Granite Hot Springs

We settled on a hike down the Granite Creek trail in the Gros Ventre, about 20 miles southeast of Jackson, followed by a soak in the natural hot spring—which had been built into a pool by the CCC in 1933—at the trailhead. With a 6-12 pack of beer each, we headed south. But less than a mile into the wilderness, stomping through six inches of snow at times, we called a halt for a tall boy of Budweiser. We stood in a circle nursing our brews in the cold, shooting the breeze with snowballs, in a small clearing, a recently fallen tree blocking the path. Hearing the trudge of footprints, some of us turned to see an old man break the tree line, a locked and loaded shotgun cradled in his arms. As he approached, he broke the gun and slowed his pace, stopping when he reached the circle of life.

The wrinkles on his face which were as countless as the grains of sand on a beach stood in contrast to the long, gangly hairs on his chin which were so distinguishable, you could count them on a few hands. Hair grew sporadically under his 101st Airborne hat which was perched precariously on his angular head. Though slightly hunched, he still moved with the dexterity of a wily cat, and he greeted us with an energetic howdy. He had no permit, he informed us, but didn’t give a damn—he was on a trip of nostalgia, in search of small game, such as wood grouse and the most dangerous animal in the wood—gotta watch out for squirrels… they always go straight for the nuts, he pointed out with a hearty chortle.

Twenty years ago, along with his friend, Pike, he had hunted and bagged a mountain goat on a rocky precipice deep in the same canyon, carrying the animal out on his back. Arriving at the hot spring exhausted, he and his friend had hopped the fence to the pool and swum in the nude. Now, he carried an extra box of shells because, I ain’t negotiatin’ with no bears. Refusing the last of the tall boys, despite a professed love for Budweiser, he continued down the path.

We caught up to the old man around some young black bear tracks—take a gander at those round boot-prints left by some fella, he said with a chortle—but we stopped to give him more space. We didn’t see him again until after we’d heard two shots break the silence several miles down trail. At this point, we had scaled a small bluff to survey our surroundings before turning back for the hot spring. Emerging from the North, he called up that he’d missed the wood grouse he’d fired at. We skinned down the snowy bluff and quickly passed him in our haste for beer and warmth.

We passed dinner-plate sized moose prints and tracks of deer, rabbits, and man-eating squirrels, as we hustled back to the $6/person hot springs, our feet too wet for us to care where we stepped. Having seen the signs decrying the use of alcohol within the confines of the pool, we retreated to our rigs for a few drinks and to decide our next course of action. We were hungry and cold and only a few of the six of us had cash—was it worth it to go for the hot spring? After standing around, letting our wet feet get colder, the answer became obvious—let’s bring a case of beer to the hot spring.

Changing quickly in the sparse bathhouse, we retired to the natural warmth of the pool, sipping on our cold brews. Shortly, a portly man with cargo shorts and an unkempt beard came bustling over to tell us what we already knew: sorry, guys, no drinking allowed here, there are tables outside of the fence where you can drink.

Oh sorry, we can just pour them out.

No, no, don’t pour them out! Better to chug ‘em, than waste ‘em, I always say. I’ll look the other way! 

And look away he did, before another client ambled over to offer the services of an empty thermos to more surreptitiously imbibe.

pc: Leo Naegele