Hydro-Hearts

This story was written for Outside Bozeman Magazine.

The song of river rats

We belong in the water. Rivers fill us with liquid courage, and we drink it straight from the source. If we could grow fins we would, but paddles and oars do just fine. When the calling sounds, we’re delighted to answer.

For most of us it starts in April. Others chase the bug all year, while the rest wait to scratch the itch until it’s warm enough to not wear a drysuit. The first t-shirt weather of spring signals us to look forward. Ski season isn’t yet over, but our attention turns to what lies ahead. The sun beats down, dripping water from a melting snowpack, off rooftops and down mountainsides into the riverbed below. The collective fire burns.

We uncover the boats. Dust off the plastic, check the rubber for leaks, and secure any odds and ends. Pretty soon, it’s time to launch, so into the current we go. It’s low water, but not for long. There’s rain predicted, followed by sunshine on the weekend.

It always takes a couple outings to get back into it, to remember the rhythm of the river. So we pay attention, waking up those skills and senses that have gone dormant for the winter. We’ll need them soon. We savor the early runs, but never stop thinking about the change of seasons. How big will it go this year? We check hydrographs and forecasts as much as we do our email—some of us don’t even have an email. Then, just like that, the faucet cranks.

Our schedules fill up immediately. We’re booked because we leave our calendars open, never ruling out the possibility to make a last-minute trip to wherever the water flows paramount. We paddle Yankee Jim, run Bear Trap Canyon, and hit the Gallatin four days a week after work. We make an annual pilgrimage (or three) to the Lochsa and rally north to Big Fork Whitewater Fest on the Swan. Some of us make a date with danger and test our skills on high-consequence creeks in the Crazies or waterfalls on the Henry’s Fork. 

We seek out big waves and high-volume hydraulics—swirling eddy lines, recirculating holes, and sneaky whirlpools. Our hearts beat as fast as the current moves. We like this feeling, but sometimes we take swims we wish we hadn’t. We look out for one another, though, and we’re grateful for our fellow friends and mentors who have our backs in scary situations.

For months straight, we live in dry gear and sandals. The kayak never leaves the roof, and the raft remains ready on the trailer. Conversation revolves around cubic feet per second and how much time we can get off work. We curse any and all plans that get in the way of us and the put-in. Don’t you dare have a wedding during highwater.

The air is replete with urgency because we never know how long it will last. Every day, a few more grains of sand fall through the hourglass. Every day, high summer, fall, and winter creep a little bit closer.

There’s never enough time, and we feel it as soon as it runs out. The meat of the season is gone as quick as it arrives, but even so, there is still so much in store. Some of us have permits to far-away gems like the Salmon, Snake, or the Colorado down the mighty Grand Canyon. Others pencil out time for canoe trips, fishing floats, and long afternoons surfing standing waves. We’ll paddleboard, paddle raft, and paddle any damn thing that stays afloat for as long as we possibly can.

When low flows and cold temps finally close the door on another season, we raise a glass and drink deep, and we pour some out for the ones who aren’t with us. We can’t wait for next year, but we really are gratified. We have memories and plans and we feel happy to be part of this wild, bestial tribe.

We are a soaking-wet feral bunch, and we prefer it that way. We handclap and footstomp and slurp beer from our boots to appease the water gods. We dance around bonfires and howl at the moon after everyone else has gone to bed. We have sand under our fingernails and dirt in our hair. It feels good. So do the calluses that grow on our palms and the wrinkles that form on our skin. We have chapped lips and sun burns and absolutely nothing but water on our minds. We are river runners. So come on and join us. The water is fine.

Carefree Highway

Tolls, teeth & turbulence from deep in the Mexican jungle.

This story appeared in print for Mountain Gazette, issue 197.

The mood changes when the sun goes down. There’s urgency, a sense that we ought to put our guards up. The afternoon was nothing short of a booze cruise. For hours, we’ve been drinking beers, making jokes, and soaking up the sun like high schoolers on spring break. But now, the atmosphere feels different. It is far from carefree. After all, we’re strangers in an unfamiliar land; foreigners in a place that we’re not sure is all that happy to have us.

German (pronounced Her-mahn) rows the lead boat. As an assistant guide, he’s been on this river once before. He puts his headlamp on backward so we can follow him. But, German is built like a tank, and he rows like a four-stroke motor. With every passing minute, the red beacon atop his head flickers smaller and more distant. Pretty soon, we can’t see it at all.

Then, our main flotilla starts to separate. One raft powers ahead to keep pace with German. Two captains in the back, relatively unconcerned with staying together, linger behind. A boat in the middle attempts, unsuccessfully, to keep eyes on everyone. After a few uneasy kilometers, we round the corner to see the red light once again. German is parked in an eddy on river left. Above him, a white spotlight cuts the darkness and shines down into the river. With the glow directed toward us, it’s impossible to make out details, but dozens of silhouettes line the bank, everyone from grown men to women holding infants.

Carlos, another assistant guide, paddles upriver in his kayak and briefly attempts to make sure we’re all accounted for. “Ok, guys! Get to the side of the river and hang out,” he insists. “We are trying to figure out if we can camp here.” Up ahead, there is a clatter of conversation. The kind of muffled noise you hear at large gatherings. It’s too faint to make out specific words, but a lot of it is in Tzeltal, a Mayan dialect, so most of us wouldn’t be able to understand it anyway.

Branches snap in the bushes directly above us. Footsteps in the trees. Whispers. Awkward grunts in the understory.

“My balls are tingling,” Sarge says, attempting to keep the mood light. “I feel very out of my comfort zone,” adds Sam. “And that’s exactly why we do these trips.” 

Twenty minutes goes by. It feels more like an hour. Then, we get the word. There’s flat ground on the other side of the river. We can camp there, the villagers say. Negotiations will continue in the morning.

THE annual river trip. For a lot of us, it’s the best time of year. An opportunity to reconnect with old friends, make new ones, and travel through wild and unpredictable landscapes. We run rapids, explore canyons, and stay gathered around the fire until the wee hours of the night, cheers-ing to life and how this one is the best. There was the San Juan trip, the Green River through Desolation Canyon, Cataract Canyon, and of course, the Grand. Each one was just as memorable as the one before, in its own unique way. Last year, we decided to take it international.

South America was at the top of our list. Upon researching, we came across a website called Sierra Rios, a one-part guide company, one-part conservation organization. A man named Rocky Contos was behind it all. He started the nonprofit in 2006 as a passion project to both disseminate information on his first descents, as well as educate the public on wild rivers threatened by dams. Since 2010, the unassuming 5’8” Californian has been leading river trips to obscure locations all over the world. 

Our core planning contingent preferred a self-supported, non-guided trip. But just the distance of doing an international trip complicated logistics exponentially. Unless we decided to take small, personal crafts, we’d need to find boats, transportation, food, and the means to outfit an expedition for 15 people, for two weeks or more. When it came down to it, the idea of doing such a trip on our own was out of the question. I sent Rocky an email.

He replied quickly, his response detailing several possibilities near and south of the equator. The initial plan was to float the Rio Grande-Colorado in Argentina, a river destined to be dammed. But as launch time drew closer, COVID restrictions showed no sign of easing up. We had to pivot.

In one of many email exchanges, Rocky had briefly mentioned the possibility of floating a river called the Jataté in southern Chiapas, as a backup plan. Mexico was less strict with their barriers-to-entry and, in that regard, pulling a trip off was easier. Aside from one online trip report and a minute-and-a-half YouTube video, we couldn’t find out much about it. When it became clear that Argentina was out of the picture, we pressed Rocky for more details.

It would be a good trip, he said, but we faced a couple obstacles right off the bat. First off, the trip he had in mind consisted of three rivers: Jataté, Lacantún, and Usumacinta. While he hadn’t ran a guided trip on the exact stretch referenced, he recommended 18 days on the water. We could only afford 14. Of particular concern was a 220 km section of flat water in the middle. To expedite it, he proposed having one of his assistants meet us with a motor halfway down. Sounded good to us.

Second, this region was in the heart of the Zapatista Movement, the indigenous rebellion that sparked civil unrest in the 1980s and ‘90s, the peak of which occurred on January 1, 1994. Around 3,000 Zapatista guerillas engaged in armed combat across multiple cities in Chiapas, overthrowing local governments such as Ocosingo. From that time on, assaults and robberies became an issue. One of the last commercial river trips on the Jataté was around 1994.

However, area-violence has since simmered. In January 2021, Rocky led a group down a stretch of the river, ending the 25-plus year commercial hiatus. Everything went “OK”, he told us. Though, he noted that we should expect to pay some of the local communities to establish and maintain a positive relationship. Additionally, we’d need to pay a security fee to a group of Guatemalan gunman who would accompany us on a stretch of the Usumacinta. They’d have their own boat and would camp nearby as a means of protection. Again, sounded fine to us.

WE ferry across the river and tie up the boats. Then comes the routine of setting up camp. This part we’re familiar with. In a human chain, we shuttle dry bags, tables, ammo cans, and other miscellaneous gear up the bank and onto shore. One group gets the stoves ripping. Another sets up the groover. I look to assemble the hand-washing station. Someone’s already put it up.

“Who wants a beer?”

“Yo!” From a dozen different directions.

“Is someone getting firewood?”

“Larson’s on it.”

With twenty people working as one well-oiled machine, camp is up in fifteen minutes.

Tamales are on the menu, and within the hour everyone has one on their plate. Hearty bites are followed with gulps of Mexican beer. Some of us plop down in camp chairs, others sprawl out in the sand or sit on rocks. We circle around the fire and eventually, our individual conversations petering out, colLectively look to the man in charge.

“So,” Rocky says. “Do you guys want to know what happened today?” 

It’s day one of the trip and instead of putting on the river with the rest of us, Rocky had driven ahead to the small village of El Avellanal to inform the local community that we’d be passing through. He’d acquired permission from the Caracol (one of the Zapatista’s larger governing bodies) for his trip in January, but apparently, 11 months later, that permission was moot for us.

“They told me no buddy passes,” he says chuckling. “They don’t care what the Caracol says. They told me they control what happens here.” Rocky goes on a monologue about how he spent the afternoon attempting to persuade local leaders to allow us to pass. The whole village got involved, he tells us, and no one seemed that supportive of it. 

The reasons behind this community’s reluctance to us have roots deeper than their current political ideologies. We are white westerners and they are rural indigenous people. Given the history of that relationship, it’s easy to see where they’re coming from.

But we aren’t like the expansionists of yore. I think to myself. We just want to float a river and enjoy the scenery. We mean well. We come in peace.

“10,000 pesos,” Rocky says. “That’s what they want.” It’s more than what he was expecting, but when it comes down to it, it’s not a hard decision. The math pencils out to a little more than 20 bucks a person. Chump change in the scheme of things. In Rocky’s eyes, the big worry is what type of precedent this may set. If they are able to set the cost as high as they want—10,000 being abnormally large for this sort of tourism fee—it does not bear well for future rafting trips. The transaction makes me think long and hard. Is our short-term fun worth risking the long-term integrity of this traditional community? Are we in fact risks or are they just seeing it wrong? If Rocky develops a relationship with them, he can help the community with tourism dollars, possibly even employ some of the locals. Those would be good things wouldn’t they? I go to bed with a knot in my stomach. 

Morning fog gives way to a bright blue sky. The sun beams through the jungle canopy and reflects off the water emphasizing the river’s impressive jade-like color. Birds are singing and the fire crackles happily as we greet one another with coffee and breakfast.

At about 8am, three of the villagers paddle across the river in a hand-carved cayuco and join us. Rocky, German, and the other guides share coffee with them while the rest of us sit off to the side, attempt to maintain good manners, and appear as unassuming as possible. After a half an hour the locals, all of whom are smiling, clamber back down the bank, cross the river, and return to the village. Finally, Rocky addresses us nonchalantly. “Yeah, we’re good to go.”

THE Rio Jataté is a mystical waterway. A distant tributary to the Lacantún, its upper reaches remain a mystery to most folks other than the locals that live there. The main stem contours east-west, meandering through a mix of farmlands and jungle rainforest, much of which has been heavily deforested for cropland. The river spills through deep gorges between the Sierra Cruz de Plata and Sierra Livingstone and eventually joins the Lacantún at the small community of Amatitlán.

This is the section that, from the get-go, has all our attention.

Immediately downriver of El Avellanal is Cañon Las Tazas, an eight-and-a-half-mile gorge with a steep gradient and travertine substrate. The sedimentary mineral is known for its step-like geologic formations and Cañon Las Tazas is no exception. It’s a staircase of small drops and waterfalls all the way to La Sultana, the village at the terminus of the canyon. On the way to the put-in, German likened the Jataté to the Na’vi River, the bioluminescent waterway from Avatar. Aesthetically beautiful to look at, but from a paddling/rowing standpoint, complex to navigate.

A total of six oars were snapped in as many days.

Happy to be granted permission, we rig up and shove off—five rafts, seven kayaks, and three packrafts—a flotilla that would raise eyebrows in places that see a lot of boat traffic. In the eyes of Chiapas locals, I’m sure we are a far greater spectacle.

For the first kilometer before the canyon, local kids chase us on foot along the riverbank. They laugh and film us and yell “Otro! Otro! Otro!” to the kayakers, urging them to do roll after roll. When the gorge’s walls narrow, we wave goodbye and drop into the rapids.

Unlike most of the rivers our group has ran, the Jataté in Cañon Las Tazas has relatively consistent whitewater. Breaks between rapids are few and far between and, as we would find out, getting through one successfully only means that you need to immediately prepare for the next one. The maps that Rocky provided us highlight six named rapids. The true total of class 3s and 4s must be more than seven times that.

Our first named rapid is called Slaughterhouse. Two giant boulders split the river in two and neither way around them looks particularly friendly. There are lines, though, so the less experienced heed the advice of guides and the more savvy among us. After taking a healthy amount of time to scout, the rafts make their way through one by one, all of them cleanly. In a packraft, I am one of the only ones who fail to make the first complicated move and, consequently, swim the lower half. To my relief, the river flushes me and it’s all smiles at the bottom.

From here, the tempo is consistent for the remainder of the day. Most of the rapids are fun, but it’s back-to-back-to-back, no-nonsense type of water. There isn’t any time to let your guard down, let alone choke down a beer. Indeed, a bit of a difference from what we’re used to.

In the late afternoon, after several questionable lines and close calls we arrive at our first class 5. The rapid looks munchy, particularly the left side which is littered with exposed boulders from top to bottom. Unsurprisingly, this is called Rock Garden.

Most of the smaller crafts have their eyes on the left line. Take the slide along the bank, brace against the big lateral, and continue to dodge holes until calmer water below. Large rafts will run center. Drop in on the widest tongue, steer clear of prominent holes, and keep it straight as best as possible. Bouncing off exposed rocks appears nothing short of a guarantee.

German, self-proclaimed as Rocky’s guinea pig, is the first to go. After the first drop, he is immediately spun around. He takes the second and third drops backward, plants his oars to turn his bow downstream again, and rides the final drop. It isn’t the smoothest of all lines (not that I’m a worthy judge anyway), but he makes it through without major incident and catches the eddy at the bottom. All you can ask for. 

Just as he drew it up.

Rocky follows a similar line in the cataraft, though, he manages to stay forward throughout the entirety. The remaining kayakers drop, each taking their own variation. Caelan paddles cleanly river left. Sam runs right and, as usual, styles it. Jake, in a packraft, drops into the slide and is dumped by the lateral at the bottom. He’s swept through the shallows slowly, scraping to and fro off the travertine. The scene garners grimaces from spectators on shore. Though he’s in high spirits at the bottom, he will no doubt have wounds that need licking.

Then come the ladies, Ash and Haley. It looks like an all-right line at first, but as they approach the entrance, the current takes them left. Haley pulls with all her might but is unable to avoid the exposed rock atop of the rapid. The boat high centers and comes to a halt. Having the real-estate to do so, both gals get out of the boat to wiggle it free. With the reduction in weight, the raft inches downriver, sliding over the debris and directly toward a nasty pocket of turbulence.

With seconds to decide, both ladies opt to not jump back in. Everyone stares as the boat, unmanned, drops into the hole, pinballs through the lower rocks, and coasts into the lower pool, upright and unscathed. It’s half a victory, but now Ash and Haley are stranded on a boulder in the middle of the biggest rapid of the day. Rocky shakes his head and shows his teeth in a befuddled smirk.

Well that went smoothly…

Luckily, we have one raft upstream. JT is the captain. It takes little discussion to determine that what’s to follow will aptly be called Operation Rescue. JT, drop in just right of the hole, but not too close, push hard left, pick up the gals, and punch the remaining drops with speed, preferably straight. Every one of them could flip you. Ladies, you’ve got one chance to make it in. A swim here will undoubtedly be one of the worst of your boating career. Take your shot when you get it.

As the plan is relayed, the air grows thick with anticipation. Coop will be joining JT, providing any assistance he can. When the two push out into the middle of the river, the crowd along the bank goes silent, albeit for a few quiet encouragements. “You got this, JT, you got this.” The two drift slowly above the top of the rapid, JT making micro-adjustments while he still can. They reach the precipice and plunge into the rapid. It’s now or never. 

“Do it!” he bellows. “Do it now!” 

Haley’s in position to go first, but she hesitates.

“I’m not fucking jumping!” she cries. 

Ashley reassures her with a pat on the butt. “Yep, let’s go Hales,” and like a superhero taking flight, launches from the boulder directly into the bow. Haley immediately follows with a dive of her own. But her lane is blocked now. Her trajectory is obstructed by the oar.

Her arms hit first, enveloping the tubes like a monkey hanging from a tree branch. Her face follows, connecting squarely with the oar tower. The collision severs her two front teeth, but despite the impact, she hangs on. The ride is tumultuous as Coop and Ash scramble to pull her back aboard. JT remains in a battle to keep the boat straight.

“High side!”

They slam sideways into the final rock and the right oar breaks like a toothpick as they spin backward into calmer water. It’s utter carnage, the worst many of us have witnessed. And it’s only day two. From what we hear, the river’s intensity doesn’t let up anytime soon.

We reconvene at the bottom and take a moment to make sure everyone is ok. As it turns out, Haley is one of the best people for this sort of thing to happen to. For a lady missing most of her two front teeth, she is weirdly positive about the whole thing. Within the hour, she’s introducing herself to people as Hale Billy, the redneck from Idaho.

During the following days, the trend continues. Our typical put-in time is around 9am. With the exception of a quick lunch, we paddle and row straight until 6pm. Our average daily distance is around four kilometers. Though we manage to keep our teeth intact, the rapids are far from uneventful. Ghost boats, snapped oars, flipped rafts, beatdowns—we have it all. On day three, Rocky goes off line in his kayak atop the entrance of Misty Falls. In the sticky foam at the bottom, he’s held for 28 seconds before pulling his skirt and being rescued via throw bag. That night, along with a handful of the rest of us, he slurps a booty beer from the sole of his chaco. It’s his first in at least five years.

The adrenaline doesn’t wear off until we reach the Lacantún, six days after putting on. Now, we’re a full day behind what Rocky approximated our progress would be. It shouldn’t be a huge deal, but it may complicate meeting up with Miyaya, our shuttle driver and motor deliverer. Rocky’s unphased, though, as he has been all trip. His relentlessly calm demeanor becomes the topic of many conversations. No matter what we’re faced with, no matter how big the rapid or how incompetent the rest of us feel, no situation is that dire. The biggest reaction we see out of him is when we inform him that we had a close encounter with a fer-de-lance earlier in the day. “Are you serious?” he exclaims while eating dinner around the fire. “Those are one of the deadliest species in the world.” As it turned out, we wouldn’t need Rocky to tell us how serious the situation was.

It was midday. We’d pulled over at a local village to eat lunch in what was nothing short of someone’s backyard. Before coming ashore, we sat on the rafts and communicated with locals, most of whom were kids, through smiles and gestures. Our Spanish only went so far, a Mayan dialect was clearly what they knew best.

Then, out of the blue, one of the villagers started screaming. Frantic cries and erratic motions quickly incited the entire crowd of about 15 into a frenzy. For a few brief moments, it was pure confusion. Were they mad? Did they not want us here? Why is everyone, all the sudden, so berserk?

German cleared things up. 

“Snake! Snake! There’s a snake!” Meeting the villagers’ distraught cadence.

The pit viper had emerged out of the water and was moving between the rafts. After coming to within inches of Casey and Sam, it slithered into thicker cover and disappeared. Twenty minutes later, a young boy no older than 13 walked into our group with the serpent attached to the end of a stick. He’d speared it directly in the head and was giving us an up-close look at what had caused such a turmoil. The snake was 6-feet long with at least two-inch fangs. They boy told us it was third fer-de-lance trophy of his life.

“Wow, I can’t believe that happened,” Rocky continues. “If you get bit by one of those you have about thirty minutes to do something, or it’s often fatal.”

In some ways, it’s reassuring to see that Rocky’s veins aren’t completely ice cold. Still, we need to figure out how we are going to make up a day. We hope that Miyaya would wait at Nuevo Teneiapa for us. We also hope that the power of the motor would be able to shuttle us as quick, or quicker, than Rocky predicted. Problems to solve in the days to follow.

After La Soledad, the village after the final rapids of the Jataté, the river’s character changes drastically. The channel widens as the overall topography mellows. It meanders through the jungle in a serpentine fashion, smooth as glass. No one, albeit it from a few kayakers, seems upset that we’ve reached the flatwater. If anything, the feeling is triumphant. We could use a break. Infections are plenty, most of us have foot rot, and—to echo Mark Twight—few, if any of us, are farting with confidence. Recouperation feels like exactly what’s needed.

When we reach Amatitlán at the end of the day, Miyaya is not there. We’re far from cell service, but Rocky is able to send her a message off the InReach. As a backup, he decides to venture into town to see if any of the locals are willing to tow us part of the way. 

That night, a gentleman with a rifle slung over his back walks through our camp with his son. We’ve been a perplexing spectacle to almost every single local who’s seen us, but these two don’t bat an eye. It’s as if a group of 15 gringos camping on the side of the river is nothing out of the ordinary.

“Must be hunting,” Sarge says.

At three in the morning, 13 gunshots shatter the silence. The volley is followed by a few distant dog barks. I wonder what they could be hunting.

When morning arrives, Miyaya is still nowhere to be found. Rocky relays another message, informing her that we’re continuing on and that she should meet us downriver. Luckily, Rocky has also found someone willing to tow us, or at least attempt to. We attach all five boats together, bow-to-stern, and link the giant inflatable centipede onto the gentleman’s motorboat. Amazingly, apart from a couple close calls, it works, and we make good progress for the first half of the day.

The man pulls us to our predetermined Plan B meet-up spot, unties, and heads back upstream. Miyaya, however, is still nowhere in sight. Without an InReach message from her, we’re faced with another decision. We still have a substantial distance ahead of us, and time is not on our side. If we keep rowing, we risk not meeting up with Miyaya, but if we wait too long, finishing the trip could require more days than we can afford. After some quick pondering, we relay a message to her in the sand and get back on the water. 

It’s only a couple hours to the next village and no one seems particularly stressed. We notice toucans and scarlet macaws and howler monkeys in the trees. We reflect on the previous week, laugh at our expectations, and talk about life; how this one is the best. Though rowing with a purpose, that carefree feeling seems to have rekindled.

When we hit the next pueblo, Miyaya is standing atop the bank, waving excitedly and smiling ear-to-ear. She has the motor, our resupply of food, and more beer than even our group can drink. Due to getting pulled over by police and searched for paraphernalia, we missed her by a mere 30 minutes at the last beach.

We take a long lunch before rigging back up party-barge style, our revered motor attached on the back. Our trip is only halfway over, but it feels like we’ve lived three years’ worth of river trips since the first night float. What will we take away from this one?

It’s strange to be the bearers of so much excess in a place that, comparably, has so little. There’s a lesson there and it’ll take the next few months to determine what it is for each of us. But, as a unit, we’ve grown comfortable with our surroundings, both on the water and off. If we weren’t humble before this trip, we will be after. If we didn’t expect the unexpected for the first half of the trip, we will now. If Rocky insists anything, we will listen.

As we shove off and again wave goodbye to Miyaya, afternoon light bends through ceiba trees as ominous clouds build in the distance. The day’s aging, but we’ve got miles to make; we’ll push as far as we can. With a couple yanks on the starter cord, the motor roars to life and we cheer with howls and cracked beers. 

Rene, another assistant guide, hits the throttle but can immediately tell something isn’t working. In Spanish, he explains that the motor isn’t cooling itself, which, as one would assume, is critical to our operation. It takes no more than 20 minutes of troubleshooting to exhaust the entire crew’s knowledge of how to fix it. No dice. Miyaya is well out of sight, and it won’t be long before the sun goes down. That storm isn’t far out either. 

The discussion is quick—we’re all on board with it. Sun turns to rain. Day turns to night. We put the sticks in the water, turn the tunes up to an uncomfortable volume, and row into the darkness, singing and laughing until we can no longer keep our eyes open.

Growing Pains

Tectonic plates are colliding in Bozeman. As people continue to pour in from out of state, the demand for outdoor access has skyrocketed. The dramatic onset of growth, recreation, and management of public lands has brought into question what a proper balance of those things actually looks like. Short of acknowledging some divine precedent, the answer is that it depends on where you stand. But as the number of players involved gets bigger, so do the impacts of every decision. It’s a pressure buildup, and the Bear Creek Trail and Conservation Project is the latest example of just how close we are to the breaking point.

On a cold and windy night in October, Sheila Hepp visits me at the Outside Bozeman office. Hepp’s lived in Bozeman since 1976. She moved to Bear Canyon in 1991 and currently manages various Bozeman properties, including the very building in which we sit. She has the demeanor of a loving mother, with a nurturing voice and a sharp, infectious laugh. Tonight she is fiery, upset, and prepared.

“This one is vile to me,” she says, laying out a manila folder full of emails and opposition letters written to the Gallatin Valley Land Trust regarding the proposed Bear Creek Trail. “I realize there’s a shortage of recreation spots, but it’s a big valley. This is just a narrow, tiny dirt road, and this trail is going to ruin the place.”

She’s referring to an 18-acre parcel of land along Bear Creek, two miles south of the turnoff to Bear Canyon. The property is shaped like a trapezoid, claiming a few hundred yards of creek bottom adjoined starkly with a steep, timbered hillside. In 1998, a man named Paul Gaffney bought it for what he later told me was “dirt cheap.” For 23 years, it’s held nothing but a few corrals and a dilapidated barn. But GVLT recently purchased it, with the intention of opening it up for public access. 

“It’s alarming,” Hepp tells me. “The road is unmaintained as it is. This is just going to increase traffic. It’s going to be disruptive in every way.” The reason these 18 acres are such a hot commodity is because it borders a piece of state ground, which abuts the expansive Custer-Gallatin National Forest, providing access to several hundred thousand acres of public land.

I thumb through some of the letters and stop at one from a man named Kurt Prond. Halfway down it reads, “In reality, the public does have [access] in Bear Canyon. Just a mile from this proposed access are two heavily used trailheads—three including Mt. Ellis Lane... Why would GVLT want to create a new impact zone, a fourth trailhead that accesses already accessed terrain when there are already high impacts in the area?” The two trailheads to which Prond refers are Bear Canyon and New World Gulch, and they do see their fair share of traffic. The thing is, the 18 acres in question are being used already, and not just by Paul Gaffney.

In 2007, paraglider Andy Macrae reached out to Gaffney with a request to cross his land to access an optimal launch point on the state ground atop the ridge. Gaffney agreed, and after drawing up a contract with his attorney relieving him of any liability, Macrae and friends were granted access. This was still what Macrae refers to as “the early days of paragliding,” and at the time, the most popular launch spot was Story Hills. Though also privately owned, a great deal of public access was permitted in the Story Hills, including portions of GVLT’s Main Street to the Mountains trail system.

Macrae guesses that the Bozeman paragliding community (which now tallies around 50 pilots) used Gaffney’s access point for roughly two to three weeks of the year for the first 13 years. This past year, when access to Story Hills got shut down (for reasons unrelated to paragliding), Bear Canyon saw an influx of traffic. And this boost in popularity has people like Hepp looking for any plausible reason to close down public access.

“I’m amazed at the lack of respect for elk by the paragliders,” she says to me, somewhat out of the blue. When I ask her what she means, she can’t seem to find words for it. Indeed, there is an elk herd in the area, and a new trail could be intrusive, but this seems a little too accusatory for anecdotal evidence. Her thought is fleeting, and I get the feeling that what she’s getting at is something much larger than a few guys flying around on public land.Bear Canyon is her home, those animals are her friends, and I get it—change never feels more real than when it happens in your back yard.We spend the rest of the evening reminiscing of the “old days” and lamenting over current growth and development.

Over the next few weeks I continue researching and corresponding with a few other Bear Canyon homeowners, including Doug Harrison, a retired soil scientist. Harrison conducted an independent soil survey compiling USDA and NRCS data, looking at soil composition and watershed health for the area. Over the phone he informs me that Bear Canyon is made up of limestone and cretaceous shale. “When these soils get wet, they move,” he says. “And if it’s steep, they move dramatically.”

He tells me that the costs of drainage and maintenance to avoid erosion will be monumental, should this trail be developed. He says that Bear Creek is already an impaired stream according to the Department of Environmental Quality. But his biggest concern is the impact a trail will have on local wildlife populations. “We see deer, elk, moose, and bear regularly,” he says. “I mean, by all means buy the property and put an easement on it, but don’t develop it.”

It’s an interesting thought, and when I meet with Chet Work, GVLT’s executive director, on a video call, I make a note to ask him. “There is a possibility that it ends up that way,” Work says. “GVLT will do its absolute best to meet the concerns of the neighboring homeowners while keeping the larger public in mind. Bottom line is that this town is growing and will need more recreation, but more importantly, in areas where trails intersect with habitat, it needs more managed recreation.”

Work joined GVLT in June of last year after 10 years at the helms of the Teton Regional Land Trust in Idaho and the Land Trust for Santa Barbara County in California. I ask him whether he’s received similar pushback to land acquisitions in his past experience. “Some for sure, but not really like this,” he says. He explains that traditionally, land trusts across the country don’t have as big of a trails component as GVLT does, which, he notes, is what attracted him to come here in the first place. “Creation of new trails tends to frustrate the neighbors until they see and benefit from the results,” he says. 

We look at maps of the area and he tells me about the assessments they plan to do on soil, water, and wildlife, and that he’d made a pledge to the neighbors to understand and document the use of all three. His voice is genuine and I can’t help but believe his intentions.

“I empathize with all of them. It’s all changing around them,” he says, referring to the runaway growth and demand for increased public access to trails and other recreation areas. “It wasn’t there when they bought their property. It just wasn’t there.”

It’s a sunny January afternoon when I drive down to the property to meet Gaffney for a hike. Joining us will be Brendan Weiner, GVLT’s conservation director. On the way up the canyon I pass a herd of whitetails feeding on the eastern slope. I see small predator tracks of some kind and a bald eagle soars overhead.

Even though it’s only 2pm, by the time I reach the parcel, the entire canyon is in the shade. Gaffney arrives shortly after I do, sporting a bright two-tone ‘90s windbreaker, sleek sunglasses, and a white beard. We make introductions and small-talk, but before he can start telling me about the property’s history, a woman calls at us from her yard across the road. 

“Hey! Who are you? Are you with GVLT? If you’re not, you better get off that land. It’s private property.” She’s not wrong. Gaffney signed it over to GVLT the week prior. “Oh, sorry about that,” Gaffney replies. “We have permission and we won’t bother you long.”

“This is GVLT’s land and they don’t want any trespassers,” she insists. “I can call the cops if you like?” We inform her that Weiner is on his way, and she shrugs it off doubtfully. “How are you doing?” I offer. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” 

“It is a beautiful day,” she admits. “But it’d be a lot better if I didn’t have to deal with the two of you talking.” Though we’re 100 yards away, we lower our voices to a whisper.

Gaffney grew up on a family ranch west of Bozeman. Though he’s done a bit of traveling, most of his years have been spent in the Gallatin Valley, living in Sourdough for a stint, then moving to Bear Canyon, which he’s called home for the past 24 years. His house is on a separate piece of ground a half-mile up canyon.

He tells me he first thought of selling this parcel three years ago, which is when he reached out to GVLT. Over time, he talked to various realtors interested in buying, but none of them quite fit his vision. 

“The more I thought about it, the more I realized I didn’t want to lose access to the state ground,” he says. “This way, the creek can still be a creek, I can still use it, and the rest of Bozeman can still use it.”

When Weiner pulls up, Gaffney tells me he sold it to GVLT for a lot less than what realtors were offering. “But I wanted access,” he exclaims. “For myself and others. That’s worth dropping the price for. I’ve used trails my whole life. If a result of that is a few upset neighbors, that’s the price I have to pay. I feel perfectly justified with my decision.”

After another introduction, we set off through cottonwoods, aspen, and dogwood. We cross the creek on a board wide enough only for one foot at a time and immediately come to the steep slope. Gaffney hikes in front and though in his late 70s, ambles up the slippery pitch with impressive ease. He becomes giddy as we pass fresh tracks in the snow. “Whitetail here,” he points. “Fox there. No, no, that’s coyote.” 

We follow the game trail that the paragliders take to their launch site, which is where GVLT’s new trail, if built, will end. Below us to the west, the ridge spills into an open bowl speckled with ungulate tracks. It’s an obvious landing site, and though I don’t paraglide, from here I can see the appeal. At the south end of the meadow, an aspen patch leads to an unnamed drainage that takes off toward lower Mt. Ellis. It looks like great elk habitat.

Weiner tells me of some illegal trail-building going on in the area. “People are already doing it,” he says. “They will continue to do it, so one of our goals for this project is to manage it better. We want to manage it for recreation, conservation, and for wildlife.”

After a short walk up top, Gaffney leads us down into the timber to a flowing spring where he has a game camera set up. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of animals I’ve seen here with this,” he says. “Whitetail, mule deer, elk, moose, lion, bear, fox, coyote. Just about every big critter we have in Montana.” I smile at the thought, but behind him, flags of the proposed trail flap in the wind, and I can’t help but think that once developed and open to the public, a majority of these animals will be pushed elsewhere.

We continue for another hundred yards to a clearing, and one of the only flat spots on the property. There are deer tracks and scat everywhere; they’ve clearly fed here this morning. “This is where your house would be,” Gaffney says hypothetically as if he’d sold it to the realtors. “Do you see why I made my decision the way I did? I have two daughters that hike and bike and use public lands all the time. The last thing I want with my property is another McMansion to be put up.”

It’s a hard argument to disagree with, especially considering the development of the last 20 years. But then I think of Sheila Hepp’s words: “At what point is enough, enough? Go ahead and build a trail, just not here.” I think of the homeowners’ concerns of increased traffic, noise pollution, and wildlife displacement, all of which, on a personal level, seem very valid. But then again, that’s the story of Bozeman. It’s a train too fast to stop, and if not here, then where?

When I’d interviewed Chet Work, he’d told me that he sees this project having “local negatives with regional positives.” He’d said that the Painted Hills connector trail garnered serious pushback too, but that he was confident it was a win for the greater community. As of now, the parcel remains closed to the public. GVLT is carrying out assessments of soil and water quality, as well as wildlife, including possible seasonal closures during elk-calving season. If a trail is built, construction likely will not start until next year.

When we get back to the rigs, we talk a while before going our separate ways. Another bald eagle flies over and lands in a nearby tree. “So,” I look to Gaffney. “Are you going to hike this trail yourself should it all go through?” He pauses for an unusual amount of time before showing his teeth in a wide-eyed grin. “Pretty good chance.”

Learning the Hard Way

After a day and a half of snowfall, the storm finally broke. The others were still snoring as I zipped the canvas and crept off into the dark. Usually, Dad would be with me. But today I wanted to cover some ground—to get far away from roads, gain elevation, and obtain lofty vantage points. I wanted to go deep, into remote and wild country.

I climbed through sunrise as clouds floated out of the canyon and high meadows opened to a brisk autumn sky. Morning light bent through mint-green lodgepoles and reflected off white-capped sage. The colors of the day seemed brighter than usual, the air crisper. 

I stalked as if there were an elk behind every tree—believing there was an elk behind every tree. Eventually, my intensity tapered and the acute sneak relaxed into a more casual hike. My movements became automatic, unthinking: stopping to glass clearings, creeping along game trails, checking bedding areas. All the while, my mind wandered, as free and wild as the forest around me. 

Reflections of time and place: it was Dad, I remembered, who showed me these hunting grounds, having himself discovered them long before I was born. I thought about how most of the areas I venture to, he’s been before, and if I go anywhere else it’s because he’s taught me what good elk habitat is. Somewhere along the line of hunting together, we’d undergone a slight transformation, a subtle switch in roles. He still comes to elk camp—he’ll never stop—but these days he spends his time closer to the woodstove. And while I’m now the one rambling out yonder well after dark, it’s only a version of him, 30 years younger. 

After seven hours, I was back at the first ridge I’d topped that morning. Camp was just down the hill. The sky turned purple and a fat yellow moon swelled over the nearest ridgeline. I gazed absently for quite some time, tired but elated. Turning downhill to finish the final stretch, my eyes met the tawny hide of a bull elk. He was standing in the open, broadside, 50 yards away. I was bewildered. I’ve seen nothing the entire day and now an elk just magically appears a half-mile from camp?

The sunset had kept me content and I wasn’t yet convinced that this elk was real, so I stared at him for a few seconds. I blinked three or four times and he was still there, looking back at me. 

Slowly, I unslung the .270 and brought it to my shoulder. The scope filled with stout muscles stretching his golden hide. I flicked off the safety, took a final confirmation breath, and pulled the trigger.

Click. The bull remained broadside, unfazed. I gave the trigger a second pull and then a third. Nada. A dud?I am one-hundred-percent sure I loaded this thing. The elk watched curiously as I fumbled around and cursed my rifle. Scrambling, I ejected the cartridge, put another one in, and brought the crosshairs up just in time to see the tips of his antlers disappearing down the hill.

I fumed, verbally assaulting the gun and almost throwing it off a nearby cliff. Plopping down in the sage, I looked back at the moon. As my tantrum subsided, I remembered that it had been snowing the past few days and I’d been out in it. I remembered that when I’d gotten back to the tent, I was so tired that I just put my gun in its case without a proper cleaning. And I remembered a story my dad told me about a frozen .270 slowing his firing pin so it couldn’t knock the primer.

Muffled laughter echoed up from camp down below. I stretched my neck to see our glowing wall tent, smoke rising from the chimney. Dad may have tried to groom me well, but I still had a lot to learn. That laughter was about to get a lot louder.

Remember to Remember

A tragedy at Discovery Ski Area

Anaconda Pintlers viewed from Claim Jumper at Discovery Ski Area.

In a red ski coat patched with a white cross on the shoulder, Hud Venard sprints out to prep a landing zone for a rescue helicopter. He clears out the area, but there’s no sign of an incoming chopper.

 It’s silent. The light snow falling makes an eerie ambiance. Days like this are usually peaceful, but today is different.

He gets word over the radio. It’s too stormy for the ship to land, an ambulance is on the way instead. He dashes back up to the patrol shack and re-enters the chaos. Jess Riddle, second in command on Discovery Ski Patrol, is frantically firing off instructions to everyone in the room. It’s Venard’s turn for CPR. He hurries over to the lifeless, young man on the backboard. Crouching, he interlaces the fingers of his hands, one on top of the other, and places them in the center of the bloodied patient’s chest.

Discovery Ski Area is a “ma and pop” type of hill. Located ten miles out of Philipsburg, MT, it operates under loose standards. Most of the employees have long, greased hair and unshaved faces. They throw snowballs and hang-loose signs when skiing by. Co-workers call each other family.

The hill breeds characters. Venard, like many employees, cultivate mountain man beards and the musky scent of a man who hasn’t showered in weeks. Then there are the young, eccentric ski instructors like James Adie, whose ‘yeah buddy!’ attitude ran himself into a ski rack at the bottom of the bunny hill on his first day of work. He took out the entire stand while in a lesson. 

 It’s a tight-knit community, if someone in the lift department makes a mistake in the morning, you can count on all the instructors knowing about it by the afternoon. So on December 28, 2010, when the lives of five employees fatally crossed, the shock waves were felt throughout the entire mountain.   

 A series of early storms had the entire town of Philipsburg foaming at the mouth for powder turns. When it snowed seven inches three days after Christmas the locals were all up early, hooting and hollering, eager to get runs in before work. Instructors were frenzied, hurrying around the ski shack, gathering gear and getting ready.

 Instructors, James Adie and Bo Helm were one of the first ones out the door and on the lift. Lesson check in was at 10:15 a.m. It was only 9:40; they definitely had time for a run, maybe two.  

 Snowboard patroller John Amtmann had the same idea. He knew first tracks were a rarity, if given the chance he wouldn’t pass them up.

 “Hey Hud! C’mon let’s grab a quick lap!”

 Venard and Amtmann skated quickly over to the Anaconda lift and jumped on shortly after opening.

 When they reached the top they shot for main runs on the front side. While traversing over they saw Helm and Adie strapping in, wide-grinned and whooping it up. The energy was electric—winter had arrived.

 “Yahoo! Hey you guys have a great day!”

 Amtmann took Gold Rush, Venard went for Southern Cross, Adie and Helm split for Claim Jumper. The snow was light and playful, skiing fast and soft.

 The patrollers met at the bottom and immediately got back on the lift. Just after hopping on, their radios crackled simultaneously.

“This is dispatch…someone just smoked a tree.”

After five minutes of waiting they were alerted to come down and help.

The ski patrol shack looked like a scene from a war movie. Whoever this was had massive head trauma, his nose was pressed on top of his forehead.

Jess Riddle was huddled over the patient, inserting an adjunct known as the oropharyngeal airway into the man’s mouth and throat, trying to clear an airline. He pulled it up. It was completely clogged with blood, useless. He grabbed another, dropped it down and back up, the same.

Again.

Again.

Venard tried for a pulse in the wrist, cold and lifeless.

He straddled the man and started his CPR rotation, Amtmann situated himself for reading vital signs in the neck, Riddle continued his attempts.

Venard surged on the man’s heart. Looking down he saw a colorful glass-blown piece tied to the center of a hemp necklace, moving with each throb he heaved.

 He’d seen it before.

 He recognized it because for four years the man who wore it skied past him everyday with a big smile.

 While trying to maintain focus on CPR he realized it was his friend and colleague, James Adie.

 The Georgetown Quick Response Unit busted through the door.

 “I’m dropping king airway!” Riddle hollered. 

 Multiple efforts finally cleared an airline. Amtmann read a pulse of over 140 beats per minute in the neck, but still nothing in the wrist.

 Adie was rushed to Anaconda, then immediately flown to St. Patrick’s Hospital in Missoula.

 An Unexpected Impact

Six-year-old Brody Foland was waiting for James at the Discovery ski school sign when he was informed that his favorite instructor wouldn’t be making it for lessons. The rest of the instructors were as confused as Brody.

For patrol, it was time to put the goggles on and go back to work. Venard and Amtmann were ordered to clean out the toboggan. Of all the training and education that goes into ski patrol, there’s no preparation for that.

A woman later came in wanting to be treated for a mild finger injury. Venard was sitting down crying.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he remembers thinking. “I told her to leave and come back. I couldn’t handle it,” he said.

Back in Philipsburg the horrifying phone call woke James’ younger sister Emily, who then alerted the rest of the family. Sisters, Emily and Carolyn, with their father Jim, hurried to Missoula and were at James’ side by the afternoon.

His head was split open and signs of life were less than miniscule.

The next day when the Missoulian released an article declaring James had passed away, Emily was still in the room with him holding his hand.

He was kept on life support for three days so his organs could be preserved and donated, a wish of his that struck when his older brother Brian died of cystic fibrosis six years earlier.

“I think that really changed James’ way he looked at life,” his dad Jim said referring to Brian’s death in 2004. “For a long time he was just a really goofy kid that everybody liked. But then it was like a switch turned on. I think that’s when he started not to waste time anymore.”

Emily said James became the exact symbol of what a big brother should be.

“He once got up and punched a kid in the face in the middle of class for making fun of me.”

After Brian’s death James spearheaded a family mindset of what was truly important in life. He didn’t want money, he sought only enough to get him by. He preached a life of simplicity and personal connection. His time was devoted to skiing, adventure and family. The ‘misfit’ suit of a Discovery ski instructor was perfect for him. He had everything he needed, as he often said.

The Adies were a close family, their house didn’t have hot water, but they had each other. James and Jim shared what his father referred to as ‘a school boy buddy friendship.’ The night before he died, the two stayed up late drinking beer and listening to Devil Makes Three.

It was an abrupt loss, the shock sent many people spiraling different directions, attempting to cope in their own ways.

“I was at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey for awhile,” Venard said.

 “I couldn’t sleep for two weeks,” added Amtmann.

James was a popular local: A ski buddy, an inspirational brother, a caring uncle, a beloved son, the neighborhood friend whom everyone knew. His charisma was envied.

 Philipsburg mourned. The atmosphere at Discovery was thrown off: turns were half-hearted, colors were bland, a family member was gone. It affected everyone. Venard questioned if he wanted to do it anymore.

Hud Venard at a Discovery Ski Area BBQ.

 The Adie family experienced their own falling out, some turning to prescription drugs, others to alcohol and marijuana. Binging hurt personal relationships but the loss was a load too heavy to carry.  

 “We all lost ourselves for awhile,” Jim said.

 He couldn’t eat or taste anything; he didn’t even remember his dad’s wife’s name.  

 Bittersweet and Beautiful

 As time passed, it began to no longer be the first thing on everyone’s mind. The healing process accelerated when the Adie’s met with the recipients of James’ organs. His body saved four lives.

 Steven Goldberg received his heart.

 Maureen Seymour got his liver.

 Jess Prior received a kidney.

 Andrew Holt got a kidney and pancreas.

At the time Goldberg, an avid skier and mountain climber, could barely make it to the end of the block. Seymour was basically on her deathbed. Her eyes were bleeding, her husband was checking on her every 15 minutes.

They all live normal lives now.

 Emily said the organ donation process was a turning point for the entire family.

 “Developing a relationship with them was a huge relief. It changed our attitude, it dissolved the bitterness and facilitated healing.”

When Jim sat down with Goldberg and plugged in the earpieces of a stethoscope he knew what was about to happen would probably be too much to comprehend. He placed the disk over Steven’s chest and listened as the drum of his only biological son’s heart, beat healthy.

Since then, the Adies have contributed to public education on organ donation. They speak at banquets and promote the potential life-saving process.

James remains a memorable icon for both the town of Philipsburg and Discovery Ski Area. His portrait is framed on the wall of the White Front Bar and a memorial rests atop the Anaconda lift.

Remember to always take your waking life where your dreams reside.

Love,

your pro bro, James.

The words on the monument come from a letter James wrote his younger sister Carolyn before he died.

 For You, Our Hero.

Every year, a tribute run is taken for James. Masses of friends and family gather to ski down Claim Jumper and pay respects at the tree that took his life.

To others, like John Amtmann, the honor happens more frequently. Everyday when Amtmann flies down the front side taking turns at high speeds he remembers to check himself.

He remembers how precious each day is, how they all count, for better or worse. Each time he soars down Claim Jumper he remembers to look at the alley that James last entered and throw a salute in appreciation. Thankful for the joy and enlightenment that an energetic young man was able to pass on, he remembers to live like James Adie would.  

River of Uncertainty

“Having an adventure shows that someone is incompetent, that something has gone wrong. An adventure is interesting enough in retrospect, especially to the person who didn’t have it; at the time it happens it usually constitutes an exceedingly disagreeable experience.”

-Vilhjalmur Stefansson

True character is brought out in the gravest of circumstances, the ones where you don’t have time to let outside influences affect your actions. Ones that bring your waking, breathing, heart-pumping existence to the brink of uncertainty. When you’re at the edge, you don’t have the luxury of choosing how to act to appease others, it is simply instinctual. On the verge of mortality, when the prospects of afterlife seem just as real as the surroundings of your present moment, the ego is stripped entirely. All that remains is character in its purest form.

My girlfriend, Ashley, and I have shared countless outdoor voyages together. We’ve traveled remotely on three continents, summiting lofty volcanoes, skiing deep powder, and bushwhacking for endless hours in the rain. This past year, two weeks into a month-long pack rafting expedition through southern Chile, we found ourselves amidst our biggest misadventure yet, our true character bleeding out in both disconcerting and admirable ways. 

On New Year’s Eve we wake to the titter tatter of a light rain falling on the roof of our tent. We’re camped on the banks of Rio Chacabuco in Patagonia National Park—an area recently expanded to encompass Lago Jenimeni National Reserve, Lago Cochrane National Reserve and the privately owned Patagonia Park. Avoiding the morning drizzle we drink mate and have breakfast in bed. When the rain stops around 9:30, we load the boats and set off down the river.

The first few hours pass as seamlessly as the current. The river’s shallow depth and meandering banks allow us the perfect combination of relaxed attentiveness. We’re engaged with our direction but the slow riffles don’t require the focus of those running the Grand Canyon. We roll over soft wave trains and paddle through flat water, aware but comfy. 

The crux of the day comes about lunchtime when we reach the mouth of a Class 4 gorge. For route beta, we’d been following a single blog. Today’s description says nothing more than “it was exhilarating” and that its author had portaged the two biggest drops. Based on the fuzzy satellite imagery on our GPS it’s difficult to determine exactly how big everything is, only that the stretch of water ahead is quite long, just under a mile according to our estimates. 

At this point, it’s either portage from the get go or hike to higher ground for a better vantage of the river below. We decide to take a walk. The first few hundred feet before we enter the gorge proper appear surprisingly doable. There are some rocks to avoid and some skinny lines to piece together, but the moves are well within our skillset. 

But in order to see the whole run we’ll need to climb up and out of the canyon to get a viewpoint from the rim. This involves a serious bushwhack through shrubs and thorns, some of the thickest we’ve encountered thus far. There’s at least five different vegetative species in the gorge, and every one of them penetrates through my crocs and nabs at my chilly toes. 

We keep passing false summits, revealing only that we’ll need to trudge further to see the entire section. We stop atop a knoll where we can see the first problem section, the first of the two drops our blogger must’ve portaged. From what we can see, the water is quick and will require some advanced moves, but it looks worthy of an attempt. Plus, there is a nice eddy right before the drop in, we figure we can pull out there and reassess the rapid from ground level. However, for us to commit to the gorge, we still need to get eyes on the second crux. It’s obvious that doing so requires another 1,000 feet of heinous bushwhacking. I can tell Ashley’s excitement is slowly being replaced with frustration from our walk. “What do you think, chica?” I ask softly. “Looks like we should be able to see the rest of it from that next ridge.” “Ok,” she sighs discouragingly. “This is a lot worse than it looked.” Her affirmation is meek, but it’s enough for me.  ‘Oh how sweet this one will feel,’ I think, already daydreaming of the excitement we’ll share after running it. We continue on.

We keep on and the schwackin’ gets tougher. The thorns get thicker and the slope gets steeper. When we finally reach the vantage point we need the rapid reveals itself to be impassable for our packrafts. The one line that does show the faintest possibility is clogged with exposed rocks and raging water, if it does dump us the consequences could be higher than just a casual swim. It doesn’t take us long to decide that it’s too much for us to run. 

However, before the drop is a long stretch of flat water, 300 feet or more after the previous rapid, plenty of room to pull over and portage to the lesser but equally appealing Class 3’s below. We take some more time to think it over. Is it worth it? Will everything be as recognizable from water level? Surely not but surely we’ll know where to portage 

With all this thinking and mulling over the day is aging quicker than we’d like. It has taken nearly an hour and a half to scout the whole section and even with Patagonia’s forever summertime light it feels best to get a move on one way or another.

Both of us share our hesitations but have the confidence and swagger to overshadow them. We could hike the hour back and portage the whole thing but what kind of New Year’s Eve would that be? It’s decided. We’ll go for the upper section, but will portage the lower Class 4 unless on arrival something looks very different and a runnable route presents itself.

We thrash back to our rafts and eat cheese and sausage while listening to the river narrow into the gorge. I’m not sure if the cold is getting to me or the sound of the rapid is rattling my psyche but suddenly I don’t want to be upstream. When attempting “The Uncertain” risks are always at play, but if you think about them too much your conscience will clutter and your performance will suffer. We’ve spent enough time on the outskirts of this thing; if we are to do it in a healthy mindset we need to drop in quick. I gobble up the last of my cheese and hurriedly pack away my food bag. Ashley gets the hint and does the same. We kiss each other, get in the water, and start coasting into the canyon.

Running water is unique in its demand of relentless commitment. Once you decide to do something that action cannot be undone, it cannot be taken back. Unlike other adrenaline activities like skiing and mountain biking, you can’t hit the brakes if all of a sudden you don’t like what lies ahead. There is no pause button. Upon commitment there is only you and the river, working together or against each other. The decisions you make will dictate which. There is a divine beauty to this sort of unparalleled and fluid obligation. There is bone-chilling terror as well. I feel both of these emotions clashing inside me as I bob 15 ft. behind Ashley, the canyon walls narrowing in around us. 

The first few bends are a leisurely Class 2/3, just enough to take the edge off and fire up some positive endorphins. The holes are small and the wave trains are playful, we’re having fun. We wind into a tightening slot and the sound of the river intensifies. Above the horizon line we can see residual water spitting violently into the air. We’ve arrived at the first problem.

Ashley gets out for a closer look while I float in the eddy above. After a solid size-up she comes back and insists I get out myself. Peering into the rapid from ground level the water looks far more ferocious than it did from atop the canyon. On the left side of the river, just below the eddy our boats are floating in, the water slides beautifully off a sphere-shaped boulder into a wash of chaotic madness. The drop is only about a foot and a half but who knows what would happen once you land. On the right side, the line we think we can run, the current runs swiftly past the drop and funnels into a tight slot between the bank and an exposed sharp rock in the middle of the river. To the left of the lower rock is a mess of unpredictable boils and hidden objects, definitely an area to avoid. It will be quick but if we paddle hard and make the right line we should be able to shoot through the funnel and into the calmer water below. We’ll have to be on our game, though, as the river’s tranquility doesn’t last for long. A couple more strokes and there is a smaller drop we’ll need to ride as well. The lower one looks more within our range however; it’s navigating the top section that has all our attention.

“Looks doable,” I say. “Paddle like hell to stay right and hang on through the pinch. Let’s do it!” 

Ashley’s a bit more hesitant. “I’m just wondering if it’s even worth it,” she says under her breath.

“We got this,” I reply encouragingly but with a hiss of pressure. 

Her tune changes. “Alright, let’s do it.”

My adrenaline is flowing but I feel pretty good about it. As we’ve done previously, Ashley goes first and I follow behind. From the water level I can only see 20 feet until the horizon line so I figure I’ll try to keep her in view but give her as much room as possible. 

She drops in when I’m floating in the middle water between the eddy and current, trying my best to stay straight and watch how the pinch treats her. She paddles hard past the first rock and it looks like staying right should be no problem. However, when she skirts into the pocket to the right of the second rock her boat is tossed back and forth viscously. In a quick two seconds she rides the left wave, bounces high up on the right bank, and is tossed like a bowling pin into the water. 

Seeing this, I give it everything I’ve got to re-catch the eddy and avoid the rapid. I point my boat to the left bank and paddle with all my might. Just when I think I might actually make it the back of my boat starts to swing downstream. For a brief moment I’m able to weigh the decision to keep paddling or not. Do I keep the foot on the gas, hope I make it and risk going over the cascade backwards, or spin around, take it head on and go for the line anyway? After a mere second of contemplation I opt for the latter and point the bow downstream.

As I float off the drop my mind is quiet. Time slows as gravity lowers me into the turbulent mess below. I land with grace and am surprised at how gently the water catches me. My focus quickly turns to the lower rock and I remain at the ready. Having watched Ashley been thrown about mercilessly I intuitively want to enter the gut at a slower pace. I put in a couple backstrokes and immediately regret them as the next thing I know my boat is pinned sideways on the boulder, water rushing on both sides of me.

There’s no way I’ll last for long in a position this precarious, but nevertheless I stay calm and try to problem solve. Before I come up with any answers the river makes a decision for me. Water fills my boat and dumps me like a swift breeze turning a leaf. 

I swim the rapid underwater and pop up in the calmer section below. My paddle is still clenched in my hand, but my boat is two feet out of reach, floating upside down above me. The current has eased but the water still has a strong speed. I glimpse around and see that Ashley is walking toward the bank away from me pulling her boat behind her. She appears to be ok, though I’m not sure she realizes I’m swimming. 

I let out a cry but before I can finish her name I’m taken under by the next rapid, the one we hadn’t put much thought into. I tumble around like clothes in a washing machine. My vision becomes a blur of green and white shapes. I’m not sure if I’m right side up or upside down. I’m certain it’s only a few seconds but moments like these always span an eternity. When I realize that the river might not spit me out like it did up top I think back to advice Ashley once gave me when in a position like this. 

“Make a starfish!” she had said, spreading her arms and legs out wide as if starting jumping jacks. Curling up into a ball, I decide to try her tactic and launch my limbs out, full starfish style. As I do I feel the current catch my outstretched extremities and suddenly I’m spun around again and rise to the surface.

The small eddy I’ve popped up in starts to bring me back again, seemingly for another round. Lucky for me there’s a rock close by and I’m able to pull myself ashore. As I’m climbing out of the hole Ashley’s face appears as she lunges over the rock. “Oh my God, you’re ok!” she cries. I respond between gasping breaths. “My boat,” is all I’m able to mutter as residual water spills out of my nose. 

Without missing a beat, she whirls around and speeds back toward her raft, and just like that she’s back in the water racing downstream. After she disappears around the corner I realize my paddle is also gone, along with my sunglasses and one of the crocs I was wearing. The gravity of the situation starts to set in. 

Ashley disappears around the corner to the smaller rapids, the stretch of flat water and the crux rapid, the one we’d pledged to portage. If my boat makes it there before Ashley catches up to it I can more or less assume it’s gone indefinitely, along with everything in it. I take off after her down the canyon, traversing loose dirt and crumbly rock while the dark cloud of hypotheticals begins weighing heavily on my mind. 

I can’t help but think of the worse case scenarios. Assuming my boat is gone I try for a moment to be thankful for my life. It works, but only for a moment. Indeed it’s true that the most important thing is that I am alive, things could be worse. But then I remember that we are miles from the nearest remote road and my passport, wallet, phone, tent, food, and DSLR camera are probably zooming through the rapid of no return and will likely never be seen by me again. Not to mention my girlfriend, who courageously took off in pursuit of my things. Was she all right? There’s no way she would try to run the rapid if she didn’t catch the boat in time. Or would she? Certainly she must have a lot of adrenaline flowing and people do crazy things on adrenaline. There’s no way though, she won’t make it if she does try. And then what will this mess look like?

The next ten minutes are some of the longest and darkest of my life. Shoeless, I continue to slowly piece my way through the gorge. Around the first corner I find my paddle washed up on a rock, broken in half. I use the two pieces as walking sticks to help me keep balanced on the unstable shale. The only vegetation scattered along the cliff is thorn patches. The wall’s sheerness forces me to go higher and climb over and through the shrubs. Their vines shoot through the holes of my one croc and penetrate my toes; I’ve got a dozen nasty slivers at least. The foot without a shoe has plenty more. 

Pretty soon the terrain is too steep to cross. I’m already 100 ft. above the river and if I go any higher I’m not sure I’ll be able to get back down. Unsure of what to do I call out Ashley’s name. To my relieving surprise she responds immediately. Within minutes, after scrambling up a tricky chimney she comes into view. I edge my way over to her trying not to look down or entertain the fact that if a rock blows or my footing slips I’ll be falling 80 ft. into the river or onto its banks. 

When I reach her I can see over her shoulder the two boats beached on the left bank, just before the precipice of the drop. She informs me she made the rescue at the very last minute with some impressive back paddling that she can’t begin to describe. We embrace and hold each other while catching our breath. I’m euphorically grateful. The cloud of worse case scenarios vanishes and I feel lighter without the weight of my dark thoughts. Both of us are shaken up, but it’s obvious that it could’ve been worse. 

Hindsight is always 20/20, but with experiences like this retrospect has plenty to offer. A lot of things were done wrong or could’ve been improved with our decision-making. Looking back, we should’ve communicated better, both on the scouting mission and while analyzing the rapid from the water. Getting a view ahead of time was a challenging task and I let that weigh on my vote whether to run it or not, a mistake no smart boater should ever make. It was clear Ashley’s reluctance about the water was nothing to ignore. We should’ve listened to the hesitation in her voice when she asked if it was worth it or not. I could’ve given her more space to express her judgment and she could’ve been firmer with her feelings. We also probably should’ve run the rapid one at a time or portaged it all together. 

We should’ve done these things and we didn’t. Looking back these things are clear and I’m disappointed we didn’t recognize it at the time and correct them accordingly. But on the flip side, and because we didn’t, we now have an experience to pull from for next time, a misadventure of chaotic proportions. One that stretches minutes into years and fear into gratitude, one that makes your heart thump inside your throat and your mind battle with the throes of uncertainty—an event that brings out true character, the good and the bad. 

Hunter S. Thompson said that the only ones who truly know the edge are those that have crossed over and have not come back. A seemingly impenetrable threshold that’s appealing because the closer you get the more eternal you become, the more you conquer time. And though this harrowing hiccup was not part of the plan, its experience and wisdom has given both of us a glimpse into the infinite. An experience that ripped us of our ego and left us stranded on the banks of Rio Chacabuco, with nothing but our true character to help get us out. 

When You Have Time Off, Go Skiing

My cousin, Trenton Brown and I took a 6-week ski trip in February and March of this year. We started in Revelstoke, B.C., and ended in Telluride, Colorado. We stopped in Alberta, Montana, Wyoming, and Utah in between. Here are a few clips from the trip synched up to an old-time groovy tune classic, Hippopotamus Rock. Other skiers and riders include, Ben Catton and Ashley Perry.

The Hayduke and its Public Lands

This past February, my friend Erik Lillquist and I hiked the Hayduke Trail. The route contours Arches National Park, Canyonlands National Park, Capitol Reef National Park, Bryce Canyon National Park, Grand Canyon National Park, Zion National Park, Bear’s Ears National Monument, and Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument. As of December 2017 the two monuments were reduced in size (Grand Staircase to half its original size: 2 million acres- 1 million acres, and Bear’s Ears to 15 percent of its original size: 1.3 million acres- 228,000 acres).

Some of the areas that were reduced have now been open to leases for outdated resource extraction such as coal mining.

Through November 30, 2018 the BLM is accepting public comments on the developing draft plans outlining how these lands stripped of their federal protections are to be managed. Among the possible plans, the “No Action Alternative Plan,” would require the BLM to manage the lands in question as they were before the monument reduction.

To comment on Grand Staircase Escalante alternatives follow either of these links:

https://eplanning.blm.gov/epl-front-office/eplanning/planAndProjectSite.do?methodName=dispatchToPatternPage&currentPageId=141293

https://p2a.co/nhNRupe

To comment on Bear’s Ears alternatives email: blm_ut_monticello_monuments@blm.gov

Flow

Cross-country skiing isn’t my usual forte. When winter rolls around my mind is so enveloped in downhill skiing it’s hard for me to even entertain the idea of sliding around on flat ground. If I’m on a cross-country tour it might as well be a backcountry mission. If I’m working to ski I’d better be rewarded with deep powder turns or a steep descent. Adrenaline must flow.

This is what I used to think.  

But a couple weeks ago when a wad of family got together over Christmas I had a different experience. When planning adventures that three different generations can participate in and enjoy there isn’t all that much to choose from. Cross-country skiing, however, happens to be one of them.  

We rent a cabin outside of Gardiner—a nook nestled in Montana’s southwest offering plenty of outdoor endeavors. In classic family fashion—agendas colliding, dynamics conflicting, partners bickering—we pile into three cars and point them east. From Bozeman, we drive to Livingston then weave south along the Yellowstone River through a snowy Paradise Valley, up the eastern foothills and into a drainage called Eagle Creek.

Zigzagging up the winding road pillows of snow stack high on the Doug Fir and Lodge pole pine. The sky is dark, and though it’s not snowing, I have a strong hunch that it might. When we reach the trailhead I grab my skinny Salomon Snowscapes from the back of the van and toss them on the road half-enthused. Just another Christmas ski, I think.

I clip in and immediately start my way up the snow-covered road. At the first corner, when we’d finally gained a little ground, I stop to take some photos and in doing so let the rest of the group continue without me. Gazing south toward Yellowstone the thick fog settles lower, and with it, a peaceful stillness. After a long crammed car ride it feels good to be outside. I hear nothing. No one is quarreling, laughing, or telling anyone else what to do. Stimulation evaporates. New snowflakes begin to fall.

I continue up the road at a pace just tranquil enough to allow me doze into a soft meditation. Eventually, I run into the rest of my family and we ski together, but our ambiance remains quiet. Now that we’re out here, deprived of all urban sensory distractions, everyone seems to appreciate its presence. Up we go, one mile, two, three. We’re feeling good and having fun, but alas we hit our turnaround time.

Looking back the way we’d come, the angle appears seamless for cross-country skis. Not steep enough where you need be worried of falling, but a preferential glade pitched just perfectly for one looking to gain a little speed. I start down and indeed feel a dreamy momentum. With each glide I gain nearly 20 feet. I lengthen my stride, and while I move my motions almost naturally align to the rhythm of my breath. I get the feeling that I’m part of something larger, like be carried by the slow current of a meandering stream.

My pace is swift but my movements slow, the farther I go, the more my mind quiets.

Pretty soon I am no longer telling my body what to do, my motor cortex seems to go into autopilot. My motions are all the sudden intuitive and my mind goes numb, then my body.

I didn’t take any drugs did I? I contemplate briefly. Of course not, I’m on family vacation.

 My vision tunnels like I’m traveling in warp speed. The snow falls harder as if to keep the beat, to match the intensity of my state. I’m nearly seeing around corners and into another dimension. My whole world becomes sublime. I forget my age, where I am, what I’m even doing. But my awareness is at its peak. Mind, body and breath are working and moving together. I can’t tell if my consciousness is on hold or purely observing. I’m a Zen master in motion. Though at the time I have little idea of what that means, I am certain I am it. The road is my red carpet and I am its model, its one and only purpose. Nothing else exists.

I glide around the final corner into the parking lot. Suddenly I’m thrown back into my circadian reality. I have no idea how much time has passed and have little tangible memory of the downhill, though it’s clear it was a profound experience. I feel euphoric, like I’ve just been enlightened by the divine. 

Snow is now falling quite steadily. Soon enough I hear the distant scrape of skis on snow. I turn back uphill to see the rest of them coming in a fluent line intently focused, captured by the moment—in a wonderful flow state of their own.

Beginning Flurries

There is a precious quiet to winter. Everywhere movement slows as snowflakes fall, dancing downward covering our beautiful imperfect earth. Naked landscapes, finally able to bask in brilliant silence, appear stark and vast as the shortened day and dropping temperature hint for humans to stay inside and animals remain tucked away. 

But for some of us, winter means a time to get out, a time to ski. Backcountry objectives, hot laps at the resort, and long distance tours, winter, for a good majority of us here in the northwest, means skiing. On weekends, Christmas breaks, after work, and between class, for some of us, skiing is all we can think about. The bug starts with early season dumps in November and doesn't dwindle until the final thaw in April–some of us stretch the stoke all the way into July, bagging silly far out peaks, while others move on to summer thrills like climbing and biking. 

For skiers, when it snows, responsibilities erase and opportunities become limitless. No peak is too far, no cliff too big, no line too scary. For skiers, the gripping appeal of falling snow shimmers nostalgia in all of us when even thinking about the lifestyle. Whether it's waking up early for face shots or sleeping in and stopping in the trees for "medicine." Whether it's trekking to obscure places or shredding the local hill, skiing, frees us from the normative and ejects into us the imaginative. 

These photos are from trips I've taken in December '16 and January '17 in Montana, Idaho, and Wyoming. Skiers are Trenton Brown, Marc Hendrickson, Gloria Roe, Laurie Hockett, and Matt McGady. 

A Missoula Relief

Hindsight isn't always 20/20

With time comes decisions, with decisions, change. It wasn’t five years ago that I weaved west on I-90, through Hellgate Canyon along the Clark Fork into Missoula, my belongings packed to stay. En route from Bozeman, I was a kid seeking novelties, but subtle enough to keep me in Montana. My life wouldn’t move far, but as I would learn, even small transitions lead to immense revelations.

The first years of college I spent a typical freshman. I attended classes and explored outside, went drinking on weekends and met lots of new people. During this time I began to notice an energy I had yet to feel elsewhere–a warm bliss that seemed never failing to calm inner nerves or relax an agitated conscious–and in Missoula, it radiated. I’d live here forever and that was the end of it.

Fascinated with the new and attractive lifestyle, by the end of my sophomore year I had to yet to entertain the thought of actual independence. My significant choices were made impromptu, rather than with careful consideration. So in February 2015, I decided to go to New Zealand for a semester abroad, a trip that would be my first big break from Missoula after arriving as a freshman. After an enlightening five months of hitchhiking, backpacking and on occasion, school, I returned to the city I’d called home since 2012.

I arrived elated to an exciting friend group that I’d missed on my travels. The rest of the summer was spent climbing at Mill, biking in the Rattlesnake, and backpacking in Glacier. When September rolled around, I unloaded my two backpacks I’d been living out of and prepared to settle back in. While unpacking my valuables from my life on the road, an abstract thought of place and its influence of perspective drifted into mind. I felt I’d just experienced more in the past half year than my previous college tenure altogether. So as fall aged to winter, Missoula slowly began to feel old. First Fridays seemed generic, I tired quickly of the warm days in January, and the view of the M, perched behind the university clock tower, had become all too familiar.

No longer was I worried about getting left on the side of the road with my thumb in the air, or wondering if the town ahead had a hostel with open rooms. No longer did I plan by the day or have rushes of uncertainty flooding my everyday life. I went to class, went to work and had my weekends. My routine seemed static and too predictable.

But as spring stretched onward I made another decision and took an internship at Outside Bozeman Magazine in my hometown. The summer was scattered between close family and old friends, new work in a familiar place. I had countless wonders of livelihoods elsewhere, but again appreciated the change of scene.

Now, I’m back in Missoula on the heels of a graduation date. As my expected ending  nears, I’m faced with another bundle of decisions, all of which constitute change. Do I leave and commit to something elsewhere? Or stay and keep my options open, perhaps look for something local?

Last Saturday I went Christmas shopping on Reserve street around mid-day. People everywhere packed the isles, lined the checkouts, and backed up the streets. A chaotic mess of mounting skis, switching snow tires, and buying presents. But even amidst this tumultuous frenzy, I felt relief–an ease of peace so rare everywhere else–a Missoula relief. Though the stores were jammed and the lines were enormous, people went out of their way to hold the door and stop in traffic to wave others in.

So when the snow started falling last night and showed no sign of letting up, I had to ask myself, do I really want to leave? As the flakes danced under silhouetted street lamps I let nostalgia play with my mind and I thought about how Missoula has changed me, how it’s still changing me.

It welcomed me five years ago when I pulled off at Exit 105 in the family van and moved into Craig Hall. It’s fueled hearty laughs into timeless friendships, and soaked me with the small slice of culture Montana has. Even when I was bitter about it last year, it greeted me with powder at Lost Trail and sticky limestone at Rattler. Missoula is a place that rids unnecessary ego and replaces it with humility. A place that instills sincerity and encourages community. It’s shaped these years of biking over the Clark Fork to grab a slice at the Bridge and skipping class to get ridiculous face shots, singing along to the Lil Smokies and dancing late into the night at the Union.

Like it has to so many others, Missoula embraced me. And no matter the decisions that lie ahead or the changes that will unfold as a result, it’s a place I’ll always associate with. Missoula will always have me. 

Flowing with Fall

October has rolled into present and shows no sign of waiting. The last year of college, along with the strains and anxieties that come with it, is amidst full swing. Deadlines bring hassle, but on the weekends I've found a way to weasel myself out of town, away from distraction and infrastructure. Though, the balancing battle between the demands of a schedule and adventure's invitation isn't an easy one.

Days are getting shorter and the leaves of the deciduous are dropping with them. Colors are crisp and the bite of the wind is fiercer than the summer chinooks of July and August. This fall, you could say, has been "typical." I've camped in snow at the turn of the tamarack, been out-maneuvered by bugling bull elk, and climbed a really big mountain. If my history has taught me anything, "typical" isn't so bad. 

• Mount Rainier Escapade

Taking advantage of a long weekend, my cousin Trenton and I sped west out of Missoula, reaching Ashford, WA nine hours later–our longtime friend, Gloria, awaiting with angst. Glo spent the summer guiding Rainier and agreed that for one of the last times of the year, she'd climb it with us. Though it initially looked as if the forecast had it in for us, we hit a perfect weather window and the trip panned out beautifully.

• Early Alarms and Charcoal Camouflage

Few things compare to hunting in the fall. Whether it be waking early to frost on the inside of your tent, scouting new areas for unseen activity or the quiet stalk–so precious and primitive compared with our current rituals. Thus far, I've yet to spill blood, but my outings aren't failures. I've learned new country, hiked my ass off and laughed with the friends who've come with me. No matter the outcome, the pastime remains. 

• Landscapes and Fall Colors

Change is in the air and it's nice to be apart of it. Backpacking in the Bitterroots, ridge hikes in the Bridgers and slow jaunts down the Blackfoot have showed me plenty of it. 

Terrified but Willing

A traverse to remember.

At 3 a.m. the wind finally woke me–my friend and climbing partner hadn’t slept an hour. I turned over to see Ben upright, half out of his sleeping bag bracing the inner walls of the tent. Booming gusts funneled up the valley and slammed the side our shelter, whipping the rain fly and bending the poles. I leaned up and joined him.

“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” I said half-jokingly. Our camp, nestled at the base of Storm Tower in the Beartooths, felt like it might blow away any second. At 3:30 we decided to make a run for better ground. Collectively picking up the tent with everything still inside, we scampered up a mix of granite boulders and Whitebark Pine. We ran to a corner in the terrain that seemed more protected and set it down.

At this point, it was time to get ready. Ben hadn’t slept and a hell of a day ahead still lay ahead of us, but we threw on the coffee, wolfed down some oatmeal and loaded our packs. The goal was Granite Peak via Northwest Traverse. This route included picking our way around 10,700 ft. Storm Tower, scrambling up 12,745 ft. Northwest Granite and navigating the final half-mile on an exposed ridge to the summit.

Guided by headlamps, we left camp excited, charging up the initial scree field. Making good time around Storm Tower, we chugged some water at Storm Lake–our last water source for the day–and filled up. The climb up Northwest Granite was a grunt. Blocky boulders and loose talus made for fun, active scrambling, but by halfway up I was exhausted. Battling a headache I had to take a break every five steps. I’d never felt so deflated this early in the day. I wanted to be immune to altitude much higher than this and the fact I’d felt its effects at 12,000 ft. irked me.

Ben scrambling up Northwest Granite as the sun shines on distant Beartooths.

But the sun began to rise over distant peaks and our starry night turned into baby blue sky. The morning ambiance helped me accept my impermanence. At 8:45 we crested the rounded apex of Northwest and let out a few howls of celebration. To the east stood Granite, the crown of Montana.

Topping out Northwest Granite.

Now, the only thing between our objective and us was the traverse. At first glance it wasn’t all that appealing. The ridge was strident–the narrow line seamed in and around notches, up and over lone boulders, and complete with deadly exposure the whole way–no place you’d want to sneeze. After looking at it awhile I didn’t feel any better either.

“Well what do ya say we put on our harnesses and see how we feel?” Ben asked.

I couldn’t bring myself to approve.

“I don’t know man, looks pretty intimidating to me.” I didn’t want to give a definitive answer, but I’d all but made up my mind.

The gusts continued, nearly blowing us over at one point. After 45 minutes of pondering I became slightly more decisive. I didn’t want to do it and I stated so. Ben, calm and collectively, ignored my reluctance. “I think once we start doing it and focus on each move individually, it won’t be as daunting as it seems," he said. "It always looks scarier than it is.” 

I stayed fixed to my place. Shortly after, he assured me he was cool with whatever I decided; for it had already been a great day. But he was right and I knew it. We were here. This was the intensive section we’d looked forward to and planned for. At this point, we could either scramble back down Northwest Granite, get back to camp by noon and fish the rest of the day. From then on I’d take up a new hobby. Or, as in most everyday situations, embrace the context and act accordingly. This is what climbing mountains is like. It’s no different than dealing with nerves before a job interview or the final exam. Worthy performances happen with a lot on the line. Existing in rugged locations and thriving under their cruel conditions sometimes involves accompanying fear–that’s just part of the deal.  

So I slipped on my harness and tightened it down, terrified but willing. “Alright, let’s do it.”

Ben lowered me into the couloir and rappelled down after. We picked our way down the chute and followed the path of least resistance to the top of the Notch Couloir– our point of no return. From here it was an 80 ft. exposed rappel onto a skinny slot–like that of a gun sight–that lead to the pitches of technical climbing. The route is rated 5.7, but we’d read it was easier. This knowing calmed my nerves none. From the top of the notch, the chimney we’d be scaling looked treacherous.

Granite's chimney leading to the summit. 

Ben suggested we eat something before committing in. We’d exerted thousands of calories with nothing to back it up so it wasn’t a bad idea, but I couldn’t do it. Streams of cortisol and unleashed adrenaline had been flocking through my veins for three hours–my appetite was blemished. I choked down a couple crackers, but that was all I managed.

We dropped in and scrambled to the base of the wall.

Rappelling into the Notch Couloir.

Ben led while I cleaved to the best square-foot of flat ground I could find, belaying from below. He entered the chimney right away and went out of sight. After 15 minutes of no communication but falling rock, my thoughts began to wander. I had confidence in him though, telling myself he was taking his time and playing it safe. Five more minutes and he hollered down that he was safe and I was good to climb. As I worked up the chimney I realized his pieces were well run out and the rock didn’t offer much protection.

Nearing the top of the first pitch, the chute funneled out to an exposed arête. I followed the route, anxious to gain perspective. Shimmying up, I pulled myself out onto the corner confronting the abyss. Greeting me was 2,000 ft. of outer space exposure. I hugged the rock, clinging vertical on the wall while the polar opposites of my mind–utter fear and lionized ecstasy–clashed rigorously together. From above, Ben asked how I was doing. I responded with something along the lines of “I’m having an out-of-body experience right now and I can’t talk to you.”

The second pitch ended on easier ground and the rest of the ascent was an easy scramble. We summited at 3:30, topping out the state frenzied with excitement. We ate lunch–my appetite finally normal again–took a few photos and descended via the East Ridge. It stayed clear the whole day; pure enough to even see the Tetons. After 6 rappels and some down climbing, we arrived at the saddle above Avalanche Lake at sunset. We boulder-hopped for another five hours before getting back to our tent at 12:30. Ramen has never tasted so good.

Collapsing into the tent–placed in the new location as of our morning chaos–I discovered there was a sizable rock under my sleeping pad. No matter, I dropped into unconsciousness and didn’t turn, toss, or wake for 10 hours.