I was reading Tuesday’s edition of the New York Times and came across an article entitled, “Lingering Moose Shuts Down Popular Adirondack Trail for a Month,” see https://www.nytimes.com/2025/07/15/nyregion/moose-goodman-mountain-trail.html (7-15-25). Among other bits of information, the article pointed out, “Awesome to behold in the wild, moose are the largest members of the deer family and are among the largest land mammals in North America. The male, or bull, typically stands six feet tall at the shoulder, [and] weighs up to 1,400 pounds….”
Reading this description, I was suddenly transported back in time more than fifty years, when I was a young man and a relative novice backpacker. I was with Sherry, who remains my good and close friend, and Pam, my first wife-to-be, who is not. One summer, we three ventured across a large swath of this country for an adventure that began in Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming and concluded in Custer State Park, not far from Mt. Rushmore and the town of Deadwood, in South Dakota.
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Today, the specifics are hazy in memory, although I recall the arduous hike on the Crest Trail through the Tetons that took us four or five days to complete. Among other highlights, this trail affords “[s]tunning vistas from the multitude of ridgelines and passes…[g[orgeous high alpine scenery,” and the “[o]pportunity for moose and bear sightings, if you’re quiet and lucky.” See Teton Crest Trail Backpacking Guide, last updated: April 9, 2024, found at https://www.cleverhiker.com/backpacking/teton-crest-trail-backpacking-guide/ (emphasis added). Given its timeless beauty, I was unsurprised but still glad to read that this pristine national treasure remains intact despite the passage of five decades since our visit.
For one thing, it’s one of those rare places that can only be accessed and genuinely appreciated on foot. In turn, however, having a real wilderness experience requires human visitors to be self-sufficient in terms of clothing, shelter, food, and water. Choosing the right equipment is thus critical for anyone endeavoring to tackle the backcountry, particularly mountainous terrain, which is subject to rapid and extreme changes in weather conditions.
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We were young, eager, and determined. Early on our first morning out, we encountered a park ranger who described the first leg of our journey as a ”puffer,” a descriptive term I wasn’t familiar with at the time. Hours later, after a steep uphill climb on switchbacks from a starting elevation of five or six thousand feet to nearly nine thousand feet, I was exhausted from fighting gravity with pounds of equipment and supplies strapped to my back. And there was no clear end in sight.
The terrain teased. Each time we struggled up to what had appeared from below to be the top of the mountain, there was another climb in front of us. We were racing against darkness by the time we cleared the day’s last hurdle, reaching what we would come to learn was a high plateau.
Due to dry summer conditions, no fires were permitted, but this didn’t matter because there wasn’t a stick of wood in sight. We quickly set up a makeshift campsite and used some of our precious water to cook dehydrated, freeze-dried pasta on a tiny, one-burner propane camping stove. Hot food never tasted so good!
As we prepared for sleep, dramatic and threatening streaks of lightning flashed off in the distance. It did not rain, which was fortunate because we had been too worn out from the climb to pitch our tent in the darkness.
Hiking on a relatively flat plateau for the next couple of days was a pleasure compared to our first day’s “death march.” Better still, at this elevation, we walked among soaring, massive granite peaks, some still dappled with the snowy remnants of past winters. By day, the sky was deep blue. The tallest mountaintops nearly pierced the large, puffy clouds that slowly floated off to the east. At night, the clouds gave way, revealing all the stars of the Milky Way.
I was in awe. Perhaps for the first time, I realized how tiny and insignificant we humans are in the big scheme of the universe.
Eventually, the trail moved us steeply downhill from the plateau into a deep, green valley. Icy springs trickled everywhere. Off in the distance, we observed a large mountain lake, where we decided to camp for the night. The lake water, too, was icy cold, despite the hot sun.
Even so, after several days on the trail, the two brave girls took advantage of the lake to freshen up. I can’t abide cold water and elected to hold off in favor of a long, hot shower once we got back to civilization.
From our lake camp, we could observe that the next leg of the trip would be another hard climb. However, the previous hike had toughened us. We had our walking legs, and our packs were now lighter. Additionally, there was a tangible goal, namely, to climb up and over Hurricane Pass, the highest point on our hike. At the top, the view was like looking down at the Earth from the vantage point of a passenger on an airplane.
At the summit, we stopped to admire the grandeur of the three Tetons, then plunged past a monstrous glacier still partially filled with snow that lies below this summit via a series of steep switchbacks and hiked down into a mossy forest where the gigantic mountains vanished. Here, along the rushing waters of a fast-moving stream created by melting glacial ice, we pitched our last camp.
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Now, about that moose.
If you’re going to rough it, then you can’t expect the convenience of flush toilets or even rough outhouses. And so, on the final day of our Tetons adventure, I was awakened by Nature’s call in the early light of the new day.
I ventured out of our tent into the wilderness armed with only my trusty backpacking shovel and a roll of biodegradable toilet paper. See, e.g., “Biodegradable Toilet Paper vs Regular: What’s the Real Difference?” found at https://www.callthecompany.co.uk/blogs/news/biodegradable-toilet-paper-vs-regular-what-s-the-real-difference (June 25, 2025). Fortunately, except for the sounds of the rushing stream, it was silent. I was alone. With my shovel, I quickly dug a hole.
Suddenly, I heard something crashing through the brush off to my right. Startled, I looked up and spotted the gigantic moose with its huge rack of antlers dining on a small tree, no more than fifteen feet from the exact spot where I squatted. In hushed tones, I excitedly called out to my two sleeping companions, hoping to share this once-in-a-lifetime encounter. Just as quickly, however, I considered the size of this beast, weighed my own seriously compromised position, and wisely elected discretion over valor.
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I could say more about our great adventure, including the time we were forced to navigate a waterfall on a flotation device, only to encounter a herd of buffalo in South Dakota, but that is a story for another day.
