It was 30 minutes before my friend Madison and I were about to make the 1,000-mile, 15-hour drive to Grand Teton National Park, and I still hadn’t packed.
We’d just decided, fully committed, that morning to making this trip happen. And now I was staring at what I’d thrown out on my bedroom floor, a few items I knew I needed: sleeping bag, tent, socks. What else? And why were we doing this?
I didn’t even really know about the solar eclipse until Madison told me about it. I’d seen partial eclipses before, but I didn’t quite get why he was so hellbent on driving across the country to see this one. But camping under The Tetons had piqued my interest.
Neither Madison nor I hold “regular” jobs. Along with the amazing freedom that this provides, it also has its handcuffs—it’s near impossible to make future plans because a gig might pop up. In fact, it usually does.
So as much as I wanted to make the trip to Jackson, I didn’t get my hopes up. I assumed something would come up and the trip would fall apart at the last minute. Not to mention, I didn’t want to be the point person for making this trip happen. (Later, Madison confessed to me he’d felt the same way.)
Regardless, we decided to go for it. A couple of friends in Jackson had told me the word “armageddon” was getting thrown around by locals who expected an influx of people that the town wasn’t really prepared to handle—and I hate crowds. As I was rushing to throw things into my big North Face duffel, I couldn’t stop thinking about what we’d do if we got to our destination and found no available campsites.
Honestly, if either one of us had mentioned our reservations out loud, or said, “Forget it, dude. It’s going to be a shit show up there,” I think we’d have called the whole thing off and just watched the show through our glasses from home in Venice.
But I’d also just listened to a TED Talk covering why everyone needs to experience the eclipse, and I decided that if we experienced any negativity during the trip, it wasn’t going to come from me. And so, we left at 10:30pm, with me taking the first shift.
We had in our minds that we were going to camp at Jenny Lake, the smallest and most sought-after campground in the park. Jenny Lake campsites are first-come, first-serve, so around 11am, Madison called the park from the road to see how the camping situation was looking. And it was looking…full. Completely. They said people lined for sites that morning at 6am.
So that was out. We were stuck looking for other accommodations, at least for the first night. We even went so far as to reach out to some people on Instagram through location tags to ask if we could share their campsite. (No one responded.)
So I reached out to my Jackson friends, who offered two options: 1. A tipi on their property, or 2. Another campground close to the park on Shadow Mountain, with great views of the Tetons. We decided to go for the campground.
Traffic in and around Jackson was heavy and the campground was a bit of a drive off the main road, but we were equipped with a Jeep and up to the challenge. We even decided to forego groceries and supplies until we found our spot—we forged forward. The views were stunning and as we climbed higher, our hopes kept rising. We felt confident we’d find the perfect spot, ideally out on an overlook with an outrageous view. But as we drove up the mountain, we passed site after site, sign after handwritten sign stating “FULL” in block letters on ripped out and repurposed pages. It didn’t look good. We went over the pros and cons of pulling out at a “no camping” stake somewhere and just feigning ignorance. But in the end, we both decided that it wasn’t worth the bad nature karma.
At this point, we thought: Why not go to Jenny Lake Campground, and just drive through? Maybe we’d find another twosome who’d be willing to share their spot. We’d offer to pay and hopefully make some new friends! A brilliant plan, clearly.
We made our way to Jenny Lake Campground and marveled at The Tetons, slowly idling through, passing occupied site after occupied site. When we reached site #13, it had all the same “occupied” signs as the others but was oddly missing any signs of occupation. No tent, no gear. Nothing. We stopped, stared, and decided that maybe, just maybe, we had been rewarded for our efforts.
Madison jumped out to investigate while I continued around the loop looking for anything that wasn’t marked “Occupied.” We then met back at the entrance, where the documentation stated that the site had been paid for until the following day. Madison had a photo of the tag, and some additional intel: The people at the neighboring site thought the occupants of #13 had vacated early. I mean, who takes their tent down in the middle of a stay? No one.
We hustled back to the rangers at the main Jenny Lake parking area. We breathlessly laid out our situation and asked if it was possible for us to take over the site. They then calmly explained that they couldn’t grant us anything and noted that we’d need to talk to the camp host.
Dave was a gruff guy. He’d clearly been dealing with would-be campers all day long, probably in many not-so-happy interactions, as he turned hopeful people away from a full park. When we knocked on his door, he recognized us as people he hadn’t yet checked into a site and immediately put up his defenses. We explained the situation, barely able to contain our hopes.
“Does it say, ‘Occupied?'” he asked.
We said yes, but that the campers at the site over mentioned they’d packed up and left. Dave said he’d have to come and “check it out.” He made no indication that this was something he was going to do soon. Or ever.
“Well…is that something you’d be willing to do?” I asked, with just the right amount of force behind it. We weren’t leaving until he inspected or at least gave us an answer.
He looked me in the eye. “I need a minute,” he said, and closed his trailer door.
When we got to the site, I could tell Dave was prepared to give me the same bad news he’d given everyone all day long. But when he stopped and got out to view the documents, he slowed down. His whole demeanor changed as he realized he knew exactly who had been here, and he also knew they’d already left.
“I guess I have to let you have it.” My hands shot into the air in celebration. It was 5pm, four days before the eclipse, in the most desired campground in the area, right in the path of totality. A short walk to a crystal-clear, cold lake, right underneath the most stunning mountains in the Lower 48. It was ours. Lucky #13.
As we sat around our fire that night, we listened to the bluegrass music floating over from the campsite next door and marveled at how things had worked out. We’d never let ourselves lose sight of what our ideal trip was going to be, and things had fallen into place exactly as we’d hoped.
We didn’t dismiss the lesson lightly. We applied positivity and a “go with it” attitude to every decision and situation throughout the trip, and things continued to fall into place, offering amazing experiences at every turn. The trip that almost didn’t happen turned into one of the greatest experiences of my life—10 years after we’d hiked Machu Picchu together, Madison and I were adventuring again in one of the most magical places on earth, witnessing a wonder of the world that we may very well never have the opportunity revisit.
If you’ve never witnessed a total solar eclipse, I cannot emphasize enough the magic of the experience. There’s only one way to experience it and no way to replay it. The effort involved in getting yourself to the path of totality will always be worth it. I don’t necessarily suggest going in with no plan—I’m just saying that when you’ve got an open mind and a good friend, all things are possible.
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