Part Twenty Nine

     July 24-26                            Bitterroot Range, MT                        (Go to Pt 1)
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The misting clouds hung low and the wet lichen growing across the rocks was now slime-slick, making the entire talus field we were about to climb significantly more treacherous.  We would have called a weather delay and waited for dryer conditions but we had already spent that time lolly-gagging about the lake yesterday instead of getting the ridge traverse behind us.  ​

There were no words exchanged between us before, during or after breakfast as we shuffled about, muted by the foggy, eerie scene that loomed above.  Neither one of us wanted to climb up that slicked-over talus slope but at this point we were low on provisions and big on motivation; we only had two days left to complete this section if we didn’t get stalled-out by the weather. 
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Finally, reluctantly, we decided to go up and have a look; if the conditions were too hazardous then we’d just come back down and wait it out.  But then again, probably not. ​

Click the map for a larger map

Right off it was agonizingly slow going, having to test nearly every footstep for traction before carefully moving forward.  And the rocks were not only slick, they were also loose, most shifting on ball bearing scree as we slip-checked ourselves one step forward followed by the inevitable half-stride slide backwards. The frigid mist obscured the upper slopes and after a while the valley below also disappeared in the mist. 

We managed to weave our way up the talus into the fog to a point where retreating back down the slope had become a worse option than continuing forward (happens every time when you ‘just go up to have a look’) only to then have a wet sleet start cutting its way up the opposite valley just as we reached the top of the ridge. 

We crossed over the ridge in an icy fog of frozen drizzle, knowing, without discussion, that our plan of continuing down the ridgeline of the Divide was over; the only question now was how out of control the decent from the ridge was going to be.  
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We could see nothing of the descent, lost in the fog, and had no idea if we would be heading down toward the edge of some calamity or if we’d get lucky enough to find a safe route through to the bottom. The only thing that was apparent from the top of the ridge was that we had to get down and preferably without one of us taking an egg-beater somewhere in the fog below. ​

The descent was wretched and seemed to go on forever.  Slipping and going down was impossible to avoid, forcing me to use my haunches as a brake while sliding with the scree and talus until I got my feet planted again. Over and over. The reverse ‘sitz marks’ left behind would color my ass for the next couple of weeks.  ​

When we finally descended out of the mist and I could see that the river below was not far off, I felt confident that we’d get down the rest of the way without one of us blowing-up but, of course, no sooner did we find our way off the rock pile at the bottom of the ridge then we were doing seat-drop acrobatics down the wet, slick grasses to the bottom of the gorge.  Whatever mountain fantasy we had been living in yesterday was being sharply corrected today.  

We collected ourselves at the bottom and now had little choice but to drop out of the high country into the low lying valley.  About a mile away stood a mammoth, spur ridge that shot east, perpendicular to the Continental Divide, for almost three miles and it was just too much mountain for us to get over.  

The only way past this monolith was either along the Divide ridgeline to the west or all the way out Pioneer Creek for a 24 mile end-run to the east.  And we’d just lost our bid at a short, ridgeline traverse down the Divide.

We started the long descent from the upper valley down to Pioneer Creek, then out Pioneer Creek, eventually arriving at Van Hough Lake late in the day under a steady rain. I dropped my pack in the muddy gravel by the lake and looked around the grounds for a spot to pitch the tent that was not oozing with water but in the end, not camping in a puddle was about the best we could do.
   
Having to set-up camp in a cold, grey rain was always a shitty way to end the day.  First off, it’s cold, grey, wet and miserable and that tiny tube of nylon with its bristle of stakes is the only dry spot for miles. Our tiny tube of nylon is also the only dry place to unpack the packs and there is only room enough to do that one guy at a time, leaving the other poor sap waiting outside in the rain for his turn.
 
Next comes the nearly impossible task of trying to keep all the dry stuff dry and all the wet stuff in quarantine.  The wet rain gear, boots, gaiters, socks and packs had to go in the vestibule of the tent which was also the only place to set up the stove and do our cooking; like I said, just an overall hassle at the end of an already long, glum day.
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As I lay awake in the tent that night listening to the steady patter of rain on the fly it occurred to me that Craig and I had not had a single blow-up at one another since the beginning of the trip, which I thought was kind of interesting considering there were some days when we didn’t like each other at all and it would be easy to let words fly.  

We had known each other for years, had gone to the same, small high-school and wrestled together on the wrestling team. Craig was a year ahead of me in school and I first got to know him as this tall, wiry, wrestler who was tenaciously scrappy and who had also developed these weird moves that the coach hated because they totally cut against fundamental technique and because, by virtue of his lanky physic, only Craig could execute them.  But dang if they didn’t work!

Craig in the Bitterroots

Time and again some brute would walk off the mat after being flipped on his back and pinned and not have a clue as to what just happened.  Watching Dunn wrestle was like watching a classic bait-and-switch con; while everybody on the opposing team’s bench thought their wrestler was on the verge of a win, our guys knew what was coming, including the coach; it was brilliant!  

Outside of wrestling practice I saw Craig more as, well, a big brother, I guess.  His irreverent humor, clever lines and hilarious story-telling were endlessly entertaining; plus, he had a sweet, eclectic collection of music and usually some smoke to go along with it.  

Another upper classman who had a significant impact on me, but more from a distance, was a guy named Peter Schwartz.  I never knew Peter beyond campus sightings because he was a senior and I wasn’t.  

Peter was ridiculously handsome, a star athlete and an honor roll student who, along with a buddy of his, went out and hiked the Pacific Crest Trail from Mexico to Canada after finishing high school.  The buddy dropped out not quite halfway through and Peter finished the trip alone.

At that time, the Pacific Crest Trail had only just been officially established and Peter was one of the early ‘thru-hikers’ to complete the trail in one, continuous go - which really grabbed my attention.  

Although we lived in the mid-west, I was an all-things-mountain fanatic, mostly through books, magazines and equipment but I did get into the mountains nearly every summer, and Peter’s adventure just blew me away!

Because my Dad had owned a summer business in Estes Park, CO, I had grown-up with plenty of mountain adventuring and had gravitated toward rock climbing and mountaineering at an early age.  By the time I graduated high school I was armed with enough mountaineering experience, equipment and Climbing Magazine pictures to want to go out and find some real trouble.  

The Appalachian Trail was out there and Peter’s trek along the Pacific Crest Trail had sounded pretty outstanding but, as far as I knew, no one had ever done a thru-hike of the Continental Divide; certainly not of the ridgeline itself. Once that realization took hold the idea began to grow a mind of its own.

Craig and I were both drifting after high school and hanging out together when one day we got to talking about Peter’s trip along the Pacific Crest and about what an incredible experience something like that would be. 

Then I told him how I was contemplating a similar trek only along the Continental Divide.  Craig seemed intrigued by this idea but lacked the mountain background to really gage what is was I was talking about.  Hell, I didn’t even really know what it was I was talking about.

Over the months that followed, the idea would pop-up now and again and we’d banter it about until one evening I got to rambling on about what an awesome adventure it would be and finally asked Craig “So what do you think? Do you want to go do the Divide with me?” There was but a moment of hesitation before he replied “Sure, why not.”  

Of course, a 19 year old conjuring up big ideas in a wandering brain is practically unavoidable, what was surprising was how serious and in-sync we were when it came to both the desire and the methods for launching the idea.  When we committed to putting this thing together we were both in 100% and that commitment had taken us a long way.

Whether it was the trip logistics or the difficult situations we now encountered along the route, we were enough like-minded in processing the information and determining a course of action that temper outbursts were typically directed at the weather, or trail conditions, or a failing piece of gear and not each other, which was a good thing because there was little room in our day for conflict beyond the daily portion the mountains dished out.
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I poked my head out of the tent early the next morning to clear skies, which was fortunate because if we were going to get out of the mountains and down to town before having to make another camp, we had a really long day ahead of us.

Everything that was wet got packed away wet and we had camp dismantled with the bags ready to carry in under 30 minutes.  We motored off up Big Hole Creek at a stiff pace and made quick work of the short, Bloody Dick Creek (really, that’s the name) up to Swift Lake, then across an easy plateau to link back up with the Divide.

We were now hiking through open forest and, surprisingly, on a trail.  Our map didn’t show a trail running along the Divide and it didn’t appear maintained or part of a National Forest trail system but we could tell it got some use by riders on horseback so we stuck with it.

Early in the day it looked as though, with the help of the trail, we might make it out of the mountains before dark but as the day wore on it became increasing clear that we weren’t going to get there.  Finally, with the sun hovering on the horizon, we decided to drop down a gentle slope to the headwaters of Pattee Creek and put in one last camp.  ​

We didn’t have much food left in the food bag to choose from for supper, some pulverized noodles that had been crushed by too many smash-packing jobs and some rice with dried soup; no tinned meat, no pudding, no chocolate bars, and only a 

Click the map for a larger map

couple of packets of Swiss Miss.  Seems like all we talked about that evening was the Herndon cafe.  The next morning we were up with the sun, more than ready to get out of the mountains and back to the café in town.  What granola dust we had left we ate dry.

With images of real food gnawing a hole in my brain we flew down the final six miles to Lemhi Pass.  Once on the gravel road, we didn’t have to walk long before a Mexican dude in an old, beat-up ranch truck stopped and gave us a lift into Salmon.

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Go to Part 30

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The CDTC was founded in 2012 by volunteers and recreationists hoping to provide a unified voice for the CDT. Working hand-in-hand with the U.S. Forest Service and other federal land management agencies, the CDTC is a non-profit partner supporting stewardship of the CDT. The mission of the CDTC is to complete, promote and protect the Continental Divide National Scenic Trail, a world-class national resource. For more information, please visit continentaldividetrail.org.

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