Going for a Picnic
On July 27th 2021, I completed “The Picnic,” an unofficial mountain triathlon on the Grand Teton.
The Picnic is an endurance event with the following distances:
⁃ Bike from Jackson to Jenny Lake: ~23 miles
⁃ Swim across Jenny Lake: ~1.3 miles
⁃ Run / Rock Climb to the summit of The Grand Teton: ~10 miles, ~7k of vertical
⁃ Have a picnic on the summit
⁃ Run / Hike / Climb back to the lake: another ~10 miles, descend ~7k of vertical
⁃ Swim back across Jenny Lake: ~1.3 miles
⁃ Bike back to town: ~23 miles
After training for around 6 months, I completed the event in 18 hours.
Even though training was a big part of my life, I didn’t tell many people about the goal. I didn’t want my friends forcing me to recount a failure, if things went sideways on the mountain (or in training). I also think it’s cool when people do rad things nonchalantly.
Note: I realize that posting a trip report (like this one) makes it very not-nonchalant.
I could have picked any day for my attempt because the Picnic is unofficial. There’s no sign up, or website with FAQs. Years ago, a Jackson Hole local thought “wouldn’t this be an epic challenge.” He biked to Jenny Lake, swam across, climbed the Grand Teton, then did it all in reverse, and called it “The Picnic.” He has since done other “picnics” with other natural objectives.
I picked July 27th because it was nearly a full moon, the days were long, and Jackson weather in July is generally stable. I also wanted to enjoy the month of August without training pressure.
I have no idea how many people do The Picnic. Maybe dozens each summer? If you’re an outdoorsy person in Jackson, you know people who have done it. If not, it’s rare to hear about it. On July 27th, 2021, I was the only one to attempt the challenge.
Bike 1 - 12:50am
My bike wheels started turning at 1 am as I rode under the antler arch in Jackson’s main square. When I hit the edge of town, the temperature dropped 5 or 10 degrees - enough that I contemplated turning around to get the jacket I’d left behind. Ten minutes later, I was comfortable. It wasn’t an especially cold night, except when I rode through pockets of cold air that settled in the lower points of the valley.
Only two cars (containing Carter and CJ – my support team) passed me as I biked the 23 miles to the Jenny Lake Overlook. They stopped three or four times to cheer me on. I’d see their lights a mile ahead, then I’d hear music, and finally I’d see their silhouettes as they yelled words of encouragement. The interactions were short (I didn’t slow down), but much appreciated. They danced in the headlights, played music, yelled. And I yelled back.
For the most part, the ride was dark and quiet. As I entered the park, I saw elk to my left and right. At one point, a huge buck barreled across the path 30 feet in front of me. The sounds of cranking branches, stirring brush, and hooves on pavement pierced the otherwise silent evening. For a moment, I was terrified.
Swim 1 - 2:42AM
At the Jenny Lake Overlook, I threw on a wetsuit and scrambled into the water, where Carter and CJ were waiting for me on paddle boards.
I expected to cringe as I waded in, but the water was warm - I threw Carter my thermal swimming cap 15 minutes in. For most of the 45-minute (1.3 mile) swim, I couldn’t see anything. The water was black, and so was the sky. Smoke from distant fires hovered in the air, counteracting the effects of a full moon. I paused a few times in the middle of the lake to take it in. The still lake, the glow of the moon through the smoke, my friends paddling alongside me, and the silence (only interrupted by the sound of my breathing and soft lapping water).
Fighting against my wetsuit was a new sensation. But the floatiness felt fantastic.
When I reached the boat dock on the far side of Jenny Lake, I pulled myself out of the water and focused on my body. How did I feel? I hoped the bike and swim would be a “warmup,” and they were. I changed quickly, splayed out my gear for one final check. And then started to eat. The remainder of the day would be low intensity work (so I thought), so I figured bringing on as much fuel as possible would give me the best chance of success.
At 4 am, I hugged Carter and Christian goodbye, and hugged Gavin hello (a friend who met me on the far shore and planned to climb with me). The four of us took a photo together and I was overwhelmed with gratitude. Here, on the far side of a lake, at 4 am, this dream team gave up sleep, and assembled… for me.
I’m lucky to have such great friends.
The Climb (and descent) - 4:00Am to 4:45Pm
The first few hours flew by. Gavin and I chatted easily and frequently about gear, climbing, mutual friends, mountain stories, his backpack company, the route, the plan, and more. We hustled, walking quickly uphill, and jogging downhill and along flats. We stopped a few times for water and food, and everything was going well.
Moving in the dark was nice. There was no sense of the distance we’d traveled, or the relative grade of the hill. We just moved. Up the switchbacks, though the meadow, and beyond.
As we approached the lower saddle, my body reminded me this wasn’t a normal hike. I was getting worn down. It seemed to be a combination of the early morning (I hadn’t slept the night before), the elevation, and the exercise I’d already done that morning. Usually, I’m able to take on food and drink, and recover like magic. But here, no matter what I did, I felt like garbage.
Dehydration may have contributed to the situation. I had opted to travel lighter (with less water) and fill up at springs along the way. But in hindsight, I should have carried more, without the distraction of considering water stops or rationing.
We stopped at the lower saddle, refilled water bottles, and continued. From there, we scrambled to the upper saddle. This section required one or two “climbing moves” but was mostly navigating crumbling rock and small boulder fields. It reminded me of the Disappointment Cleaver on Rainier (a scramble section of the route, that I’ve done 100 times).
Despite my comfort moving through the terrain, I still felt like shit. Gavin was kind enough to slow down, pretending to search for the best path through the rubble – but I knew he was just letting me catch my breath.
Even though we were slowing down, we still made great time. We reached the upper saddle and discussed whether we should solo the upper section (more technical and exposed) or use ropes. We opted to solo (climb without ropes). We put on harnesses just in case but didn’t end up using them.
The first couple sections were the most technical. But they were also a joy. A few short sections required 5.4 climbing moves, with 3,000 feet of exposure below my feet.
I told my mom it’s like climbing a latter on the side of a skyscraper. It’s not hard at all. Most people could do it comfortably on the ground. But… you do have to focus when the consequences are real.
After the two most exposed sections, we moved onto the chimney, another straightforward 5.4 climbing pitch with 30 to 50 feet of exposure. We lucked out on the timing – even though the Owen Spalding route is often crowded, we never got caught waiting for folks in front of us.
The final push to the summit was the best part of my day. I forgot the pain I was feeling in my body and got into the zone. I focused on the route and the view, and enjoyed myself. And then… we came to the summit and high fived. We took it in for a moment, took some pictures and turned around.
We hustled down to the repel site and took a proper rest waiting for the repel anchor (15 minutes).
We could have down climbed. But this is probably the most dangerous part of climbing, and I didn’t feel the need to challenge myself here. Gavin had also carried a rope all the way to the summit, so I figured we might as well use it.
We repelled and then moved quickly down the upper saddle.
From the lower saddle to the trailhead, we moved efficiently but not quickly. I felt great. Truly. Nothing hurt (except a blister), I had tons of energy, and I was feeling composed.
At the trailhead, I left Gavin and started to run. I thought the boat dock (where I’d enter the water again for my swim) was a mile away, so I set an aggressive running pace. The reality: the boat dock was over three miles away.
As I ran down the dusty road, backpack bouncing, I periodically slowed to check my progress on my phone’s map. I was a bit disappointed at how slowly I was moving.
I sped up my pace, threw back a few snacks, and got frustrated. “I should be there by now,” I thought, “am I on the right trail?”
I started to bonk. I had been pushing an aggressive pace. I had taken one too many shot blocks and consumed too little water. Sunscreen ran down my face, and my mouth dried.
An hour before I was thinking “this is too easy, why am I not suffering.” Well… here it was. I was suffering. You can actually see my heart rate skyrocket below.
Heart Rate, Distance, and Elivation
I got to the boat dock and met Carter (who had paddled across to meet me) and laid on the ground, on my back. I was moody, nauseous, and wanted water. I started to worry. I knew I’d finish, but I wasn’t sure if the coming hours would be enjoyable at all.
Swim 2 - 4:45pm
I drank some of the water Carter brought with her. I put on my wetsuit. And soaked in the lake. My core temperature dropped, and I felt better. As I floated in the lake, my nausea subsided, and my mood improved.
I took a deep breath, gathered myself, and pushed off the shore for my final swim. Side cramps periodically halted my progress, forcing me to tread water and stare at the far shore. At 2 am, I complained about not being able to see the other side. In the afternoon, seeing the other side sucked – it didn’t seem to be getting any closer.
About 15 minutes into my swim, the calm lake started to stir. I found myself bobbing in a growing swell, which I assumed was from a passing boat. It wasn’t. The wind had kicked up, generating a consistent chop, complete with white caps. At least it was going the right direction.
As I got closer to the shore, I paused a few times to take it in. On the far side of the lake, I saw shimmering cars in the parking lot. Behind me, a tremendous peak, and around me clear, cold water. I wasn’t just observing this landscape, I was emerged in it. Swell lapped my neck and lifted me up and down, the distinctive taste of lake water covered my lips, and the wind cooled my face.
Carter (on a paddleboard) had hung a blue backpack on the shore, so we knew exactly where we were going. I looked down into the blue nothingness. Then… the bottom started to come into focus. I saw a huge tree, rotting, on the bottom of the lake. Minutes later, I saw the beautiful mosaic of round, slimy, stones at the bottom of the lake. Like marbles. Green slime balls. They almost looked like food. And it meant that it was getting shallower. They got closer and closer until I stood up.
I had a ride ahead of me. But I’d done the hard part.
We got out of the water and, with some difficulty, and addressed with the hardest part of the day: Getting the paddle board up the steep, dusty, goat path up to the parking lot.
“Did you swim all the way across the lake?!” people were asking in disbelief.
“Yep.”
Bike 2 - 5:50pm
Carter had a sandwich and coke for me in the car, but they’d both been sitting for a few hours (the descent took longer than anticipated) so I just sipped the Pepsi. I wouldn’t have eaten anyway, at this point I felt like I was going to throw up again.
I changed into my cycling gear and left a pile of soggy gear on the ground. I did this several times this trip (leave stinky clothing in a transition zone). Carter was a hero, taking care of so many big and little things (like this) throughout the day.
I wanted to rest and let my body calm down so I could eat. But I also wanted to get the ride over with. So, I jumped on the bike, planning on sipping and nibbling along the way.
As I rolled out of the park, I couldn’t help but smile. Some moments felt magical. I passed a field of horses grazing on long grass, sprinklers on and the evening light illuminated the mist. This stood against a background of the Tetons. I stopped to take a photo.
At other times, I had to grit my teeth. The bike was too big (rental company didn’t have the bike I reserved, despite booking 2 months earlier), and I was starting to feel this. My body didn’t feel good. As I sipped electrolytes (1/3 of a bottle over an hour) my stomach turned.
Twice, I almost crashed my bike. First, I was looking at my watch checking my speed (which I did periodically) and the bike path turned. I was fixated on my watch, so I missed the turn and went flying off the bike path into low brush. Luckily, I stayed on the bike, came to a stop, and got back on the path.
The second time, I saw two teenagers on the path. Both were stopped right in the middle of the path. I yelled, they looked up, and then mounted their bikes. They rode to different sides of the path, leaving me a path down the middle. But at the last minute, the one on the right decided to switch side and join his friend.
I had to slam on the breaks, but I only used the back break (maybe my other hand wasn’t on the break) which sent me into an 8-foot back wheel skid. I corrected and rode out of it, aware that now that I’d been a part of two near misses, this was probably on me. I was getting tired. I needed to focus.
My breathing became labored. I wasn’t sure if this was the result of hours of physical exercise, or if I was reacting to the smokey air (forest fires outside of Utah changed the AQI to 75 that day).
The last 5 miles you can see Jackson, which is awesome and torturous. I wanted to be there. I put my head down and pushed.
I reached the edge of town. Navigated the crowded streets. Stopped for several crosswalks. Then reached the town square.
I pulled over and walked through the antler arch. I stopped my watch. And lay on the ground. Carter brought me drinks which I sipped.
I couldn’t believe I had done it. I had assumed something would derail me. But the stars (conditions, my training, my support team, my health) had aligned.
We walked to a touristy burger joint where I downed a burger and fries. In front of me was a beer, a root beer, a Gatorade, a water, and a recovery shake. I downed them all, went home, showered, and fell asleep without brushing my teeth.
Not a bad day.
Thank you
Thank you to Carter for tolerating my training and traveling with me to Jackson. For renting a paddle board, buying food, and running other errands as I prepped my gear the day before our ascent. For staying up all night, paddling across a dark lake, and coming back on a paddle board to get me. For dealing with piles of stinky clothing, and a stinky man. I love you.
Gavin and Christian, many studies have shown how unhealthy it is to stay up all night. Scientists have found that sleep deprivation takes years off your life; makes you look less attractive, and negatively effects mood. Thank you for doing it anyway. For carrying gear, supporting me with kind words, and sharing my excitement.
To the three of you. My picnic is a highlight of all my years on planet globe. Thanks for sharing the day with me. I’ll remember this kindness forever. I say this with no hyperbole: I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you.
