A Sick Time in the Tetons

*As always, this post is stream-of-consciousness, and not edited in any way after initial writing. Forgive (or embrace) the grammatical missteps.*

I spent another Fourth of July weekends in one of the best places you can spend it: Jackson Hole. Apart from Jackson, past top choices include Nantucket, Vegas, and Austin, TX. These days - much like Tom Brady after his third ring - there is a clear #1. In this category, it's Jackson.

I got in late Thursday night and spent Friday wiggling my mouse from my mom's deck overlooking a barren Snow King. Only a matters of weeks earlier could you see skiers zigzagging their way down the mountain, surrounded by a sea of white.

Sweet Cheeks steak & Snowking views.

I started thinking about the Grand Friday morning. Did I really want to try and climb it this weekend? When I could be floating the river, walking around town, or sipping a beer in the village? In years past I may have balked, but the last few years have turned me more into an "earn your turns" guy than I ever thought possible. For those not not familiar with ski verbiage: this term is synonymous with ski touring, where a skier has to first tour uphill, before "earning" their turns down.

For me, I knew that I wouldn't fully enjoy the river on Sunday had I not sufficiently suffered Saturday.

So Saturday morning at 4:30am I begudgingly tore off my sleeping bag, took a quick toilet break, and stumbled to my car to drive to Lupine Meadows trailhead (I learned years ago to sleep in your clothes the night before so as to avoid the cold, fumbling, early-morning clothing change).

Admittedly waking that morning I was torn. My head was a little foggy from the rodeo the night before, and I knew that stifling my alarm, rolling over and nodding back to sleep for a few hours meant one of my other favorite things: lazy camp breakfast. Bacon, egg, hasbrown and avocado breakfast burritos with Teton views would have been a joy.

That thought was short lived. The moment I got in the car and began drinking some week-old Starbucks iced coffee the stoke was on. I choked down a hard boiled egg, full blue freeze Gatorade and nutrigrain bar, cranked the stero and was ready to go.

Instant giddiness.

Man, Lupines Meadow switchbacks do not dissapoint. The wildflowers were in full bloom, I stumbled upon a couple moose who darted off, and had the perfect playlist going to provide a nice bounce to my step on the way to the alpine. I mean, look at those views of Tagger:

I was feeling great all the way up to the lower Saddle that bridges the gap between Middle Teton and the Grand. In fact, I PR'd getting there: 2:40 from the TH to the saddle. (Fun fact: the current Grand Teton FKT is by Andy Anderson at a blistering 2:53:2. So essentially, I reached the saddle on my way UP to the Grand 13 minutes faster that AA went up and down. Woof).

A view from the saddle looking up to the Grand:

Trouble began on the 4th/5th class scrambling that makes up the upper portion of the saddle before the technical Owen-Spalding route. I started feeling slightly dizzy and lethargic. This is nothing particularly concerning, given anytime you're at 12k feet or so you are destined to not feel, well, all there physically and mentally.

The scramble itself turned out to be fairly heads-up: the OS route was full of ice, hardened snow, and most dangerous of all: Verglas. Verlgas is a 19th century word from verre (glass) and glace (ice). It is a transparent layer of ice on top of rock only milimeters thick and nearly indiscernible to the human eye. The danger, of course, comes when you go to smear your approach shoe on what looks like a piece of rock, but in actuality is a slippery piece of ice, leading you to slip off.

Thus, caution abounded on the ascent. The technicality and patience the conditons demanded, combined with a deteriorated mental and physical state led to a slow, lethargic march to the summit.

The iconic plaque atop the summit of the Grand.

I summitted, looked around for a minute or two, and snapped one picture (below) of the Middle and South Teton.

As they say in moutaineering, reaching the summit means you're only halfway done. I was acutely aware of that fact as I began downclimbing the Grand; re-tracing my steps down Sargent's Chimney, carefully tiptoeing down the catwalk, and then finally lowering myself down the double chimney to the crawl, bellyroll, and down.

Below: A wonderful beta photo from Chuck who runs whyomingwhiskey.blogspot, the one-stop-shop for all things GT.

If you look above, you can see where the route calls out the double chimney. This is where I started feeling truly sick. Halfway through the chimney, extremely dizzy and stemming against verglas on the two walls, I lost my lunch. No, I didn't leave a zipper unopened and lose my pb&j which I had neglected to eat (classic alpine behavior), but I projectile vomited down the sheets of ice below my feet.

To paint a clearer picture:

I reached up and grabbed a huge jug (climber lingo for large hold) with my right hand, awkardly stemmed with my feet against the granite in the chimney, lowered my head as far away from my body as possible and let loose with everything in my stomach. (Side note, there was one other party coming up that would have had to climb this same chimney...sorry about that...).

I regained compusure, wiped my mouth clean and continued downclimbing.

Finally - and after what seemed like an eternity later - I made it back down the saddle. I puked one other time before then, upchucking mostly water and Gatorade. Not ideal. I was now completely depleted of all nutrients I needed for what was still a highly technical 10 mile hike back to the TH.

I continued down a snowfield, ice axe in hand, and dizzily trying not to tip over and have to self-arrest myself on what would be a catastrophic fall. I eventually made it to the fixed ropes and half-batmanned, half-downclimbed the wet rocks the the final large snowfield and last of the technical climbing before the talus fields.

Thank God. A few times prior to puking I thought I might need actual assistance, and I cringed in having to call family or friends to come help me down, or provide some hydration. At this point, I had water left but couldn't hold anything down, so felt that consuming any more liquids was functionally useless.

I kept staggering down until I finally made it to the rushing creek. I dunked my head in water and greedily slurped up glacial runoff, grateful that my stomach now seemed to be slightly cooperating. I pulled my head out of the water to see a party of three climbing the Grand over the span of two days (of which sounded lovely to me), who loudly shouted, "Hey buddy, how did it go up there?!"

I began responding in earnest when they interrupted and said, "Jake, it's us, from Neptune".

Ahh, yes. I had met these three only the week before at Neptune Mountaineering and they had told me of their plans to climb the Grand. In my impoverished state I hardly recognized the folks I had chatted with for nearly an hour only six days ago.

They kindly offered me water and a bar which I politely declined, wished me luck and went on their way. I haven't heard from them since, but hoping they summitted safely.

At long last, I made it to the Lupine Meadow switchbacks. At this point I mustered a half-jog, my ice axe loudly clanking against a carabiner on the outside of my pack; myself too exhausted and delirious to fix.

Reaching the car, I immediately downed two full Gatorades, stretched my legs, and immediatley felt myself again. That is the wild thing about altitude sickness. Once you get below that 10k threshold, it's like you come back to life. I drove off with a mix of satisfaction and eagerness: Satisfaction to have finished what I set out to do, and eagerness to eat a mound of food and lie on a raft down the Snake.

Earn your turns.

Final Stats:

Time: 8:05:30

Distance: 16.37mi

Vert: 6,873

Link: https://www.strava.com/activities/7405562856