Day 109, north of Indian Pass Trail to Green River

We were hiking by 6:15 a.m. As of late yesterday, we were hiking again on the CDT, which follows the Highline Trail through this part of Wind River Range.

Thunder didn't rumble much after that first loud outburst. The rain continued to hold off as well, though that didn't last for long. In the meantime, the clouds hung low on the surrounding mountains. Seeing this told me to expect a wet morning.

Just 15 minutes farther down the trail, I could see rain falling ahead of me. I was already wearing my rain gear and kept walking. It wasn't a heavy downpour, but it was steady when it started to fall on me.

The ground was dotted with thousands of exposed rocks, boulders, and granite outcroppings. Surprisingly, though, the trail was mostly clear of rocks. The trail drained well and didn't puddle much.

Fremont Creek cuts a zigzag path across the Winds, tying together several lakes. The lake upstream from the bridge is called Island Lake. This is one of the Winds' most popular camping areas because of the surrounding beauty.

There's no direct access to it from the Highline Trail. It can be reached from the Indian Pass Trail. Some maps identify it as the Indian Basin Trail.

When I stood on the bridge and looked upstream, the lake was almost in view. The mountains on the other side were completely obscured by clouds that hung so low they almost touched the water.

It turned out that blue sky was only seen in one direction. Dark and foreboding clouds were found in every other direction I looked.

Although I would have preferred to be here in clear weather, the stormy conditions contributed an extra touch of drama to the scenery.

Twenty-five minutes after I first noticed the patch of blue sky, I saw more ahead in the direction of Bow Mountain (13,020 feet) and Mount Arrowhead (12,972 feet).

I was now more hopeful the chance of rain had ended.

Three miles into the day, I walked past Lower Jean Lake. It was one of the many lakes strung together by Fremont Creek. As you might expect, there was also an Upper Jean Lake, which was 150 feet higher in elevation and about a mile away.

The trail followed Fremont Creak from the lower lake to the upper. Here, the creek was a small, rocky stream that was easy to hop across in the one place where that was necessary.

Upper Jean Lake was surrounded on three sides by a ridge. The trail side of the lake was a grassy field filled with wildflowers like rosy paintbrush, one of the many varieties of Indian paintbrush.

Subalpine fleabane were also scattered in the field.

For most of the day, the trail traversed over much rockier ground than what I saw by the lake. It showed clear signs of how the land was scraped and carved by ancient glaciers. Many of the rocks were worn down to rounded shapes.

We were now climbing to just above 11,000 feet above sea level. Thanks to the elevation and the ground of mostly solid granite, trees didn't stand a chance of living here.

The blue sky gaps in the clouds began to disappear by 11 a.m. My hopes of no more rain went with them.

The CDT/Highline Trail made a sharp elbow turn to the left at the junction with the Shannon Pass Trail. This appeared just beyond the high point of today's trail section.

Neither Top O' nor I had been walking fast today. Some of that was due to the weather, including a stop to remove rain gear. The sky now looked like we would soon need to put that gear back on.

The clouds overhead looked even darker as I headed down toward Elbow Lake and several ponds. Glover Peak (12,045 feet) stood ahead. It was named after a local forest ranger who worked here in the early part of the 20th century.

The trail was making a wide bend to go around two other mountains, Sky Pilot Peak (12,129 feet) and Mount Oeneis (12,232 feet).

I stopped to talk to a CDT hiker going south. His name was Yard Goat, and he told me he started northbound from New Mexico, then flipped to Montana to hike south. That plan got interrupted by the fire closure on the Montana/Idaho state line, and he decided to skip around that. He figured he will probably have to finish his hike next year.

Soon after stopping for lunch, we continued on the trail, climbing toward Summit Lake. When I turned to look back, I could see what appeared to be heavy rain. It was in a canyon behind me. I couldn't tell for sure but didn't think it was heading toward me.

Continuing north, I arrived at Summit Lake, which was on a broad, treeless expanse between mountains near Green River Pass. When author Colin Fletcher was age 67, he walked this same way past the lake on a stormy day that was much like today. He wasn't on a hike to Canada, however.

Fletcher was starting on a journey that would go the entire length of the Colorado River from its source.

In his research before beginning his audacious trip, he discovered the Colorado's source was the Green River, and its source was actually somewhere above here near Knapsack Col. That was a problem. He had given himself six months to make the trip and wanted to be through the Grand Canyon by November. If he waited until the snow and ice melted at the source, he would be too late in the season to complete the 1,700-mile distance in his allotted time.

That didn't sit well with Fletcher. If you've read any of his books, such as his memoir The Man Who Walked Through Time or his masterwork The Complete Walker, you know he was particular about everything.

"I therefore decided to accept as 'my' source a small, unnamed lake at the head of Trail Creek, four straight-line miles from Knapsack Col," he wrote. Then he added, "Naturally, I disliked even this minor fudge."

Fletcher documented his long and remarkable journey in River: One Man's Journey Down the Colorado, Source to Sea.

"But the lake lies only 150 vertical feet lower than Peak Lake; and Trail Creek is barely two miles shorter than the master stream, which it soon joins," Fletcher wrote. "Besides, there was something about the lie of the land on the map-perhaps the way Trail Creek formed a logical, straight-line extension of the main river that made it seem the right kind of place to start."

I crested Green River Pass and walked past where Fletcher began his long journey.

It was here that I realized I was about to get soaking wet. The trail and the creek descended to a canyon, and as I looked ahead I saw a heavy downpour. There was also thunder to warn me I was walking into a storm.

This view gave me just enough time to put on my rain gear. As soon as I finished zipping my jacket, the storm was upon me.

Thunder rumbled a couple more times as I entered the canyon. I didn't see any accompanying lightning, but I was still glad to be descending to where I would soon be less exposed.

Two miles beyond Green River Pass, the trail passed where the Knapsack Col Alternate reconnected with the CDT and Highline Trail. Seeing this, I remembered my disappointment yesterday after we decided against going that way. After today's stormy weather, I no longer felt that way.

I caught up to Top O' when he stopped to talk to a personable northbound hiker named Hollywood. I knew without asking that his trail name came from his likable demeanor and the California-hip way he looked.

As soon as Hollywood left, I figured we'd never see him again because he was young and walked quickly.

The trail took us across Trail Creek near its confluence with the Green River. I didn't bother trying to find rocks to hop over the stream. My feet were already wet.

Colin Fletcher didn't try to paddle down this creek, and that was wise. The stream was much too rocky to attempt that. He continued walking about 25 miles downstream before reaching where his raft was provisioned to start paddling.

Jagged mountains towered over us in the canyon, but I didn't see much of them. I mostly looked down to keep the rain out of my face. When I looked up, there wasn't always much to see. Trees often blocked views. If mountains were visible, they were barely so because they were wrapped in low clouds.

It seemed as if the clouds were stuck to the mountains, much like dryer lint sticking to a wool coat.

I'm sure some of the mountains were spectacular to look at. Many were well above 12,000 feet tall. Still, this was a time to keep my head down and push on until we decided we'd gone far enough for today.

The trail descended with a series of switchbacks, and that's where I got my first view of the Green River, I suddenly realized how it got that name. The water was green!

Or at least that's what immediately came to my mind. When I researched this later I learned historians aren't certain of the name's origin. Spanish and Mexican explorers called it Rio Verde, which means "Green River," but it's not clear if it was used because of the water. By the time it flows through Utah and into Colorado, the water is red-brown.

It might also have been named that because it passes through green, fertile valleys. Some researchers have suggested Green was the name of a mountain man. Some Spanish explorers called it Rio de San Buenaventura, and Shoshone Indians called it Seeds-kee-dee-Agie, which was their name for prairie hen.

The rain was tapering off by 5 p.m., and now I could get better views of the surrounding mountains when there weren't too many trees in the way. Clouds still clung close below the peaks.

A bridge that looked new crossed Marten Creek, one of the Green's tributaries. After we crossed it at 6 p.m., we decided we should start looking for a campsite. This wasn't going to be easy, however, because U.S. Forest Service regulations prohibit camping closer than 200 feet from the banks of the river.

Another bridge went across the river. We noticed that where we found flat ground that might be suitable for pitching our tents, it was always too close to the river. This started to become frustrating.

Even in the damp weather, the river was beautiful. I know I would have enjoyed it more if I weren't focused so much on trying to find a campsite. I was wet and wanted to be done for the day.

The farther downstream we walked, the river appeared to take on a darker, richer shade of green. This color was different than some other tinted streams I've crossed on hikes, though the cause is the same. For instance, the Stehekin River in Washington was a deep aqua color. Kennedy Creek, also in Washington, was milky white.

The coloration is caused by the grinding forces of glaciers, which produce fine-grained silt particles called rock flour. When this gets suspended in water, the sediment is known as glacial milk. The color is determined by the minerals extracted from rocks in the glacier's grinding process, particularly calcium carbonate. In water, the minerals distort the wavelengths of light and reflect more portions of the light spectrum than others.

By 6:45 p.m., we still hadn't found a suitable place to camp. With the river on the left, we looked mostly at the right side of the trail. This was the side of a mountain slope, so it usually wasn't flat at all.

When we finally came to where the ground was flat on that side we still had no place to pitch our tents. Downed trees were everywhere. There was no space big enough for one tent, let alone two.

Even if there had been room, it would probably have been next to a dead tree. We had no desire to sleep under a dead tree in these stormy conditions.