July 26, 2007--Wednesday In Wyoming: Trackin'
It was hot—mid 90s by the early afternoon—so we settled quickly into a morning routine of activity, reserving afternoons for reading with the expectation that before long the books would drop onto our chests and we would roll over into a deep siesta. All part of the languor of a long-day in the Tetons.
We took to the same gentle hiking trail each day after coffee. The basic String Lake Loop with its accompanying variations. Basic was the 3.8 mile Loop itself, around the glacial lake that is called String for obvious reasons—from any elevation that offers a glimpse of its full configuration, a string it what it most resembles. One heads out north along its eastern bank, the water lapping close on the left, across its narrow width the looming Tetons and just a glimpse of sun-awakened Cascade Canyon, with the Ponderosa saturated woods rising quickly to the right—bear country, especially this hot and dry year with the grizzles, desperate for carbohydrates, venturing down to lower elevations in search of anything edible that will bulk them up for the long hibernation season. So wear some bells or at least keep up a loud chat if you don’t want to become a part of their food supply.
One trail variation veers further east, up a steep ridge toward Bear Paw Lake, another topographically named site. But it adds another mile and a half in each direction, much of the trail in full sun and so for us Bear Paw will be for another visit. A second variation twists further west than the basic loop and arrives at Paintbrush Canyon with its vast meadows of flowers, Mountain Lupine to my taste first among them but also there are fields of Indian Paintbrush, Columbine, and Fireweeds. Even in this scorching season they put on a symphony of color.
But because of the heat we take it easy, concentrated morning after morning on the simpler, less-demanding paths, slipping through this repetition of routes into a state of meditative heat prostration. The mind drifts under these conditions, a wakeful dreaming. Almost at times toward delirium, but still we put one heavy foot in front of another, pushing ourselves along with the knowledge that a simple lunch, a cool cabin, and yes our bed will be our rewards for all the effort and tedium.
A tedium that leads to heightened perceptions: of the ant trails that intersect ours, of the subtle sections of the forest where there are the greatest concentration of birds of all feathers, of the Marionberry bush from yesterday which today is about to show it long-delayed first green fruit—and insights: beyond the clichés about ecological interconnectedness now felt beneath the sweat as visceral truth, in the burnt glades about the rhythms of decay and regeneration, and about what can be quickly learned when slowing down.
But in spite of my midsummer immersion in nature, I am a city boy still and my mind these mornings, despite the “perceptions” and “insights,” also drifts aimlessly, toward nothing. And not the Eastern Nothing so dearly sought. So, unproud of myself, I then look for distractions.
On the first stage of the Loop, along the lake’s eastern shore, before needing to decide whether to continue the Loop west or veer toward Bear Paw, a stride or two behind Rona, to extract myself from my torpor, I begin to study the shoeprints on the trail, hoping that among the many laid down by hikers I might spot the occasional imprints of elks’ hooves or those of mule deer or, if most fortunate, by the royal bear. That would be exciting!
And remembering from my Boy Scout Tracking Merit Badge days that in addition to animal tracks the best way to search them out is through a careful examination of their distinctive droppings, I thus turn equal attention to these less elegant but definitive clues of the wild. The ability to distinguish between the pellets of rabbits and young deer and the balls characteristic of elk and moose and of course the clusters deposited by bears as they tear at fallen, rotting trees in search of mouthfuls of delectable termites, is an art form all unto itself, one that I find myself practicing.
But, sadly, since there wasn’t enough poop on the trail to engage my interest, except from horses—we shared the way with them—I was left to turn my full attention (as much, not much, as I could muster in the rising heat) to shoe prints. And these did not prove to be disappointing. Some were quite distinctive, standing out in their unique patterns from the more mundane left by Vasques or other high-end gear; and from others I could track hikers who had been on the trail that day as opposed to the day before from the sharpness of the impression not yet eroded by the elements or other venturers.
I remembered from boyhood detective stories how the keenest forensic-minded sleuths were able to look at just footprints in the wet earth beneath windows through which murderers had made their escape and thereby determine by the freshness of the edges precisely how long ago the crime had been perpetrated, how tall the killer was (from the shoe size), and even, in Sherlock Holmes’ magnificent case, how much his prey weighed (from the depth of the shoeprint), and even if he had a telltale limp—if there was evidence of a slurring of the left foot as opposed to the right. So I as well of course took to this kind of investigation. Especially the latter, of the Sherlock Holmes’ variety, though it was admittedly unlikely that any crimes had been committed along the way. Except perhaps for an occasional straying off the track, into the woods at those places where the Park Service had placed signs to indicate the area was under “regeneration.” In this unspoiled land that would be crime enough to incite me.
There was one shoe pattern that quickly came to intrigue me. I wish I had the capacity to draw it here for you since I feel certain that you too would find it of enough interest to engage your unaddled imagination. As opposed to all the other prints where the indentations were left by the full surface of both the sole and heel, this one, though the sole impression revealed all of its outline, from the heel of the boots there were fan-shaped impressions, with the narrow part of the “fan” close to the sole and the wide part radiating out toward the back of the shoe. (From this fascination of mine, you can begin to see the paucity, at the worse of these times, of the perceptions and insights I was capable of rousing.)
And I did in addition notice that these small fans in the soil had the sharpest of edges, suggesting that we were not that far behind whoever left them. I urged Rona to pick up the pace, thinking that maybe we would thus be able to overtake him, minimally take sight of, if not capture our quarry. And so she did, but to no avail. Even after an hour of this literally hot pursuit, even passing some other hikers, we found no one on the trail ahead of us leaving these unique clues.
So I turned to other imaginings—how tall might he be? This I determined by his shoe size. I placed my size 13 Vasques over his and determined mine were at least two sizes larger and therefore he must be about five feet ten as opposed to my 6-4. I confirmed this by walking, literally, in his foot steps, shortening my stride to replicate his. This took some effort, to chop my stride this way, especially on the up and downhill slopes, but the fact that his was about six inches shorter than mine confirmed that I had been correct in determining his height. And he was a “he” I concluded since at all the very steepest places, from the boot prints, it was obvious that he took to showing off his macho by bounding up the hills, in defiance of the heat—he took those inclines on his toes, digging in, rather than in the flat-footed manner of which I was only capable even when, in true detective fashion, I tried to duplicate his. He must be, I assumed in part to save face, much younger than me to be able to expend so much effort and put on such a good show for what I could only assume was his girl-friend hiking companion. In all that heat--quite a guy!
Perhaps most interesting, since we took pretty much to the same trails every morning, was to find that every day he had been out there shortly before us because no matter which variation on the basic String Lake Loop we took, there right in front of me were those now familiar and unusual fanned heel prints. These by then had become so fascinating and mysterious to me that they were interfering with my earlier ability to see more insightfully and take on the calm from the majesty surrounding us. I couldn’t take my eyes off the boot prints, peering relentlessly as the dusty trail itself, becoming oblivious to the pleasure and the lessons that could be derived from the wild.
By the fourth morning, at the risk of spoiling Rona’s communion with the pristine, to hopefully rescue myself from involvement with my doppelganger hiker, I finally began to share with her some of what I had been struggling with—as context, my Boy Scout days (this of little interest to her—how many more stories from my boyhood could she endure?) and my love of Sherlock (from this I got at least an acknowledging nod of the head—she was not ten feet ahead of me on the trail). And then I told her about my tracking and how I had become obsessed, it was that, with the man with the fan-shaped shoes.
As this did elicit at least some interest, Rona turned to look back at me, it was after all about the here-and-now and not yet more stories of mine from decades ago, I said, “Stop a minute. Let me show you. I’ve been studying them now for days and can tell you he, yes he, is vigorous, at least 5-10 in height, weighs about 150 (from the depth of the impressions), is young—I’d say no more than twenty-five, and doesn’t limp. This I know from The Hound of the Baskervilles in which Sherlock Holmes. . . . Oh, forget him and take a look at this.”
I pointed at the ground near where I was standing. “Look at this, I bent to be better able to point out the special characterizes of the boot print—by then I had become its world’s leading authority, “See how the impression from the sole is conventional. How it defines the full outline of the front part of the boot?” I looked up at Rona who had walked back down the path toward me to get a closer look. From her demeanor I knew I was about to lose whatever little interest she had extended to me.
In a panic, I was desperate to get to the heel print. I pleaded, “Wait, wait, here’s what I really want to show you. Look at this. Have you ever seen anything like it?” At that Rona did take a careful look—she was clearly still willing to indulge me, but made no response. “Isn’t it remarkable?” Without looking up at her I knew she was shooting me a skeptical look—“remarkable” was more than she was likely willing to grant me, perhaps there was another brief moment of indulgence I could hope for before she resumed her own walk in the woods. She was not going to let my frustrations interfere with her own experiences—not that I could blame her, I would do the same thing if the roles had inconceivably been reversed.
“See the fan? I mean the unique shape of his heel? I’ve never seen anything like that. And what is most amazing is that every day he has been on exactly the same trails as us. Perhaps just an hour ahead as revealed by the unweathered edges of the boot prints. Look, please, give me a second so I can show you.”
For a last time Rona turned and walked back to me. As she stood by my side, with me still bent over to point out the findings from my hours of detective work, I noticed that the most recent, sharpest-cut heel prints of my tormentor appeared to have reversed themselves on the trail. Until that instant all had pointed forward. Now here were some that indicated he had done some circling back. Intriguing!
Rona moved closer to me and joined me in scrutinizing the ground before us. How excited I was that she was becoming as interested in this mystery as I. It would make our remaining time in the Tetons additionally enjoyable. We would have yet another interest in common. With her help we would likely even be able to catch up with and meet our trail mate.
And then in a flash it all became clear to me—my mountain secret sharer was none other than Rona herself!
Of course--who on the trail had always preceded me? Rona. These maddening boot prints were being put down by her shoes as she led me around the lake and through the forest.
So she was not a “he, is” four inches less than 5-10 and decidedly much, much less than 150. At least I got the no-limp part right.
We took to the same gentle hiking trail each day after coffee. The basic String Lake Loop with its accompanying variations. Basic was the 3.8 mile Loop itself, around the glacial lake that is called String for obvious reasons—from any elevation that offers a glimpse of its full configuration, a string it what it most resembles. One heads out north along its eastern bank, the water lapping close on the left, across its narrow width the looming Tetons and just a glimpse of sun-awakened Cascade Canyon, with the Ponderosa saturated woods rising quickly to the right—bear country, especially this hot and dry year with the grizzles, desperate for carbohydrates, venturing down to lower elevations in search of anything edible that will bulk them up for the long hibernation season. So wear some bells or at least keep up a loud chat if you don’t want to become a part of their food supply.
One trail variation veers further east, up a steep ridge toward Bear Paw Lake, another topographically named site. But it adds another mile and a half in each direction, much of the trail in full sun and so for us Bear Paw will be for another visit. A second variation twists further west than the basic loop and arrives at Paintbrush Canyon with its vast meadows of flowers, Mountain Lupine to my taste first among them but also there are fields of Indian Paintbrush, Columbine, and Fireweeds. Even in this scorching season they put on a symphony of color.
But because of the heat we take it easy, concentrated morning after morning on the simpler, less-demanding paths, slipping through this repetition of routes into a state of meditative heat prostration. The mind drifts under these conditions, a wakeful dreaming. Almost at times toward delirium, but still we put one heavy foot in front of another, pushing ourselves along with the knowledge that a simple lunch, a cool cabin, and yes our bed will be our rewards for all the effort and tedium.
A tedium that leads to heightened perceptions: of the ant trails that intersect ours, of the subtle sections of the forest where there are the greatest concentration of birds of all feathers, of the Marionberry bush from yesterday which today is about to show it long-delayed first green fruit—and insights: beyond the clichés about ecological interconnectedness now felt beneath the sweat as visceral truth, in the burnt glades about the rhythms of decay and regeneration, and about what can be quickly learned when slowing down.
But in spite of my midsummer immersion in nature, I am a city boy still and my mind these mornings, despite the “perceptions” and “insights,” also drifts aimlessly, toward nothing. And not the Eastern Nothing so dearly sought. So, unproud of myself, I then look for distractions.
On the first stage of the Loop, along the lake’s eastern shore, before needing to decide whether to continue the Loop west or veer toward Bear Paw, a stride or two behind Rona, to extract myself from my torpor, I begin to study the shoeprints on the trail, hoping that among the many laid down by hikers I might spot the occasional imprints of elks’ hooves or those of mule deer or, if most fortunate, by the royal bear. That would be exciting!
And remembering from my Boy Scout Tracking Merit Badge days that in addition to animal tracks the best way to search them out is through a careful examination of their distinctive droppings, I thus turn equal attention to these less elegant but definitive clues of the wild. The ability to distinguish between the pellets of rabbits and young deer and the balls characteristic of elk and moose and of course the clusters deposited by bears as they tear at fallen, rotting trees in search of mouthfuls of delectable termites, is an art form all unto itself, one that I find myself practicing.
But, sadly, since there wasn’t enough poop on the trail to engage my interest, except from horses—we shared the way with them—I was left to turn my full attention (as much, not much, as I could muster in the rising heat) to shoe prints. And these did not prove to be disappointing. Some were quite distinctive, standing out in their unique patterns from the more mundane left by Vasques or other high-end gear; and from others I could track hikers who had been on the trail that day as opposed to the day before from the sharpness of the impression not yet eroded by the elements or other venturers.
I remembered from boyhood detective stories how the keenest forensic-minded sleuths were able to look at just footprints in the wet earth beneath windows through which murderers had made their escape and thereby determine by the freshness of the edges precisely how long ago the crime had been perpetrated, how tall the killer was (from the shoe size), and even, in Sherlock Holmes’ magnificent case, how much his prey weighed (from the depth of the shoeprint), and even if he had a telltale limp—if there was evidence of a slurring of the left foot as opposed to the right. So I as well of course took to this kind of investigation. Especially the latter, of the Sherlock Holmes’ variety, though it was admittedly unlikely that any crimes had been committed along the way. Except perhaps for an occasional straying off the track, into the woods at those places where the Park Service had placed signs to indicate the area was under “regeneration.” In this unspoiled land that would be crime enough to incite me.
There was one shoe pattern that quickly came to intrigue me. I wish I had the capacity to draw it here for you since I feel certain that you too would find it of enough interest to engage your unaddled imagination. As opposed to all the other prints where the indentations were left by the full surface of both the sole and heel, this one, though the sole impression revealed all of its outline, from the heel of the boots there were fan-shaped impressions, with the narrow part of the “fan” close to the sole and the wide part radiating out toward the back of the shoe. (From this fascination of mine, you can begin to see the paucity, at the worse of these times, of the perceptions and insights I was capable of rousing.)
And I did in addition notice that these small fans in the soil had the sharpest of edges, suggesting that we were not that far behind whoever left them. I urged Rona to pick up the pace, thinking that maybe we would thus be able to overtake him, minimally take sight of, if not capture our quarry. And so she did, but to no avail. Even after an hour of this literally hot pursuit, even passing some other hikers, we found no one on the trail ahead of us leaving these unique clues.
So I turned to other imaginings—how tall might he be? This I determined by his shoe size. I placed my size 13 Vasques over his and determined mine were at least two sizes larger and therefore he must be about five feet ten as opposed to my 6-4. I confirmed this by walking, literally, in his foot steps, shortening my stride to replicate his. This took some effort, to chop my stride this way, especially on the up and downhill slopes, but the fact that his was about six inches shorter than mine confirmed that I had been correct in determining his height. And he was a “he” I concluded since at all the very steepest places, from the boot prints, it was obvious that he took to showing off his macho by bounding up the hills, in defiance of the heat—he took those inclines on his toes, digging in, rather than in the flat-footed manner of which I was only capable even when, in true detective fashion, I tried to duplicate his. He must be, I assumed in part to save face, much younger than me to be able to expend so much effort and put on such a good show for what I could only assume was his girl-friend hiking companion. In all that heat--quite a guy!
Perhaps most interesting, since we took pretty much to the same trails every morning, was to find that every day he had been out there shortly before us because no matter which variation on the basic String Lake Loop we took, there right in front of me were those now familiar and unusual fanned heel prints. These by then had become so fascinating and mysterious to me that they were interfering with my earlier ability to see more insightfully and take on the calm from the majesty surrounding us. I couldn’t take my eyes off the boot prints, peering relentlessly as the dusty trail itself, becoming oblivious to the pleasure and the lessons that could be derived from the wild.
By the fourth morning, at the risk of spoiling Rona’s communion with the pristine, to hopefully rescue myself from involvement with my doppelganger hiker, I finally began to share with her some of what I had been struggling with—as context, my Boy Scout days (this of little interest to her—how many more stories from my boyhood could she endure?) and my love of Sherlock (from this I got at least an acknowledging nod of the head—she was not ten feet ahead of me on the trail). And then I told her about my tracking and how I had become obsessed, it was that, with the man with the fan-shaped shoes.
As this did elicit at least some interest, Rona turned to look back at me, it was after all about the here-and-now and not yet more stories of mine from decades ago, I said, “Stop a minute. Let me show you. I’ve been studying them now for days and can tell you he, yes he, is vigorous, at least 5-10 in height, weighs about 150 (from the depth of the impressions), is young—I’d say no more than twenty-five, and doesn’t limp. This I know from The Hound of the Baskervilles in which Sherlock Holmes. . . . Oh, forget him and take a look at this.”
I pointed at the ground near where I was standing. “Look at this, I bent to be better able to point out the special characterizes of the boot print—by then I had become its world’s leading authority, “See how the impression from the sole is conventional. How it defines the full outline of the front part of the boot?” I looked up at Rona who had walked back down the path toward me to get a closer look. From her demeanor I knew I was about to lose whatever little interest she had extended to me.
In a panic, I was desperate to get to the heel print. I pleaded, “Wait, wait, here’s what I really want to show you. Look at this. Have you ever seen anything like it?” At that Rona did take a careful look—she was clearly still willing to indulge me, but made no response. “Isn’t it remarkable?” Without looking up at her I knew she was shooting me a skeptical look—“remarkable” was more than she was likely willing to grant me, perhaps there was another brief moment of indulgence I could hope for before she resumed her own walk in the woods. She was not going to let my frustrations interfere with her own experiences—not that I could blame her, I would do the same thing if the roles had inconceivably been reversed.
“See the fan? I mean the unique shape of his heel? I’ve never seen anything like that. And what is most amazing is that every day he has been on exactly the same trails as us. Perhaps just an hour ahead as revealed by the unweathered edges of the boot prints. Look, please, give me a second so I can show you.”
For a last time Rona turned and walked back to me. As she stood by my side, with me still bent over to point out the findings from my hours of detective work, I noticed that the most recent, sharpest-cut heel prints of my tormentor appeared to have reversed themselves on the trail. Until that instant all had pointed forward. Now here were some that indicated he had done some circling back. Intriguing!
Rona moved closer to me and joined me in scrutinizing the ground before us. How excited I was that she was becoming as interested in this mystery as I. It would make our remaining time in the Tetons additionally enjoyable. We would have yet another interest in common. With her help we would likely even be able to catch up with and meet our trail mate.
And then in a flash it all became clear to me—my mountain secret sharer was none other than Rona herself!
Of course--who on the trail had always preceded me? Rona. These maddening boot prints were being put down by her shoes as she led me around the lake and through the forest.
So she was not a “he, is” four inches less than 5-10 and decidedly much, much less than 150. At least I got the no-limp part right.
posted by Steven Zwerling at
8:43 AM
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