Remembering a fall in the mountains

The death of an Illinois man caught my attention last week. Chase Shott, 26, died in a fall near Mystic Lake in the Beartooth Mountains.

It was one of those “There, but for the grace of God goes me,” moments.

I took a fall there years ago.

It was early October 1973 and I was working for Hiland Guide Service in Cooke City as a cook and wrangler. My friend Bill Butler was guiding a hunter who’d drawn a sheep tag, and the three of us backpacked in to a spike camp at the far end of Mystic Lake.

There wasn’t much to do in camp so I tagged along on the first day of the hunt. At dawn we crossed the creek and began climbing the slopes of Mt. Wood.

The weather was unsettled, light rain and snow mixed with occasional sunshine. It was just cold enough to require gloves, but I’d left mine in camp.

I didn’t have the best gear back then. I was wearing an old trench coat over a down vest, and had my hands stuffed in the pockets to keep them warm. We were above timberline walking on granite when I slipped.

With my hands in the pockets of the trench coat I couldn’t catch myself, went down hard on the wet rock, and started sliding.

We weren’t on the edge of a precipice or a cliff, but it was steep nonetheless, and it took me some effort to stop the slide.

My elbows were skinned up a bit and my jeans were ripped, however, I was more embarrassed than hurt.

Bill and the hunter asked if I was okay. I said I was fine, pretended it didn’t hurt, and continued the climb.

We woke the next morning in camp to a foot of snow on the tents and more on the way. Bill and the hunter quickly packed up and headed for the trailhead, planning to try another area. I secured the camp and carried out what I could.

A few days later I returned with horses. My fall and the onset of winter cast a pall on the trip. I was spooked. I had planned to spend the night, but instead pulled camp as fast as I could and headed back to the trailhead that afternoon.

I’ve never returned. Although it’s spectacular country in good weather, I remember it best as a cold, slick and foreboding place.

Until reading about Shott’s death, I hadn’t thought about it in years.

Parker Heinlein is [email protected]