat Emerson? Dick was a climbing ranger in the Tetons in the 50's. Their son Marc was my best friend growing up. I just spoke to Pat yesterday. She suffered a stroke recently but is still living at home and doing well. Dick, who died in the late 80's, was a friend and climbing partner after Marc died in 1970. Pat still talks fondly about the early days at the Jenny Lake ranger station.....
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JimLangford
Mountain climber
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Topic Author's Reply - Jan 30, 2012 - 11:02am PT
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Yes, I do! Dick was my climbing mentor during the summer seasons we worked together beginning in 1955 through '59. The first summer there I marveled that Dick took his wife up the North Face. We spent a lot of hours at the JLRS -- Dick, John Fonda, Doug McClaren -- putting together a rescue manual for the park. I was a real novice, but gained a lot of experience quickly with Dick on many mountain rescues. He had just completed his doctorate about then in sociology or psychology and I was in awe listening in on frequent discussions he had with John. John, by the way, became a permanent ranger there in '59, I believe, but drowned that winter with another ranger attempting to cross Jackson Lake on skis. I was in Everglades at the time when a call came from the Superintendent, Teton, requesting me to assume John's duties. Both Marc's death (climbing?) and Dick's came as a shock to me when I heard.
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mastadon
Trad climber
crack addict
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Jan 30, 2012 - 11:48am PT
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Yes, Marc died climbing. Dick died of cancer. Actually, he died of complications from the medications he used to battle cancer.
Marc and I started climbing using his dad's gear that was hanging on a pegboard in their basement-pitons, ropes, old carabiners, etc. We had no idea what we were doing and didn't really learn the basics. Marc never had the chance to learn the basics. In 1970, at 16 years old, he was climbing at Castle Rock in Washington State when he fell and came undone from the rope. He had 1" webbing wrapped around him as a swami and was clipped in with a figure 8 knot and a non-locking carabiner. His parents were devastated and never really recovered from that. I became a poor 2nd choice as a climbing partner to Dick. His heart was never really in to much of anything after his son's death.
Here's a picture of Dick in the mid 70's on a climb that he and I tried in the North Cascades
Dick was one of the most amazing persons I've ever met. He was modest, kind, understanding, and fun. His PhD was in sociology and he taught at the University of Washington for his whole teaching career.
He and Marc are together now.
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JimLangford
Mountain climber
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Topic Author's Reply - Jan 31, 2012 - 04:58pm PT
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“. . . curling up on a recently expired campfire . . . and falling asleep.” “Pigpen” must have been really stoked! John, I wasn’t around for that one either. No wonder they closed the climber’s camp after just a few years of operation. It seemed to breed some interesting characters.
But that brings to mind a Teton chiller which left me with bad dreams. I’ll dub it: Bad Days on Pilgrim Creek. It happened in November, 1956.
The fall elk hunting season back in the fifties always seemed to provide some excitement. The annual elk migration route from Yellowstone to the refuge at Jackson generally followed the Pacific Creek drainage down through Teton National Forest into Jackson Hole. The Park Service participated with the Forest Service in a special permit hunting season open to a limited number of applicants willing to fork out $100 each. Among the hunters checking in at the Jackson Lake Ranger Station one morning were two Casper, Wyoming policemen and a newly married couple from back east, still actually on their honeymoon. I never found out which plan they formalized first, the marriage or the hunting trip, but the beau was there with his bride and she was excited to accompany him on his first elk hunt.
Both parties decided to drive up the Pacific Creek wilderness access road as far as they could and head out on foot for the day. The Casper men were prepared to make camp near their truck, but the honeymooners apparently planned to lodge a night or two elsewhere. The dirt road was muddy in spots and there were patches of snow on the ground and the sky that day was overcast. A storm was expected sometime the next day. The next morning it began to snow, and that afternoon we got the report that one of the Casper hunters had failed to return to camp the previous night. Keith Jones and I drove up Pacific Creek to meet with Forest Service and County Sherriff personnel to get a search organized. On the way we noticed the Chevy station wagon, belonging to the honeymoon couple, parked in a clearing and dusted with snow. Keith remarked, “Crap, don’t tell me they’re lost too!” We questioned another group of hunters who confirmed that the car had been there all night.
We spent that afternoon and evening notifying as many hunters as possible about the three missing persons. During the night it continued to snow, and the weather prohibited any aerial search during the day. Pacific Creek and Pilgrim Creek are parallel drainages, separated by four or five miles of wooded and rugged terrain. Both parties had apparently worked their way northwestward up onto the plateau between the two creeks, an easy area to get lost in. In the morning of the fourth or fifth day the Casper policeman staggered into a hunting camp on Pilgrim Creek near the road head. He had a story to tell. On the second day during the storm he came across a wounded cow elk, which he finished off and used the carcass to get his hands and feet warm. Then he made his way down into Pilgrim Creek and began following it downstream. He found a place in the stream bank where he could scrape away the soil and build a shallow cave that would provide shelter from the storm. There he used up the money from his wallet to get a fire started, which he kept going all that night and the next day.
That afternoon a figure came into view upstream from him. He was thrilled that searchers had found him. In fact, both men had the same reaction and both men, it became evident, were mistaken. “He was in bad shape,” the Casper policeman said later, “almost delusional, and his feet were frozen, I’m sure. He kept asking if I had seen his wife. She went for help, he said. She was wearing a red parka.” They spent the night there together, neither man realizing that help was available about three miles downstream. The next morning, knowing that his companion was in extremely bad shape, unable to move or even communicate, the Casper hunter decided he best head down the stream as fast as possible. He stoked up the fire, wrapped the man’s feet in a sweater and took off.
Keith and I headed up Pilgrim Creek on horseback that afternoon to find and evacuate this guy. We found him sprawled across the still warm embers of the campfire, seemingly lifeless as we rolled him over and attempted to minister to him. Appaloosas are incredible horses in rugged terrain and the inclement conditions we were experiencing, but we soon found it impracticable for one horse to safely carry two of us, one completely incapacitated, along the steep, snow covered banks of the stream or even in the rocky stream bed. So we tied our semi-conscious passenger into the saddle, and with Keith leading the way on his mount, I took the reins of my horse and trailed on foot behind them staying in the stream bed as much as possible. There was no question as to who should volunteer to walk and get wet. Keith was wearing western style high-healed riding boots. I had on Molitar climbing boots with Vibram lug soles (probably why I always fell on my face trying to dismount).
There was quite a gathering of hunters and searchers at the road head when we arrived, including the park ambulance and Chief Ranger. While we were preparing our man for transport in the ambulance (which was better equipped as a hearse) three hunters had mounted up and were heading out the trail up the north fork of the stream. They had barely gotten out of sight when we heard a couple rifle shots in rapid succession. Shortly after, one of the riders came galloping back toward us, yelling, “We’ve got an injured man! He’s been shot!” The trio was made up of a father, his son and a friend. A bull elk had appeared crossing the flat in front of them. The father had attempted a snap shot (while mounted I guess) just as his son’s horse jumped in front of him. The other man must have fired the instant before, causing the horse to spook sideways. The young man was apparently killed instantly. Keith and I propped our patient between us in our pickup and took off for the hospital in Jackson. The ambulance remained behind to transport this new victim of a terrible tragedy.
On the way we turned the truck’s heater on. It was cold and I had removed my wet boots. This must have aroused our man from his stupor because he began to complain of pain in his feet. We turned it off immediately, but he was now able to carry on a somewhat coherent conversation with us. By the time we got to the hospital we had pieced together the story of this honeymoon couple and had a better idea of where to look for her. After their second night out they had split up. They had reached the ravine marking Pilgrim Creek. Then they argued. He thought it best to follow this drainage. Surely it would lead out to a road somewhere. Off and on for two days they had heard noises that sounded like construction equipment (work was in progress on the new Jackson Hole highway). She was certain the sound must have been that way (to the south) and she was determined they should head that direction. Actually, they both were right, but her choice, under the conditions and because of the heavily wooded, difficult terrain, would not have been very accommodating.
The next morning Keith and I with two volunteer hunters headed back up Pilgrim Creek astride our Appaloosas. Fortunately the weather had cleared. We searched the campsite, last occupied by the two lost men, for any personal items they may have left behind and continued another mile upstream. Keith and I then branched off in a gully leading southeast up to higher, open country where we thought we might pick up her trail. Our two companions were to continue up Pilgrim Creek as far as they could go. We were to fire two shots, five seconds apart if our missing person was found. In a large, flat, open expanse we came across remnants of obvious tracks made in snow two feet deep. Following them for at least a mile (in what we figured was a clockwise direction ) we passed two depressions in the snow under trees where someone (or something) had bedded or lain down. Then they ended abruptly at the edge of the steep slope above Pilgrim Creek. While we contemplated what to do, two shots broke the silence in the canyon just a few hundred yards below us.
Our companions had spotted the tip of a red parka in the snow on the bank above the stream. Exactly when she succumbed we don’t know. It is possible that her husband passed her on his way downstream. Or, more likely, she tumbled and slide down to her resting spot the same afternoon her husband staggered into the Casper policeman’s camp. In a phone call to his father several months later I asked how he was doing. He had lost the tips of several toes, but worse, he was still so emotionally distraught that he was hardly able to function well or return to work.
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