This day had been in the back of my mind since the hike in. I hadn’t forgotten about the physical demands of the eleven mile trek of day two, and I was less rested than I was then. I didn’t need to be at the airport in Missoula for two more days, but I wanted to leave myself an extra day in case I needed it. I suppose it goes back to a time when I foolishly tried to hike in and out of the Tuolumne River in Yosemite in one day. I was very inexperienced in hiking and was obsessed with making it to the river. It was a six hour hike in and ended up being eight hours to get out. The last four hours was in the dark, and I was actually concerned about my survival because I was ridiculously underequipped for what I was trying to accomplish. But that’s another diary altogether. Nevertheless, it left a thought in the back of my head that I would rather keep there instead of reliving the experience. By giving myself an extra day I had the option of going only halfway and spending the night. If I made it out in a single day there were lots of places to fish.
I woke up at about 5:00 am to the sound of rain on my tent. The weather had been clear all week but had turned overnight. I wasn’t really worried about hiking out in the rain; I figured I would be soaked with sweat anyway. The rain cover I stretched over my pack would keep my things dry even through a downpour. I stayed in my tent until about 6 o’clock and the rain had let up a little. Fortunately I had brought all my gear under the rainfly the night before, so the rainfly itself would be the only wet thing that needed to be packed. I got dressed and stepped outside to eat breakfast. Forest was loading up his mules for his trip to the trailhead. He wasn’t as efficient as Bill, but he was working steadily as he got each animal prepared for the trip.
I ate all the breakfast food I had left, took a couple shots of power gel, and drank a liter of carb mix. It was still drizzling a little when I wrapped up the tent and loaded my pack. I thought about waiting for Forest to go ahead of me so I wouldn’t have to dangle myself over a cliff to let him go past, but I couldn’t tell how much longer he would be. So I walked towards the bridge, said good morning to Forest, and started the climb.
The first challenge was a 200 ft. climb to the ridge that the trail would follow. I paced myself on the climb using the lessons I learned on the hike in. The trail leveled out through an area that had burned out six year earlier. Fires are a part of the cycle of nature in the wilderness. Those started by lightning are allowed to burn themselves out, even if they take thousands of acres of timber with them. It seems like a tragedy, but the new growth was already starting to take shape and the fallen, charred trunks had given life to mushrooms and moss in addition to providing shelter for smaller animals.
But even a small breeze would howl through the standing, naked trunks, creating an all too realistic reminder of the phrase ‘whistling through the graveyard’.
I stopped to rest on a log by the trail and realized it was where I had passed Howard on the way in. I had broken the hike up into segments to mark my progress with the creeks being the major milestones. Hiking down and back up to the ridgeline would be the most taxing part of the journey, so the more I could put behind me the less energy I would need to exert.
The trail was empty that early in the morning, and I needed something to occupy my mind besides thinking about how far I had yet to go. I thought back to my college theory classes to find a brain teaser to work on. I decided on the infamous Indian and Missionary dilemma. I had figured it out a few times but could never remember how, so it was always like a new problem. It goes like this:
Three Indians and three missionaries are traveling together and come to a river. They have a single canoe that will hold at most two people. The Indians are hostile, and will attack whenever they outnumber the missionaries. In other words, you can’t have two Indians and one missionary on either side of the river at any given time. How do they all get across the river safely? (The original problem used missionaries and cannibals, but let’s inject an ounce of civility)! The problem is easier if you have paper to keep track of where everyone is, but more challenging if you have to remember everything in your head. Sure enough, it kept me thinking for much of the trip and I spent less time counting minutes to the next creek.
Before I knew it I had crossed the first creek and was back up the other side. After the second creek the trail remained down by the river for about a mile until it crossed the third creek. I stopped there to rest. I could see a couple tents in these flat areas, but it was still raining enough to keep people from wandering outside. I was a good three miles into the hike when Forest caught up to me with his train. We said hello again as he passed. I was twenty yards off the trail as his train went by and was talking to each mule. As the last mule was passing I got a first-hand experience of the kind of trouble Bill had told me about. I guess the animal had switched on his auto pilot and wasn’t paying attention, because when he saw me he bolted like he’d seen a ghost. Fortunately the trail was very wide and level in that area and there was no danger of falling off, but he still made Forest and all the other animals quite excited for a few seconds. They quickly regained their composure and kept moving, but I could see how something like that could be disastrous on other parts of the trail.
The temperature was in the high 60s, which was a welcome relief from the heat of the hike in. A few sprinkles had fallen but for the most part it was just overcast. I didn’t bother to put on my rain jacket; I was going to get wet anyway. I stopped to rest frequently, not allowing myself to get winded like I had on the way in. Keeping my mind occupied was helping a lot; I was cov
ering a lot of ground and making good time. My plan was to be at Mid Creek for lunch since the trail from there was pretty level. I had done it in ninety minutes on the way in, so I figured twice that should be a safe budget for the hike out. I made it there by 11:30 and decided to take at least an hour for lunch. The sky had started to clear a little and brief periods of sunshine came through.
Mid Creek is a popular resting point for hikers. I could see remains of campfires and places where tents were setup for the night. I took a seat on an enormous log and just rested for a few minutes.
Some movement in the brush caught my eye. It was near the trail I walked in on. I couldn’t see what it was, but it was big enough to shake an entire bush. I slowly reached for my camera in case this would be a wildlife encounter to capture on film. I could hear limbs cracking to my right as the beast moved through the brush but I still couldn’t see anything. The forest patch was thin between me and the river, so I suspect whatever it was used the trail to move away from me. A couple minutes later a pack train came up the same trail into the clearing where I was. They hadn’t seen any wild beasts, so it was probably just a deer. Or perhaps Sasquatch, skilled at the art of camouflage. That would make a better story!
The train stopped at the creek for a few minutes and waited for another group coming from the other direction. They had apparently timed their trips so they would meet at the creek where there was plenty of room to pass. Trying to pass on the uphill or downhill slopes would have been very difficult.
I finished a leisurely lunch and packed up for the home stretch. The climb up from Mid Creek would be the last significant incline of the trail, so my spirits were lifted that the hardest work was behind me. Once on the ridge I had a spectacular view of the river below. I could see some rafters who had put ashore to survey the water ahead. For the most part, the river is steady and reasonably calm. But one stretch was pretty turbulent and required some 
preparation to navigate with a kayak or raft. The guide had walked ahead to check the conditions and plan their strategy. The rafters looked like they would have rather chosen the horseback tour.
The picture doesn’t show it, but some pretty big rocks guarded both sides of the channel. It definitely made you think twice before charging ahead. I kept moving but heard a few victory shouts as they shot the rapids. I’m sure they described it as Niagara Falls in their own Montana Diaries!
I also saw some very nice fishing water from the trail. I saw no easy way to get to the river because of the sheer drop-offs, so I guess this is one of the many places you can only reach via raft. No doubt these were the holes that held the big bull trout!
After an hour, I reached the spot where the rafting outfitters pick up their clients. Nobody floats past a certain spot because the canyon is simply too steep to be safe. They pack up the gear on mules and the rafters hike out the remaining two miles. Just as I came to the point where the trails merge I met up with a group that had been camping across the river from me the night before. They had rafted from Big Prairie and stopped at Spotted Bear Cabin for the night. We exchanged pleasantries and continued towards the trailhead. My pace was slightly faster than the adults so they let me go ahead. Four teenagers with nothing to carry went on ahead of me, seeming aggravated that the old farts couldn’t keep up. I met them a few more times before the trail head when they had stopped to wait for the rest of their group.
I was in the last lap and feeling the end was in sight. I was proud of how I held up and still felt strong. The sun had come out and heated things up substantially, but most of the trail was still under a canopy of limbs and leaves.
I had solved the missionary problem and was now motivated by the thought of eating non-freeze-dried food and drinking something cold other than water. I could camp out that night at the trail head, but getting a hot shower and sleeping in a real bed sounded much more appealing. I crossed the bridge and entered the parking lot, feeling like an Olympic runner finishing a marathon. I dropped my pack and dug out my car keys. The car was filthy from the dust of the parking lot, but it was otherwise undisturbed from an unattended week. I opened the trunk where I had some snacks that didn’t fit into my pack on the way in. It was 3:30 p.m. I unpacked my tent to spread out the rainfly and let it dry in the sun. I drank the rest of my water and asked some nearby hikers if they knew where to find the nearest river access. I really wanted to go jump in. But we were still a couple hundred feet above the water and nobody knew an access spot nearby. I decided to pack up my things, get in the air conditioned car, and start driving.
About 12 miles from the highway I saw a sign that pointed to Trout Lake. No self-respecting fly fisherman could drive past a sign like that, so I turned at the corner and drove a mile to the lake. It was beautiful. I could just imagine being there just after sunrise watching trout rise like popcorn breaking the glass surface.
I sat in silence staring at the lake for about 20 minutes. For the first time in a week I became conscious of the fact that I had been completely out of touch with the news. I didn’t know the headlines, where the stock market closed, what congress was bickering about, who was at war, or what was happening with the Kardashians… but I hadn’t missed any of it. That’s the true mark of a restful vacation.
It had been exactly what I had hoped for and what I needed. More nature than people, but the people I met were as friendly as any I could remember. On a daily basis it can get easy to let your world get smaller, your horizons shorter, and your priorities get distorted. Spending a week in the wilderness can be the perfect prescription for setting things right. Maybe the next year will be completely stress free, all my problems will solve themselves, and I’ll be bored with fly fishing.
But I think I’ll make arrangements for another trip anyway. It’s good to have a backup plan, just in case.
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