I don't post here very often, but you are the folks most likely to understand how wonderful it was for me to finally get to paddle on String and Leigh Lakes in the Tetons. Years ago, I had hiked on the Teton Crest Trail, coming out of the backcountry by crossing the bridge near the portage between the two lakes. I have always remembered how beautiful it looked, and how much I wanted to paddle there, but I never managed to get there. It didn't help that I used to live in Michigan, and the two lakes were 1000 miles away. Well, now I live near Yellowstone, and I still hadn't made it enough of a priority to get down to the Tetons to do more than look for moose. I decided this weekend was it, and got up before sunrise (not that much of a hardship at this time of year) and headed to the Tetons. It's a four to five hour drive, and after getting a campsite and a boat permit, I drove to the put in. There were all kinds of orange cones, with signs saying that the parking lot was full. Grrrr. I went in anyway, and found a spot on the periphery (legal) and parked. It didn't take too long and I was at the put in. There were a couple of canoes, a number of recreational kayaks, a couple of nice looking sea kayaks and a floatilla of stand up paddleboards. (Confession here, I was using an inflatable kayak.) I plopped into my boat and pushed off into String Lake. It's a sort of long (mile and a half maybe) lake, that's not too wide. It has a few squirms in it, so it's sort of a very lazy s shape. I started out to the left, and puttered along the shore, working my way to the (not very) far shore. It was beautiful. There's a wall of mountain rising up from the water. That's what's so wonderful about the Tetons--they just are. They aren't preceded by hills and then bigger hills and then even bigger hills, they zip right from valley floor to 10,000 feet, more or less. The water was crystal, with a nice sandy/gritty bottom, sprinkled with some dead trees here and there. On the far side of the lake was a trail. I could see it. It looked like a little fisherman's trail, fairly near the water, until I saw some people. They were teeny. That was a wall of mountain, with a trail a goodly ways from the water, and the people looked quite small on it. There weren't many trees right across from the put in, and the vegetation was the mauve of fall blueberry plants and the yellow of, well, I don't know what. It looked beautiful.
I paddled around the lake, and it started to sprinkle. Then rain. I paddled back to the shore and got out and waited for it to stop. It did. I got back in, and ten minutes later, it was raining again. Oh well.
I paddled up the lake. It got wider and then narrower. There were areas with what I think is wild rice, which flows in the current. There were downed trees and living trees and it reminded me so much of where I lived in Michigan and could count on seeinng greenery around the lakes and rivers. I paddled between a couple off rocks, and promptly found myself on a rock. A little wiggling, and I was free. Inspecting that rock as I went by, it had some red on it. Canoe red, I believe.
I paddled and explored the shores and paddled and smiled. It felt good to be bobbing on the water. It was nice to be able to see the bottom of the lake, and to see trees and underbrush. And, whenever I looked up, there were towering mountains. They provided a billion calories of eye candy, AND protection from the wind. It's amazing how much wind a 10,000 foot mountain can block. Once I got around the second corner, there weren't many people. I spoke to those that were nearby, but there were only a few. I continued to paddle gently, and quietly. I had brought a wooden paddle, and I was enjoying the warmth and flex. It's nice to have good tools.
I got to the end of the lake and was looking for the portage to Leigh Lake. I could see the bridge that crossed between the two lakes, but no portage. Finally, just at the edge of the end of the "rapids," there was a portage sign. I got out, and lifted my boat to my shoulder and started up the trail. It wasn't much of an incline, but after a bit, it was enough to make me huff and puff a bit. I got to the other end--150 yards?-- and put down my boat at the top of a flight of stairs. OK, I'm not proud. I grabbed the handle and pulled the boat down the stairs. If I wear it out, I get to buy a new one, right?
Leigh Lake was much larger, and brighter (the trees weren't blocking the light). I got in and paddled around a small island, following the shore. It reminded me so much of Lake Superior Provinicial Park, except the trees were wrong. You might think that the Tetons looming in the background would be different, too, but from the angle I was at, I didn't really see them. In the distance, far to the north, I think there were some Absarokas, but between the smoke and the distance, they weren't all that visible. I paddled and paddled and started to look for my first campsite. There, was a small beach, with what looked to be a prettty robust (4season) tent. The color was ugly as sin, but that thing looked like it could weather a typhoon. I paddled up to it, and then noticed that the kitchen area was a little beyond, and was occupied. I waved, and we talked for a minute or two and I continued on. The next campsite wasn't occupied, but it looked stunning. The landing beach was not the high point, but the area looked magnificent. I paddled by slowly, and then came to the end of that peninsula, and rounded a corner to be at the base of Mount Moran. At least I think it was the base of Mount Moran. And there was a huge fissure in the mountain, which I believe was Paintbrush Canyon. It was right across the bay. It was beautiful. It was dressed in its fall finery. I sat and bobbed in my little boat with my jaw dropped. I was very happy.
Eventually I turned and headed back. A canoe had arrived at the first campsite, which hadn't been there before. It was an aluminum canoe. I started canoeing when I was a kid, in a used aluminum canoe my dad bought from a canoe livery. It was probably a hundred years old then. I can still feel the gritty, icky feel of the aluminum, and hear and feel the "thunk" as I hit the canoe paddle (a horrible K-mart Feather paddle) on the side. But that's where today's trip came from... paddling that with my dad.
I decided to cross the lake, and see if I could see any other sites. It turned out that they were behind me. I explored the shore, though. Three SUPers entered the lake from the portage. One was rather loud, explaining to at least on of the others about the merits of this kind of an architecthture degree vs. that type of an architecture degree. I didn't really care. I was greatly entertained when I looked over and saw one fall into the lake. (It wasn't the talker, the talking never ceased.) In a split second, I saw the splash, then a "Ehhhhh!" By the time the "Ehhhhh!" had finished, the paddler had scrambled back onto the board. He paddled from his knees from then on. Architecture 101 continued without pause.
I came back to the portage, got out, and dragged my kayak back up the steps. A man offered to help, which was very kind, but it was my adventure, and I didn't need to burden someone else. I stopped at the top to breathe, then picked up the boat and hauled it back to String Lake. I much preferred String Lake. It was small and more intimate. I got back in my boat, and launched and immediately went back to exploring the edges of the shore and the bottom. I talked to more boaters. I watched a local couple go through a shallow section, thinking they would know the best, most water-filled route. Just as I was about to commit to their route, they got out of their boats and started pulling them to deeper water. I was lucky. I didn't have to get out going either direction. It was shallow, but not so shallow that I ground to a halt.
I was careful going by the rock where I had hung up the first time. I went to the right, and noticed a raft with three people aiming straight for shore. They were looking at something--a cow elk. Then I noticed another one in the woods. It's rut for elk, and I hoped to hear some bugling, and eventually I did. I didn't see a bull elk around the lake, but I did hear one bugle 4-5 times.
I'd been out for 4 hours. My shoulders were aware that I had hardly paddled all year, and that I'd carried my boat from the car to the put in, and twice on the portage. I didn't want to go yet, though. I lingered around the back side of the lake, and then where it hooks around, and finally turned back--slowly-- toward the put in. I landed. It had been a 4.5 hour paddle, for which I'd driven 5 hours. I'll replay it in my head until I can repeat it.
I paddled around the lake, and it started to sprinkle. Then rain. I paddled back to the shore and got out and waited for it to stop. It did. I got back in, and ten minutes later, it was raining again. Oh well.
I paddled up the lake. It got wider and then narrower. There were areas with what I think is wild rice, which flows in the current. There were downed trees and living trees and it reminded me so much of where I lived in Michigan and could count on seeinng greenery around the lakes and rivers. I paddled between a couple off rocks, and promptly found myself on a rock. A little wiggling, and I was free. Inspecting that rock as I went by, it had some red on it. Canoe red, I believe.
I paddled and explored the shores and paddled and smiled. It felt good to be bobbing on the water. It was nice to be able to see the bottom of the lake, and to see trees and underbrush. And, whenever I looked up, there were towering mountains. They provided a billion calories of eye candy, AND protection from the wind. It's amazing how much wind a 10,000 foot mountain can block. Once I got around the second corner, there weren't many people. I spoke to those that were nearby, but there were only a few. I continued to paddle gently, and quietly. I had brought a wooden paddle, and I was enjoying the warmth and flex. It's nice to have good tools.
I got to the end of the lake and was looking for the portage to Leigh Lake. I could see the bridge that crossed between the two lakes, but no portage. Finally, just at the edge of the end of the "rapids," there was a portage sign. I got out, and lifted my boat to my shoulder and started up the trail. It wasn't much of an incline, but after a bit, it was enough to make me huff and puff a bit. I got to the other end--150 yards?-- and put down my boat at the top of a flight of stairs. OK, I'm not proud. I grabbed the handle and pulled the boat down the stairs. If I wear it out, I get to buy a new one, right?
Leigh Lake was much larger, and brighter (the trees weren't blocking the light). I got in and paddled around a small island, following the shore. It reminded me so much of Lake Superior Provinicial Park, except the trees were wrong. You might think that the Tetons looming in the background would be different, too, but from the angle I was at, I didn't really see them. In the distance, far to the north, I think there were some Absarokas, but between the smoke and the distance, they weren't all that visible. I paddled and paddled and started to look for my first campsite. There, was a small beach, with what looked to be a prettty robust (4season) tent. The color was ugly as sin, but that thing looked like it could weather a typhoon. I paddled up to it, and then noticed that the kitchen area was a little beyond, and was occupied. I waved, and we talked for a minute or two and I continued on. The next campsite wasn't occupied, but it looked stunning. The landing beach was not the high point, but the area looked magnificent. I paddled by slowly, and then came to the end of that peninsula, and rounded a corner to be at the base of Mount Moran. At least I think it was the base of Mount Moran. And there was a huge fissure in the mountain, which I believe was Paintbrush Canyon. It was right across the bay. It was beautiful. It was dressed in its fall finery. I sat and bobbed in my little boat with my jaw dropped. I was very happy.
Eventually I turned and headed back. A canoe had arrived at the first campsite, which hadn't been there before. It was an aluminum canoe. I started canoeing when I was a kid, in a used aluminum canoe my dad bought from a canoe livery. It was probably a hundred years old then. I can still feel the gritty, icky feel of the aluminum, and hear and feel the "thunk" as I hit the canoe paddle (a horrible K-mart Feather paddle) on the side. But that's where today's trip came from... paddling that with my dad.
I decided to cross the lake, and see if I could see any other sites. It turned out that they were behind me. I explored the shore, though. Three SUPers entered the lake from the portage. One was rather loud, explaining to at least on of the others about the merits of this kind of an architecthture degree vs. that type of an architecture degree. I didn't really care. I was greatly entertained when I looked over and saw one fall into the lake. (It wasn't the talker, the talking never ceased.) In a split second, I saw the splash, then a "Ehhhhh!" By the time the "Ehhhhh!" had finished, the paddler had scrambled back onto the board. He paddled from his knees from then on. Architecture 101 continued without pause.
I came back to the portage, got out, and dragged my kayak back up the steps. A man offered to help, which was very kind, but it was my adventure, and I didn't need to burden someone else. I stopped at the top to breathe, then picked up the boat and hauled it back to String Lake. I much preferred String Lake. It was small and more intimate. I got back in my boat, and launched and immediately went back to exploring the edges of the shore and the bottom. I talked to more boaters. I watched a local couple go through a shallow section, thinking they would know the best, most water-filled route. Just as I was about to commit to their route, they got out of their boats and started pulling them to deeper water. I was lucky. I didn't have to get out going either direction. It was shallow, but not so shallow that I ground to a halt.
I was careful going by the rock where I had hung up the first time. I went to the right, and noticed a raft with three people aiming straight for shore. They were looking at something--a cow elk. Then I noticed another one in the woods. It's rut for elk, and I hoped to hear some bugling, and eventually I did. I didn't see a bull elk around the lake, but I did hear one bugle 4-5 times.
I'd been out for 4 hours. My shoulders were aware that I had hardly paddled all year, and that I'd carried my boat from the car to the put in, and twice on the portage. I didn't want to go yet, though. I lingered around the back side of the lake, and then where it hooks around, and finally turned back--slowly-- toward the put in. I landed. It had been a 4.5 hour paddle, for which I'd driven 5 hours. I'll replay it in my head until I can repeat it.