Days 10: Climb After Climb

On the morning of the tenth day, God created asthma. Tim and I started our hike at 7, packed down with our coffee cups and cameras and clothed in our warmest layers. The first mile or so was completely flat sagebrush land, sprinkled with bison poop and animal carcasses. We eventually ditched our mugs and thick layers as we approached the incline. That's when I discovered the disastrous concoction of thin air, cold weather, and weeks of little to no exercise. My asthma threatened to take hold, but I punched it in the face. In other words, I stopped every 25 yards or so up the very steep hill in order to get my lungs working properly. Tim thought it was funny, so he documented my struggle with his camera. After the uphill battle, I finally made it to the top only to discover that we only had 45 minutes left before our van left for the day. So we basked in our success only for a few minutes before heading back to camp. Turns out everyone was watching us through the binoculars and noticed my struggle and frequent stops. Not a proud day in my life, but in less than two weeks, I'll be back in civilization and finally get to whip myself back into shape. Or quickly be whipped by my coaches. 

While, yes, Tim and I were pretty proud of ourselves for our morning victory, we probably wouldn't have attempted the climb if we'd known what the rest of the day had in store. Dr. Garihan led the group to a historic landslide from the 1920's to discuss the mechanics behind mass wasting. Naturally, Elly and I sang Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide" several times during his lecture and the following escapades. Once he finished talking, the group decided to attempt a "short" hike near the landslide  site. 

After over an hour, we all reached the top-- one by one, at various intervals, covered in sweat, and panting so loudly that words simply refused to be spoken. But even if I was in shape and had the breath the talk, I wouldn't have been able to. The view from the top was too much for words, and everyone's reaction was exactly the same: "holy crap." (Crap, again, is a euphemism. Just for you, mom and dad.) Feeling extra adventurous and risky, I spotted a dead tree standing on the edge of the mountain and climbed it:

But it was worth the risk. Again, I hate posting pictures because they never do the moment justice, but I realize that words get boring. The best part about my view from the tree was that nothing obstructed my vision but the few branches I held on to. And at any moment (though very unlikely) the branch could have collapsed and I would have been in quite a pickle. So knowing that specific view was something that people rarely experience was pretty thrilling. 

As I stood there, I had this overwhelming feeling that I was out of place. Like I didn't belong there. There was so much beauty and purity all around me, and for some reason I thought I was contaminating it. But then I figured I'm just as natural as the mountains and trees around me. Especially because I hadn't showered for about 3 days at that point. Still I couldn't help imagining all the buzzing bees saying, "leave us alone" or the ants thinking, "what's this huge thing doing here?" I guess I just felt unworthy of the place. But then I forced myself to stop thinking so much. I just stood there and stared intently at every different angle around me. That moment when my mind finally rested and I was overcome by the magnamity of creation is one that I hope to remember for the rest of my life. I've had similar experiences with music, but something about the visual sense is more special. I knew I may never see that scene again. I can listen to a song all night long, but that view would only last as long as I stayed in that place. And pictures are crap. 

I wanted that time to last forever, but it inevitably came to an end. We slid back down the mountain and headed to the Grand Teton visitor center, a new building that looked like a woodland palace. It was here that I found the first gift for my dad (my favorite travel companion). Upon leaving we came across a huge pile of snow outside of the lobby. I was raised in Florida, so seeing snow is like seeing a ghost. What is this fluff? Do I run away? Do I play in it? Is it safe?! So I built a snowman. And it was the most pathetic thing you may ever see. 

Don't judge me, it's the first time I've ever made one on my own. And I was in a hurry because the storm was coming. We all hopped in the van and made our way toward Jackson, Wyoming. Nobody was expecting much from the city, considering the places we'd already come across, but it was surprisingly adorable. The professors graciously gave us a little over an hour to explore and shop around, and I searched high and low for a gift worthy of my lovely mother, but my endeavors were futile. (Don't worry, Mom, I got you a little something later. I still love you.) Then I think that my fellow classmates would agree with me when I say that we were praising the Lord when the storm got worse and the professors decided to just stay and have dinner in town. We went to Snake River Brewery, an apparently well-known place in Wyoming, and we feasted like Kings. The food was so good that it made Tim dance. 

We've been eating pretty well, thanks to the brilliant chefs among us, but nothing quite compared to this award winning bison chili. Mom, we've gotta find this recipe somewhere. 

Once we made it back to the site, no one had any energy for a fire, and it was sleep time for all of us. With a full belly and a tired, hiked-out body, I slept on the ground like it was a king mattress in the Ritz Carlton. Of all the beautiful things I'd seen during that day, the most welcome sight of all was the back of my eyelids.