Back in the 1970s, I was living in the Fraser Valley of British Columbia and climbing up a storm. In 1977, I met a fellow named Brian Rundle and we started climbing up a storm together – plenty of challenging climbs on a wide variety of peaks. Those were heady days, but they ended kind of suddenly. I met a girl, and she and I drifted off to parts unknown. I heard through the grapevine that Brian joined the Army, but beyond that I had no idea where he was or what he was up to.

Time passed. I moved way up north, but in a few short years I tired of forty-below. A twist of fate took me to the States, to Iowa of all places. Still too cold, as I now craved the sun. 1985 saw me move to Arizona, which seemed like a good fit. Somehow, in 1986, a mutual friend who was still back in BC told me that he knew where Brian was – Toronto! He put us in touch. Eight years had passed, with not a word between us. It hadn’t been planned that way, our paths had just diverged and we’d lost track of each other.

I think we re-connected by mail – snail, that is – and tossed around the idea of having a grand reunion by climbing in Wyoming. Our plans took shape, and one day in July we both flew to Salt Lake City. Since I was the first to arrive, I’d been put in charge of arranging a rental car. Some telephone work at the airport had come up with a cheap, and hopefully adequate, solution to our transportation needs – Rent-a-Wreck. I think we took a cab to pick up the car, and then hit the road. Since all we had to do was cover the 250-odd miles to our trailhead at Pinedale, Wyoming and then park it for a week or so, any rental car would work. Why spend any more than we had to?

I don’t remember much about the car, other than it was Japanese and burned lots of oil. The freeway hours passed quickly as we talked non-stop, getting caught up after 8 years of zero-contact. One bit of trivia I remember from the trip east was driving alongside a car on the interstate which carried a couple of cute girls and the flirting that went on for several miles. Eventually we made it to Pinedale and found our trailhead, and that’s where we camped for our first night.

In Canada, where I learned to climb, elevations tend to be lower than those in the US Rocky Mountain States, so starting out at 9,340 feet was really unusual for us. It was a chilly start that first morning, but a blue-sky day, and we couldn’t wait to get going. We would use a series of trails: Pole Creek Trail; Seneca Lake Trail; Indian Basin Trail, and finally the Titcomb Basin Trail. It was 17 miles, one-way, to where we wanted to camp. Both of us were carrying heavy loads: Brian, a huge Gregory pack; I had a Synergy Works. They were jammed full of everything we’d need for a week – food, clothing, camping gear, stove and fuel, as well as assorted climbing gear. I don’t know if I’d ever carried such a big load before, and although my pack was up to the task, I wasn’t so sure that I was. In fact, after only a few miles, it became obvious how out of shape I was – carrying that pack was no fun at all.

We walked along an excellent, well-traveled trail through the forest, passing small lakes, surrounded by beautiful scenery. In spite of that, the miles to our destination began to drag. I took this photo of Seneca Lake on the way in.

We wore ourselves out, and never did make it all the way before we ran out of daylight and energy, forcing us to camp for the night short of our goal. It was a poor start of the trip for a couple of guys who considered themselves in their prime. The next morning, it was easy enough to go the rest of the way. On that last stretch, this was our view over Island Lake to the Titcomb Basin.

What a place! A more beautiful setting you’d be hard-pressed to find. Plenty of lakes, rivers and ringed by striking peaks, Titcomb Basin was a drop-dead gorgeous spot. Even though it was July, there was still plenty of snow lying about because of the elevation. We set up camp in an alpine meadow and settled in. Check out some of the views from our camp.

Our camp was at 10,550 feet elevation, and here’s another view, this time to the east.

On one of our first outings, we climbed nearby Peak 12,580, enjoying some steep snow slopes and great views.  We also climbed a nearby smaller bump, Point 12,450. Here’s a view from farther back.

Here’s the ol’ Desert Mountaineer on top.

Here’s a view from the summit, looking north to Henderson Peak, at 13,115′.

When it came time to return to camp, down in the bottom of the basin we came to a river we had to cross. Since both of us had cut our eye-teeth climbing in the wilds of British Columbia, crossing streams and rivers was nothing new. Nevertheless, the water was mid-thigh deep, and ice-cold. Crossing in bare feet wasn’t an option, the risk of a slip being too great, so we wore our mountaineering boots. The crossing went fine, but my damn boots didn’t dry out for the entire rest of the trip.

The basin was a haven for marmots – up above tree-line, with plenty of rocks in which to hide, they loved it there. We saw them from time to time. One day, after we’d been out rambling around with light packs, we came back to camp and found that Brian’s big pack had been severely messed-with. Some rat-bastard marmot had eaten up a big piece of leather which was in the middle of the back of the pack. This was important because other parts of the suspension system tied directly into it, and you couldn’t really use the pack without it. Brian was understandably pissed-off. In my first-aid kit, I carried a few of those little curved needles that doctors use for suturing, so with one of those and a lot of dental floss he managed a field repair that did the trick.

One morning, we saw this guy near camp – he may have been the very one that ate Brian’s pack. See him on the rock?

One of my strongest memories of our time spent in the Wind Rivers was the crappy weather – it seems we were always dodging the rain. The worst of it was during one crazy night. But first, a bit of background. The two of us were sharing a tent I had brought, a single-wall tent which was not breathable – rather, it relied on a hokey venting system to prevent condensation. Well, let me tell you that it didn’t work worth a damn – also, the tent had seen better days. What a wild night we spent! Thunder and lightning crashing, the rain pouring down. The tent leaked, and dripped on us all night long. We constantly tried to mop things up with a spare shirt, didn’t get a wink of sleep and got thoroughly soaked. Given the circumstances, we were in amazingly good spirits, joking constantly as we would wipe up and then wring out the tee shirt out the tent door. If we hadn’t known each other as well as we did, with the climbing history we shared, it would have been a grim situation. Instead, we turned it into an (almost) enjoyable event.

We were expecting a couple of friends to join us. The day following our stormy night, they arrived in camp, soaked to the arse. They had driven all the way from BC, then had done the long walk in to the basin. We all spent the day drying our gear and getting caught up.

They spent one night in camp, and then the next morning packed up and left, marching all the way back out in one day to the trail-head and then immediately heading north to Canada. We were really surprised to see them go.

One of the most important things on our agenda was a climb of Gannet Peak, the highest in Wyoming. From camp, we’d head north to the head of the basin, then down the other side and over to the peak. We made a start, but the weather was still touch-and-go and we abandoned our attempt part-way through. At least we were getting some exercise – it seemed like much of the time on this trip, we were just sitting around waiting for the weather to improve. Here’s another view of the lower Titcomb Basin from above camp.

Finally, it came time to leave. Wouldn’t you know it, the long walk out was a beautiful sunshiny day, but even the fine weather didn’t make carrying those heavy packs any easier. Here’s the DM again, on the Indian Pass Trail – the view is to the north. I’m wearing my Galibier Super Guide boots – leather, steel shank, real foot-killers on a long march.

We did make it all the way out in one day, though, and camped near the trailhead for our last night. The next day, we managed to get our beater rental car started and hit the road. One luxury we allowed ourselves – on the long drive back to Salt Lake City, we took a break and stopped in Evanston, Wyoming and found a movie theater. There, we watched the newly-released Aliens and followed it up with pizza and beer.

We flew our separate ways from SLC after this memorable stay in the Wind Rivers. It  had taken us 8 years to re-connect, but we made up for it by climbing again only 2 years later in 1988, where we met to try the northwest arête of BC’s Mt. Sir Donald.