Leaving the panem et circenses of Augusta was strangely sad. The bars, bands and goodwill of the locals had made the town in the short while we were there, home. Robert an ex-marine and Dante his dog, gave six of us hikers a lift back to the trail. I rode shotgun and listened to him mimic various regional British accents that he had learned during his times serving abroad. Annoyingly though, he had developed a liking for the band 'Fisherman's Friends' and one particular song 'Donkey Riding' which he played a couple of times as we left a trail of dust behind us on the potholed road to Benchmark.
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Robert and Dante
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And into the day we hiked. With a vigor that only fresh legs can bring we walked as a group chatting away until our differing abilities seperated us.
The day was hot and at lunch time Sally and I sat by a stream, ate and dosed in the burn out (Alice Creek 2017 fire) under the shade of our slung out ground sheet.
That night and along side the Deerborn River we slept, with tramily members camped nearby, our bearbags slung up and looking forward to the days ahead as we enetered the Lewis and Clark Range and the Scapegoat Wilderness.
The next morning ice cracked away from the tent fly as we made to set off at dawn. By mid morning as we crossed and said good bye to the flowing Deerborn the heat of the day was setting in. Suncream tasted acrid as sweat ran into my mouth, flies were bothersome and the climb from 5000' to 8300' loomed. Water became scarce too and the temperatures climbed. And with each step; more painful than blisters, more cutting than water laden shoulder straps was that damned song, its cadance keeping perfect timing with each step up that long mountain.
Hey! ho! Away we go,
Donkey riding, donkey riding,
Hey! ho! Away we go,
Riding on a donkey!
All afternoon.
We were however rewarded with an evening made in fairy tales. Sally and I pitched our tent on what felt like the top of the world. We sat inside with the outer fly off and watched the sun set behind the distant mountains. And through the night we watched the sky turn, the moon set and the dawn begin.
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Sun Rise Montana
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With the sun rise we set off again, saw a bear gallop away, a stag drink from the same lake we drew water from and breathed in deep the meadow filled pine air as we climbed again.
Had I checked though, what happened for the rest of the day would have been avoided. That magical water source that sustained the bear and the deer was the last for the next ten miles. And those ten miles were hot, dry, through exposed burn out and full of climbs.
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| Deer Lake |
We melted snow, it tasted foul. I had no spit left to swallow our snacks and when we diverted off the path to a nearby spring in the mid afternoon Sally and I were mentally glugging gallons of cool fresh water miles before we arrived. And when we arrived we did just that, we drank and drank.
It was such an important lesson. Not only how precious water is and how tap turning is taken for granted. It was an important lesson because the mountains of the trail would be dry. They wouldn't all have a glacier conveniently sat at the top. There would be many long hard days ahead, in full summer heat, where filling up and filtering water at stagnent ponds and carrying many litres of water would be our only option.
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One more climb before lunch
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The days ahead were more routine, we woke earlier, slept longer during the heat of the day and set off after five until bed time. One night we slept as a group in a Yurt. One hot afternoon we stopped early at Llama Farm where there were sandwiches, cold cokes and as many alpacas as you could possibly want to stroke. And all for free; no catch, just pay it forward. The hospitality extended to a night in a small cabin, free of bear worries and donkeys.
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| Giant Indian Paint Brush |
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Early Riser
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Now in Montana's state capital, Helena, (where once during the 1864 gold rush there were more millionaires than in London) Special Agent Sally and I feel richer than the entire city as we prepare to return to the wild. We will return to places named during those times such as Cigarette Creek, Last Chance Gulch, and Priest Pass. We know that we will be visiting a place that has existed for millennia and that our footsteps, like those names in the mountains, will soon be forgotten.
