We wake to a slightly hazy but otherwise beautiful day. I pack before leaving my tent, but I am in no hurry. Our second fuel canister sputters its last spurt, making just enough boiling water for coffee. Our conservative third fuel canister is not needed, but just barely. It is grab bag morning. Anything yet to be eaten is free game – Pop-tarts, granola, Fritos, cheese. It does not have to make sense, it just has to provide calories. I produce my last daily constitutional, a clean record – one for every day. Kevin, who apparently has been keeping track, makes his final report – he had the most, I had the last, and Brian had the biggest. We hear coyotes howling in the distance. They are telling us something, we just don’t know what.

We join the trail with only four and a half miles to go. It is mostly a gentle downward slope, matching our emotions leaving this wilderness. On the trail out we are reminded we are not the only ones who uses it. A covey of grouse wanders down the trail ahead of us They are only slightly concerned by our presence. Later we stop to consider a very clear set of bear prints that enter the trail, head in our same direction, then exit. We have been following plenty of shoe prints, and these bear prints are clearly on top. They are very recent, probably from last night or this morning. We remind ourselves that our junior ranger had said he has never seen a bear in any of his three summers in the Sawtooth. Apparently he needs to pay a bit more attention. Pushing on we come to a long eared hare in the middle of the trail, munching on a pile of hay-like horse poop. I said, “Oh little buddy that’s gross.” More concerning to me was Kevin’s response: “Oh come on, we’ve all been there, desperate for something to eat.” We push on in awkward silence.

As if part of our last rites, we have one final river crossing with cold water rushing over our feet and calfs. Gradually the car comes into view. As we approach, we wonder about the blueberry muffin trash we left in the car. Could the bear, whose prints we saw earlier this morning, have ripped off the rental cars door to reach its sugary goodness? As we approach, we are pleased the answer is no. Apparently even the bear has muffin standards, and Walmart’s blueberry did not make the cut.

We drive to the Kirkham Natural Hot Springs where a week’s worth of dirt, sweat and stink is washed away in the emerald pools and moss dripping waterfalls. We stop in Idaho City for a quick BBQ lunch. I have a tri-tip sandwich with a side of macaroni and cheese, which they do not even claim to be the best. We drive on to the hotel in Boise for formal showers, gear repacking and eventually a pizza dinner, compliments of John and Tony. Tomorrow we will fly home to our regularly scheduled programming.

With an all downhill day, we take our time packing and breakfasting. Today is coffee, Nido powered milk, and two types of granola – chocolate and vanilla. John takes his rod and casts a few times. We secretly fear he will catch more fish. No one wants to clean them for breakfast. Luckily, John has enough bites to entertain, but nothing requiring a commitment.

We saddle up and head towards our first planned break at Benedict Lake. Somewhere along the way Brian startles a grouse onto a low tree branch. We are kind of startled ourselves that the grouse seems so content at eye level and within arms reach. He certainly has more confidence in his camouflage feathers than we do. Benedict Lake is pretty but we are becoming jaded. Ho-hum, another gorgeous Sawtooth lake. 

We push on towards Smith Falls. The terrain varies from loose rock, steep rock, and smooth dirt. There is one thing all this terrain has in common, it is downhill, and Brian is tiring of it. We set Elk Lake as our late lunch goal. It is a pretty little lake, but the reedy shore make water access impractical. We are certainly glad we camped at Rock Slide Lake and not here. We stuff ourselves with things on Wasa crackers. I have peanut butter, Yarlsberg cheese and slices of salami. Brian and Kevin also have a can of sardines.

As we push on towards Taylor Springs, Brian is suffering. We stop on the trail and Brian treats his ails with Leukotape and Advil. I climb down a bank and soak my shirt in the river. We see very few people on this trail – just one solo hiker and one couple. I ask the couple about Taylor Springs. They had no idea, even though according to the map they passed right by it. They mention they are heading to Elk Lake to camp, which tells us something about their judgement. We finally find the spring, which is an impressive amount of water pouring out of a giant pile of rocks. We are not sure how they missed this. The water blends into the already well-flowing river. I can see further up along the shore, below a huge Jeffery Pine, what seems like a large flat dirt spot. The trail takes us away from the river but eventually back enough to find a social trail. The side trail leads us to a beautiful camp on a big lazy turn in the river.

Brian plops down and focuses on filtering water. He remains there most of the evening. I start the stove for dinner while Kevin shuttles water between us. We have tortilla soup with a huge bag of Fritos. John is the first in the river, followed quickly by Kevin and then me. We gladly give the river our dirt and sweat. In return it gives us relief and refreshment. We pitch our tents as ominous dark clouds roll in. We each consider the possibility of rain. John continues to cowboy camp, and I stick with my rainfly-less tent. I fall asleep under swooping bats and cloud-shrouded stars. I hope I do not wake to rain and regret.

I wake before the sun, then pack and break down my tent. It is going to be a long day, so breakfast is easy, Pop-tarts and instant coffee. We stick Lara bars in our pockets to help through the climbs. We are on the trail by 7:30 am, not exactly a blistering start. As we climb, views of the jagged saw-like ridge near Cramer point makes it all worth while. We hike through vast talus fields with extremely well-groomed switchbacks. Kevin and Brian are up ahead. I want pictures, so I have to to beg them to stop. It is clear photographs will not do this justice, but we pose, smile, and take them anyway.

We rest on the saddle then head down the other side. The views back are far less spectacular. Clockwise is clearly the right direction to loop. We easily find Hidden Lake and wonder about its name. Along its shore, a parade of fish taunted us, but we keep moving. We are heading towards Virginia and Edna lakes.

On the way we speak to guy a carrying a fishing rod. We ask which lakes offer the best fishing. Without hesitation he says, “Bull.” This is interesting news. I had studied the lakes before coming, but I am not familiar with that one. I inquire further and he pulls out a map to show me. After studying the map he says, “Oh, I meant Vernon.” The confusion is understandable, with Bull and Vernon sharing so many consonants and vowels. Latter we meet three fishermen and ask them the same question. They also reply “Vernon,” but provide credibility establishing additional details. “The lake has 15 inch-ers,” one said. “They are biting mostly on black rooster tails, but not so much on the shinny spinners,” another one adds.  We try to hide our shame of caring only Mepps shinny spinners. Remaining optimistic, we set our sights on lunch at Vernon Lake. We are so excited about all the lunkers we are bound to catch, that we start considering changes to our route. Maybe we need to spend more time there?

When we arrive at Vernon, Brian and I quickly throw our shinny Mepps spinners all along the shore, while the others rest. Granted noon is a terrible time to fish, but sadly we only see one large trout. I practically rake it with my lure, but it shows no interest. We are beginning to understand why he called Vernon, Bull. Skunked, we decide to keep our original plan and press on towards Rock Slide Lake. Between us and our goal, however, are several more passes to several more lakes. We pass Ardeth, Spangler, and eventually Igenborg.

Now over our final pass, we crush down to Rock Slide Lake. The lake is small but cozy, with rock islands and great rock shelves. Kevin races to get his rod and within minutes has a fish. It does not fight as much as expected, but it is our first decent sized one. I quickly follow up with two more, though we all agreed Kevin’s is slightly larger. (Oh the things fathers do to make their sons feel good.) Tony manages to get one on his line, but loses it pulling it on shore. Frankly, with all the couscous and Daniel’s freeze dried asparagus, broccoli and cauliflower, three decent fish were more than we could manage. Brian cleans all the fish, while I light the stove for our veggies and couscous. I also light the silly pie pan fire for our fish. Kevin cooks the foil-wrapped fish which turn out wonderful. This time we have way more than 6 small bites to share.

I wake at dawn to perform my daily constitutional. This one is so clean I could reuse the paper, but I won’t. This morning we are slow getting around. I boil water for coffee. Brian drinks multiple cups, hoping to jump start his own constitutional movement. Eventually Brian declares himself ready and wonders off in to the woods. Upon return he announces he has set a new volume record. His only disappointment is that he did not have his camera to prove it.

With plenty of new room in our systems, we rehydrate hash browns, peppers and onions. I make a packet of country gravy, and Brian tears up an 11-slice package of precooked bacon. In a big pot we heat up the mixed hash, which we enjoy smothered with gravy. Brian declares this his new favorite meal .

After packing we join the trail at a lazy 9:00 am. Our first task is humping it up the switch backs out of Baron Lake. We temporarily level out at Upper Baron Lake and then climb up the steep pass. At the saddle we rest admiring the layered lakes below. We push over and down to Alpine Lake for a promising fishing break. Actually, I fish while everyone else breaks. I wet my line all along the shore until eventually giving up. Fishing midday is not productive. We push down a long switchback towards the trail split to Redfish Lake. We soak our hats and shirts at each little stream crossing.

At the trail split we find a ranger sitting on the ground. He is much older and larger than our junior ranger. He seems very official besides his full-sized shovel. Without rising, he inquires of our plans and reminds us of the rules, in particular the fire pan or fire blanket. Brian asks if he has ever seen someone actually use a fire blanket. He smiles and says, “No, most people just don’t have fires or make illegal ground fires.” While chatting with us about regulations, two permit-less girls approach with a dog illegally off leash. The ranger points out that the permit they do not posses explains the leash they also lack. Rangers here seem to know a lot about rules, except how to enforce them. The girls simply smile and say, “Sorry.”  He smiles back and says, “No problem.” We begin to wonder why we are carrying our stupid fire pie pan if all we have to say is, “Oops, sorry.”

We begin our long up towards Cramer Lake. For lunch we have tuna and cheese wraps on the side of the trail. We arrive at camp by 2:30 pm. Brian is ecstatic to find a waterfall between Upper and Middle Cramer Lakes. His excitement reveals his childlike enthusiasm. It also reveals that he ignores the itineraries and pictures I provide before each trip. Kevin, Brian and Tony swim out to the falls for a refreshing shower.

I set up my rod and started fishing. There are plenty of fish, but nothing is biting. Brian and I hike up to Upper Cramer Lake where I have better luck. I catch four cutthroat, but release all but the biggest one. Brian tries fishing from a log, which he thought was held stable by the ground. He quickly realizes it is not, and that he is not a particularly talented log roller. Within just a few rolls, into the lake he goes. For dinner we had spaghetti and meatballs followed with a trout cleaned by Brian and cooked by me over my pocket rocket stove. We boil water and consume hot drinks fighting off dehydration. Tomorrow will again be a tough day in both milage and elevation.

As I wake I notice things are surprisingly damp. Maybe I should have used that rain fly. I pack up the things in my tent: sleeping quilt, inflatable pad, clothes, and gear. I set them outside my tent, then I climb out. It reminds me of being on the Pacific Crest Trail, when maximum efficiency was a habit. I would never leave a tent and then get back in it… that would be crazy. With headlamp on head, I head out for my daily constitutional. I achieve good results requiring little paperwork. We have a big day today both in miles and elevation. Breakfast is a quick coffee with Bagel Thins and cream cheese. The first seven and a half miles are all downhill, losing about 3,000 feet of elevation. Not to worry, we will earn that all back later in the day.

As we walk I notice Pika chirping everywhere. Yesterday I heard their calls but could not see them or get any video. Today the Pika are so numerous and tame John finally tells Brian he should just pick one up. Brian appropriately declines. Our junior ranger’s story of pine martens jogs John’s memory. He recalls crazy videos showing how vicious they can be. He describes them attacking and blooding foxes and breaking the spines of cute little rabbits. With that context, I am very excited when I see one flitting around a log. I am certain we are about to capture something viral. My imagination runs wild, but the pine marten runs even wilder. It is too fast for my video skills. Brian and Kevin further undermined me by suggesting it is not a pine marten, but simply a quick black squirrel. I know a long slender weasel when I see one, and I am pretty sure I am seeing two more: Brian and Kevin.

As we continue down the trail, it varies from talus rocks with wide-open vistas, to short spurts of brush-enclosed tunnels. We make good time plowing down, but dread the 3,000 foot re-climb ahead. Brian and Kevin take a significant lead, while the rest of us struggle in misery. We stop at a stream to soak our shirts and make hummus and cheese pita sandwiches. Brian and Kevin spend most of that time arguing about the proper consistency of reconstituted freeze dried hummus – Brian voting for soggy, Kevin leaning towards play-dough. We press on.

Although there is tons of water in the Sawtooth, we find ourselves uncomfortably hot and running low. Kevin, who is well ahead, finds a place where he can scramble down a steep embankment to a creek. He leaves his pack on the trail, takes a water filter and a couple of empty bottles, and ventures off to become our hero. I arrive at his pack and realize what he is doing. I pull up my CalTopo map and also realize that not too far ahead the trail makes its way around and very close to the water. It is possible the trail will be near yet too high above the water, but not probable. Feeling like a horrible ingrate, I hike on to where the trail and water meet. I sit with my feet in the water while I filter several bottles in comfort. I should feel guilty leaving my son, but the cool water rushing over my toes washes that feeling away. I forget all about my poor son who is now somewhere down an embankment trying to save his family.

We eventually make it to camp by 5pm. We do not set any time records, but there is plenty of time to fish Baron Lake. I catch a borderline legal sized fish, which swallowed the lure so hard it is clearly not going to recover. We keep it to have with our bean and cheese burritos. Brian cleans and prepares the fish, and I build a ridiculous fire in a pie pan. Ironically, I position the pan in the middle of a huge illegal fire ring, which the pie pan requirement was designed to prevent. Silly. The fish provides us six measly bites, but tons of good laughs and ribbings. Ben, our newly met rock climbing camp-neighbor from Salt Lake City, has one of the bites. Tomorrow should be a shorter day with only eight plus miles and 2,000 feet of elevation. We hope to have more time for fishing.

We wake to the dawning light, then quickly have coffee, apples, and Brian’s crappy Walmart blueberry muffins. We attend our last seating at the pit toilet and top off our water bottles (at the water faucet not the pit toilet). I quickly move the car to the last remaining trailhead parking space and fill out our walkup wilderness permit. At the trailhead we meet two groups doing the Sawtooth Loop. One is going counterclockwise and one clockwise (our route). A woman from the other group agrees to take our picture, and then we begin.

Years earlier this area from Grandjean to Sawtooth Lake had suffered a significant fire. I dread the hot exposed treeless grind. The first half is surprisingly pleasant. There are way more water crossing than we expected. The last part, however, lives up to expectations. We overcome our misery consuming Gardettos, Costco Korean BBQ jerky, and Costco dried organic mangos. We also munched from a massive 2-pound bag of peanut M&M’s. Cresting the saddle, we arrive at the classic Sawtooth Lake vista. We snap a few pictures of the emerald blue lake which reminds us of a mini Lake Tahoe. Although the lighting is not ideal, the grandeur is indeed grand. We then hustle down a long traverse across and above the north shore, to a campsite near the lakes outlet. We rest, setup camp, and go fishing.

When I pull my collapsable rod and spinning reel out of its plastic bag, it is an absolute mess. The line is all tangled in the gears under the reel. Brian is fishing, and I am cursing. Kevin, Brian, and I each brought a collapsable rod and reel. We had debated brining a fourth, in the event something goes terribly wrong. Because of the extra weight and bulk, we ruled against it. I am now regretting the outcome of that debate. I take the reel apart, hoping not to lose any critical parts in the dirt or the lake, and begin untangling and cutting the line. Brian’s luck is not much better than mine. Nothing is biting, except for an underwater log. Brian works hard to retrieve his snagged Mepps lure. Striking out with fish, we resort to our Trader Joe’s Indian curries and rice. They are good but also heavy, so we usually eat them on the first night.

A young park ranger, perhaps too young to be out here alone, stops by to check on our permit and chat.  Based on his appearance, we are tempted to ask if he actually completed all his junior ranger passport stamps, but instead we ask about the best places to fish. He responds that he doesn’t fish, so he doesn’t know. We talk about the animals that we might encounter. He seems confused between the chipmunks and the golden mantled ground squirrels. He mentions recently seeing a pine marten, which has us excited, but not quite sure if he means a long slender furry black mammal or some kind of tree. He eventually moves on to talk to other backpackers. We are pretty sure his backpack is full of crayons and construction paper.

On this trip, I am testing my new Motorola Defy Satellite Link, a blue tooth hot spot which allows me to text from my cell phone through geostationary satellites to my wife. As long as I point it in the general direction of south, it appears to be working. Brian and Kevin struggle setting up my borrowed Tarptent, but preserve, if only to hide from mosquitos. I am using my new Big Agnes Copper Spur UL2 without the rain fly. I am hoping to enjoy views of the stars. Bedtime comes early as we try to recover from our lack of sleep.

People who travel know it is not unusual to have a flight delay, a gate change, or missing luggage. Given our two and a half hour drive from the Boise airport to the Grandjean trailhead, (and our desire for a good nights sleep) we hope to avoid any of these. Alas, hope is not a strategy, and unfortunately we get all of them. While in San Jose airport, we each receive a “sorry but your flight to Boise has been delayed” text. We then receive a weird “sorry but your flight is now back on the original schedule” text. We are unsure why our airline is sorry about being on schedule. I guess they are so used to being sorry that they simply lead with it.

A gate agent then announces that the Austin and Boise flights are switching gates. Confused, we scramble to the Austin gate while the Austin passengers scramble to ours. Tony is tracking his luggage with an air tag, and strangely it remains near the original gate. Out the window Kevin and I can see our luggage being loaded on the plane. John, however, has no clue. He sheepishly admits that he checked his bag in Orange County too late to guarantee it made the flight. At this point he is simply staring at the baggage conveyor belt hoping his will appear. Then things get silly. The conveyor belt reverses and the luggage, including ours, is now being unloaded. An agent announces that the Austin and Boise flights are switching gates again. Apparently Tony’s bag could see this coming and cleverly stayed at the first gate. Confusion ensues. An agent takes to the microphone and tries to explain the craziness. “First of all, these gate changes are not anybody’s fault,” she declares. She then goes on to say that the first change was because the pilot taxied to the wrong gate. Apparently that just happens and it is nobody’s fault. She then proceeds to tell us that the ground crew put too much fuel in the plane for Boise, so they are giving it back to Austin. Now frankly I prefer my airplanes with too much fuel rather than too little, but nobody asks me. Apparently putting the wrong amount of fuel in an airplane just happens, and it too is nobody’s fault. The Austin and Boise passengers scramble again, exchanging gates and curious glances. I am pretty sure we are all being pranked. How many times will we go back and forth before we get the joke?

The eventual flight is uneventful. When we arrive in Boise, all our luggage makes the parade-like rounds on the carousel, except of course John’s. A local agent tells us his will be on a later flight, arriving at 9:30 pm. We are desperate to get to the trailhead, and suddenly find John not as popular with the group. We then go to the rental counter to pick up our pre-paid Toyota RAV4, which of course is not available. We are “upgraded” to what we are told is a larger sized Ford Escape, which might be useful if we ever receive John’s bag. Later I look up a comparison of Toyota RAV4 and Ford Escape. You guessed it, that the RAV4 has more cargo room, so our upgrade is actually a downgrade.

We kill time (rather than John) at a soul food festival in a park by the Boise State campus. There are so many food truck vendors it is difficult to choose. Since time is not an issue, Tony suggests that the best food is probably at the front of the longest line. Unfortunately it also means the best food is usually gone by time we reach that popular front. So when hunger becomes a higher priority than quality, we reroute to shorter lines. Brian and I end up with “The World’s Greatest” macaroni and cheese, which includes a blob of pulled pork. Lacking top billing, the pulled pork is apparently not the world’s greatest, but it is good enough for us. Kevin ends up with a variety of empanadas, which I did not even associate with soul food, but what do I know.

We set as our next goal a Walmart superstore for fuel canisters and last minute food items. John directs us to the wrong Walmart, a grocery store rather than superstore, which fits well with the rest of the day’s misadventures. We eventually reroute to the right Walmart and wander around. How many fuel canisters becomes the hot debate. I knew I would take grief from the boys no matter how many I choose, so I go with a conservative three. Brian selects some questionable blueberry muffins for breakfast at the trailhead.

Brian tries to make up for the muffins by directing us to a nice park on the river. We relax watching nature and kayakers until it is time to get serious. The park has everything we need: picnic tables, a bathroom, and a water faucet to top off our bottles. We sort food and pack gear, while sad pack-less John only watches. Eventually we take John back to the airport to meet up with his bag.

At last, we are on our way, driving the two and a half hours to Grandjean. We arrive after midnight. Terri and I had scouted the place on a previous trip and it was very empty. Tonight there are cars everywhere. As we squeeze past a line of parked cars half blocking the road, a guy in sleeping bag on ground frantically shines his flashlight at us. Although sleeping in the road, he apparently does not want to be run over. Although we oblige, we are exhausted and do need to crash. We eventually do, at a strangely empty campsite. We are not sure what is wrong with his site, but we take it. We cowboy camp, throwing down tarps and sleeping bags. There is suppose to be a meteor shower, but we focus on sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.