Into the Wilderness in Yellowstone: Heart Lake & Mt. Sheridan

The unexpected lessons of the wild, and why we take our teenager backpacking.

When I asked young George where he wanted to go for our family wilderness trip this summer, he asked for “a mountain and a lake”. Mission accepted! I simply knew we needed to go to Heart Lake, a beautiful, large backcountry lake deep in the Yellowstone wilderness, resting in the shadow of 10,313 foot Mt. Sheridan in the Red Mountains.

In all the years we’ve been taking young George into the backcountry we have gone to great lengths to avoid mosquito season. Because let’s be honest – dealing with the mosquito-land suffer-fest in high bug season is hard enough to manage on your own, much less trying to keep a small child from full scale meltdown.

So this family trip to Heart Lake, 8 miles into the Yellowstone backcountry, is an initiation of sorts for young George; he’s old enough now to carry himself and his own gear, to hike many miles with a full pack, and to learn how to survive mosquitos.

By the time we hit the trailhead, it’s early afternoon, and starting to rain. Mom and Dad are happy, young George…is…skeptical…Look at that face! LOL. As if our enthusiasm will make him happy about something he’s not too thrilled about….

It’s not long before young George asks for a head net and zips his raingear up tight to protect from the hordes. To his credit, he doesn’t complain overmuch, though I know he’s not exactly having fun...

To be fair, young George is a great backcountry traveler, and generally thrives in the woods. He has been venturing into the wilds with us since before he was born; including canoeing along the remote Yellowstone Lake when I was 7 months pregnant. There isn’t a single year of his life when he hasn’t spent several nights in wilderness. Still, I’m pretty sure if I’d given him the choice this morning to stay home with his friends, his volleyball, and his iPhone, the wilderness would not have been the first choice.

Why I Take Our Teenager Backpacking

As we put our heads down to the business of hiking—at a pace just fast enough to keep the bugs at bay—I remind myself (again) why we make our teenager come out here with us, even when he’s not exactly thrilled about it.

I want him to know what it feels like to have to work together to pitch a tent in the wind, or wrestle with the tangled cord of a bug net while mosquitos swarm your face. I want him to know how to draw on his inner resources; to be soaked and cold (or hot and bug bitten) and keep going anyway, to figure out how to stay comfortable using whatever you’ve carried on your back, and to adapt when things don’t go according to plan.

Out here, life is simple, distilled down to what really matters. There’s no such thing as decision fatigue; you just do the next thing—put on the extra layer, eat the food you’ve got, keep walking. You discover you’re capable of more than you thought. You learn that sometimes the inconvenient choice—like stopping to wrestle on your rain gear when you’d rather power through—is actually the smartest one.

I want him to learn that discomfort isn’t something to be avoided at all costs—that it’s often the challenging, uncomfortable and decidedly un-fun parts that make small pleasures—like the breeze at the top, or a field of stunning wildflowers—feel like not just like magic; but the very essence of life itself. And maybe—just maybe—that's the kind of lesson that sticks long after the trip is over.

I brush a bloody mosquito off the back of my hand as I dictate my thoughts into the notes app on my phone. Will I feel the lessons of the buggy backcountry were worth it 4 days from now? We shall see.

First Views of Heart Lake

A few hours down the trail we emerge from the mosquito-infested woods to the upper Heart Lake geyser basin, and a spectacular view of the lake far below. There’s a blissful breeze, and Young George pulls off his head net and exclaims at how beautiful the green is. “That’s pretty cool isn’t it?” I say. He admits under his breath “yeah, that’s pretty cool.”

Suddenly, it’s like the world opens up – he starts noticing ferns along the trail, starts taking pictures – immersed in the moment instead of the feeling of being miserable. I can’t help but smile and enjoy the moment while it lasts.

If I’m being honest, 8 miles with a full pack feels like a lot for me at this point in the season. I’ve been hiking, of course, but the first time on the trail with a backpack is always a bit of a shock to the system. But as we start to descend towards the lake, a steady breeze picks up, cooling my skin and giving me a reprieve from the “sanguiniverous satan bugs” as big George calls them. I’ll take it.

As we wind through trees, meadows, and thermal features towards the lake, the air smells like soap, or laundry detergent, or (big George says) sweetgrass. We come around the bend and find a huge patch of snowbrush, which we’ve only seen in late summer when it smells like vanilla cigars in the hot sun. The blooms are pungent; I feel like I buried my face in clean sheets.

A couple more miles and we collapse on the shore of the lake for a break about a half mile before camp. Young George turns to me and says “this is pretty much exactly what I wanted!” My mother’s heart rejoices; I am a planner at heart and love creating experiences for others. It’s all the thanks I need.

Hiking Mt. Sheridan

As we start on the trail the next morning, the smell of the vegetation in the spruce fur forest is divine, the path decorated with columbine, lupine, geranium, parsnip and Indian paintbrush. A momma ruffed grouse we encounter collapses into theatrics in the trail, hoping to lure us away from her young by making us believe she is injured. We tiptoe around, giving her a wide berth. Just as I am nearly past her, she pops up and rushes at me, hissing like a snake, scaring the living heck out of me! I nearly jump out of my skin. Whoa, momma, we’re moving on!

We wind our way through wildflower laden switchbacks, the fire tower on the peak visible impossibly high above. In front of us, young George is fully in his element, dropping to the trail to get a photo of lupine and the lake, exclaiming “this is so cool!”. Big George looks at me over his shoulder and we both grin.

The wisdom of the trail…whether you like it or not.

A little over a mile mile in, I realize something is not well with my body. Wrong enough that I realize I’m not going to be able to push through it. I’m usually able to challenge myself and keep going, even if the trail is difficult, but there’s something in my body that tells me that it won’t be pushed today. I send the George’s ahead to climb at their pace, telling them not to wait for me; young George really wants to climb the mountain. I would love nothing more than for him to get to that peak (and I’ve climbed it before).

I tell myself if I can make it to the ridge line and the trees there, I’ll be okay with that. So I work my way up the switchbacks, one painfully slow step at a time, anxiety rising as my thoughts swirl, worrying about what the hell is wrong with me.

The dream I had had of my mom last night, or rather the nightmare, resurfaces as I walk. Her brain was already lost to Alzheimers, but she was not yet bedridden. I just sat next to her, my hands on her cheeks, crying and crying and telling her how much I missed her, knowing she had no memory of who I was, feeling this deep, soul crushing outpouring of grief and a desperate need for her to understand.

The dream shifted and suddenly she had fallen down the stairs, and I was screaming to Young George to call 911 over and over and over but my throat was cinched closed and I couldn’t get any air or words out. I finally woke, gasping, to the soft sounds of my family breathing in the tent. I laid awake for a long time after that.

I lumber my way though another switchback, breathing heavy, and wondering if there’s a message in the dream. I’ve only dreamt of my mother one other time; she appeared in a waking daydream on my 200 mile hike home through the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness, smiling and waving at me, filling me with a sense of rightness. Not so this time. Was the dream really about my mom? Is it about missing her? About my grief? Is it a message? Is she telling me that there is something actually wrong with me?

Whatever this is I just let it come. And it sucks. Instead of ignoring the pain and the grief and the panic, I let it happen because it needs to work its way out one way or the other. And if I don’t let it out now, it will fester and rot. So. I drop my pack on the middle of the trail and flop down in the meager shade beneath a fledgling lodgepole pine and sob. “I miss you, mom,” I whisper to the mountain, to the lake below.

That’s part of the gift of the wilderness for me. It strips you down to who you are and what’s present. Gives you the messages you need, whether you want to hear them or not. I’m older and softer and (let’s face it) wider now. Strength isn’t always in powering through. Perhaps that’s the lesson I need to learn right now. My body has a different idea of what was possible or needed today. And I try to be okay with that.

I gain the ridge line, and find a fir tree to nestle beneath, with views of both Yellowstone Lake and Heart Lake. I lay on the soft needles and feel the wind on my cheek and smell the pines and listen to the birds and let my body sink into the soft embrace of the mountain.

An hour or so later, I hear voices from above, and here come my “boys”, bright and happy from their ascent. “Momma!!!!!!” young George exclaims, and their happiness to see me lifts my spirits. All feels right with the world.

We spend the evening on the lakeshore under the portable bug net (an essential piece of our backcountry survival gear), laughing and teasing and playing tin whistle and watching geese and mergansers and scaup. I admire the clouds across the lake, and get a small painting in.

Sometime in the deep night an elk alarm barks, and we hear splashing in the water. Big George and I whisper in the tent, wondering what drama is unfolding in the dark.

We wake our last morning to a world blanketed in fog- young George’s favorite kind of weather.

All thoughts of packing and departing early for our 8 mile hike goes out the window as I grab my bear spray and phone camera to wander among the fog and flowers. I know the moment is fleeting and take advantage of it, ducking under mist laden spider webs erected in the night.

With each photo I inhale deeply, pulling the moist cool air into my lungs, all the tension leaving my body. There is nothing but right here right now. I witness. And am grateful.

The hike out is sunny and beautiful, and young George fairly bounces down the trail, spotting a rubber boa snake, as long as big George’s arm. It’s the largest we’ve ever seen.

I spot a couple of griz tracks on the way out, which in my book makes the trip complete. Any trail we share with bears is a good one!

Thanks for following along this journey with me!

Jenny

P.S. If you’re interested in joining me for a guided, reflective, backcountry experience in Yellowstone National Park—designed especially for women in midlife and beyond who are ready to reconnect with themselves and explore what they want next—then you’re invited to join the Wilder Women’s Backpacking Journey in Yellowstone this September. I have one space left. Find more details here.

P.P.S. You can follow along virtually on stories of other Yellowstone backcountry adventures, on the A Yellowstone Life blog.