RockStar looked at me like I’d gone slightly crazy and just said we would worry about it the next day. I hoped the water level would go down a little overnight.
In the morning we packed up and went to face the beast, crossing Soda Creek. I might not have been so freaked out about the crossing if evidence of the rampaging river, probably from spring runoff, had not been so apparent. That cut away bank and the trees that had been uprooted and tossed in a log jam were such a clear demonstration of the power of water.
I was, quite frankly, frightened of crossing the fast flowing stream with obvious currents and small rapids. I’d forded many rivers over the past few years, but I just didn't like the looks of this one. I kept thinking of the headlines of day hikers or rafters in the Pacific Northwest, who had come afoul of fast water, pushing them under log jams with no way out. I might never be found under a log jam in this remote area.
RockStar took it in stride, helping me overcome my fears and being the rock of stability I could hang on to, literally. We didn’t exactly use recommended river crossing technique, but discussed what would work best for each of us. We crossed together, she on the upriver side with her greater body mass protecting me on the downriver side. She wanted to use both her poles, so she didn’t hold onto me. I held onto her waist strap with one hand and used one pole with the other, and RockStar moved more slowly than she usually did crossing rivers to accommodate my slower, uncertain footing.
The crossing wasn’t too bad, though the water was mid-thigh deep and the current pretty strong. We made our way safely across. I have never been sure why that crossing freaked me out so much. I might have been the strong one calming RockStar down when she was near melt down in Colorado the previous year, but I was thankful for her support on the crossing of Soda Creek. Irrational fears can bite even an experienced hiker.
The icy water thoroughly abused my feet and legs, but they recovered walking the trail. We listened to bugling randy elk on our morning break. Halfway through the day we had another crossing, not too dissimilar to Soda Creek, yet I had no fear of that one.
On another horse-traveled trail, dry, horse-tromped mud turned into hard clods and made uneven footing to slow our walk even on level ground. Hard ground changed to meadows. Grasshoppers, moths, butterflies, beetles, and frogs scurried and hopped away as I approached. An interesting ground bird warbled/gobbled at us, but we couldn't see it.
Two Ocean Meadow and Parting of the Waters
Hawkeye caught up with us in the meadow. He’d taken three days off while we had jumped ahead. After chatting a bit, he strode on ahead of our more sedate pace as we climbed to our campsite at the edge of another burn, warm enough now to have a Ziploc bath and wash a few things.
Before we descended to Two Ocean Meadow, a small pack train of five horses and three people passed us going the other way; they and Hawkeye were the only people we’d seen in four days. One end of Two Ocean Meadow drained to the Pacific Ocean, and the other end flowed to the Atlantic. After crossing the meadow and going a bit uphill, we came to the parting of the waters, a stream dividing to flow likewise to the Pacific the Atlantic.
A 2,000-foot climb was conquered with a steady rest step while looking at abundant flowers to take our mind off the effort. Views opened up behind us to the meadow and many mountain ranges. As we reached the high point, we saw the dramatic Tetons, the Winds, Absarokas, and other peaks in Yellowstone, a 360-degree view. Marvelous. A great reward for the effort of getting there.
Rain in the night gave us wet tents to pack in the morning. We crossed two rivers early in the day and another two before the day was over. Walking through broad valleys filled with willows, a reroute kept us out of a swamp. We passed two patrol cabins, one for the forest service and one in Yellowstone National Park, and we entered our biggest National Park through the remote southeastern border.
Yellowstone
At a small stream one rock shy for stepping across, RockStar picked up a giant rock and heaved it into the correct spot. Too bad we couldn't do that everywhere. Packs were lighter in food contents, but heavier with wet tents. My back was hurting earlier each day. Must be getting older. Yellowstone rules required us to stay in registered, assigned campsites. Arriving at 4:20, we were the only ones at the first backcountry campsite, so I could have a private Ziploc bath and be in bed by 7:30.
Many elk bugled in the night and in the morning. We might not see them, but they were amorously broadcasting their presence to the cow elk in the neighborhood and their potential rivals for dominance. RockStar and I joked that we didn’t see much wildlife because we walked so slowly they had plenty of time to move away. True.
Walking through old Yellowstone burns, we observed new growth amid burned timber. Flowers thrived in the burn area, a palette of colors: pearly everlasting and the autumn reddened leaves of fireweed adorned fallen and silvered old burn logs. Paintbrush added bright red color spots, blue-purple asters, lupine and harebells the blue, goldenrod and daisies the yellow and an occasional geranium or still-blooming fireweed the pink. Ground cover turning orange or yellow added to the mix. Above the low hills, silver logs and flowers, Mt. Sheridan called us to our campsite near Heart Lake.
For a trail that followed the Snake River downstream, we climbed a lot of steep hillsides and into and out of gullies. Earlier, we had stepped across the Snake River with a stride, but it was bigger now and required fording. Taking an early lunch before it rained, we then crossed a very large meadow, and the storm began in earnest, pelting us with rain driven by very cold wind. Walking with the curve of the umbrellas facing into the wind, we could have walked right into a grizzly without seeing him. We saw only the foot or two of trail in front of our feet below the edge of the umbrella. Lightning cracked and thunder peeled right above us as we walked on through storm and meadow.
Fording the Heart River in the rain, RockStar went first, and the water, opaquely brown with fresh silt, edged higher than her crotch. Shorter than RockStar, I found a way across a foot farther upstream and a few inches shallower. The water had a warm current from a thermal flow upstream.
On the trail once again, it rained some more. We made it to our campsite by 5:30, principally because we were too cold and wet to stop anywhere for rest. Just before our campsite, we had one more river ford with good water for the night, and the sun came out to cheer our soggy selves. But everything was still very wet. Chilled, I crawled into my sleeping bag before dinner to warm up.
Two other hikers occupied the backcountry campsite on that cold wet night close to the river. It rained all night long without letup. And it rained while we packed up. And it rained taking down the tent. And, did I say? It rained.
Hike Out and Go Home
My usual optimism completely deserted me. I told RockStar I wanted to hike out and go home. RockStar readily agreed.
We had planned for this to be a slightly long day but had figured on lighter packs with all food consumed. With rain-soaked tents and gear, I think they were heavier than when we began with seven days’ food.
Hiking around the lake on a sandy beach, we reached a patrol cabin, Mt. Sheridan seen through breaks in trees, clouds, and fog. Sheridan now had snow, more than a dusting, extending down a thousand feet from the summit.
We stopped at the patrol cabin to have an early lunch on a dry bench under an overhang, the only dry place we saw all day. Some campers came over seeking Rangers, but found only two soggy women hikers. We headed up Witch Creek through a geyser basin with steam vents and pools that most tourists do not see, but I was mostly focused on the way out.
Out was a 5 ½ hour hike from the cabin. We saw five or so hikers also going out and four hiking in. A big pack train of at least 10 horses passed us going out, and the lead rider seemed quite annoyed that we were on the trail with umbrellas. We followed trail etiquette by getting off the trail on the downhill side and talking to horses, so they wouldn't spook. But we didn’t take down our umbrellas in the steady rain. We thought we had a right
to be there, too, and to try to stay dry.
It was a hard walk out for me. Over the last three days my back had been hurting at the T-11 level, site of a compression fracture 20-25 years ago. I assumed my back was full of traumatic arthritis, as well as osteoarthritis. I couldn’t get the pain under control, not with Tylenol, Percocet or Inflam-X. It felt like someone was sticking a shiv in my back and twisting. With nothing further to do for it, I just kept walking to the trailhead.
We were very lucky at the trailhead. After a number of tourist cars passed us by, one waved. A very nice young man from Idaho, who worked in the park turned around and came back for us and took us to Grant Village. We checked in, picked up our resupply boxes and caught a shuttle to the lodge and our room.
Showers were heavenly, and I tried to eat all the food in the Lakehouse Restaurant. Then, thoroughly spent, I became horizontal and in love with central heating. The next day we cancelled things: campsites, food and water drops and Old Faithful lodging. I was done.
After 2013 in Colorado and 2014 in Wyoming, I was tired of hearing locals say how unusually rainy and cold it was. I was bone tired. I suppose some of that had to do with being 73. The pain in my back was severe enough to make me consider stopping just on that account. The rain had added to our miseries. The constant river crossings had taken energy and contributed to slowness. Nights were cold, making breaking camp in the mornings less than fun. Freezing weather and snow were rapidly approaching. I’d dealt with each of those issues before on other hikes, but maybe not all at the same time.
Quitting this early into a planned hike was very unusual for me. We had more than 200 miles still on our hike itinerary for the year. Before this I’d hiked on even when my hiking companions bailed. I’d never before thought of getting off when not much more than half way through a planned hike.
A large part of long-distance hiking is mental. This time I didn’t lack just the physical ability. I lacked that mental push, too. That was new for me. I’d left the trail early in Maine due to weather and safety concerns. I’d left the trail early in Pennsylvania due to a bowel obstruction. I’d never left the trail feeling quite like I did in 2014.
I felt discouraged and defeated. I thought to myself that I might never finish the CDT. I was pretty sure I would recover my optimism and be back out on a trail for another year, maybe two, but I was fighting a battle with time. Doing 400 miles a year on the CDT through the age of 75 had seemed a possible challenge. Doing only 200 miles a year would likely require more years than I could physically continue backpacking.
I was disappointed not to go on. But I just didn’t want to take another step on the trail. I was done—at least for the year, maybe more. I’d not felt like that before.
Yellowstone (the hiker) came with my car. We had to pick up our resupply boxes from Old Faithful and take Yellowstone back to her home in Gardiner. After a night in West Yellowstone, we retrieved the box near Red Rocks Pass that had been such a challenge to arrange, and we decided to visit Glacier National Park as tourists before heading back to our homes.
Glacier National Park, even for a tourist, was a balm for wounded hiker souls. Fresh snow on the peaks was glorious. How could I even consider not hiking there some day? Plans for which part of the CDT to do next sprouted in my brain, definitely including Glacier. Trails would surely be in my future. I’d only walked 235 miles on the CDT that year. Trails remained. And I planned on walking them.
Chapter 42 Fall and Winter 2014-2015
Shoulder Replacement
By November, I could only raise my left arm about 15 degrees without pain, and I was very glad I’d scheduled a shoulder replacement before going to Wyoming. The MRI had shown something like a porcupine, which was supposed to be the smooth head of the humerus (upper arm bone) even before the hike. I had limited range of motion hiking, but it rapidly became worse after I left the trail.
The surgery wasn’t that bad as surgeries go. The rehab was something else again. A large part of rehabilitation was pulling the arm in every direction possible with the help of rope and pulley hung over the door, self-inflicted, therapist-directed torture. It felt like I was trying to pull the arm out of its socket for many, many repetitions, three times a day. I also discovered I was more disabled without an arm than without a knee. I needed a knee for mobility, but I needed upper extremities for activities of daily living.
Rehab took a long time and was painful. I could see why some people discontinued therapy after a shoulder surgery. But I regained 90% of the range of motion in my shoulder, well worth the effort and the pain even if it didn’t always seem like it at the time. I worked hard. I needed a shoulder to go backpacking. Your legs carry you on a trail, but not only do you need your arms for hiking poles, it was essential to have shoulder function to get up off the ground or into and out of a tent.
Besides rehab, I turned my mind to hike preparation. I wanted a spring hike, but not a hard one. I just wanted to walk a long ways. I chose the American Discovery Trail from near Cincinnati to the Mississippi, a flat part of the country with a lot of miles to walk. Great choice. That’s another story. For this story it is enough to say it helped me get in hiking shape for the CDT.
Preparation for the second hike of the year, the one on the CDT, included training hiking companions. Ryan, a guy in the church I attend, was from Montana and had talked about wanting to do The Bob Marshall Wilderness. My pastor and his wife, Mark and Pam, were also intrigued by presentations I’d made about my hikes and wanted to come too. I’d taken day hikes with each of them and knew something about their hiking capabilities, but they were neophytes to backpacking. I was old, but had some skills to teach.
I took my role as hike leader and teacher quite seriously, writing down what they needed to know and helping them decide what to take for gear. I kept to a timetable, insisting they practice pitching their tents, walk to get in shape, and take overnight shakedown backpack trips with me. They learned what it felt like to carry weight over some miles, how to filter or Steripen their water, what they needed to do to modify their hiking shoes, how to hang their food, poop in the woods, leave no trace, and a myriad of small things that long-distance hikers take for granted because they are second nature to us.
They learned skills I had to teach, and the weather taught them more. I was glad it rained on one trip. They learned their tents worked to keep them dry, and so did their raingear. And there is nothing like forgetting to include gloves and hat on a cold and rainy trip to make you remember to include them the next time. We were going to hike into The Bob Marshall Wilderness, a pretty remote area, for 11 days. It wasn’t exactly a beginning sort of backpack trip. Once we began, they had to continue. Bailout points were few. RockStar and I would provide the experience of long-distance hikers, but they had to be able to do what would be required.
Chapter 43 August 1, 2015
CDT—Montana
RockStar and I hiked before and after The Bob, as The Bob Marshall Wilderness was commonly called. RockStar flew to SEATAC, and she and I drove to Montana in my car.
We started with a slack pack from Stemple Pass to Flesher Pass, our base the Sportsman’s Motel in Lincoln, who would provide a shuttle. We walked through pine forests with hazy views of dry, golden grass on mountains and low hills. The 2013 and 2014 hikes had unusual rain. In 2015 forest fires and smoke were the issues.
The afternoon was quite hot, about 85. I went shirtless and to shorts an hour into the day. After lunch we both put up our umbrellas for shade. Although in trees much of the time, we were still hot. Even if I were naked under that umbrella I would have been hot.
RockStar didn't have her trail legs so uphills were pretty slow, though she was a bit faster than me going downhill. At day’s end back in Lincoln, we had showers, dinner, and beds, tired after our first day, my left knee complaining though the trail hadn’t been unusually difficult.
I had the trail to myself the next day. RockStar was freaked out about elevation gains and losses for the da
y and her own state of conditioning or lack thereof. So she drove me to Flesher Pass and walked five miles of trail with 1,500 feet elevation gain as a training hike, and I did the planned section to Rogers Pass with a combined 3,000 feet of elevation gain.
The morning was nicely cool to begin. I saw ptarmigan, and a couple of deer, and I was on the Divide for a late lunch in a shaded spot under a very windblown and deformed fir. Along the Divide, I had 360-degree-views. Very nice. Raising the umbrella for a sunshade at about 10:00, it was worth its weight in gold as the day heated up, keeping the sun off while a gentle cool breeze blew over the Divide.
Before the day was over, the views were hazy with smoke. Something was burning to the west and south between Missoula and Lincoln, the western half of the US tinder-dry that year.
The two last climbs on south-facing slopes in the lowering sun were unpleasantly hot, but my knee did well, as did my shoulder, though the bottoms of my feet were tender. Half way down the switchbacks, I put a folded bandana under the ball of my right foot.
We ate a nice steak that night in Lincoln as a reward for my last hike at age 73. The next day we traveled to Benchmark, ready for a five-day SOBO section back to Rogers Pass, and, incidentally, my birthday. The old-lady hiker added another year to brag about.
Augusta was a cute little town. We had lunch with huckleberry ice cream. We had been doing a lot of eating, though we hadn’t really earned it yet. It was time to put on our packs.
Scapegoat Wilderness
Taking the Straight Creek Trail from Benchmark, a lovely woods trail with such a gradual grade it was practically level, we headed into the Scapegoat Wilderness. Boy Scouts were the only people we saw all day. Umbrellas shed raindrops as well as the sun’s rays during the day. Showers temporarily cooled the temperatures from 85 to 70, but the heat gradually again increased to make for a sweaty day.
Old Lady on the Trail- Triple Crown at 76 Page 40
