The One Thing I Didn't Put in the Backpack

I was in the midst of a beautiful, wildflower dotted meadow in the mountains when it happened. I remember it was the middle of August, blisteringly hot down in the urban sprawl of pavement. We’d taken advantage of a long weekend to squeeze in an extended camping trip to the Tetons, where cooler temperatures prevailed. My son was a chubby ball of 18-month-old toddler hood at the time. He was on my back, snuggled into his luxury carrier complete with sunshade. We’d just hiked the eight miles up through Cascade Canyon to the shores of Lake Solitude, a little green gem of a lake that sparkled with snow melt.

Now we were cruising back down. I had been gathering speed steadily, leaving my husband and our family friend trailing in my wake. I’ve always been a fast hiker, a human Billy goat with an insatiable amount of energy. I knew we’d need to keep a brisk pace to meet the last ferry at the landing or risk having to walk the extra two miles around the lake in the deepening twilight. So I was out in front, setting the relentless pace. I didn’t even see any storm clouds. The narrow valley was a bowl, ringed by steep, snowy-capped peaks.

I only know that one moment there was sun and the next moment, it was gone.

There might have been a rumble as the skies cracked open, but if there was, I had no time to react. Suddenly, a torrent of water gushed from skies that, just minutes before, had been impossibly blue. My mind scrambled to respond. Our plastic ponchos were in the backpack. The one that was on my husband’s back, several minutes behind me on the trail. I considered turning around, but a second later, the rain turned to hail and my son began to scream.

Already soaked to the skin, we were being pelted with huge hailstones. I ripped the carrier off my back, laying it on the ground, then threw myself on top of him. As I attempted to shield my frightened son from the worst of the hailstones, I watched the trail below us become a gully. The banks of the forest on either side were pitched, reducing the foot-worn rut into a channel for the gushing storm water. I remember closing my eyes, unable to tell if the water running down my face was from the rain or tears.

I held my son’s hand fiercely, murmuring soothing sounds that I knew he probably couldn’t hear over the raging chaos of the storm.

Finally, the deluge trickled and then stopped. I rose and tipped the carrier upright. At first I was relieved. We were both soggy and scared, but unhurt. And then I saw it. My breath, making big huffs of steam in the frigid air. The storm had pushed plummeting temperatures into the valley, turning a mellow mountain summer sky into a mass of grumbling gray thunderheads. The temperature difference was so drastic that I could now see my breath. In the middle of god damn August. Realization dawned on me. I felt every inch of my son’s exposed body, stiff with water and cold to the touch. I began trying to remember everything I had ever read about hypothermia.

My husband and our friend rounded the bend then, bringing with them the comfort of plastic ponchos much too late. We held a quick conference. The storm had cost us precious time and we were in danger of missing the last ferry across the lake. That meant nearly ten miles of exposure, the last few in the dark. If it had been just us, I would have been more flexible and made the best of a tough situation.

But the baby on my back changed everything. Whatever choice I made, it had to be the one that got him to warmth and safety as soon as possible.

What tortured me was that I had considered packing a change of clothing for my son. But with all the water and snacks, diapers and sunscreen, I’d decided to leave out that little Ziploc bag in favor of less weight and more space. That Ziploc bag would have held warm, dry clothes. An insurance policy against exactly this situation. We’d packed rain gear, but we’d never have gotten it on fast enough to avert danger. But those discarded clothes would have made the difference.

There was talk about making a fire and trying to dry out. But it meant risking longer periods of exposure for my son and having to navigate a steep trail at night without headlamps. I refused to consider any of it. We had about an hour and a half until the last ferry reached the dock at the trailhead's landing. I was getting my son to that ferry.

And then I ran. I’d run mountains before years ago, but never with a toddler on my back. The frame slapped against me as I tumbled down the mountain. I’m typically sure-footed, but at that break neck pace injury was inevitable. At one point, I stubbed and sprained my big toe. I never felt it, although later it would turn black and blue and the nail would fall off completely.

I used my hands to ricochet around tree trunks on the trail, plummeting off that mountain like a bird dropping out of the sky.

The further we went, the quieter my son became. Panicked that he was slipping into unconsciousness, I’d shake his leg until he responded to my questions. In an effort to make the whole ordeal less terrifying, I sang the entire way down. Songs I didn’t know I remembered, snippets of nursery rhymes, endless rounds of “Old McDonald Had a Farm”.  His words were sluggish and slow but he was still there, awake and wondering at the relentless pounding of my footsteps.

Finally, I rounded the corner to a rocky outcropping directly above the ferry dock. And there, bobbing in the choppy waves and revving the motor, was the most beautiful boat I’d ever seen. I shouted loud enough to make the ferry operator glance up and wave. By the time I climbed down to the dock, I was crying with relief. He took one look at us, soaking wet and shaking, and began radioing the park office. He reeled in the line and started to pull away from the dock.

“Wait!” I yelled. I explained my husband wasn’t far behind. If he didn’t wait, they’d be stranded. The ferry operator glanced at the toddler in my arms, both of us pale and shivering. Another storm was chasing its way across the lake towards us, lightening strikes visible on the far shore. He shook his head.

“One more minute and then we have to go. We have to.”

The boat had already begun pulling away from the dock when I saw my husband appear on the rocky outcropping above, waving his hands wildly. I shouted to the operator, who threw the boat into reverse and returned to retrieve the rest of our sobbing, grateful hiking party. We huddled together against the sharp wind, protecting my son in the middle of our hunched bodies.

When we arrived at the station, first aid personnel covered us in wool army blankets, insisting we strip out of our wet clothes. They made us big, blessed mugs of hot chocolate and poked and prodded until they were satisfied. We were lucky. Beyond my injured toe and many, many bruises, we were okay. Bone-chillingly cold but okay. And very, very grateful.

When hiking in high-altitude, please remember that the weather can change in an instant. This is especially true during the spring and fall seasons.

When you go out on the trail, especially with little ones, don’t forget to bring a change of warm clothes tucked in a Ziploc bag and rain gear. Dressing in layers helps, but it’s not enough. You never know when the space you make for that one little Ziploc bag will make the difference between comfort and calamity.

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