Bull Lake Single Push Onsight | July 2023

“Heyyyyy bear!” Ben slapped his paddle against the boat sitting on his shoulder. It was two in the morning and were making as much noise as possible as we walked down the trail in the dark, hoping to make any bears in the nearby vicinity aware of our presence and hopefully too intimidated by our boisterous voices to contemplate having a middle of the night snack of two very haggard kayakers. Still, our pace picked up in this theoretically bear infested section before Ben stopped suddenly and checked the downloaded map on his phone. “Shit, we’re somehow on the Continental Divide Trail, we’re gonna have to backtrack”. There wasn’t much to say at that point. We turned around and walked back through the bear den before reconnecting with the correct route that would take us over the pass and into Bull Lake Creek. 

It is often hard for me to pinpoint when precisely a dream becomes a goal. The Bull Lake single push onsight was no exception, and inspiration for this mission was drawn from a diverse spectrum of characters and experiences. For me, the biggest inspiration was Ben himself, and the numerous endurance kayaking trips--- FKT Middle Kings, speed run down the Grand Canyon-- that he had already completed over the last decade. Bull lake was his idea, and I just felt lucky to have somehow been included. Beyond these couple of legendary Team Beer trips (and a few others) the inspiration, method and tactics for this kind of trip began to feel outside of the domain of the kayaking community. We searched for wisdom in other avenues of outdoor adventure. The aspirations we had for Bull Lake-- to hike through the night, onsight the river, and do the whole thing in one continuous push-- aligned with the alpinist ideology of light and fast. The legendary Marc-Andre Leclerc is someone Ben and I both admire very much, not only because of his tactics and commitment to the light and fast style of elite alpinism, but his approach and attitude towards climbing in general. For us, he epitomized the dark horse path, completing legendary climbs in good style without feeling any need to broadcast his achievements. Ben and I wanted Bull Lake to be an experience we could be proud of in tactics, style and execution. 

Bull Lake Creek runs through the heart of the Wind River Range in Wyoming. Its headwaters originate along the continental divide and flow in north, northeast, east, and southeast directions  before the water eventually reaches the Gulf of Mexico. First run in 2002, the whitewater section of Bull Lake requires a 22 mile hike with 4500 feet of elevation gain topping out over 12,000 foot Hay Pass before cascading down the other side 5200 feet over 22 miles of river, finishing with an 8 mile paddle out across Bull Lake Reservoir. Ben and I estimated that the river has been done somewhere in the ballpark of 15-20 times over the last 20 years, most groups taking 4-5 days and the infamous Team Wiener knocking it out in 3 days a couple years ago.

I think if I had really sat with these logistics prior to committing to this trip I would have had a bit more hesitancy. Thankfully, blind zealousness to go on a trip with my kayaking hero left me woefully ignorant to everything this mission would entail, and I rallied from California to Landor to meet Ben with the naive enthusiasm of a farm town girl just getting off the bus in the big city ready to make her dreams of show business a reality. 

We began hiking at 5:15pm with the intention of getting to the river before sunrise. About 100 yards down the trail I realized I had forgotten my puffy coat, the one concession Ben and I had agreed upon when formulating our light and fast no bivy program. Unfortunately, our shuttle driver was already gone; we shrugged, chuckled darkly and kept moving. The first several hours flew by. The trail was good and the gradient mellow. I did my best to keep up with Ben as my music left me to contemplate some deep epistemological questions such as “if Gucci Mane got so much money, why he robbing?”. After several hours we stopped for a quick bite of food and dug our headlamps out of our drybags. The sunset was beautiful. Just as the day gave way to the night the trail began to ascend up the mountainside more quickly. We switched our headlamps on and my world shrunk to the beam of light in front of me and the kayak resting on my shoulder. 

The miles began to stack up as we journeyed deeper into the night. We switched which shoulder the kayak rested on every couple minutes, never setting it down and instead using a shrug technique to move the kayak while still walking. Over the last several years I have had some kayakers make fun of me for using this technique, asserting that it seemed an unnecessary commitment to efficiency to not set down your kayak as your shoulder tires. However, it was essential for an endeavor of this magnitude and I was grateful for all the preparation. 

Around midnight our kayaks were starting to feel heavy. Deadfall littered the trail; we were continuously climbing up and around logs. Ben suggested we take a break from hiking and instead paddle along an alpine lake that paralleled the trail for a mile of two. I readily agreed. On the lake we switched our headlamps off, the nearly full moon providing adequate light. Stars danced above us as we slowly paddled across the lake, savoring the brief change in routine. The mountains that surrounded us were illuminated by the moon and perfectly reflected in the stillness of the lake. For the first time, the magnitude of this adventure hit me. I felt a deep sense of gratitude to be in this place with Ben, attempting something that had never been done and whose scope felt similar to the types of legendary pushes I grew up reading about and hearing in quiet conversations around campfires. I felt like we were on the verge of something special. 

This elation was extinguished with an efficiency only possible by the experience of putting a kayak back on your shoulder and then walking in the wrong direction. Whether or not the eyes we saw lurking just beyond the trail were those of a bear, I remember thinking in that moment that going toe to toe with a grizzly in life or death combat would elevate this mission to being archetypically way too much for me. Our detour probably only cost us 10 minutes but it felt like a lot more. As we ascended higher into the Winds, the trail became more obscure. We relied on Gaia and Ben’s intuition to guide us. We trudged through a long marsh, hopping over small streams in an attempt to keep our shoes dry before finally making it to the base of Hay’s pass. Our dreams of making it to the river with ample time to take a nice nap before sunrise were looking less and less likely. This hike was no joke and the two mile per hour pace that had seemed downright easy a couple of hours ago now felt like something that could only be achieved by elite level long distance runners, or at least people without the burden of kayaks. 

I bonked hard at the top of the pass. I kept pulling my phone out every couple minutes to see how far away we were from the pin I had marked as the high point of our journey and was repeatedly disgusted by how far away it still was. Our shoulder switches became more and more frequent as our shoulders tired and we stumbled through the darkness. Finally, we arrived at the top of Hay’s Pass and began the steep descent down the other side to Bull Lake Creek. The trail was hard to keep track of, especially in the dark. We went too low, had to climb a little and traverse to get back to the trail. We made our put in-- which was unique in that it was an alpine lake with a small trickle falling out the other side, connecting it to subsequent lakes downstream-- almost exactly 11 and a half hours from when we began. The darkness felt less heavy but the sun had yet to touch any of the surrounding landscape. Ben and I hugged and then curled up into two little balls and fell asleep. 

I awoke after a wonderful 20 whole minutes of rest and was freezing. I thought longingly of my puffy coat, resting in the top of my bag in the Landor park--a universe away. Teeth chattering, I began to pull on my drysuit as Ben stirred. We each had brought 2 sausage egg and cheese McMuffins, imagining a wonderful gourmet breakfast of Mcdonalds and cold instant coffee to kick off the kayaking portion of our journey. However, two bites in it became abundantly clear that my stomach was not happy and I called it quits. We put on the rest of our gear quickly and took our first strokes on Bull Lake shortly after sunrise. 

The river began with beautiful granite lakes divided by what can only be described as classic rocky mountain mank. There was very little water and we did our best to not get stuck. We moved efficiently, portaging and paddling across small lakes. Shortly after putting on we reached our first massive cascade of the trip. Ben, always an excellent student of the river, had spent lots of time gathering beta and scouring satellite imagery before our trip. His knowledge was invaluable as we quickly got out on river left and began portaging. We were dismayed to see the deadfall we encountered on the trail extended to the Bull Lake watershed and we were forced to hop up and over fallen logs. Once we were back in our boats, the river went from bad to terrible. Braided channels rendered the river too low to float and we were constantly in and out of our boats, dragging our kayaks as we walked down the riverbed. The gradient was concentrated in several unrunnable slides, most of which landed on rocks and were littered with trees. Finally, we reached another, longer lake where we were able to indulge in the sensation of putting our entire paddle blade in the water. 

At the end of this lake, I bonked hard again. Ben and I had been periodically doing “vibe checks” with one another, checking in about how the other person was feeling. On this particular vibe check, I recall saying something really eloquent along the lines of “I feel like absolute shit”. We stopped for a moment as our journey converted from a lake back to a river and I forced down some food and electrolytes. Like a magic potion, I felt my energy rapidly return. I would continue to relearn this lesson over the next 17 or so hours: whenever I felt bad, it was probably because I didn’t eat. The river stayed poor in quality. We portaged another large gorge, this one slightly more runnable but not quite in alignment with our priorities for the experience, which were, in descending order of importance, safety, efficiency, fun (fun would eventually be cut from this roster due to concerns over it inhibiting the success of the other two and opposing forces including, but not limited to: no sleep, lots of hiking and caloric deficiency). 

After approximately 4 hours of mank bashing and portaging, we finally made it to the North and subsequent South Fork Bull Lake confluences, where we picked up flow and the good whitewater was rumored to begin. Here, we took the only real break of the river running portion of our trip. Ben ate a meat stick in honor of our good friend Bernie, who had brought countless mini spicy Slim Jims on our trip to Pakistan a couple of years prior. We were a bit disheartened by our progress; we had done a fraction of the gradient and mileage and it had taken us far longer than we anticipated. However, properly fueled by gas station meat we climbed back into our boats and began reaping the rewards of the last 16 hours of effort. Fun boulder gardens were punctuated by the occasional wood portage, the aforementioned deadfall continuing its adversarial role in our quest. Ben and I fell into a familiar routine of probing, scouting and relaying beta. The whitewater was good, especially considering how the river had begun, and none of the drops in this section were big enough that we both needed to scout. Despite the fatigue, we were having fun and at moments it felt like just another fun day of paddling with a good friend in a beautiful place. We encountered several more slides, drops and portages before arriving at “Norway drop”, a big multi-tiered slide. I was exhausted but as we walked down the shore to scout I turned to Ben and said “well, it looks too good to not run”. He nodded and we got back in our boats. I peeled out first and felt the fatigue drain away. I was overtaken by a bizarre sense of familiarity in the sensation of dropping into a big rapid. I moved through the entrance slightly middle to left and plugged the entrance hole, continuing to move left as I was resurfacing and skipping through the final ramp into the eddy. A small smile touched my lips as I turned to watch Ben. He ended up a bit more middle but blew through the bottom hole no problem. On the whole not a bad performance for two guys operating on 20 minutes of sleep. 

Shortly downstream we arrived at the infamous Jim Bridger Portage. In what now felt like classic Bull Lake fashion, the river steepened at a rate that was too much for a Colorado dad (Ben) and a history teacher (me) to contemplate paddling. We began boulder hopping, doing our best to find the path of least resistance. I wasn’t very helpful in the tactical component. My brain felt like molasses and I resigned to doing what I do best-- following Ben and trying to not slow him down too much. Luckily, 20+ years of river travel (and more than his fair share of heinous portages) allowed Ben to crush the route finding and we put back in after the first leg of the portage with minimal issues. A brief flatwater stretch was all that separated us and the second half of the portage. We were under the impression that this part would be shorter, and beta from subsequent descents said to “put back in when it looks reasonable”. In the state we were in, it took quite a long time for the whitewater to look reasonable and we portaged an even longer section of river than the first part of Jim Bridger. Back at river level, we had another vibe check. I can’t remember exactly what I said about how I was feeling but I remember there being some expletives and the overarching theme being negative. Exhaustion was really starting to set in and I felt irrationally upset about the physicality and viciousness of the river. These emotions were compounded by a self-assessment that I was being a bad partner; in the moment I was confident that I was too soft, too slow and was barely holding it together. I articulated some of this to Ben. He gave me a hug and assured me that we were on the path for success, together.

He then proceeded to completely grab the reins and probe several long stretches of steep boulder gardens. With each boof, heavily infused with Ben’s support, I felt my confidence and psyche return. At one point we looked across the river and saw a massive bull elk, the biggest animal I have ever seen in person. The creature was meandering up the bank, seemingly completely at peace in the rugged river canyon. 

The gradient picked up, and we portaged a couple of stout rapids, putting back in and routing some more fun read and run. The final major portage, Bull Lake falls, dropped somewhere in the ballpark of 400-500 vertical feet, necessitating a large boulder-filled walking experience. Near the beginning of the portage, Ben slipped and fell softly to a seated position. He sat there for a moment, kayak still resting on his shoulder, before looking up and asserting softly “I am really tired”. The river was asking a lot of us. 

We scrambled over more boulders before putting back in and running some quality mank/boogie. Eventually the gradient began to ease up and we made easy downstream progress. I plugged every class 3 hole, too tired to take a real boof stroke except when absolutely essential. Several more engaging portages and rapids later, the reality that we had made it began to set in. The gradient stopped and we drifted through braided channels, surrounded by massive cliffs illuminated red in the late afternoon light. Ben and I hugged and chatted about everything and nothing as we rounded the last couple of bends before the lake. If I had ever felt more relieved, satiated and grateful to be at the end of a river, I have no recollection of it. 

At the beginning of the 8 mile lake paddle, we took our longest break of the trip, (30 whole minutes!) stripping off our drysuits and indulging in candy and spliffs. We began the final chapter of our journey just as the sun was setting, the lake calm as the sun set over the canyon. Watching the sun set two consecutive times without sleeping was a new experience for me. I savored the uniqueness of the mission we had cultivated. The full moon illuminated the lake and in my delirious state of exhaustion the water shimmered and moved psychedelically. I thought I saw something swimming just below the surface, the small rational part of my brain knowing that it was probably time to get some sleep. In what somehow felt like a very long time and no time at all, we were at the boat ramp and, as immediate as the extinguishing of a flame, this dream turned goal, turned mission, turned sufferfest, then vision quest of the highest caliber, was over. 

Even several weeks out from Bull Lake, the feeling of accomplishment still burns bright within me. I am proud of the way we executed our vision, our commitment to safety and one another. The specific moments are already fragmented in my mind. What has really stuck with me was the myriad of emotions-- the repeated cycles of crashing, finding a way to keep moving, and moments of joy and psych. I have never pushed so hard or had to dig so deep. The next day, Ben texted me and said “that was one of the most incredible experiences of my life. I feel like we went to battle with one of the final bosses in the kayaking video game. Going to take a while to process that.” It's been a while, but I still have not fully processed the experience. I feel humbled by the power and remoteness of that river canyon. I feel eternally grateful for Ben, the mentorship he has given me that allowed us to tap into an experience like that together, and the opportunity to go beyond the mental and physical domain I am comfortable operating in. For now, that seems like enough. 

Bull lake Single Push Onsight: 

Time: 26.5 hours trailhead to lake paddle, 30 hours car to car 

Miles hiked: 22 

Miles kayaked/portaged: 30 

Ascent: 4250 ft

Descent: 5200 ft