THE SUN BEATS down and sweat drips off our heads as we unload rented llamas from a borrowed trailer on the west side of Wyoming’s Wind River Range. Dust puffs off the llamas’ coats and sticks to everything: our packs, our tents, and our rod tubes.
Our luggage is spread in front of us on tarps, reflecting the luxury we hope pack animals afford. The two-burner stove, rollable table, marinated frozen elk steaks, and hammock feel more suitable for a backyard BBQ than a backcountry camping trip. Why not? we figure. Llamas can carry 75 pounds each. We have four, and seven people. Dehydrated meals, handleless toothbrushes, and Jetboils are for backpackers. We can bring whatever we want. Until we can’t.
As my husband, Josh, and our friend, fisheries biologist Nick Walrath, play gear roulette among the panniers, we quickly realize the extra 300 pounds of capacity only go so far. We make hard choices (elk steaks, snack bag, and solar shower stay; the stupidly large mosquito canopy goes), then decide we’ll also just carry our packs instead of strapping those to the llamas too. We’re at 7,300 feet, where water and air are cooler than in the lower-elevation town we came from. But the day is warming up. We have three girls between the ages of 5 and 8, two young dogs, plus a third who’s old enough that we’re hoping she can keep up. It’s noon. We have fish to catch.
Seven miles and 1,500 feet later, we pop out of the Boulder Canyon Trail, wondering if herding children, dogs, and four affable but occasionally impatient llamas into such country was really a good idea. But then we see Lake Ethel, a glacial relic nestled among granite boulders lined with bug-producing grass and lush willows.
“Fish are rising,” Nick says as he unloads llamas. It’s almost dark, no one has eaten, and tents need setting up. We won’t be fishing tonight. But we’re here, and they’re hungry.