As Cloudveil thought about content for its fall catalog, due out by mid-September, they realized that what drives people to shop Inspired Mountain Apparel isn’t necessarily a love for our new colors or zippers or pockets (which are sweet), but a love for the place these items will be used. With that in mind, the company asked four writers to share their observations and stories from the shoulder season, the transition in the high country from summer into winter. With chilly mornings and sunny days here in Jackson Hole, we thought this would be a fine time to share those essays.
This one’s by Abby Sussman. Enjoy the crisp mornings, the frosty dawns and keep checking back for more experiences on this in between time in the high country.
As a backcountry ranger, my life hinges on the weather.
My season starts when the winter’s snowpack recedes to reveal avalanche lilies and releases slide alders, relieving them of their bowed posture. My term ends when the first heavy snow accumulates and rocky edges of alpine tarns grow a thin lens of ice.
I have spent all summer in this map quadrant, checking permits, dismantling fire rings and picking up Clif Bar wrappers. But the final patrol isn’t so much to ready the wilderness for my absence as to ready myself for absence from this wilderness.
On a crisp bluebird morning I wake to the crackling of heavy frost on my tent and a dusting of new snow on sharp ridges. The backpackers have completed their loops, the day hikers have gone home and even the best campsites are silently vacant.
A few remaining huckleberries are harvested for my oatmeal, and although they are mealy and have lost their sweetness, the fruit still holds the taste of sunlight. Uneasy winds stack clouds into the stratosphere and then scatter them suddenly in favor of blue sky, as I ascend the ridge to watch shadows lengthen in shortening daylight.
In the mountains, shifting seasons bring uncertainty. Freezing levels rise and fall on a whim, creeks swell with incessant rains and foot logs run rapids downstream. My trails—finally clean after a summer of housekeeping—are littered again with fallen branches. I, too, am in transition, my life a reflection of the wilderness I patrol.
While bears fatten up for hibernation, I line out my winter budget, tallying per diem and overtime, depositing a last paycheck only to make a withdrawal for a season pass. Vine maple leaves turn sunshine hues and drop to the forest floor, as I swap tank tops for a down puffy at the storage unit. Salmon swim upstream, returning home after a life at sea, half-dead and still fighting the current, while I book a flight for my own return trip home to the East Coast.
Before snow settles in, I will turn in my badge and nametag, trade starchy green uniform pants for off-duty jeans and trek out of this wilderness for the last time. When I come back in spring—if my position is still funded—snow will shrink from my meadows as I plan campsite restorations and report trail conditions. And the cycle will resume.
On the flanks of this crevassed volcano, her upper reaches obscured by clouds, I hoist my pack for the hike out and double check that I have not left a sock hanging or a tent stake in the ground. Turning to the trail, I pause, and like a parent closing the door to a sleeping child’s room, take a last glimpse at my charge before walking away.