Sowing on the Mountain

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She hiked up to Big Sandy Lake and tied Gris in the usual spot. It was hot for the high country and the deer flies swarmed around her, getting in a nip or two when she stopped. Gris lay down, so his belly wasn't exposed, and snapped at the flies that buzzed around his head. Poor guy. She hated to tie him up on a day like this, but she'd hate it more if the office people found out she had her dog up here.

She tied Gris and made her circuit, leaving notes and talking to a few campers. She was starting to dread being camped at Big Sandy Lake, which was increasingly mobbed. For some, it was a destination, while climbers made quick camps there before puffing over Jackass Pass the next morning, bound for the Cirque of Towers. When she looked in the new guidebook, it was called Big Sandy Pass, not Jackass, a bit of puritan crap which pissed her off.

Big thunderheads billowed over the Green River basin, and she heard some thunder to the north, over the bald ridge they called the Sheep Desert. Jet had told her about close calls he had with lightning strikes up there. Gris was scared of thunder. She hoped he wouldn't flip out. If it started to rain, she'd have to dash back. She rounded the lake, doing the usual: could you please move your camp, sir? At least 200 yards from the lake. And by the way, this is a no-fire area. She'd thought about hanging out by the trail register with photocopies of the regs, and making people read them out loud before starting their trip. There was a kiosk at the parking lot with everything posted. Hardly anyone stopped to read the rules.

Thunder boomed close, echoing from the cirque walls. She looked up and saw lightning stab down at the Divide. Scary. Glad I'm not up there, she thought. She hurried her circuit, not hiking to Black Joe, so she could get back to her dog.

He was shivering, frightened out of his wits. When she untied him, he rolled on his back and moaned, while she rubbed his belly. Then it started to rain and she led him into the talus cave. "Poor old guy. I won't let the sky-monsters get you." She put on a fleece jacket and her parka, and changed her uniform shorts for climbing pants. Then she lit her stove and made hot chocolate. Maybe I should bivy in here, she thought, rather than put up the tent in the rain. But the storm passed quickly. In an hour, the sun shone bright on the pines and firs, that glittered with droplets.

She decided to hike up the trail to Jackass Pass, the route over to the Cirque of Towers, the premier climbing area on the east slope of the Divide. She'd take Gris— if anyone asked, she could give them the story about his being a stray. Which he had been, just not recently. The trail was steep and she scrambled over rock ledges— it'd be tough to get a horse up this. She stopped for a look at a narrow lake, 10,105 on the map. A woman came jogging and stumbling down the trail, out of breath.

"O my God! You have a radio. There's been an accident in the Cirque, on the ridge of Wolf's Head." She had to stop for breath. Her eyelids fluttered and she staggered.

"Sit down and put your head between your knees. Just breathe until you feel okay." Mary keyed her radio and called Pinedale. Once. Twice. No answer. Shit! The mass of Warbonnet Peak was between her and the repeater, on the Wyoming Range across the basin. She tried Harv.

"Browne this is Hogan. Copy loud and clear."

"Harv, there's been an accident over in the Cirque. Stand by to relay."

"Copy that. Standing by."

The woman had recovered enough to speak, with pauses for breath. "There were climbers on the ridge between Wolf's Head and Pingora. . . Lightning strike. . . There's a woman dead on the top . . . her husband was rapping and fell about a hundred feet. He broke some bones, bad shape."