We were just finishing dinner (while constantly scanning the neighboring ridges and meadows for bears) when a flash pierced the sky, followed a few seconds later by rumbling thunder. Dark, ominous clouds raced our way from over the water. We hastily hung our food bags from the nearest "bear pole"—the stout wooden posts at most designated campsites which are lashed in the trees above even the reach of a big Griz--and made a dash for the tents, barely beating the rain that came lashing down. Huddling inside our respective nylon shelters, we watched the unfolding action. A rising wind whipped the lake into a maelstrom of heaving waves and water-spumes. Amazingly, however, the black clouds scudded east as quickly as they'd come. In their place was a blood red sky that boded well for the morning. As predicted, there was a perfectly clear, star-filled ceiling when we crawled out of the tents at 5:30 the next morning. We were up early to make the 16-mile round trip to the top of 10,683-foot Colter Peak. For the first two miles or so we followed a maintained hiking trail, but then veered off into the fire-singed forest, working toward a GPS waypoint due east. Bushwhacking one moment, treading along an elk path the next, we scrambled over logs, across gullies, and thrashed up and down loose scree slopes. After six hours we finally were on the peak, savoring the spectacular, hard-won view. To the south of our eagle's perch were the looping channels of the Yellowstone River and the broad Thoroughfare Valley through which it flows. Earning its name from early trappers and explorers, the Thoroughfare was a convenient natural passageway from Yellowstone Lake to Jackson Hole. Now this southeast corner of Yellowstone is the least-visited section of the park. Looking east, the Absaroka Range, rough and jagged as a row of bayonets, stretched far into the horizon, while the spectacular ice- and snow-covered Grand Teton spires glistened 45 miles to the southwest. And, of course, the sprawling blue expanse of Yellowstone Lake dominated all to the northwest. The lake's arms, fingers, and thumbs were clearly defined, almost as if we were gazing down on a colossal relief map. It was an unspoiled view not so different from what the peak's namesake, the Lewis and Clark expedition's scout John Colter, would have seen if he'd scrambled up the peak 200 years earlier. The following day our destination was the South Arm, the next inlet to the west, separated from the Southeast Arm by a ridge of land called The Promontory. Our next campsite was a push--14 miles away by boat, but only if we made the direct, shorter crossing of the Southeast Arm's four-mile base, a risky proposition given the turbulent weather. Fortunately, mild conditions held while we made the big passage and before long, paddling like fiends, we were cruising past Promontory Point's pebble-and-rock beach. Around noon, we were rewarded for our efforts when we slipped into the South Arm. Eight miles long and three wide, the arm is big enough to be a large lake on its own. It was time to pull in our paddles and relax.
Drifting in the translucent water, we admired the mosaic of boulders on the sloping lake bottom. We tossed a weighted line overboard and measured visibility at 35 feet or more. This was one of those special days that make humans heap praise on the lake's special nature. In 1871, F.V. Hayden, leader of expeditions to Yellowstone in the late 1800s, described the lake as "a vast sheet of quiet water, of a most delicate ultramarine hue, one of the most beautiful scenes I have ever beheld. Such a vision is worth a lifetime." Studies indicate that Yellowstone Lake's water is still nearly as pristine as when Hayden visited 135 years ago. But pure as the lake's water may be, the ecosystem has undergone changes. Roads were built in the early 1900s along the North and West Thumb shores and two lakeside lodges and mini-tourist communities sprung up, gobbling up prime wildlife habitat. Even fishing had its effect. In 1994 non-native lake trout were discovered in Yellowstone Lake, evidently released there by anglers eager to have a new quarry. The problem is that the lake trout prey on native cutthroat trout-to the tune of 40 or 50 of the smaller fish per year. Cutthroat populations have plummeted. At one counting station, cutthroat numbers dropped from 2,300 in 1999 to zero in 2005. On the eastern shore, where 70,000 spawning cutthroat were counted in the late 1970s, only 917 were spotted in 2006, the lowest number since record keeping began in 1945. The Park Service's solution? There is, of course, no limit on the number of lake trout anglers can take home, but the park has also been gill netting the invaders—killing over 200,000 of the fish since 1998. Above the surface, motorboats are a problem-at least to silence-loving paddlers. Motors are allowed on 95 percent of the lake. The use of motorized craft seemed an incongruity in a world-class national park supposed to "maintain its wilderness integrity." Later in the season, however (after Labor Day weekend), motorboat use drops off significantly and paddlers are almost assured greater solitude. Thus far we had seen only a half-dozen stinkpots, and those were mostly from afar. After a night spent partway down the South Arm, we paddled into its southernmost reaches. At this point the nearest road lay 16 miles away, separated by Chicken Ridge and some distant mountains. We pitched tents on the Arm's east side, near the mouth of Chipmunk Creek. An evening of wildlife watching began with a herd of 23 elk and a solitary, humpbacked bison coming into view across the stream. Our viewing time was cut short, though, as the wind began to rustle, gust, then turn into a full-blown gale. The lake, serene a few minutes ago, churned into whitecaps and swells. By mid-morning, temps were 45 degrees and dropping. We forced ourselves out of the tents and into the boats. The 12-mile paddle to Flat Mountain Arm became an exhilarating ride with the wind at our backs. We found ourselves surfing the lake's infamous waves, our heavily loaded kayaks riding high and proud. Our campsite was well-protected in the green, unburned forest. We had our gear unloaded in record time and hot water boiling for freeze-dried dinners. As we ate, the clouds settled and began spitting light snow. When we peered out of our tents the next morning, five inches of the white stuff had accumulated. Bundling up in every piece of clothing we had, we made the unanimous decision to break camp and leave Flat Mountain Arm a day early and make our way back towards the trip's end-still a two-day paddle away. Knocking the snow off our boats, we slipped them into the water. The heavy mist on the lake basin was lifting in patches, revealing evidence of the recent storm. Long, drooping icicles hung like crystal chandeliers from the shoreline driftwood. Beams of sunlight punched through holes in the ragged clouds, spotlighting the splendor of this fall-colored wilderness suddenly turned white. If You Go: LARRY RICE is a contributing editor for Canoe & Kayak. He has toured by kayak in such faraway locales as Greenland, Patagonia, and the Antarctic Peninsula, as well as places closer to his home base in Buena Vista, Colorado.
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