Idaho vampires, marriage advice and frogs

Day 28

what’s a lash hiker?

In the morning I spot another hiker ahead of me on the ridge, which is rare. I’m way ahead of the Sobo bubble. I squint. Who is that?!intrigued I speed up to catch her: tick magnet. A self proclaimed LASH – meaning long ass section hiker. She’s in her 60ies but full of skunk. „My husband is at the pass and might be able to give you a ride to town, unless he drove up on my motorcycle.“ , she chuckles. Oh to be in my 60ies riding a motorcycle – so much to look forward to.

Marriage advice from Idaho

Hitchhiking is illegal in Idaho. But I can’t even break the law because there isn’t a single car in sight. Just a long dusty dirt road winding through the country. I sigh. No car, no shade. It’s midday on a Monday.

After 4 miles I turn around and see a red pickup come down and stretch out my thumb, thirsty and desperate to be save. Scott is in his 70ies, has Parkinson’s, votes Republican and tells me I look 25. His wife calls. I listen silently to his description of me. Scott holds the phone to his ear so I can’t heart what she’s responding but I wonder what she thinks about it.  „is your wife worried that you picked up a hitch hiker?“, i ask. “No she’s worried because I’m in the car with another lady”. I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

„do you have any marriage advice?“, I want to know. „I am not with the one I love, I love the one I’m with.“ he answers and I wish I hadn’t asked.

The leap frogs 🐸

Leadore is smaller than small. It’s a wide empty road, a gas station, a post office and 2 restaurants that aren’t open.

(*resupply note: you can resupply here but I wish I would have sent a box. Reversely, in Lima they say to send a box but resupply in that gas station would be great actually)

But the gas stations serves burgers that you have to order before 16:30. If there’s another thru hiker around, they’ll show up here for that. So I’ll wait. And sure enough, 16:19, Mr Robot appears. We hang out at a picnic table, dirty napkins and greasy burger boxes between us. The little traffic on the road through leadore goes from trickling to non exist. „See you tomorrow“ he says, I nod. The leapfrogging will continue.

Later that night, a car drives up to the city campground. Jen‘s car, a local teacher, Trail Angel and infinite source of bubbly energy.

And no one else but Beast gets out. I‘m glad to see him again. Although it’s a warm evening, he lights a bonfire that gently crackels in the background. We spend the evening chatting. You think after hiking all day every day, we would talk about something else besides hiking? Absolutely not. We start yawning at 9pm – hiker midnight.

Day 29

No shade, no switchbacks

09:01 am. Thru hikers cross the little town square almost simultaneously from different directions. Making a beeline to the little gas station that opens at 9 am. The only place for food in Leadore, Idaho, these days.

And minutes later all of us are squeezing past the shelves, grabbing electrolytes, sodas, donuts and sandwiches. There’s 5 of us, all sobos, the biggest hikertrash ensemble I’ve seen since East Glacier. But only 3 of us squeeze into Jen‘s car at 09:30. Who makes sure to feed us neon coloured ice pops before we head up the dirt road back to trail. Back to the steep, hot, dry section switching between Idaho and Montana.

The air is hazey, the distant mountains are just silhouettes behind a wall of blueish smoke. There is no easing into it after a day in town and carrying a full backpack. No switchbacks. No shade. Just a steep 4×4 track. Each time we’ve reached the top of a climb, we look down and already see the next climb shooting up.

Day 30

Idaho vampires

„Just 5 minutes“ I think, „I need just 5 minutes to sit down for a moment and filter water. How bad can it be? I can endure 5 minutes.“

I set down my pack and instantly there are dozens, hundreds, swarming my face, biting my legs, crawling into my ears. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. There’s no choice but to keep going.

I look at my watch: 08 hours 10 minutes. I’ve been walking for over 8 hours with no break. The flies are eating me alive. All day I‘m swatting at my arms and legs, squishing their little black bodies. The tan of my legs is decorated with red, swollen, bites. How many do I kill? One every minute? At least. How many a day? The biting flies come out around 9 am and disappear around 7 pm. 10 hours, 60 every hour. I’m killing at least 600 flies a day. How many of them are in Montana and Idaho?

Idaho sized hiker

Since yesterday, the smoke seems to be getting thicker. The magnificent mountain views of Idaho are hidden behind frosted glass. Walking along the ridge line, partly the actual, geographical continental divide, we’re looking down on the plains before the mountains stack up again in the distance. And the views are stunning.

I feel tiny in this vast, massive landscape. Like an ant traversing the land. I feel small and insignificant in the best way. What did I worry about again? My life seems small next to the mountains.

There’s nothing out here but 4×4 tracks and fences. It feels abandoned, forgotten. The barren vast, dry land of Idaho. Yellow grass dotted with green sagebrush. We earn this beauty the hard way, with sweat, with bug bites, with sunburned cheeks.

Despite the brutally steep trail, the complete lack of any trail, the dozens of biting flies, my daily miles are high. As if I have to show how tough I am myself, somehow I feel the need to prove myself out here, on these windswept ridges.

But the solitude also brings back a well known debacle:

Idaho introspection

A part of me wants to wait for the bubble. It would be fun to meet all these hikers. But there’s a stronger feeling, the pull of the trail. The desire to push big miles again and again. I can’t resist the temptation to grind myself to exhaustion every day. Or can I?

Dark clouds roll in. Seemingly out of nowhere. This exposed area is the worst place possible for a thunderstorm. At the same time, I’m craving rain. Just a brief shower. Just a tiny little bit of water. Please.

Idaho summer rain

And not long after, the clouds answer my begging. Spitting a few heavy drops down on me. Then more. It’s raining. Instead of putting on a jacket, let my head fall back. Feel the rain on my face, smile. Breathe, breathe the wonderful earthy scent of fresh summer rain. A slice of pleasure before the grind continues. I know it won’t last long, but   I take what I can get. Gleefully letting the rain soak my shirt and hair.

Speaking of grind: after 37 miles I’ve had enough. I stop the watch. Set up my tent in record speed and throw first my backpack and then myself inside. There are still dead flies stuck on my legs. My feet are on fire. For the first time in 13 hours, I can relax. „I can’t do this again“ I think and set my alarm for 1 am.