Trek off trail treats trio to spectacular valley
BILLINGS – Looking back months later, after the purple scars have finally faded from where I repeatedly barked my shins on downed trees and unforgiving branches, this past September’s off-trail backpacking trip was like a Montana treasure hunt.
Much of the adventure for me came from figuring out where in the heck we were and how to get where we wanted to go. You see, I had forgotten my map, the one with the big X on it.
This blunder became important after the realization that I was one valley off from where I thought we should be. At the time, standing in a vast boulder field, I was contemplating a climb over the mountain ridge at the upper end of the valley. Certainly our destination was just over that rise, I argued.
It was Andy’s first backpacking trip. He thought he was traveling with veterans who would be well prepared. So he was a bit shy about pulling out his cellphone with an online mapping app he had downloaded, allowing us to alleviate the guesswork.
Valley view
Once we finally arrived atop the last ridge, sticky with perspiration and dehydrated, we could finally peer down on our destination. The view brought to mind an Alaskan landscape – broad, rugged, rock-lined, tree-choked and stoically immune to our insignificant concerns about aching arches, blistered toes and faltering knees and hips. Dang, it was beautiful, maybe all the more so for its cool detachment.
Although camping with such a grand vista would have been easier than pressing on, flat spots to pitch a tent were small and few and we were low on water. Surely descending would be easier than climbing up, I believed. We would angle our way down, losing elevation slowly to avoid twisting ankles and knees in a steep descent.
Unfortunately, we didn’t descend fast enough. The mountain became so rocky and steep we were forced to go straight down. The ground, where it wasn’t ham-sized rocks that moved easily, was strewn with marble-sized stones that moved even more easily. Remaining upright became a challenge. Instead of hiking we were skidding, like a Sisyphean baseball player forever doomed to slide into second base.
Whacking bushes
Once safely to the bottom of the mountain, we followed a game trail until it disappeared into a dense stand of young lodgepole pines. This would be the scenario for another mile or so, constantly stumbling onto a path only to have it disappear into a thicket laced with spider webs at head level. Pine needles knocked loose by our collisions slid down our shirt collars, piled up in our packs’ water bottle pockets and eventually snapped off a fly fishing rod’s delicate tip.
The groves of green seemed endless until we broke into a small clearing with a spring. Raspberry bushes surrounded the site. Despite our weariness, we rambled in search of their tart succulence.
Why not hike up the stream? Surely, that route might provide fewer obstacles, we thought. But soon, like the game trails, the stream constricted while passing through a steep hillside. Then it transitioned into a muddy marsh. Having fun isn’t easy when you’re backpacking off a trail.
When we were almost at the point of psychologically breaking down, considering confined openings for campsites, we stumbled onto the edge of the vast meadow we had marveled at from the ridge above. One last push, one last slip into a muddy stream while scouting for the perfect campsite, and we finally plopped down drained and fatigued, yet deeply satisfied by our gorgeous surroundings.
A small slump in the grassy ground provided the perfect place to lounge, as if in a recliner with boots off, feet up and head resting on my backpack. It was a good time to contemplate the brutal introduction we were providing Andy on his first outing. Old hands like John and I always expected things to go wrong and that we would somehow muddle through. Andy, on the other hand, was getting a baptism by bruising.
It’s rewarding there are still places left where a trio of friends can hike away from the steady, ant-like procession of people now crowding backcountry trails.
Getting away from crowds, however, usually requires some physical sacrifice, or everyone would be there.
Day hiking
After a nightlong symphony of snoring we pressed on at midmorning for an exploratory day trip continuing up the valley. Again the path would appear and disappear leaving us to wander in the woods, making a best guess as to where to proceed. Altering the leader didn’t seem to make any difference. The path was always ephemeral, as if the forest didn’t want us to advance without deliberation, discussion and cussing.
At points we would find old trail markers, faded pieces of pink fluorescent plastic tied to branches or marks hacked into the bark of trees, but they always disappeared.
No matter which route we took there was an abundance and variety of mushrooms, adding to the fairyland feeling of the landscape. Some were red capped, others a burnished brown as if bruised by the sunlight like an aging banana. One looked like a piece of misplaced coral, lumpy and calcareous, maybe dropped by some sea-faring bird that had been blown way off course.
When the valley constricted, waterfalls appeared coursing over huge boulders. At one cascade a large slab provided the perfect place to recline, soak our weary bodies in the rock’s radiant heat and be surrounded by the soothing sound of rushing water. Hard stone has never felt so comfortable.
Here’s to friends
Although the holidays have passed, there’s still time to give thanks.
Kudos to John, my 70-year-old friend who, only four months after an emergency room visit following a 12-foot fall from a rafter, had endured the trek while resisting the urge to strangle me amid our maze-like meanderings. Apologies to Andy for this unfortunately difficult backpacking debut. For him, using a trail for any future rambles will seem almost effortless compared to our trudge. It’s nice to have friends who, if not forgiving of my foibles, will take any opportunity to make fun of me for my flaws.
I will, however, humbly take credit for taking them to such an incredibly beautiful, if not hard-to-find place. The location was kindly handed off to me by legendary Beartooth explorer, mapmaker, raconteur and my hero Ralph Saunders. It was his guidance that had been carefully detailed 17 years earlier on the treasure map I had forgotten.
For that trip, I had subjected my then-13-year-old daughter to the rigors of bushwhacking. She came up frequently as I urged my companions on. Noting that my daughter had trekked the same route at such a tender age was a shameless means of motivation. Her status grew steadily as the long weekend progressed.
After two nights of stargazing around the campfire, watching the moon rise over the rocky mountaintops and the sunset shimmer over cool pools of spring water, we were reluctant to pack out.
Along the way we struck another trail that appeared and vanished, materializing like a blessing and then, again, disappearing along with our hopes for an easier exit. When we finally struck the road back to the truck rain began to pour. I suggested a short cut.
By now, you can probably figure out how that went.