Day 1: Friday, July 29

I didn’t sleep at all last night. I had packed and repacked my gear three times just to make sure I didn’t forget anything, and to check the weight. It can really ruin a trip to get eleven miles into the wilderness and realize that you don’t have a stove or a sleeping bag.  I had been studying the maps for 2 years, which is the time since my last trip. I had planned to go back in 2010, but the schedule and economics didn’t permit. In 2009, I had trekked in a route suggested by a cousin-in-law, who lives in Missoula, Montana. He is a helicopter pilot on call for hospitals, and often has to fly across some beautiful country. He suggested the Bob Marshall Wilderness as a top destination for a fly fishing trip.  Having not attempted many high-impact hiking trips before, I naively picked a route that climbed from about 4000 feet over two peaks of 7200+ feet to get to the river. Bad idea. Carrying a 50 pound pack over level ground for 10+ miles a day doesn’t bother me, but the climbing is a killer. I now understand why those trucks with the huge diesel engines have to go so slow over hills: it just takes so much energy.

But this trip was going to be different. I had planned a route that followed the river, which only varied about 400 feet along the trail. I ordered maps from the US Geological Service, which show topology and latitude/longitude. You know you can get amazingly detailed maps of anyplace in the US from the USGS?  Pretty cool!  I measured the coordinates of the relevant waypoints on my route and entered them into my GPS so I could get my bearings while on the trail. Despite being seriously directionally challenged, it would be difficult (but not impossible) to get lost on my new route because it followed the river. If I could remember which side I was on and which way the river flowed, I couldn’t really get lost.

I had been working out for the past four months to get in shape. I could run about three miles without stopping and go thirty minutes straight on the Stairmaster on level fourteen. I had also done enough leg lifts and squats in the gym to get rid of that burn in my thighs. I was a man with a purpose, and the big day had finally arrived. I have to say, it felt a lot like Christmas Eve when I was a kid.

A family friend, Jeb, agreed to take me to the airport in the morning. He came by about 5:15 am, which was only about 45 minutes before his usual departure time in the morning. I had an 8:00 am flight from SFO.  I was traveling with Gus, my 10mm pistol, and needed to declare a firearm at the airport. I had consulted with United at SFO to learn the procedure so I would know what to expect. When I checked in, I told the agent (in a hushed voice) that I had a firearm to declare. This was apparently only the second or third firearm he had encountered, so after looking at me like Bin Laden he sent me to the end of the counter to talk with someone who knew how to deal with ‘people like me”. The new agent acted like she processed a dozen firearms a day; she filled out the forms, gave me a bright orange card to put with Gus, and sent me downstairs to the TSA guy.  The TSA guy downstairs acted like he processed a hundred firearms a day and yawned when he asked me to show him Gus.  I had done some research on the web and got a tip that the smartest plan is to pack your hard-sided case inside some other piece of luggage so you don’t advertise to some baggage handler in Denver that “THIS WOULD BE A GOOD PACKAGE TO STEAL BECAUSE THERE IS A FIREARM INSIDE AND THE AIRLINE INSURES ALL LUGGAGE”.  I unlocked the case, showed him Gus was unloaded, and locked it back up. I then buried the case inside my backpack and put it on the belt, checked through to Missoula, MT.

I went upstairs and went through security. One of the perks of flying 60K miles per year is that you get to use a different security line at SFO. It is shorter than the other TSA lines, but they still make you strip off your belt, watch, shoes, and almost everything else to pass through the X-ray machine. I was a little concerned that I might have a microscopic trace of gunpowder on my hands from handling Gus, and that it might show up in one of the molecular analyzers they made us pass through. But all was cool, and I was on my way to the gate. I was carrying on only my two fly rods, my camera and my phone. It’s so rare that I’m in an airport without my laptop, I felt naked without it. It took a little getting used to, but it felt good.

I got to Denver on time, which was a relief. I was scheduled to get into Missoula at 4:00 pm and I was hoping for no delays.  I needed to pick up some white gas for my camp stove (which I couldn’t bring on the plane), and I had hoped to visit a fly shop or two to get some local info on the Flathead river, maybe pick up a few recommended flies. I had to drive 2 hours to Kalispell that night, and all the fly shops close at 6:00. If I got in on time, I could get a good start on my hike in the morning. If I was late, I would likely have to wait in Kalispell until 9 am until the stores opened, which would delay my start for a couple hours.

The flight actually got into Missoula 15 minutes early.  The Missoula airport is pretty small. You can actually go online and control a camera at the Missoula airport to see what’s going on!  I picked up the rental car thirty feet from the baggage claim, and was on my way downtown by 4:10. I had mapped out a few fly shops to save time. Missoula has 4-5 different fly shops, which is probably a record for the most in any one city in the US. The Grizzly Hackle Fly Shop is probably my favorite. I talked to one of the employees there and told him what I was planning. I could see the envy in his eyes. I thought he was going to ask me if he could come with me!  He suggested some flies, many of which were size 10-12. I would have guessed something smaller, but he seemed confident. He had some crippled emerger patterns I hadn’t seen before. They were dry flies, but the back end stayed underwater like the husk a mayfly would hatch from.  I picked up a few to try out.

I bought some white gas and a dozen energy bars at a sporting goods store and headed off to Kalispell. Everything was on track.

It was 120 miles to Kalispell, and I got there about 7:30. I had a reservation at the Motel 6, which was the cheapest bed I could find. It was a good thing I made a reservation; every hotel room in Kalispell sells out in the summer. I checked in to my room and went across the street to get dinner. It would be the last non-freeze-dried meal I would eat for the next week, so I got a good steak and ate all I could stuff down.  I went to a grocery store and bought a few apples, a water bottle, and some Red Bull. (I texted Spencer to get a recommendation on the best energy drink to buy).  Back at the room I rearranged my gear for the next day’s hike. I filled my camp fuel bottle, packed the food in the bear canister, and got out my clothes for the morning. The Motel 6 in Kalispell is a popular place with the biker gangs, but Gus makes you feel pretty safe at night.  It was still very hard to sleep, but only because I was so excited about the next day. Morning couldn’t come fast enough.