Jackson, Wyoming, is considered by many to be the gateway to Grand Teton National Park. That’s a fair assessment, since Highway 191 will lead you straight from the incredible tourist experience of that town, to the Moose gate at the southern end of the Park. It’s also the home of the National Elk Refuge and the Greater Yellowstone Visitor Center.
If you’re not familiar with the Elk Refuge, it’s exactly what it says it is. It’s a winter haven for the world’s largest seasonal gathering of the majestic animals and it is absolutely worth seeing the herd at least once in your lifetime. Hunting on the refuge requires a permit in addition to a general elk license, and the process and price can be confusing. Nevertheless, with the increased odds of harvesting an elk, it’s obviously a popular choice.
Now, the point behind all that is, there’s a lesser-known area accessible via Highway 191, and it’s a General License hunt area, meaning there’s no need to enter the drawing for a special permit. Here’s the best part for a poor boy like me: it’s on the migration route to the Refuge for a fairly significant portion of the elk herd.
That portion comes through the Gros Ventre (pronounced “grow-vaunt”) Wilderness, and the area is less accessible, with only one main Forest Road and a limited number of campgrounds. Factor in the fact that the migration is triggered by the weather, rather than any “internal clocks” and the odds get a bit longer when hunting in and along its mountain range. Success there depends greatly on timing. You want to be there after the migration starts and before all the elk have made it to the refuge.
Those aren’t the only factors, of course. It’s called hunting, after all, and there are a plethora of variables that have to align for a hunt to be a success. Then, of course, your chances of seeing game aren’t the only thing at the mercy of the weather in northern Wyoming. This story is about one of the times the weather affected my hunting trip with a friend.
The friend I went hunting with on this occasion (and several others) was Tom, a co-worker at Table Rock Processing Plant, located at Table Rock, Wyoming. (You won’t find the plant or the company village on the map anymore.)
Tom and I had a 4-day weekend and the wives had agreed to stay home with the kids, since this would be a “manly” excursion. As it happened, I had just purchased an awesome 1974 Jeep Cherokee Chief, and a hunting trip would be the ideal “test drive.” We loaded up and headed north after working our shift, ready to bring home the venison.
We arrived at Crystal Creek Campground fairly late and pitched camp quickly, having had an evening meal on the way. Tired from working a 12-hour shift and the drive, we didn’t bother with a fire. We crawled into our sleeping bags in Tom’s heavy canvas, round Army tent, another staple of our trips into the forest. We slept.
I woke first, with the immediate realization that a fire was going to be the first thing on the agenda. I pushed the flap back on the tent and stepped out into a world of white. As the flap closed behind me, six inches of snow on the top of the tent decided the top of my hooded head looked like a good target. My yell – which may or may not have been more of a curse – roused Tom and he stepped out shortly after.
After we’d both visited the restroom to take care of Nature’s urge, we formulated a plan. Tom would start gathering firewood and I’d get the camp stove pumped up and put the coffee on. Naturally, dry wood was pretty much nonexistent, thanks to the heavy blanket of snow, but Tom had a decent pile of damp stuff gathered fairly quickly.
While he assembled a framework of wood in the fire pit, I tried, and failed, to get a burner lit on the stove. There was enough pressure in the tank, but somehow it wasn’t reaching the burners. There’s a lesson in that, which we learned the hard way that morning.
I had used the fuel from a partially used can to fill the tank. Both the can and the tank were cold. Moisture in cold air condenses. Condensation freezes. Ice forced into small spaces, such as the inside of the generator nozzle on a camp stove, creates a solid clog. These facts were something we dealt with in our jobs, and being the intelligent men we were, we deduced that we weren’t going to get the stove lit anytime soon.
Fortunately, camping fuel ignites on wood, despite any condensation, so we had the fire lit quickly and spectacularly. Tom had less hair on his forearm and the back of the hand that had held the lighter. It was an acceptable sacrifice in exchange for warmth.
The coffee was moved to a rock by the fire, and I decided to start the Cherokee so we’d have a nice, warm ride into the hunt area. There wasn’t even an audible click when I tried the ignition. Nothing on the dashboard lit up and the lack of an overhead light confirmed no power from the battery. I pushed the snow off the hood and verified that the cables were clean and tight. A quick spark test across the terminals with a big tent stake was absolute proof that the battery was dead.
Obviously, a new plan had to be formulated, and quickly. There was a narrow stand of trees between us and the Forest Road, a bit uphill from camp and only about 20 yards or so away. Since I was the more spry individual, I was the designated runner. Tom kept the fire going, while we drank coffee and kept the chill off. When we heard a car coming down the road above us, my job was to run to the road.
I was too slow to catch the first two vehicles that passed. When the third finally came along, I gave it everything I had and leapt through the trees onto the road, waving my arms like a madman – directly into the path of a pickup. The far side of the road was a wall of rock and rubble, and the surprised driver nearly slammed sideways into that wall in the effort to keep from running me down.
I ran ahead to where the truck had slid to a stop on the gravel, and was met by the redheaded, bearded, angry face of a giant rolling down the window. The giant was not happy. He spoke one word. “WHAT?”
I don’t know if my face or my sheepish voice was the cause, but his anger dissipated into a belly laugh when I asked if he could possibly come down and give us a jump. I was relieved, but no less embarrassed. He agreed, but explained that he’d have to drive up to the next safe spot to turn around and return. I thanked him profusely and headed back down the hill.
Probably no more than 15 minutes later, my Cherokee was running again and our humongous but jovial rescuer advised us before leaving that, “You really oughta’ have your battery checked when the forecast says it’s gonna get to thirty-five below up here.” There really was no arguing with that logic, especially since we hadn’t bothered to check the forecast.
After we both warmed up in the vehicle, Tom opted to stay and keep the fire going, thaw out the stove and such, while I drove back into Jackson to buy a battery. (The nearby dot on the map named “Kelly” has no stores, to this day, although it appears to have law offices. I don’t think you’d want to be caught speeding there.) We did, eventually, set out on the hunt.
I’d like to wrap this tale up by saying the trip improved after this initial incident. As it turned out, this was only the beginning of a very memorable trip. I believe a Part 2 will be necessary.
Meanwhile, Crystal Creek Campground currently shows to be permanently closed on Google Maps. According to a US Forest Service website, however, the first 3 of 6 sites are open on a first-come, first served basis. The other 3 are still undergoing repair.
The initial cause of the damage was encroachment of the site by the Gros Ventre River and Crystal Creek, due to Spring flooding in 2017. Further damage was done by a microburst in 2022 that downed at least a couple dozen trees.
One report states that the encroachment collapsed a stretch of road above the campground next to a rocky bluff. I think I know that stretch of road. I’m willing to bet that a certain redheaded individual does, too.
