It’s Always an Adventure!

The climb towards Pitamakan Pass

I had the feeling it was going to be an adventure, but than again, whenever my friend Joe is involved, even a drive down a mountain road can turn unpredictable. Heck I have it on good information that Maistoinna, the lovable lummox in Shangri-la Trailer Park, might be influenced by Joe and his exploits. But this story isn’t really about Joe, other than he was there and the hike was his idea. The real star of the story was the hike itself.

From the moment I first stepped into Glacier Park in the late spring of 2000, Rising Wolf Mountain and the trail that circumvents it, the Dawson-Pitamakan Loop, has called out to me. For whatever reason, I have ignored its summons until this year when Joe suggested this hike.

From the moment we agreed to give the hike a stab until the first steps from the trail head my gut was telling me this was going to be one for the ages.  Not to disappoint, a half-mile into the nearly twenty mile hike a movement caught my attention.

“Bear,” I called out, breaking the silence.  To our left, a black bear was foraging on a bench – the geological term, not a resting place for a tuckus, though I’ve rested mine on this type of bench before. We immediately slammed on the brakes, that’s when I noticed a second bear, a much smaller cinnamon colored cub in the middle of trail. “Second bear, a cub,” I remember commentating.

As far as Mexican Standoff’s go, this one was disappointing, and I wasn’t disappointed that it was disappointing. After a few seconds mama scurried off into the woods, affording us the chance to watch junior stand on his hind legs watching his mother before taking off after her.

It’s too bad I’m not the photographer I used to be, because I may have reached

Old Man Lake – Little did I know the challenge that would be encountered on the other side of the mountain.

for my camera.  I think years of bear encounters have taught me a thing or two, whatever the excuse, the real reason that there isn’t any pictures  is I was too busy reading Mama bear’s body language.  We were a few steps away from being in that most ugly of situations – getting between a sow and her cub. Usually such an encounter is the highlight of any hike, this time around it was one of many treats Mother Nature had in store.

About two hours in.

Soon we were trudging through sub-alpine meadows climbing towards our first goal – Pitamakan Pass.  Little did we know that the breeze would soon morph into the real story of the hike.  Was it my imagination or was the wind resisting our every step. As we climbed higher and higher the wind  talked a little louder and shoved a little harder.

 

And then, when my heart rate was about to match the elevation, the wind

Shangri-La Garden

stopped.  We entered what I dubbed Shangri-La Garden.  I felt calm places before but never anything quite like this – the place felt like good medicine. Maybe it’s my age, in as much as such exertions don’t come as easy as they used to and the climb was really kicking my ass.  Or maybe it’s because the terrain leveled out a bit and the reprieve was appreciated.  It was about this time my mind started thinking woo-woo.  I had the idea that when I die, this is where I want some of my ashes spread, which got me thinking about the area, and its significance to the Blackfoot. They call the  general area the backbone of the world and the particular region is called Two Medicine and it is the tribe’s holy land. I toyed with the thoughts through the remainder of the climb over the pass into the teeth of the strongest wind I’ve ever experienced.

Pitamakan Lake

As  we climbed the views got more breathtaking, or maybe it was the wind, whatever it was the hood went on. Suddenly the trail wandered upon a shelf in which a part a Glacier laid beneath us like a map. Beyond an alpine lake which I later learned was Pitamakan Lake rose Medicine Grizzly Peak which loomed over another great hike from my past.  If you ever have a chance,  hike to Medicine Grizzly Lake and Triple Divide Peak,  you won’t be

Pass resident

disappointed. There’s a good chance you could encounter a Griz on that hike. I encountered a Griz on the trail to Medicine Grizzly Lake and since been told the area has the highest concentration of the bear in Glacier.

But I digress, Turning away from the Marmot pictured to the right, the final climb to the Pass stared us down, and the wind was getting crazier. Up here it swirled, blowing hard in one direction, stopping, giving a moment of calm before slamming back in the other direction.  Half-way up the final approach it knocked me off my feet. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been knocked over by wind before, I can tell you for me, the experience was humbling.

Paydirt… Looking from Pitamakan Pass at Rising Wolf MT.

At the top of the pass, we took a breather, hunkering behind a boulder to hide from the wind.  I swallowed hard when I glanced around the boulder. The trail was carved into the side of the mountain, its widest part maybe three feet.  I didn’t say it, but I was sure thinking about turning around. Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the wind and onto the Continental Divide. During this segment, I understood, no felt, why airplanes take off and land into the wind.  It provides more lift, more control.  I wouldn’t have enjoyed this part with the wind at my back.  I know this because, a mile or so later, as we turned a corner and rounded the backside Flinsch Peak the wind again shifted and we were met by the swirl.

My hood was flapping so loudly it sounded like helicopter rotors and about

The trail along the Continental Divide.

then I realized an arm to my sunglasses was bent by the pounding it was receiving.  When we came to a wide shelf, I did an experiment: I threw myself backwards with my arms splayed and I was held upright by the wind. I know if the wind would have suddenly stopped, I would have landed hard on my keister.

“Against the wind.”

As we approached Dawson Pass, I couldn’t watch Joe anymore. It was too frightening.  He’s a tall, clumsy guy who was really struggling to maintain his balance. I was convinced the wind was going to knock him off a cliff. Every time he stumbled, I closed my eyes expecting when I opened them he would be gone.

After the hike Joe claimed that prolonged exposure to wind can screw with one’s mind. Of course I poo-pooed the idea, but I can tell you for me it stirred creative thoughts. It was then I went inside my mind and philosophical thoughts about the wind which were inspired by the aforementioned Blackfoot mythology.  They went something like this:   If this is the backbone of the world, it must mean this is the home of the Gods, and if this is their home they’re dreaming up their intent for everybody – everything.  And how is it delivered? By the wind of course. So the wind is blowing so hard because it’s so close to its source. So if you stay up here long enough, you could catch the wisdom of the gods.

I think Joe’s right, prolonged exposure to the wind can fuck with your mind.

Once we dropped off Dawson Pass and dropped back into the treeline, the wind

Above the Treeline

resided and the sounds of the forest replaced the constant blowing. It was no longer necessary to yell to communicate.  It was then the real challenge began. Say what you will, but I much prefer the climb to the descent. I’ll take a racing heart and burning lungs over screaming knees and gimpy ankles that protest every downward step. The next eight miles were bespeckled with great sights, minimum conversation and the knowledge that that was one hell of an experience, worth a day or two in the pain-cage.

 

Nightwatching – Sneak Preview

You may have noticed I haven’t posted lately.  Mainly because I’ve been placing the final touches on Cemetery Street – the paperback, working on Montana Rural and prepping what follows: Nightwatching.   Nightwatching is a ghost story that will be released in digital format later this year.  Enjoy this glimpse, and please, let me know your thoughts.

1) Do the Dead Forgive?

1)

Breathless, he watched. Around him, sunlight rippled through the treetops and danced across the ground. Nearby, snowmelt tumbled down a swollen creek. Despite the water’s roar, something deep within the woods caught his attention. His gaze knifed through trembling shadows. Whatever it was, froze, paralyzed by fear. After a long moment, he lost interest and continued barefoot across the forest floor. At creek’s edge, he studied the cascading water until he heard a distant rumble.

He leapt upon a large boulder in the middle of the creek. Holding his balance on the rock’s cold, slimy surface, the boy ignored the icy stabs of the creek’s spray while focusing on an approaching plume of dust and marl. His eyes narrowed and locked upon the white truck speeding along the dirt road. After a moment, he jumped into the pristine, glacial water. Unflinching, he waded towards a small bridge. Underneath, he gazed upwards as wooden planks rattled under the racing truck.

2)

They sped along a little too fast for the rutted, washboard dirt road, eyes focused on the mountains guarding either side of the narrowing valley. The truck lurched, its rear end bucking sideways. The driver tightened his grip on the steering wheel, struggling not to overcorrect as his passenger grabbed the Jesus handle.

“Damn it, Travis, are you trying to kill us?” Sondra snapped. “Slow down!”

After a brief battle to right the truck, he eyed his wife. “Ain’t use to this country driving.”
“Just because you want to live like a hillbilly doesn’t mean you have to speak like one.” She glared at Travis before turning her gaze out the passenger window. Sondra mumbled to her reflection: “I can’t believe we’re going to live here.”

In silence, they drove past peaks dubbed Squaw, Stark, and McCormick and over creeks named Butler, Kennedy, and Soldier, kicking up enough dust to obscure their past. As they crossed the last of these bridges, a brief chill overtook Sondra. Rubbing her arms, she glanced at the Cheyenne’s air conditioner— the thermostat read seventy. She turned her attention to the vast coniferous forest covering the slopes of the funneling valley and the peaks above.

It is beautiful, she begrudgingly admitted to herself. She allowed herself a moment to enjoy the summer day. With a sigh she admitted there were worse places to live.

The cabin was much smaller than they were used to, which was fine; it was only the two of them. Anything bigger would remind them of the void between them – a tombstone was funny like that.

“Welcome home,” Travis said, patting her thigh as they crept up the driveway.

Sondra watched him slip out of the truck, take a deep breath and do a three-sixty, his gaze scanning the mountaintops. He’s really aged, she thought, noticing his receding hairline. Spots of gray peppered his once thick brown hair. Deep-set crow’s feet etched the corners of his eyes. It seems just yesterday he graduated college, full of boyish charm. Now he’s thirty-five going on sixty. God, where did time go?

She gazed at the cabin; rustic was a generous description. Her eyes followed the narrow deck that wrapped three sides. She sighed, reapplied her game face and stepped from the truck into their new life. Slinking around the front of the Cheyenne, she stepped into his arms to embrace him. She peered into his eyes, hoping hers weren’t as empty as her heart. She kissed him. “Congratulations.”

Taking her hand, Travis led her through a simple gate and down the stone walkway. He smiled as the deck creaked under their footfalls. It was a long time since he felt this good, this energized, this alive. He could count the times. The day Anthony was born, the night Sondra accepted his proposal, but more than any, the day his business loan was approved. From that point, his destiny rested in his own hands. After a decade of hard work, he was no longer a racing rat. Free to enjoy life, he couldn’t think of a better place. No clutter, no traffic, seclusion—they had few neighbors. If they chose isolation, it wouldn’t be hard to accomplish.

They could afford Flathead Lake, Whitefish, or Big Sky, instead Travis sacrificed opulence for simplicity. Living here, he would never have to work another day in his life. Travis would never have to deal with the people he had grown to detest.

He looked through the door’s window. The movers were here. Smiling, he led Sondra inside. With a burst of energy, Travis plunged into the last job he thought he would despise – unpacking.

3)

A shard of sunlight fell through the window, bathing Sondra, burnishing her brown hair auburn. Slowly she rocked, legs curled beneath her, the steady creak of the hardwood floor keeping time for the setting sun. Consciously avoiding the mantel, her eyes explored the gloomy living room. Logs stained a shade too dark. Windows, too small for the walls, begrudgingly admitted daylight. On the opposite wall, footprints crossed its length. How did they get there? she wondered.

Following the footprints, her gaze moved to the kitchen. A butcher’s block, bucolic, stood in its center. Dark cabinets nested upon the kitchen walls, looming over a green counter top. At least there’s enough cabinet space, she thought. Sondra’s eyes wandered up the center post that supported the loft and gazed into their bedroom.

“A loft,” she sneered. “Our bedroom is a loft. At least there’s stairs.” I could be reduced to climbing a ladder, she thought.

The stairs were on the far side of the loft, flanked by a dingy hallway leading to a dreary bathroom. Thank God for conveniences, she thought. Sighing, Sondra felt as though they had moved into the walk-in cedar closet of their old home, an eight-thousand square foot behemoth.

Still rocking, she could no longer resist the pull of the photos on the mantel.

Anthony’s eternal three-year-old gaze held hers. He had his father’s eyes, she thought, awash in self-hatred. The picture, taken a week before his death, dominated the mantel.    She stood and approached the photo. Behind her, the chair continued rocking. Taking the frame in her hand, she traced a finger over the boy. “My God,” she uttered, realizing they buried him in the same suit he wore in the photo. “My baby,” she whispered, a tear falling upon the boy’s framed face.

A thud reverberated through the roof.

Sondra jumped; a muffled cry escaped her lips. She clutched the frame to her breasts. Gooseflesh ascended her arms and spiraled along her spine. “Who’s there?”

Silence answered.

She padded through a blizzard of dust storming across the dusky room. Clutching Anthony, she stepped into the kitchen and peeked out the door. A dark shadow floated from the back of the cabin. Quickly she spun, resting her back against the wall, heart racing.