Around January my dad and I started planning a trip to Grand Teton National Park. Ideas bounced back and forth - we originally wanted to hit Yellowstone in the same window, and he knew that fly fishing was a central part of the trip for me. Yellowstone was edged out so we could focus on the Tetons. However, we hadn't done a backpacking trip together since Olympic NP a few years ago, so this was going to be a big trip. The only catch - my younger sister would be joining us this time (backpacking and non-car camping experience = 0 hours). She's heading to Africa with the Peace Corps next year, so my understanding was that it would be her personal test.
Things were going surprisingly well on the first day. It was Dad who was struggling with the grade (and, although not admitted, his knees & ankles weren't holding up well to the rocky terrain). Day 1 was in Death Canyon, in the southern part of the park. I can't recall the exact mileage, but we adjusted our plans from a large loop into Alaska Basin to a smaller out-and-back into Death Canyon. We stopped at the visitor center on the way in, and they suggested we not continue up as far as Marion Lake due to deep snow. Later on we would pass multiple groups heading through the snow, and apparently is was not as bad as advertised. We regretted not doing the loop, but that was all that disappointed throughout the trip.
As soon as we stepped beyond the first buttress of the canyon, the scale of the surroundings became apparent. The clear blue skies created the perfect frame for the shear cliffs climbing above us on either side. The stream deep in the canyon was raging from an extremely large amount of puffy powder in this area during the winter. I packed a fly rod for each step of the trip, but seeing the level of the water was disheartening. The ranger at the visitor center also mentioned stream conditions wouldn't allow fishing anywhere in the canyon. Up higher I had some feeling to the contrary:
I put in a few casts to the a couple brookies mixed in with some cutthroat in this pool the next morning, but had no success. They were feeding, but on my 3rd or 4th cast I spooked them down for good. I'll blame it on a porcupine that kept waking me up from the noise of it chewing my dad's trekking pole straps to shreds that night. I might also blame it on some tighter than usual sleeping quarters:
To put things in perspective, my sister and I are both 6'-0" tall, and my dad is 6'-2". I would also say that none of us are in the shape of the people I see writing in Backpacker magazine. Day 2 write-up to follow this week.
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