Sawtooth Loop

Jeff Garmire

It was a Tuesday. After a week of snow in the local mountain range, the weather had turned around. My friend was in town and we both yearned to find a new, little used, loop through the wilderness. The Sawtooth Wilderness had always been something I had heard great things about, but until my girlfriend sent over a possible 70 mile route, we hadn’t even considered it. The loop had been on her bucket list for years, yet she was willing to offer it to my friend and I, instead of saving the adventure for herself. 

It was a 6 hour drive to Grand Jean Campground, and by the time we started it was 8pm and dark. Under the power of our headlamps we entered the woods, unsure how far we would go our first night. The goal was not to miss anything, but also to cover enough ground to make the next three days relatively simple. Within a mile of climbing up into the wilderness we entered a burn area. It made the decision to keep hiking easy. There is little to miss in an area so destroyed by fire. We covered 8 miles and camped under the perfect starry night sky!

The morning was cold. Nearing the middle of fall the days were short and the air was crisp. It was refreshing but added reluctance to get out of our sleeping bags. On the first day we did not start hiking until 10am, and it was still cold.

Groggy, we rounded switchbacks and finally crested above Sawtooth Lake. Immediately woken from our half asleep daze, we stared at the perfect reflection in the blue lake cradled by the granite peaks rising all around. The trail wound around the lake with a view deep into the valley housing a town and a highway below. From a phone that had not been turned off came the sound of alerts. There was phone service here, and one day after the presidential debate, my gen-Z sister was assuring I was “woke to” the extravaganza that took place. A simple reply and my phone was turned off. I was here to be present in the natural cathedral of the Sawtooth Wilderness. 

We powered through some of the duller moments of the trail, eventually connecting to Barren Lake. Here was an alpine lake split between two bodies of water (Upper and Lower) with a cascade of falls connecting the two. Another glassy surface doubled the majestic peaks that sat in front of us. As the sun set, Jon and I climbed up to a rocky outcropping with a direct view of all the water around. The peaks were jagged, like the teeth of a saw, and the lakes were glassy and clear, unspoiled by pollution or overuse.

We awoke at 8am, later than we wanted yet again, but with the nights so long and the mornings so crisp, it was unavoidable. My friend had his year of adventuring ruined by Covid-19 and his second attempt at salvaging the year burned up in the massive fires of southern California. I invited him out, he arrived and we took to hiking, finding solace in nature. 

Popping over a pass, we descended deep into a valley just as the sun climbed over the trees. That is when I heard the unmistakable sound of my name. Turning, I saw Alex, a hiker I had sat down to coffee with almost a year prior. We hiked together while my friend pushed on. Alex’s year had also been impacted by the pandemic, and he was in the wilderness area climbing, finding new ways to reach heights and limits.

I was lost in conversation, exploring all the subjects of wilderness and human powered limits. And as we conversed, we walked right by the turn I was supposed to make. A mile down the trail I finally recognized my blunder, said goodbye, and walked all the way back up to the signed intersection. It took until the early afternoon for me to catch back up to Jon. 

I reached my hiking partner on a pass with a peak looming just 500 yards higher up. “The Temple” was a perfectly constructed peak with a rock precariously balanced on the summit. I mentioned the idea of scrambling up and Jon agreed. We had no real betta, or route, but I led the way. We clambered over giant stacked rocks, scree fields, and jumped across wide cracks. It was more adventure than the trail had provided, and the perfect boost of morale. It was a side trip that was about the journey, not the summit. We snapped a few pictures and headed right back down, grabbed our packs and hiked on. 

The lakes began quickly, and in the setting sun the colors that they reflected were vibrant. The moon rose each night and lit up the landscape, casting shadows on the trees and eliminating any use for a headlamp. We spent our last night at Lake Ingeborg, passing out just as the moon rose over us.

It was a nice feeling hiking our final day to complete the 65 mile loop. It was downhill, and for the first time in 2020 we had both completed something simply for fun. We had no time pressure, no weather window to hit, and no reason to stress. It was a trip that brought back the joy of backpacking.