Sunday, September 6, 2020
Friday, August 24, 2018
Day Six and Seven of the Hike
We were out of food. I had been preparing doubles of some supper and breakfast items unknowingly. The portions seemed small to me but I was doubling them?! It didn't matter, we were ahead of schedule. Angie thought it might even be possible to get over the ridge tonight and camp firmly back in the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness instead of Yellowstone Ranger District. No big deal, I had energy. There wasn't any other choice. We shared the last "Kind" bar and headed up in pretty good spirits.
The creek trail up the valley was rarely used and difficult to find. We got lost repeatedly. Every hour backtracking was an hour away from my next meal. Panic is no ally when trying to conserve precious calories for the climb to the mountain pass ahead. Through luck and intuition and "being in the zone", we finally made it to the very source area for the stream nearby. The monotony of refilling my three liter camel back wore on me and I skipped an important creek crossing without filling up. "There'd be another stream. I'm too tired now."
Cold wind blew in and we couldn't find the right trail over the ridge. I intuited that we needed to go north another hill and maybe out of shear pity, the cosmos united us with our trail as night fell. It wasn't the greatest place to camp. It was high and wet and windy, but we were pooped and needed a fresh outlook that maybe morning could give us.
Day Seven
I offered Angie a couple of pieces of trident. Not much of a sugar rush but at five calories a piece, I figured they would be worth the effort. Not long after breaking camp and finding the trail, we saw humans again for the first time since Yellowstone. This time they were in a shockingly loud ranger plane. I wondered if the rangers were out checking on us. Why else would they fly so close? I guess planes travel via mountain pass too. We were so close to the pass, we climbed the ridge and back and forthed over and again looking for some semblance of a trail over the ridge. I was way out in front scanning like a dog on a long leash. Then, freeze. Bears. I watched a mom and her cubs foraging and playing a hundred yards up the ridge. I made it for a group of spruces to snap some photos.
I watched and Angie saw them too and we enjoyed them for only a minute or two before they took turns standing and sniffing. Undoubtedly, our odor was detectable. They hustled with mom in the lead right over a dip in the ridge. In other words, they led us to the pass. I made a joke about the bear going over the mountain to see what he could see. It's funny how I slipped from complete oneness with nature into dad jokes and comic relief. Maybe it was just relief. The most difficult part of the entire hike was next. The bears had indeed led us to Sheep Creek Trail. According to our map this was the shortest route back to the car. This trail is just a slippery ridge line way up high in the mountains with deadly shear dropoffs on either side.
"This can't be our trail." I was screaming it to myself but trying hard not to look scared. After a half mile of ridge walking, feeling like a tightrope walker, there was a gap. Way up on this mountain, there was a gap in the ridge, we had to jump two feet, from ledge to ledge. And we just did it. No other option in sight, not enough food to turn around, no choice. Neither of us hesitated. Neither of us mentioned it for a half hour.
It was literally all downhill from there. We found a trail marker signifying that we were on the correct trail after all. Sheep Creek Trail descended down to the valley and I was continually astonished to see evidence of cowboys riding this path and apparently jumping from ledge to ledge on horseback on top of America.
We did make it back to the car before dark. That extra three miles sure felt like a mistake now that it was on the end of our trip. If I took away anything it was a small glimpse of what it's like to be in the moment, to lose oneself and take a bigger perspective. It's a way to feel tiny and enormous all at once. I felt, and can still feel, a gratitude deeper than before. Maybe it was the bag of peanuts and dried tangerines with Mountain Dew in Angie's car. Maybe it was fear. On top of a mountain pass, I feel amazed and fortunate. I feel lucky and grateful for all the events that led to that moment. Maybe in that realization of my dependence on so many events in the past, I could feel free. I could look down at Jacob from a new higher consciousness and say, "Good work. Keep going."
Day Seven
I offered Angie a couple of pieces of trident. Not much of a sugar rush but at five calories a piece, I figured they would be worth the effort. Not long after breaking camp and finding the trail, we saw humans again for the first time since Yellowstone. This time they were in a shockingly loud ranger plane. I wondered if the rangers were out checking on us. Why else would they fly so close? I guess planes travel via mountain pass too. We were so close to the pass, we climbed the ridge and back and forthed over and again looking for some semblance of a trail over the ridge. I was way out in front scanning like a dog on a long leash. Then, freeze. Bears. I watched a mom and her cubs foraging and playing a hundred yards up the ridge. I made it for a group of spruces to snap some photos.
I watched and Angie saw them too and we enjoyed them for only a minute or two before they took turns standing and sniffing. Undoubtedly, our odor was detectable. They hustled with mom in the lead right over a dip in the ridge. In other words, they led us to the pass. I made a joke about the bear going over the mountain to see what he could see. It's funny how I slipped from complete oneness with nature into dad jokes and comic relief. Maybe it was just relief. The most difficult part of the entire hike was next. The bears had indeed led us to Sheep Creek Trail. According to our map this was the shortest route back to the car. This trail is just a slippery ridge line way up high in the mountains with deadly shear dropoffs on either side.
"This can't be our trail." I was screaming it to myself but trying hard not to look scared. After a half mile of ridge walking, feeling like a tightrope walker, there was a gap. Way up on this mountain, there was a gap in the ridge, we had to jump two feet, from ledge to ledge. And we just did it. No other option in sight, not enough food to turn around, no choice. Neither of us hesitated. Neither of us mentioned it for a half hour.
It was literally all downhill from there. We found a trail marker signifying that we were on the correct trail after all. Sheep Creek Trail descended down to the valley and I was continually astonished to see evidence of cowboys riding this path and apparently jumping from ledge to ledge on horseback on top of America.
We did make it back to the car before dark. That extra three miles sure felt like a mistake now that it was on the end of our trip. If I took away anything it was a small glimpse of what it's like to be in the moment, to lose oneself and take a bigger perspective. It's a way to feel tiny and enormous all at once. I felt, and can still feel, a gratitude deeper than before. Maybe it was the bag of peanuts and dried tangerines with Mountain Dew in Angie's car. Maybe it was fear. On top of a mountain pass, I feel amazed and fortunate. I feel lucky and grateful for all the events that led to that moment. Maybe in that realization of my dependence on so many events in the past, I could feel free. I could look down at Jacob from a new higher consciousness and say, "Good work. Keep going."
Day Five of the Hike
Talk about grizzly country! Every nature documentary I've ever seen shows mountain slopes with fallen logs. The desperate grizzly pops out and destroys an elk. Well, I'm less of a match than an elk and there I was, tromping through bear central. There was nothing to do but admire the beauty, hope you don't die, and walk on. It's a refreshing perspective for sure.
Mile after mile of spruce slopes. Up into the cool air and then back down into the humid mosquitoes. Over and over. I started looking forward to the extra exertion exacted by hills because up was always the correct direction. Up out of mosquitoes and back into Montana. We hiked up above the mountain lakes. My waist adjustment on my pack now cinched to the tightest possible setting. I was down several pounds. We just couldn't eat enough because we were always walking!
I rounded the bend and discovered a crystal clear mountain pond. This was surely the spot for our afternoon rest.
I started to realize that my usual lead on Angie was shrinking. I was faster at first, but maybe her experience or her hiking poles gave her impressive endurance. I was wearing out faster, but only I knew it for now. I was hungry all the time but I knew that we didn't have enough food. I got used to the mainly empty stomach and I still think that a good fast clears the mind.
We got a little turned around at some point and wandered into a beaver swamp. I found some poor cowboys lasso and decided it would be a perfect souvenir. After all, I had cows at home. We made our way back out of the swamp and course corrected. I felt some sadness realizing that the trip was ending. I would soon be going back to the world of talking people and confusion. Every motivation for every action seems so pure in the wilderness.
Mile after mile of spruce slopes. Up into the cool air and then back down into the humid mosquitoes. Over and over. I started looking forward to the extra exertion exacted by hills because up was always the correct direction. Up out of mosquitoes and back into Montana. We hiked up above the mountain lakes. My waist adjustment on my pack now cinched to the tightest possible setting. I was down several pounds. We just couldn't eat enough because we were always walking!
I started to realize that my usual lead on Angie was shrinking. I was faster at first, but maybe her experience or her hiking poles gave her impressive endurance. I was wearing out faster, but only I knew it for now. I was hungry all the time but I knew that we didn't have enough food. I got used to the mainly empty stomach and I still think that a good fast clears the mind.
We got a little turned around at some point and wandered into a beaver swamp. I found some poor cowboys lasso and decided it would be a perfect souvenir. After all, I had cows at home. We made our way back out of the swamp and course corrected. I felt some sadness realizing that the trip was ending. I would soon be going back to the world of talking people and confusion. Every motivation for every action seems so pure in the wilderness.
Day Four of the Hike
We made it into Yellowstone the night before, driven by relentless mosquitoes.
I tried burning spruce boughs for smoke cover but only the evening temperature drop would slow them down at all. When the evening cold came in, so did a bear. It shuffled around and snorted and decided the tent of awful smelling humanity was not worth disturbing. We followed a confusing trail down a beautiful gentle slope into the prairie grass hill sides of Buffalo Plateau. Bison turds everywhere.
Following Hurricane Creek down into the valley, I got an idea of the immensity of the land I was in. Nearly 40 miles of walking before encountering our first humans. I could picture pronghorn and bison in the expansive grassland, alas, they weren't there.
We encountered the first salamanders of the trip in a pond in that same grassland. I took my first river rinse off. This was the first day of weather conducive to that sort of basic hygiene. I relaxed in the sun for less than thirty minutes before going back to meet up with Angie.
Her blisters were horrific. She's a medical professional specializing in skin, so the reasonable part of my mind told me she knew how to take care of herself. However, the fearful part of me was worried sick that the blisters would incapacitate her. I shouldn't have worried, she seemed unhindered by it. I was grateful I didn't have a similar problem, I just don't think I could have carried on. We filled our water bags and trudged back up north, uphill. The mosquitoes were out and we had to be conservative with our repellent. It was too hot for more layers to block them from my skin, so I developed a "cow inspired" arm swing to swat them off my shoulders while I raced up the other side of Hurricane Creek. I rhythmically switched at my body with my bandana functioning as the hair on the end of a cow's tail. I was really booking it and even though Angie was hurrying to avoid mosquitoes just like I was, my long legs propelled me about ten minutes ahead. I was going insane. Hour after hour of swatting and swelling and itching. The bites only really affected my hands, eyelids, and should blades. I started meditating while walking to come to terms with the agony somehow. Bear. Across the creek, fifty yards away was my first grizzly. He was huge and he was peacefully foraging, heading downstream across the creek. I was next to an eight foot tall rock, so I climbed it to watch mister bear eat roots. I unconsciously decided not to snap a photo. I guess I wanted to be "totally in the moment." I watched him eat and I felt like I was a part of that particular ecosystem. I just wasn't ready to be a permanent part.
I tried burning spruce boughs for smoke cover but only the evening temperature drop would slow them down at all. When the evening cold came in, so did a bear. It shuffled around and snorted and decided the tent of awful smelling humanity was not worth disturbing. We followed a confusing trail down a beautiful gentle slope into the prairie grass hill sides of Buffalo Plateau. Bison turds everywhere.
Following Hurricane Creek down into the valley, I got an idea of the immensity of the land I was in. Nearly 40 miles of walking before encountering our first humans. I could picture pronghorn and bison in the expansive grassland, alas, they weren't there.
We encountered the first salamanders of the trip in a pond in that same grassland. I took my first river rinse off. This was the first day of weather conducive to that sort of basic hygiene. I relaxed in the sun for less than thirty minutes before going back to meet up with Angie.
Her blisters were horrific. She's a medical professional specializing in skin, so the reasonable part of my mind told me she knew how to take care of herself. However, the fearful part of me was worried sick that the blisters would incapacitate her. I shouldn't have worried, she seemed unhindered by it. I was grateful I didn't have a similar problem, I just don't think I could have carried on. We filled our water bags and trudged back up north, uphill. The mosquitoes were out and we had to be conservative with our repellent. It was too hot for more layers to block them from my skin, so I developed a "cow inspired" arm swing to swat them off my shoulders while I raced up the other side of Hurricane Creek. I rhythmically switched at my body with my bandana functioning as the hair on the end of a cow's tail. I was really booking it and even though Angie was hurrying to avoid mosquitoes just like I was, my long legs propelled me about ten minutes ahead. I was going insane. Hour after hour of swatting and swelling and itching. The bites only really affected my hands, eyelids, and should blades. I started meditating while walking to come to terms with the agony somehow. Bear. Across the creek, fifty yards away was my first grizzly. He was huge and he was peacefully foraging, heading downstream across the creek. I was next to an eight foot tall rock, so I climbed it to watch mister bear eat roots. I unconsciously decided not to snap a photo. I guess I wanted to be "totally in the moment." I watched him eat and I felt like I was a part of that particular ecosystem. I just wasn't ready to be a permanent part.
Day Three of the Hike
I was so proud of myself! I cooked breakfast early without using any camp fuel. Even though the forest was soaking wet, I found some dry tinder under some fallen spruces. I even found a way to dry socks, well almost. I was overzealous and melted Angie's boot. She reported that it still felt fine. I felt pretty terrible as I realized how much of a handicap a bad boot would be at this point.
The two packages of oatmeal seemed pretty filling and energizing. I think I was becoming hyper aware of my caloric expenditure. I was already daydreaming about food. Not hamburgers, not milkshakes, I wanted my home garden veggie saute. Go figure. We had to cross another valley to get onto the ridge that would drop us right down into Yellowstone National Park. Consequently, that trail would also cross the state line from Montana south into Wyoming. We got turned around and lost the correct trail and added a few miles to our day. The first day I came to terms with fear. The second day I had mainly excitement. As I tried to think of how I would remember the third day, all I could think of was confusion. Angie is a brilliant conversationalist. She's compassionate and interesting with a Queer independent perspective. But, we were mainly silent. Find the trail, don't find the trail. Upstream, downstream. It didn't really matter. We were there just to soak in the wilderness. I was finally getting in the groove. I didn't have to put my thoughts into language for anyone, not even myself. No matter what, we would walk, so life was good.
As we headed south, not really sure about the trail, we saw the beginning of the mountain lion tracks. First of all, I didn't realize how huge their feet are. We followed the same trail as a predator plenty big enough to kill us. I joked that I would probably survive since I was bigger. Somehow, neither of us found that funny enough to laugh at.
I inwardly marveled that Angie did this sort of thing alone. I was so grateful when she agreed to take me on this trip. I knew I wanted to go on an extended trek, but I was just too chicken to attempt something of this magnitude alone. When I told her, she shrugged off the compliment, maybe embarrassed and said, "I didn't know you'd be Mr. Wilderness Survival Man." That made me pretty proud. So I was pulling my weight! Good.
The two packages of oatmeal seemed pretty filling and energizing. I think I was becoming hyper aware of my caloric expenditure. I was already daydreaming about food. Not hamburgers, not milkshakes, I wanted my home garden veggie saute. Go figure. We had to cross another valley to get onto the ridge that would drop us right down into Yellowstone National Park. Consequently, that trail would also cross the state line from Montana south into Wyoming. We got turned around and lost the correct trail and added a few miles to our day. The first day I came to terms with fear. The second day I had mainly excitement. As I tried to think of how I would remember the third day, all I could think of was confusion. Angie is a brilliant conversationalist. She's compassionate and interesting with a Queer independent perspective. But, we were mainly silent. Find the trail, don't find the trail. Upstream, downstream. It didn't really matter. We were there just to soak in the wilderness. I was finally getting in the groove. I didn't have to put my thoughts into language for anyone, not even myself. No matter what, we would walk, so life was good.
As we headed south, not really sure about the trail, we saw the beginning of the mountain lion tracks. First of all, I didn't realize how huge their feet are. We followed the same trail as a predator plenty big enough to kill us. I joked that I would probably survive since I was bigger. Somehow, neither of us found that funny enough to laugh at.
I inwardly marveled that Angie did this sort of thing alone. I was so grateful when she agreed to take me on this trip. I knew I wanted to go on an extended trek, but I was just too chicken to attempt something of this magnitude alone. When I told her, she shrugged off the compliment, maybe embarrassed and said, "I didn't know you'd be Mr. Wilderness Survival Man." That made me pretty proud. So I was pulling my weight! Good.
Day Two of the Hike
I woke up first to a light sprinkle and couldn't resist the urge to relieve myself, so I started my day. Just like at home, maybe I'm getting old. To my astonishment and relief, my body was hardly sore and my joints felt fine. I was thankful for all the walking I'd be doing. After the "leave no trace" bathroom ritual, I headed to the tree where we'd tied up our food bag. We also employed a bearproof canister for the other half of our food, which I'd stored in the upper limbs of the food spruce. I "cooked" by boiling water and filling a bag of freeze dried something. We broke camp. Everything on our backs and we crossed some wooded hillsides. The mule deer were everywhere. I couldn't spot them first. It didn't matter if I was in front or following up, she always spotted them first. It's a little immature, I know, but that really annoyed me.
I resisted trying to identify most of the plants, partly because I didn't know them and also because I wanted to make this a trip where I could slip out of the anxiety of language and just exist. That may sound a little trippy, but after a while on a trail, you'd definitely relate. Only after Angie spotted our first bear track and called me over did I realize just how long we'd gone without speaking. It was mostly because we walked just within sight of each other; when leading, I dared not get too far ahead. This was the remotest wilderness in the lower 48 after all.
We climbed our second ridge. I always dreaded approaching a climb, but I found that just trudging up, however slowly could be a really nice afternoon in itself. Walking up those switchbacks, I imagined every calorie I was earning. I turned up the juice somehow, maybe by thinking about getting far enough ahead to eat a clif bar. I stopped up at the top and ate and miraculously had phone service. I texted Lauren a simple "I'm okay" or something. She knew not to expect much cell coverage.
I had a chance to go up a peak while Angie took advantage of the spotty signal. I left my pack with her at one of the sparsely spaced trail markers and headed on about a 1/4 mile journey up the top of the ridge's highest point. I was glad I'd taken Angie's advice about the fancy lightweight raincoat and the Vasque boots. They performed phenomenally. I climbed up, feeling eerily alone for the first time. Well, maybe the first time ever. I've been in some remote wilderness in Arkansas but this is something else entirely. I reached the peak where I gathered my nerve and stood on the biggest bolder in what seemed like strong wind. I could see the entire range. I could see the valley we would be walking to get to Yellowstone. I saw things like a topographic map. Then a little vertigo settled me down to a crouch and I realized that a fall here would be death. Angie might not even find the body. We're only a day and a half in, time to get back.
We descended the hill and found a suitable campsite. Cowboys or Montana horse enthusiasts, more properly, had left spruce poles for a teepee and a stone fire ring. It was cold and wet. Grateful, I took off the pack and went through the cooking routine before I allowed myself to rest. I was realizing that the most difficult portions of the trail were my favorites. The more fear I overcame, the more vivid the memory. I was excited and exhausted.
I resisted trying to identify most of the plants, partly because I didn't know them and also because I wanted to make this a trip where I could slip out of the anxiety of language and just exist. That may sound a little trippy, but after a while on a trail, you'd definitely relate. Only after Angie spotted our first bear track and called me over did I realize just how long we'd gone without speaking. It was mostly because we walked just within sight of each other; when leading, I dared not get too far ahead. This was the remotest wilderness in the lower 48 after all.
We climbed our second ridge. I always dreaded approaching a climb, but I found that just trudging up, however slowly could be a really nice afternoon in itself. Walking up those switchbacks, I imagined every calorie I was earning. I turned up the juice somehow, maybe by thinking about getting far enough ahead to eat a clif bar. I stopped up at the top and ate and miraculously had phone service. I texted Lauren a simple "I'm okay" or something. She knew not to expect much cell coverage.
I had a chance to go up a peak while Angie took advantage of the spotty signal. I left my pack with her at one of the sparsely spaced trail markers and headed on about a 1/4 mile journey up the top of the ridge's highest point. I was glad I'd taken Angie's advice about the fancy lightweight raincoat and the Vasque boots. They performed phenomenally. I climbed up, feeling eerily alone for the first time. Well, maybe the first time ever. I've been in some remote wilderness in Arkansas but this is something else entirely. I reached the peak where I gathered my nerve and stood on the biggest bolder in what seemed like strong wind. I could see the entire range. I could see the valley we would be walking to get to Yellowstone. I saw things like a topographic map. Then a little vertigo settled me down to a crouch and I realized that a fall here would be death. Angie might not even find the body. We're only a day and a half in, time to get back.
We descended the hill and found a suitable campsite. Cowboys or Montana horse enthusiasts, more properly, had left spruce poles for a teepee and a stone fire ring. It was cold and wet. Grateful, I took off the pack and went through the cooking routine before I allowed myself to rest. I was realizing that the most difficult portions of the trail were my favorites. The more fear I overcame, the more vivid the memory. I was excited and exhausted.
Thursday, August 23, 2018
Day One of the Hike
We drove as close to the trailhead as possible but our sedan was no match for the Abasaroka-Beartooth backroads of Montana. We had no choice but to add an extra three miles to our hike by parking the car. I suggested it first because I was driving and I didn't want to be responsible for puncturing Angie's Audi's oil pan. It was raining and probably 55 degrees that June 30th. My pack felt light. I was in the lead, nearly bouncing from excitement. I knew I was in the best shape of my life. A couple of years of farm work makes a man accustomed to hauling weight across rough terrain. We were going to be gone for seven days. This is, in Angie's words, "one of the remotest wildernesses in the lower 48" after all. We would climb past the treeline, we would see snow, Angie's red tank of bear repellent reminded me that we would be in grizzly country.
We made it to the trailhead and I was pleasantly surprised that Angie and I had a similar pace. She was the guide and I was just a student, at least, that's what I was telling myself so that I could really "let go" and enjoy the wild. After about six creek crossings, I had had enough. I was worried about hypothermia at the first one; it was freezing and I crossed barefoot and pantsless. On the other side, I robotically went through the motions of redressing into my still dry pants and socks. It was mostly a nuisance after that, after I realized it wasn't that cold. A snow patch here and there and we were losing altitude on this trail so it was warming up. Another bright patch: the sun was out and the rain had stopped. The last crossing bummed me out. We found a few creeks were easily avoided by crossing on fallen logs, that feels heroic, but the last creek was more of a river. Sixty feet wide and crotch deep on me. Swift and rocky and cold. I had to go first. I'd gone first on every crossing so far. I had to prove that a country boy raised in the Ozarks could do anything. I decided to lose the pants and socks but keep the boots. Angie had wading shoes; I assumed that my gravel road hardened feet would suffice but the numbing cold made it to dangerous to go barefoot. I grabbed a spruce pole and used it to probe upstream as I leaned into the current. "Don't forget to unbuckle your pack." Angie didn't want me to be drowned by my pack in the event of a slip up. That crossing was my first real fear of the trip and it felt intoxicating. A slip up out here could be bad. But we made it across. A few hundred more feet and voila, my first Montana mountain meadow.
We had a chance to rest and warm up in the summer sun. But we were on a tight schedule and Angie informed me that we had to cross that snowy mountain before camping. So we climbed seemingly endless switchbacks back into the snowier altitudes. Part of me wanted to stay in the lower meadow full of sparkling raindrops but we had to go up. She bought me gaiters as a gift and I forgot to pack them so the deep snow filled my creek-wet boots. I worried the first time I fell through the snow. I worried about frostbite, I was scared again. Fear really focuses me. I just kept walking.
The snow became more navigable and consistent and my feet got hot. In fact, I was monitoring just how hot the exertion got me because I didn't want to end up with a sweaty torso on a cold mountain pass at night. At night?!?! It was getting dark and we were still ascending. This was a 12,000 foot mountain pass with solid snow. Were we the first over this mountain this season? No prints. I inwardly panicked and all but raced up the mountain, it took everything my thighs had to side step and create new foot holds in the steep snow. Angie said they helped a little as she followed in my tracks. But we made it and the top was joyful. Nobody looks at a mountain and says, "Hey, I could climb that before dark." But we did it.
I had just had a day that I would never forget. I didn't speak as we descended into a new valley to find a suitable campsite. She would pick it out. She'd done this before so I got to relax. We found a spot that wasn't terribly cold. I slipped out of language mode and heated creek water for our dehydrated supper while she set up. This was Day 1. What would be next?
We made it to the trailhead and I was pleasantly surprised that Angie and I had a similar pace. She was the guide and I was just a student, at least, that's what I was telling myself so that I could really "let go" and enjoy the wild. After about six creek crossings, I had had enough. I was worried about hypothermia at the first one; it was freezing and I crossed barefoot and pantsless. On the other side, I robotically went through the motions of redressing into my still dry pants and socks. It was mostly a nuisance after that, after I realized it wasn't that cold. A snow patch here and there and we were losing altitude on this trail so it was warming up. Another bright patch: the sun was out and the rain had stopped. The last crossing bummed me out. We found a few creeks were easily avoided by crossing on fallen logs, that feels heroic, but the last creek was more of a river. Sixty feet wide and crotch deep on me. Swift and rocky and cold. I had to go first. I'd gone first on every crossing so far. I had to prove that a country boy raised in the Ozarks could do anything. I decided to lose the pants and socks but keep the boots. Angie had wading shoes; I assumed that my gravel road hardened feet would suffice but the numbing cold made it to dangerous to go barefoot. I grabbed a spruce pole and used it to probe upstream as I leaned into the current. "Don't forget to unbuckle your pack." Angie didn't want me to be drowned by my pack in the event of a slip up. That crossing was my first real fear of the trip and it felt intoxicating. A slip up out here could be bad. But we made it across. A few hundred more feet and voila, my first Montana mountain meadow.
We had a chance to rest and warm up in the summer sun. But we were on a tight schedule and Angie informed me that we had to cross that snowy mountain before camping. So we climbed seemingly endless switchbacks back into the snowier altitudes. Part of me wanted to stay in the lower meadow full of sparkling raindrops but we had to go up. She bought me gaiters as a gift and I forgot to pack them so the deep snow filled my creek-wet boots. I worried the first time I fell through the snow. I worried about frostbite, I was scared again. Fear really focuses me. I just kept walking.
The snow became more navigable and consistent and my feet got hot. In fact, I was monitoring just how hot the exertion got me because I didn't want to end up with a sweaty torso on a cold mountain pass at night. At night?!?! It was getting dark and we were still ascending. This was a 12,000 foot mountain pass with solid snow. Were we the first over this mountain this season? No prints. I inwardly panicked and all but raced up the mountain, it took everything my thighs had to side step and create new foot holds in the steep snow. Angie said they helped a little as she followed in my tracks. But we made it and the top was joyful. Nobody looks at a mountain and says, "Hey, I could climb that before dark." But we did it.
I had just had a day that I would never forget. I didn't speak as we descended into a new valley to find a suitable campsite. She would pick it out. She'd done this before so I got to relax. We found a spot that wasn't terribly cold. I slipped out of language mode and heated creek water for our dehydrated supper while she set up. This was Day 1. What would be next?
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