Deep Lake is true to its name. Deep in the Beartooth Mountains, the lake requires hikers to trek roughly 15 miles round trip which includes a 3,000 foot elevation change.

Photo courtesy Katie Schiller

Jess Blough (center), a Powell resident, has hiked into Deep Lake nearly every year for the past 58 years. Blough is known to record every hike on his trusty camcorder which is being held by his grandson Jesse Brown (right).

Photo courtesy Katie Schiller

Riley Schiller, Katie Schiller’s brother-in-law and an art major at UW, perches on a rock in Deep Lake while using water colors to paint the scenery.

Photo courtesy Katie Schiller

Katie’s sister-in-law Kiley Brown (left) stands with her friend Mackenzie Scott, who was invited along to experience the hike. Throughout his nearly 60 years of hiking Jess Blough has been known to take anyone interested in seeing the lake.

Photo courtesy Katie Schiller

Over the years hikers have left cooking gear and constructed a stone stove at Deep Lake in order to avoid packing in heavy cooking equipment.

Photo courtesy Katie Schiller

Katie Schiller

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We definitely should go to the left,” my sister-in-law said as we hiked out of Deep Lake a few summers ago. Some of our group might say they didn’t hear her, and others (me) might say they were too busy trying to survive to pay attention. Whatever the reason, we did not go left. And, in turn, we wandered over the top of the Beartooths hiking several more miles and mountains than we intended to. Eventually, the rest of our group and I sat down while my grandpa went “just over this hill” to look for landmarks. Finally, after a long while of wondering why my Papa, Jess Blough — my grandpa and the leader of this trip — hadn’t returned, we walked to the edge of the hill we were on. As we looked down the mountain we saw him off in the distance. He had definitely found a landmark! Just a mile or so down the hill we thought we would die on was the Beartooth Highway … and our car. When my grandpa asked us at the end of the hike if we would do it again, my mouth said “oh yeah, definitely” but my brain and the blisters on my feet said, “no way!”

Well, hiking must be a lot like childbirth, because we all seemed to have forgotten the pain and agreed to go back to Deep Lake this summer. A place like Deep Lake made it easy for me to forget how sore I was after the hike and how badly my lungs burned going up the switchbacks. All the pain was clouded by the cliffs rising above the glassy lake. The solitude felt in a place so remote is almost otherworldly, and I can see how Deep Lake has had a hold on my grandpa for the last 58 years.  

This time around, the hike went a bit more smoothly. We didn’t get lost, I was much more confident in my ability to make it in and out, and I didn’t bring home any blisters. But it wouldn’t be a trip to Deep Lake if it went perfectly. 

The year before, my younger brother Jesse Brown made the hike look easy, and it seemed to me like he was running. This year though, he was with me going in and even fell behind me for the switchbacks. At first I thought he just cared about me and didn’t want to leave me behind. After growing up with all brothers, I knew that, surely, that wasn’t it. In fact, he had a horrible head cold and had decided to hike anyway. 

Once down to the lake, it was nearly smooth sailing. We relaxed and enjoyed the view while trying not to think about what it would take to get out the next morning. Some of us fished, Riley Schiller, my husband’s brother, painted, and I spent time taking pictures. The only real mishap was that Kiley Brown, my sister-in-law, lost her spinner to the lake. She decided that the fish were mocking her as we watched them leap by the dozens.  

That night, my grandpa cooked us dinner over the fire and we tucked into our hammocks and tents as the sun was sinking for a night of sleep in the open air. At one point in the night I rolled over in my hammock to find myself under a beautiful array of stars. It’s easy to feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude in that sort of place. 

In the past year, my grandpa has started writing down stories from all the trips he’s taken to the lake, and I’ve had the privilege of reading them. It’s amazing to see that he can map over half of his life based off the different times he’s hiked Deep Lake. Most people distinguish their years by big life events saying things like, “Oh yeah, that’s when so and so got married,” but to my grandpa, each hike into Deep Lake is a big life event, and he treats each trip like it could be his last.

The next day, I saw parts of the Bear-tooths that I had never seen before, telling me that, this time, we were not lost. I soaked it all in while thinking about my grandpa’s ability to do the strenuous things he loves to do while pushing 80 years old. I truly believe my grandpa has found the Fountain of Youth.

This fountain isn’t the wide open space at the top of the Beartooth Mountains. It’s not the cliffs towering above Deep Lake, and it’s not even the lake itself. This Fountain of Youth is a mindset. My grandpa works hard, not just for money or recognition, but for the satisfaction of working hard. He finds joy in putting his body and mind to the test. When he climbs off a roof for the day, he’s smiling. At the end of a grueling hike, he’s smiling even bigger.

My grandparents are human. They’ve had setbacks and health issues and aren’t always “happy go lucky,” but both of my grandparent’s legacies are built on a foundation of finding joy in working hard. They haven’t let anyone tell them to stop doing the things they love simply because they’ve reached a certain age, and they don’t believe in waiting around to die. Over the years, they’ve given that mentality to their children and grandchildren, and I feel that legacy every time I put my own body to the test. Especially in the Beartooth Mountains.