The Picnic by Jim Ryan

Setting the Stage

There are really only two key things you need to know about me before reading this: 

1. I’ve always been what the ski industry calls a “hucker”– as in the kind of athlete that likes to ski fast and go big. I’m thick-legged, built for impact, and have a healthy relationship with Earth’s gravitational forces. I love chairlifts. 
2. In March my best friend Rob killed himself. He was beautiful and kind. He was generous to a fault. He tailored his own clothing and had a killer two-step. He was handy and easily distracted. I had no memories of a life without him in it. I loved him so much. I never saw his demons. 

The Picnic

I heard about The Picnic when I first moved to Jackson. It was then a recent phenomenon that only a few had attempted and even fewer had completed: a behemoth of a challenge that lived in local lore. I memorized its legs: A 24-mile bike from Jackson Town Square to Jenny Lake, a 1.3-mile swim across the lake, a free solo ascent of the Grand Teton via the Owen-Spalding route–an extremely airy rock climb on the snowy north face of the summit block–and then all of it again in reverse. Roughly 70 grueling, human-powered miles. Average completion time hovered just below the 24-hour mark. It wasn’t an organized race, it was just a test. Something you volunteered for, an altar on which you could sacrifice yourself. 

To the outside observer it was yet another case of Jackson machismo, of classic one-uppery. I thought it was contrived and completely over-the-top. 

I instantly fell in love with it. 

It was sensational, hard to even conceptualize, and fit perfectly with my idea of what Jackson Hole was all about. I appreciated it the way a musician might appreciate a truly great painting–I knew it was beautiful, and also knew I would never do anything like it–it simply was not my medium. My standard objectives were over and done in a matter of minutes. I’d never swam across anything bigger than a pool. I had never free solo’d any Teton, much less The Grand.

Besides, my list of impossible aspirations was already pouring off the page. 

I moved to Jackson to test myself, and that’s exactly what the culture celebrated. When I landed in Jackson, I was fleeing years of being told to slow down; to “take it easy.” “What do you have to prove?” “Is that fun for you?” “What’s the point of all this pushing?” The Jackson culture asked none of those questions, they simply appreciated the process. I sat on bar stools and became a student of the town’s oral history: who had skied which lines first, which lines had never been repeated, what tricks had been thrown off which cliffs. I cataloged the names of the local legends. 

And then, my idea of what was possible slowly expanded. Living in Jackson will do that to you. I began to climb a fair amount, and even free soloed a few easier routes. But still, my objectives and goals remained within the scope of the big mountain hucker. My progression left the endurance sports realm unexplored. 

Escape Artist

In the immediate months following Rob’s death I still had skiing. Escaping into the world of skiing has always provided a sort of release for me. It demands all of me, leaving no room for life and its various terrors to lurk. Days of endless anxiety have been mercifully recast by skiing’s sweet absolution. 

But then the snow melted, and I was left incapable of properly coping with the grief I was experiencing. Skiing, as wonderful as it is, had not healed me. I knew I needed to face the reality of losing my friend, but I needed help. I couldn’t face the whole of his death at once. 

In the past, my initial reaction to misfortune has been “how can I fix this?” I cope by working on a solution, or at least a partial remedy. Rob’s death was different. I still felt the same urge to restore things, and yet I soon realized that no amount of work was going to bring him back. He had done something that could not be undone. And still, I could not escape the feeling that I needed to fix things, that I needed to get to work– that one hardship could help alleviate the weight of another. 

I needed something all-encompassing, I needed to do something I was terrible at. I needed something that would require attention and labor. Short, scary errands wouldn’t suffice. 

Enter The Picnic. 

Moody

Finding a Picnic partner was exceedingly easy. In fact, once I verbalized that The Picnic was something I intended to do, I had a number of friends volunteer to suffer by my side. 

I guess we’re all running from something. 

I chose Chris Moody to be my partner. In 2018 he was crowned “The King of Jackson Hole.” Each year, a series of events is put on to determine “The King”– a 30 Kilometer nordic race, the absurdly dangerous Town Downhill, and the comically diverse Pole, Pedal, Paddle. Times from the three events are combined, and the winner is deemed not only the fastest man on skis, but also one heck of an overall athlete. 

More importantly, Chris is my friend. 

He’d also had a hard winter. 

The choice seemed obvious. 

We set a “be ready by” date and began training. In less than three weeks, I went from 2-mile jogs in town to summiting some smaller Teton peaks. Within 6 weeks, Chris and I had free solo’d almost all of the Grand’s surrounding peaks, some more than once, only forgoing those we deemed to be “just a hike.” We reveled in our new “exposure heads,” loving every second we spent skipping along razorlike ridges, thousands of vertical feet above the canyons below. We abandoned the trail on almost all of our outings, opting instead for the more direct and thrilling line to the top. Our friends said our behavior seemed a bit manic, and our friends have a high tolerance for that sort of thing. 

I found myself sleeping through the night again. 

Two weeks before our “be ready by” date, Chris told me his brother was planning on visiting during the time frame we had chosen to attempt The Picnic and asked if Ben could join us. 

At 29, Ben Moody was already a bit of a legend–and if he hadn’t left town the same year I arrived, he would have already reached the status of full-blown superhero. He was Chris’s twin brother and his name was one I knew long before I met him. 

I contemplated the idea that Ben’s years on the East Coast had made him soft, then remembered the stories I had heard of his all-day runs; his deranged all-night bike rides, and agreed that he would make a strong third. 

So there it is. The stage is set. Our characters are two crazed, young men surfing a wave of mania over a sharp seafloor of depression. 

Oh! And Ben… I can’t speak to the exact nature of his own personal seafloor, but when he landed in Jackson, he was every bit as manic as I.  

Good. Time to switch tenses. 

Act 1: Stylin’ it

4:45 AM.  The Moody Mobile is idling in front of my house. Right on time. Last night we decided upon a bit of a later starting time than what is considered traditional–an early (2 am)  start time provides a better chance of not getting stranded on top of the Grand in the dark. But Ben is here now and with him a huge boost of confidence. I’m just thankful for the extra sleep. 

I throw my drybag and bike in the truck and hop in the cab. Normally, the 2-mile drive to downtown is something I would frown upon, but this morning I’m willing to cut myself a break. 

5:00 AM (Mile 0). So far, so good. All parties accounted for and right on time. Go time. 

5:01 AM (Mile 1). Jesus H. Christ! Ben is absolutely hammering. Leaving Town Square he peddled so hard HE GOT AIR off the curb. We are now going a solid 25 miles per hour and I’ve snuggled myself into draft position #3 behind Chris. 

5:50 AM (Mile 20). We have reached Grand Teton National Park and Chris hollers that he needs to pee. I expect to be using my legs for the next 16 hours (at least!) and now just shy of the 1 hour mark I’m beginning to feel real fatigue. We start back up and Chris mentions that the pace seems a bit fast–I thank the heavens and chime in my agreement. Ben agrees to slow down, but states that he would like to “style it” and finish with a respectable time. I look down at Ben’s calves and notice they aren’t much smaller than my thighs.   

6:00 AM (Mile 24). We arrive at the beach, but our support vehicle is nowhere to be seen. I’m thankful for the opportunity to rest.

6:45 AM (Mile 24). Our wetsuits arrive and Ben mentions that he’s never been open-water swimming. Jenny Lake is over 400 feet deep. I look ahead at the mile and a half expanse in  front of us. Ben smiles at me and jumps in. All of a sudden I’m not worried about him at all. 

8:15 AM (Mile 25.5). We crawl onto the beach on the far side. I had neglected the swim portion of my training (too much space to think). It feels good to have at least half of the water behind me. Just getting across Jenny is the farthest I’ve ever swum. 

9:00 AM (Mile 29). Despite getting lost and crashing through the brambles separating the beach from the lake trail, we still manage to make incredible time along the trail that connects the Jenny Lake boat dock to the Lupine Meadow trailhead. Chris’s watch informs us we are averaging 7-minute miles. 

9:30 AM. I begin to panic. I haven’t lost the brothers yet, but I haven’t volunteered to set pace yet either. I remain in position 3 and wonder if I will be condemned to a full day of looking at butts and smelling farts. Then I feel the fatigue in my calves augment and I realize that I will be lucky if I’m still within fart smelling range for another mile. 

Act 2: Let These Men Through 

11:30 AM.  We reach the Upper Saddle and Chris bonks. He had been slowing down for the past 50 minutes or so, but I didn’t completely grasp the extent of his collapse until he hit the ground. I finally get a chance to look at something other than his backside. His eyes appear to be floating in a bit of extra fluid. They drift from side to side but fail to lock onto anything before them. 

And then I realize that in his current condition, a free solo of the Owen-Spalding route is a near-death wish for Chris. For the first time all day, my primary concern shifts to something other than myself. 

Without acknowledging that the level of risk has just increased exponentially, Chris asks for a small break so he can recalibrate his balance before we rock climb over 3000+ feet of exposure without ropes. 

1:00 PM. Ben hangs with one hand above the abyss while the other snaps pictures of Chris and I on the “belly roll.” The break on the Upper Saddle has allowed me to fully recover, and for the first time all day I find myself really having fun. The exposure forces me to stop worrying about pace, calories, and the position of the sun. Heightened consciousness yields heightened focus–I think of only my position and the rock. We begin to really find flow on the sea of granite. 

1:10 PM. All the way up, each passing party warns us about the inevitable traffic jam we will encounter on the route. We talk to several parties turned around by the congestion on the summit block. Less than 400 feet from the summit we finally encounter the blockade. 

One of several guides notices us–we stand out in our short-shorts and microfleece hoodies–all the guides and clients are dressed in several down layers and gloves. The wait on the chilly backside of the Grand appears to have taken its toll, several of the clients are silently shivering. 

“What time did you start?” one of the guides asks me. 

“5am, but we started in Town Square.”

I can never be certain how guides will receive me. Countless interactions have still left me guessing. Some guides love the fast and loose style I bring to the mountains, others just shake their heads and tell their clients to ignore me as I pass them helmetless, in tennis shoes. 

This particular guide loved it. 

“Let these men pass! They’re doing the Picnic.”

A nice gesture, I thought, as I looked up and saw Ben had already passed the entire party by face climbing the slabby rock to the left of the chimney–bypassing the roped-up clients before they even knew what was happening. Chris and I followed suit, avoiding the wide-eyed tourists by a healthy margin. 

And just like that we were on the summit. 

I keep a little wooden box of Rob’s ashes in my pocket. I bring him on almost all my adventures. He’s just something I carry with me now. Sometimes, I pull him out to chat, but more often than not he’s just chilling, unseen, hanging out. 

I knew I wanted to leave a little Rob up there on the summit. I take him out of my pocket and begin to cry.

I hadn’t realized how much of this was because of him. I hadn’t really examined why I was doing this whole thing. Up until now I thought I was just running a lot. 

“I miss you buddy” 

It’s what I always say. I miss my buddy. It’s as simple as that, I guess. 

1:30 PM (Mile 35). Ben is itching to get going again. I peek over at Chris, he’s flat on his back smiling at the clouds again, looking stoned as all hell. I ask Ben if I could have two more minutes to eat. 

1:50 PM Safely back down on the Upper Saddle we regroup and refill our water bottles. In our wake is a thoroughly confused cluster of aspiring mountaineers. We pass the same parties on the way down that we passed on the way up, in almost the same places. The bundled bodies strewn across the route hardly slow us down. Ben jumps their ropes and lands cat-like on their belay platforms. Never acknowledging the absurdity of his actions, he continues to bound down the sheer granite. I am lucky enough to witness the looks of astonishment that follow. 

Act 3: “Mayb les walk”

2:30 PM (Mile 40). Safe from the danger of falling thousands of feet to certain death, Chris and I are given the mental space to consider the state of our bodies. Real pain sets in. The muscles in my legs ache and I have to really focus on the placement of my feet on sharp rock as we jog downhill. True, a fall now wouldn’t kill us, but a sprained ankle would surely put an end to our aspirations of finishing this thing. 

4 PM? (Mile?). This is when I really lose track of time, but I am aware of the sun and its descent from overhead.  Chris and I continue to slog downhill, our pace has slowed to barely a jog, more of a sloppy trot. Ben has steadily pulled ahead and out of sight. I imagine we won’t see him again until the beach. 

I can hear Chris in front of me having a conversation, it’s clearly not with me. Every now and then, I hear him laugh at jokes that aren’t being told. 

My thoughts begin to muddle, my vision narrows to the edges of the trail in front of me. I can’t hold any one thought for more than a second. 

I ask myself why I chose to do this, I can’t really remember, I just know I have to keep going– maybe that’s the point.  

5 PM? We have reached the Lupine Meadows trailhead, Chris’ crazed laughter has only increased in volume and my hands and knees are both bleeding from falls I took as a result of tripping on nearly flat ground. The simple act of forward motion and staying upright require my full and undivided attention. My calves are spasming and look pregnant, they appear to contain some sort of alien baby intent on kicking his way out. 

Chris’s speech is slurred and dreamy,  “Mayb les walk.”

I agree and quickly lose the trail (which is obvious). Chris pulls me back from the sagebrush field into which I’ve wandered. 

After 2 miles of walking we decide to try and jog again, our legs scream in protest, my feet ache, and my bones feel as if they are in direct contact with one another. I wonder for the first time if I’m doing permanent damage to my body. 

I search my thoughts for a motive. Why am I doing this? I know it’s something that must be done and yet I can’t remember why. 

6:00 PM (Mile?). Still no answers, just keep moving. 

7:00 PM (Mile 46). The swim turns out to be an absolute dream. To think I dreaded this leg above all others is comical. The water is cool and wonderfully dark, my eyes trace the day’s final sun beams as they disappear into the depths. My shoulders and arms are happy to give my feet a break. My legs trail behind me, so useless that tying them together would have made little difference. Still, we make excellent time and arrive on the far shore well before dark. 

Despite finishing the swim first, Chris is in bad shape. He’s hypothermic and his words are slurred to the point of being barely coherent. At this point, his body has been in bonk mode for over 6 hours, his kidneys have stopped producing urine and his core can’t adequately regulate his temperature. I can see that just the act of changing from his wetsuit to his bike gear is an incredible mental and physical endeavor. 

He saddles up and starts biking with a smile on his face. Clearly this is the sort of pain he’s okay with. Or he’s gone completely mad. 

8:15 PM. Within a few miles of starting biking, I realize that I’m going to make it, like, for sure. I feel strong, my legs hurt, but the pain no longer feels like something permanent. I realize that this whole feeling–that every feeling–is temporary. 

I ask if we can pick up the pace, not because I want to be done, but because I am enjoying the work now, because for the first time I feel like I can push the group– the pain hasn’t completely killed my ego. Ben and I ride side by side for the final 15 miles, both of us renouncing the easier drafting position. 

9:07 PM (Mile 70). Downtown Jackson. We cruise into town, delirious as we cross the street to Town Square. A passing biker calls us dicks for not having tail lights. I’m way too tired to care. Maybe I care a little. It’s a strange thing to end such a journey in town, among hoards of people with absolutely zero idea of what you’ve been through. But I guess that’s just life in the big city. Another reason to be kind to everyone–they may have just had the hardest day of their lives. 

The brothers pose for one quick picture and then unceremoniously leave to go pack the truck. I tell them I’ll be over in a minute and take a seat on a park bench.  

There’s an old cowboy playing guitar for quarters on the bench next to me. He looks over and tells me he’s about ready to quit. I tell him that he has already made my day and if he doesn’t mind, I’d love to hear one more song. He starts singing, and I wish I could tell you I knew the tune, but I didn’t. I guess there’s still a lot of heartbreak I haven’t heard about. 

9:30 PM (Mile 70). Chris’ heartbeat is still elevated and he hasn’t felt the need to pee for over 8 hours. He tells me his whole body feels electric and incredibly sensitive to the touch, like the plasma globes they sell at those sciencey toy stores. 

His body doesn’t know the battle is over. His mind is too tired to convey the message. 

I have never seen a human push themselves so hard, for so long. He sits in a camp chair in the parking lot and smiles like a young drunk. 

11 PM (Mile 70). At home in my bed I have trouble sleeping. My body quakes with fatigue and I sweat feverishly. I feel simultaneously proud and terrified– to realize that you are capable of great suffering and perseverance is not an entirely calming conclusion. 

I tell myself I need to be strong for tomorrow, that my grieving is not yet done–I still have work to do. 

And then I slept. 

Rob

Rob had a leaky tear duct in his left eye. It had its own agenda, dispensing a tear at the oddest of times. As a result, Rob was often smiling and crying all at once. When I think about him now that image is one I often return to, it’s Rob as I knew him. It’s me now too. I can’t hold him in my heart without joy, without sorrow. My heart has grown in order to accommodate both feelings at once. Together they exist within me gestalt–more powerful together than the sum of their parts. I can’t describe it with any other word than Love. When we lived together, Rob taught me how to love my friends, how to give myself to them. Now, as part of my heart, Rob is teaching me how to give myself to everything.