Death March

Circa 1976. We launched from Fourth of July Lake trailhead for a week at high altitude in the Whitecloud Mountains. We followed the trail past Fourth of July Lake and Patterson Peak, which together are classically beautiful and the subject of numerous Idaho photographs, then over the pass to Washington Lake. At Washington we took a hard left and headed over the ridge dividing Washington and Chamberlain Creeks, cutting miles off any conventional trail route. Confident with our first shortcut, we continued north and across the west ridge of Castle Peak as a shortcut into the Four Lakes Basin. We crossed the ridge without event, but on the way down the other side Erik lost his footing, fell, and started to bounce his way down the chute toward me. He called out - I turned around, wanting to help, but unable, as gravity was carrying him to and past me faster than I could position and perhaps brace myself to try and break or slow his fall. I watched helplessly, and in wonder, as he bounced on his front, then on his backpack, then to front, and so on, down the chute toward the edge of an eighty or hundred foot cliff. On his last bounce before going over the edge, his pack jammed in a rock, with him still strapped to it, saving him from certain ...

I climbed over to him, carefully unstrapped him from the pack, and pulled him up. We assessed his injuries, which were relatively minor, and collected what we could find of his stuff - broken fishing rod, broken eye glasses, etc. We soberly and carefully climbed down the rest of the way to the big lake at the upper end of the Chamberlain basin. At the lake, and without a word, we each set our packs down and pulled out pocket Bibles, neither of which we knew the other was carrying, and with only a little conversation, silently acknowledged our religions.

After more silence I assembled my fishing rod, and cast out into the lake. Erik, now rod-less, watched on. A nice 10 or 12 inch trout took the lure and thrashed about as I reeled it to shore. Then, out of the deep, a much larger fish came and bit the tail off the one I was reeling in. This, plus the events on the mountain, made fishing too strange; I pulled in my gear; we set camp, and with few if any words lay in our sleeping bags, and eventually went to sleep.

The next was a new day and we headed northeast. We crossed above Quiet Lake below Serrate Ridge. We climbed to Scree Lake, and Shallow Lake, and to a tiny little lake above 10,000 feet, where we again made camp.

The next day, having met a trail at the little lake, we crossed another divide and down into the Boulder Chain Lakes. We then departed the trail, to head straight north across another divide into the Big Boulder Lakes area. Conquering passes and passing unnamed lakes we dropped into Island Lake, and then up toward Cove. We hardly knew what to do - we were deep into the range now - and way ahead of schedule. But then the weather decomposed. That night our little camp in the last little patch of trees at timberline between Cove and Sapphire Lakes was IN a serious storm. As it approached we stoked our fire - so that perhaps at least we might find some hot coals after the rain.

Oddly, in the torrential rain that followed, the fire managed to spread, not be extinguished, so by midnight the fire had followed the pitch-filled logs we had equipment resting on - and managed to burn up some of our stuff. During the night Erik awoke and beat down the flames. I awoke to his howling and joined him. By morning the rains had stopped; we assessed the damage, and only minor things had perished in the fire. Our sleeping bags were soaked, along with everything else.

The weather was indeterminate. If it cleared we could dry out our things and continue our trek; if it resumed raining, the trip would be miserable at best, and dangerous at least, with the threat of hypothermia. We set a turnaround time for 10 am. Our truck was only 5 miles by `air' away, but over several mountain ridges, the upper thousand feet or so of which were still be hammered by storm. So we waited patiently by our loaded packs until 10; if it was promising to be clear, we'd stay; if still indeterminate, we'd head out.

Time came and the weather wouldn't promise, so we donned our packs and headed out. We dropped back down to Island Lake, hit a trail, and took the trails all around the east side of the range, way around, way, way around, passing near Little Redfish Lake, past Frog Lake, below the Little Boulder Chain, below Castle Lake and Castle Peak, then into the Chamberlain drainage. We stopped only once, not because we had to, but because it was right ... the rest of the time eating on the trail with food stuffed in outer pockets. Our packs were 50-pounds dry weight - with an undetermined amount of added weight from the soaking.

As we came around the east end of Castle Peak at dusk we noticed the opportunity to chop a mile or so off the trail by dropping straight over the edge into the Washington drainage. It would be critical to hit the trail as it traversed toward home - to miss it would put us in the bottom of Washington Creek after dark, with wet bags. As dark went to darker I realized we probably missed the trail, and before it got too late, stopped, and directed us back upward in search. We were coming down an avalanche hill, so the trail was annually obliterated. We found it and pressed on, up to Washington Lake, over the divide to Fourth of July, and then to the truck. It had become a death march, the last several miles by trail and one flashlight. We hiked 28 total miles, 5000 vertical feet up, and 6000 down, in 12 hours. And the most miserable part - we slept in the back of the truck alongside the road on the way home.