The hill is steep and my backpack is heavy. A Clark’s nutcracker taunts me as I climb, sweat, and mutter under my breath. When I reach a point where this particular ascent is done and the trail levels out, I look for a shady grove off the path, a place where I can unstrap from my heavy load. I have a long drink of water, and rest for what I promise myself will be no less than 15 minutes. Dan is way ahead of me anyway, so there is no rush.

I struggle to get out from under my vintage Jansport and let the pack drop to the ground, where I lean it up against a tree so that I can lay down in the shade and rest my head up against the sleeping bag that is compressed into the lowest compartment of the pack. Before I rest, I pull a granola bar from a pocket and before I’m even chewing on it, the rustle from its wrapper draws the nutcracker in close, so that he can mooch a morsel or two. He’s a fine looking jay, powerful and bold, quite handsome in his black, white, and gray plumage.

After sharing my snack I take a long draught from my canteen and then pluck a few small rocks from the ground so that I can recline more or less comfortably without having to unpack my light-weight sleeping pad. The ground is hard but relatively smooth and it feels wonderful to unkink and stare up through the spruce and fir tree branches and into what would be a deep blue sky, had there not been wildfire smoke that had settled into the Wind River Range.

Dan and I will be hiking and camping in this area for four late summer days. The smoke has blown in from the west only this very morning, the first day of our backpacking adventure, and we assumed it was probably from a local fire not too far away, maybe near the Idaho/Wyoming border. Who knows anymore, given all the fires we have. The combination of “climate change” and human population growth make wildfires a virtual certainty. How, you ask, does population growth increase the number of fires? Well, more people mean more tossed cigarettes, downed power lines, run-away campfires, and other inadvertent ignitions. Additionally, the more people that spread across formerly uninhabited landscapes, the more we have to swing into high gear to rescue structures and communities, when in the past, we could just allow them to burn.

But, at least for now, I suppose that there is no point dwelling on the negative. I let my mind wander and from across many years I can hear Dan’s voice quite distinctly, as he once asked me: “So, now that we’ve reached the top of the mountain, is the view worth all the pain?” My meandering thoughts had conjured up a memory from decades ago when he and I had gone backpacking in the High Uinta Primitive Area in northern Utah. Then, like now, he was in much better shape than I, and scaled tall peaks with a light and long stride while I trudged like a soldier, head down and shoulders bowed. On that particular trip, I had to admit that the pleasure of the view was well worth the pain of the climb.

Whether it’s the labors of a long, hard day hike or the challenges of a multi-day backpacking trip, the unique beauty of Nature offers rewards such that all the hardships seem to pale in comparison. On the other hand, it’s an indisputable fact that as my body declines with the years, I know that I need to take extra care so that I don’t cause irreparable damage to my knees, which have become my weakest link in recent years.

Coincidentally enough, let me jump ahead in our trip a mere two days to relay a story which illustrates the possibility for dire consequences when in the backcountry. With our starting point (the Pole Creek trailhead), approximately 11 miles behind us and our destination (the Titcomb Basin), less than 5 miles ahead, I am hiking down from a ridgeline and toward Island Lake (a popular backcountry camping area) when I hear a helicopter off in the distance. Soon, the chopper is within sight and I am dumbfounded as it seems to be bearing down straight toward me. Amazed, I watch as the emergency medical chopper circles directly overhead, eyeing me, as if expecting me to guide it to a landing place. Eventually, it lands on a slight knoll very close to where I am hiking. The noise from the chopper is so loud that I cover my ears with my hands and hustle past where it has landed until I am far enough away that I don’t have to worry about hearing damage. I stop and pull my camera from my pack to take a photo, but the camera’s battery has perhaps run low because the camera will not snap a picture.

I continue hiking away from the chopper but stop frequently to turn my head in an attempt to observe what is happening at the landing site. Unfortunately, I don’t have sufficient elevation to see. It is, nonetheless, easy enough to Deduce that a backpacker has been injured or taken ill and is being medevac’d from his or her camp at Island Lake and will be transported to a hospital in nearby Pinedale. Who, I wonder, will pick up the tab for that little ride?

A quarter mile from the action I cross paths with some folks I had met earlier on the trip along the trail. We recognize each other and since they are taking video and photographs of the helicopter as it leaves the landing zone and arcs back toward civilization, I tell them that I may mention the rescue in an article I expect to write and ask if they could email me one of their medevac photos. They are kind enough to write down their email address so that they can do exactly that once they have returned from the Wind River Range and are back home in Colorado.

We part ways and I continue toward the Titcomb Basin, not far from the Continental Divide and only five or so miles south of Gannet Peak, which is the highest point in Wyoming at nearly 14,000 feet. I have no idea where Dan is other than that he is no doubt far ahead of me, given the fact that he left our camp at least a half hour ahead of me. Because we each live life at our own pace, it is easier if we don’t stick together all of the time. As long as we have our morning camp coffee together and are reunited in the evening, a couple hours prior to nightfall, then we are being suitably responsible in looking out for each other, yet without impeding each other’s own style for enjoying nature.

I continue hiking up and out of the Island Lake area. The patchy evergreen forests below have thinned to the point of harboring only the occasional stunted subalpine fir. Most of the surrounding landscape consisting of grey, rocky peaks and the rockslides that have created talus slopes occupied by the abundant pikas, or conies as they are known in the Old World. A pika looks like a hamster but is actually a member of the rabbit family. Even here at about 11,000 feet in elevation, they remain active all winter long though they are forced to move through tunnels of their own construction deep beneath the snow. At this time of year, the pikas are busy gathering grasses that they keep in hay-like bales in their earthen burrows below the rocks and boulders.

Within a colony, each pika maintains its own territory and members of the colony alert each other to potential danger from atop rocky vantage points. The pika’s call is an amusing squeak, sounding very much like a puppies’ rubber chew-toy. Because it has been years since I last saw a pika, I am thrilled to be back in their presence.

A week after I return home from this trip I finally remember to pull my Peterson Field Guide to the Mammals of North America off the shelf and skim the short blurb on pikas. I chuckle as I read under the heading of “Economic Status” that, “the pika lives where few people ever go; does no harm; [and is] an interesting part of our native fauna.” While I would agree with the 2^nd and 3^rd part of that sentence, the 1^st part (about living where few people ever go) may have been true during the time of the Guide’s publication (1952) but it is certainly no longer the case.

For you see, at least in the portion of the Wind River Range that Dan and I visited, the word is definitely out that this spectacular chunk of the Rocky Mountains is well worth all the time, energy, and money it costs to make one’s way to any number of access points into “The Winds.” If craggy and jagged summits are your thing, or if myriad lakes, ponds and creeks flutter your pulse, then you will get an eyeful in the Wind River Range. But, be forewarned, you will be sharing the trails, the campsites, and the backcountry with only a bit of wildlife and with a very large number of people.

And so, at the end of our trip, I once again asked myself the question: Is the pleasure of the experience worth the pain it takes to get there? Well, I suppose the answer is somewhat relative. If I lived in Pinedale, then the answer would be a resounding yes! But I don’t live in Pinedale, and in fact I live far away within an area that is home to deep forests, shimmering waters, and remote mountains of its own. Moreover, the “pain” nowadays is not so much the pain incurred to one’s own muscles and bones, but rather to the biosphere overall, namely, the pain to the planet, to have so many of us crisscrossing the country (or the globe) to bag one more peak or traverse one more ridge. If we truly want to “follow the science” of such critical issues as climate change, then maybe we should modify another familiar old adage: “Think globally; enjoy life locally.” Sound advice, yet so hard to do.