My first solo backpacking trip

Last year, my daughter and I (and some other family and friends) did a lot of camping. It was something that was difficult to do while my wife was sick, so it felt like it was a long time coming.

During the beginning of my burnout, I started getting this itch to get out somewhere truly alone — somewhere nobody could reach me and I could just sit with my own thoughts for a while. I decided I was going to go on a solo backpacking trip. The problem was, it was November, and most of our mountain areas were already buried in snow. I also wanted somewhere that would be, in my mind, "solo backpacking training wheels" — so I picked Antelope Island, a little island sitting on the East side of the Great Salt Lake. It has some mountainous terrain, but it's low enough that snow wasn't an issue yet. It's close to civilization, cell service is spotty but present, and the most dangerous thing out there is supposed to be the bison.

I ended up being spectacularly wrong about the "training wheels" part. It was an incredible trip and exactly what I needed, but there were a couple of moments where I genuinely considered hitting the emergency button on my Garmin. As you can see below, I had some unexpected visitors...

Antelope Island has a few camping spots, most of them right off the road. But they also have 4 backcountry sites tucked away with a roughly 5 mile approach that you have to reserve ahead of time. I searched everywhere for a map showing exactly where the sites were, but the best I could find was a vague circle on the island's trail map.

I found the trailhead, strapped on my 32lb pack (you have to pack in all your water — there's no potable source on the island), and set off. About a mile in, I spotted another backpacker heading the opposite direction, back toward the parking lot.

"Hey, you coming from the backcountry sites?" I called out. "Do you know where they actually are?"

He shook his head. "I have no idea where they are either. I was going to camp tonight, but there's a herd of bison crossing the trail up ahead and I've been waiting for like an hour. I'm done."

Sure enough, I could see them in the distance — a massive herd of bison, slowly drifting across the trail like they had nowhere to be.

By the time I reached them, it was the tail end of the crossing and I only had to wait about half an hour. Looking back, if I had known the trail better and where the backcountry sites were relative to my position, I might have realized where that herd was heading...

Along the way I passed a few more bison, some elk, and a surprising number of mountain bikers. When I finally rounded the massive rock formation to my left (called Elephant Rock), the landscape opened up and I could see the mouth of Split Rock Canyon — where the backcountry campsites are tucked away.

I found the fork in the trail that led to the campsite and started setting up. While I was inflating my sleeping pad, I heard grunting in the distance. Low, rumbling sounds echoing off the canyon walls. I looked up and saw the bison herd — the same one from earlier — approaching from a completely different direction, heading straight for the canyon I was camping in. They were still pretty far away, but they were moving with purpose.

Here's my crudely marked up map. The blue line is the trail I hiked in on. The green line is the path the bison herd took. It looks like they walked straight into the lake, but unfortunately, the Great Salt Lake has receded so much that their path is now solid ground.

By the time I finished with my sleeping pad, the herd was almost on top of me. I had assumed they'd keep going in a straight line and pass right by camp, but I was wrong — they turned, and it happened way faster than I expected. I grabbed a few essentials, zipped up the tent, and scrambled toward the hillside where I could duck behind some rocks if things got dicey. The park website is very clear: do not approach the bison, especially if there are calves. Well, there were calves. I wasn't taking any chances.

One problem, though. In my rush, I left all my water, my warm layers, and — most critically — my Garmin in the tent. All I had was my phone, which thankfully had just enough signal to make a call if I really needed to.

So I sat there and waited. I had bolted for the hills around 4:00 in the afternoon. The herd didn't fully clear the campsite until about 5:30. The sun was going down, the temperature was dropping, and I was sitting on a rock in a t-shirt watching bison graze next to my tent.

Once they finally settled into the canyon beyond camp, I crept back, made dinner, ate, took some photos, and crawled into my sleeping bag. I could hear the bison all night — grunting, shuffling, occasionally snorting. It was impossible to tell if they were right outside my tent or a mile away.

When I got up in the morning, sure enough, they were still hanging around in the canyon, but slowly drifting south, away from me.

The day before, while I was setting up camp, I had noticed a large cliff behind me. I could hear voices carrying down from the top — when I looked up, I saw two people sitting on the edge, just taking in the view. On my way out the next morning, I decided to take a detour and check it out for myself. It was a 2.5 mile side trip off the main trail, so I stashed my pack in a bush and headed up.

I made it almost to the cliff overlook when I came around a bend and found a single bison sitting directly on the trail. No way around him. He wasn't moving. That was as far as I got.

I turned around, hiked back down, grabbed my pack, and headed home. All in all, it was an amazing trip — stunning scenery, some genuinely tense wildlife encounters, and exactly the kind of solitude I needed. I would absolutely do it again. But next time, one lesson learned: if you're going to bring a Garmin, keep it on your person.

Here's an album of some more images from the trip: