The November sunshine and warmth tricked me and Tyler into attempting a trail ride but the freeze-thaw resulted in greasy thick mud. It was nice enough to run though, so I rallied Cy and Patrick for a run up Taylor with the option of continuing on to Moose Creek.
The morning was cold and the ground was hardened in the shape of hikers' boots braving yesterday's mud. We pushed up to the ridge, reaching snowline and stomping steps into the suncrust. At the summit the Tetons jutted up to our north, the Palisades spread to the south, the Gros Ventre loomed impressive across Jackson Hole, the Big Holes rippled brown over Teton Valley.
|Stoked dogs and snow on the Taylor ridge|
Pic courtesy of Patrick
I kept us moving toward the idea of a trail and we finally (sort of) found it, a worn-in ribbon through the trees, primitive and plagued by blowdowns. At the bottom of the drainage it got willow-thick and moosey, then we abruptly popped out on the horses' muddy highway, Moose Creek Trail, and ran back to the shuttle car.
I am now happy to store my shoes away. I have done some really incredible runs this season and was fortunate to find a running buddy who does not appear to have the word "No" in his vocabulary. I ran through and over mountains, more for experience than exercise. I chased sunlight down the slopes of the Village, looked at the Grand from every angle, posed for pictures on summits, flushed moose from meadows, bushwhacked through bullshit, glided on ridgelines, stood in alpine lakes, and absorbed the unbelievable beauty of this range.
Days of miracle and wonder, indeed.