Part Thirty One

     July 31-August 1                         Salmon, ID                           (Go to Pt 1)

We arrived at the top of Lemhi Pass a little after 1:00 p.m. and wasted little time getting pack-saddled and heading-off south on a hammered-out, rock and dust road that snaked its way along the crest of the Divide. 

Being on the front end of another two week stint meant our packs were loaded and burdensome again but we still hoped to stretch the remainder of the day out to cover at least 14 miles.

As we hiked, I could see evidence of pick-and-shovel prospecting scattered about the stark, arid landscape.  Passing one particularly sad, little scrape into the rocks, I imagined some old, bent, bearded miner hunched over this shallow excavation, swinging his pick-ax hour after hour, day after day at solid rock, trying to will the next pick-strike to pay-dirt. 

About a mile later it occurred to me that what I was doing was pretty much the same as my poor, imaginary, miner friend except for me, making camp and a pan of hot glop was the pay-dirt part.

After hiking for an hour or so, the parched, sage covered slopes met up to a stand of tall pines which, in a matter of steps, closed us into a shadowy forest. Over the next eight miles or so the forest would break intermittently to afford views of differing aspects, sometimes east, sometimes west or south, as the trail ambled and undulated along the rolling crest of the Divide.  

Without a single obstacle in our path or any navigational worries to mind to, both the road and the terrain allowed us to accelerate our pace and move quickly along the route, which was nice for a change but also tiresome in a monotonous kind of way. 

Around 6:30 p.m. the road finally petered out at the saddle below Goat Mountain’s broad, north ridge.  We ambled across the open, north slope and located the spring that was shown on our map then settled for a lumpy, pint-sized tent platform on the grassy hillside just up from the spring.  It was a warm, calm evening with a light, summer breeze and, as we suddenly realized in astonishment, no bugs!

There were almost no mosquitoes up here in this arid country but a new nemesis had shown up on the trail - horseflies; big, black, biting horseflies.  All day long those black demons harassed us, diving in every few minutes to gnaw at our hide but slow enough we could smack most of them back, although it took one hell of a swat to put one on the ground.

Earlier, while we sat eating lunch and swatting horseflies into the dirt, we watched an epic, fight-to-the-death struggle unfold right before our eyes. Several of the flies we had swatted down had hit the ground stunned, most with a busted wing or two, but not dead.

Well, where there were no ants before, these hapless flies on the ground, stunned, bleeding and flailing about, suddenly brought out columns of red ants from a rotting log maybe ten yards away, marching across the pebbly gravel toward the flies. 

It did not take long for the ants to cross what for them was one heck of a long boulder field and engage the wounded horseflies.  However, once the ants reached the killing field they quickly discovered the horseflies too aggressive and too angry for just one or even several ants to handle. 

It took at least ten or more ants to subdue a fly and then those ants struggled mightily as they tried to get all their combined legs to pull the bucking horsefly in the same direction. And thus, a fight to the death ensued.  

This was some really cool shit! I mean, when you’re out walking the Continental Divide, scenes like this are intensely interesting to watch; it was the Nature Channel Live, in HD, 3D, Monster-Vision!

So, with the six or seven flies on the ground well under control, the remaining columns of ants began to march past the crippled horseflies, looking intent on bringing something else down which was probably going to be our sausage and crackers.  And to be sure, once they smelled fly blood in the dirt and sausage grease in the air, they began to swarm in rapidly increasing numbers. 

We were pretty mesmerized by this whole insect scene going on until an ant column snuck around my left flank to reach my boot sole undetected and we were suddenly alarmed into a defcon1, lunch pack-up and rapid retreat, leaving the ants conquerors of the ground.

Dawn the next morning was cool and pleasant but before we had even finished our morning routine the sun was bearing down, heating up to be a scorcher. 

We each filled two quarts of water from the spring and prepared for the long, blistering day ahead.  We started by crossing the rest of Goat Mountain, back up to the Divide, where we again picked-up a mining, access-type road running along the top of the ridge. ​

After a couple of miles, the track filtered out of the trees and down to a meadowy saddle, maybe a mile across, with open slopes rolling away to the southwest. Little Eightmile Creek trickled down through the meadow below the ridge, gaining momentum as it gathered down the hillside to splash its way through a series of diamond-set ponds that glittered for nearly a mile down the grassy mountainside.

From the saddle we went cross-country up and over Grizzly Hill to connect with a gravel road that took us east to Wagonbox Spring. 

We stopped at the spring to replenish our water supply but found nothing to drink at Wagonbox so forward we marched down and out to Road 29. 

On 29 we clicked off a couple of quick miles south then branched east onto Forest Service road 130, following that up as far as it would it take us along Frank Hall Creek.

We took a late lunch sometime mid-afternoon under a hot patch of shade just downstream from the headwaters of the creek.  The sun was intense and I was beginning to feel weak and washed-out under the oppressive heat.  I was sure the crest of the ridge was not far off but when I checked the map to see if we were close, I saw instead another 1,600 ft. vertical rise to get there; I sagged over the map and nearly puked. ​

We had a ragged, 4W track to get us started up, out of the valley then we hung to open slopes to reach Quaking Aspen Creek.  From there we trudged up a long, steady grind through hot, brittle pines to a clearing on the ridge.  ​

We dropped our packs in the dust and pulled hard on our water bottles. I was toast and my feet were pleading with me to ‘get these damn boots off!’  From the top of the ridge we only had a couple of moderately easy, downhill miles to reach camp but the thought of having to re-saddle that flippin’ pack had me pissed-off to the point of loudly barked expletives. ​

I was impatient as hell to be done with this whole, sweltering day and my feet couldn’t stand another minute in those suffocating, boot furnaces, leaving them utterly incredulous when I stood up and re-shouldered the pack.  
    
By the time we reached the small spring across from Tepee Mountain to make camp I was cooked, through and through, and while the spring provided clear water, our hopes for a shady grove of trees got squelched when all we found were spotty shadows cast spindly pines. 

We spent about an hour hunkered behind the meager protection of a couple of crispy-fried, pine hags until the sun lowered enough to venture back out and pitch camp. ​

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Go to Part 32

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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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