Part Five: It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see

“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”

I stared at the quote by Henry David Thoreau printed on a faded sign that hung above the counter in the diner, my fingers wrapped around the hot cup of coffee. The words resonated in my head. The start of this journey had been harder than I had anticipated—frustrating even. I’d come into this trip with a heavy sense of expectation, especially when it came to documenting my journey. I struggled with the self-imposed pressure to make a better film than I had on the PCT, and the fear of missing out—FOMO—was gnawing at me. I was overthinking everything, trying to capture it all. But I was forgetting one essential truth: you can’t control every moment. And if you try, you’ll miss the beauty in the chaos. I needed to reset, and approach this journey with a fresh mindset. Take things as they came, and let the rest go. Easier said than done. But I’d get there, eventually. I just needed time, a spark—a moment to click.

Thankfully, this weekend was a breath of fresh air. I’d spent the past couple of days at the parade, at the annual rodeo, and had met a few new friends: “Lennon,” “Grazer,” and Tom. I was drawn to them immediately. It felt easy, natural—like we’d known each other longer than just the few days we’d shared. They had a great sense of humor, and we’d spent hours together playing horseshoes (do not believe anything “Lennon” says, I did win) and exploring the small town that felt so out of place on the vast canvas of the Continental Divide Trail.

I finished my coffee and packed up my gear. I put on the knee brace I’d bought in the local store. The pain was still there, quietly lingering beneath the surface, but it was manageable. And my pack felt lighter too—much lighter. That 70-200mm lens that had been weighing me down was no longer with me. I had mailed it back to my friend in Denver, who’d agreed to hold onto my gear while I wandered across the country. Losing that lens had shaved nearly a kilogram off my pack weight, and every ounce made a difference.

After a bumpy ride in the back of a pickup truck and an impromptu sighting of a family of cowboys herding cattle on the road, I and my newly-adopted tramily found ourselves back on the trail. We hiked for 20 miles until we reached a river. We set up camp there, dipping our feet into the icy water. The cold felt good—refreshing. Tom, ever the thoughtful one, burned some sage around my tent, a gesture for good spirits and good sleep.

I. Harsh Reality

The CDT had always seemed like an escape for me, a place where solitude reigned, where the landscape was vast and untamed. But here, it felt like we weren’t the only ones trying to search for this. The trail was crowded and I hadn’t expected it to be this busy. I found myself longing for the stretch of trail where I wouldn’t see another soul.

In the following days, the trail began to climb, taking us out of the forest and up onto the ridge, revealing some of the most breathtaking views I’d seen so far. The climbs, though, were grueling. They were much more difficult than what I had been used to on the PCT. The steep ascents left me gasping for air, my legs burning, and the weight of my backpack pulling me down despite the lighter load. I pushed on, reminding myself that this was what I’d signed up for, even if it didn’t always feel like it. The trail was tough, but I had to keep going, one step at a time.

II. Bear or No Bear, That Is The Question

We woke up at dawn, the sun still hiding behind the mountains surrounding us. Niccolo had camped near us, arriving late the night before. We exchanged morning greetings. He was a young lad who had also thru-hiked the PCT the year before, and we had bonded over this shared experience back in East Glacier.

Suddenly, “Grazer,” eyes wide and alert, standing at the forest’s edge, whispered at me with excitement. 

“Yeehaw, come here!” I walked over to her. “I think there is a bear on the other side of that lake!” “Really?! Wait, where?” I asked, squinting towards the far side of the lake. “Over there, near that big rock! I saw it moving!” I looked more closely, my eyes tracing the line of the rock she pointed to. “I think I see it…” I continued looking for a minute while “Grazer” went back to her tent to get “Lennon.” But after a moment, a smile crept across my face, and I called over to “Grazer.” “Grazer? Are you sure you saw it move?” 

“Yes, why?” she asked with her Southern accent, confused. 

“Well, I don’t know much about rocks, but I’m pretty sure they don’t move.” 

“Noooo, it’s not a rock! I swear—” She stopped mid-sentence and squinted harder. The realization hit her, and she groaned. 

“Ohhh…” I burst into laughter, and soon “Lennon” emerged from his tent, chuckling too, having overheard the whole scene.

After this impromptu laughter, I hiked out alone, eager to make the most of the quiet morning. The trail led me up to a ridge, where the sky offered me beautiful shades of blue and amber. Dark clouds moved across the vast landscape, while the sun pierced through the somber sky, casting a golden glow on the trail ahead of me. In the distance, two deers suddenly appeared, crossing the dirt path with grace. They paused, sensing my presence, and looked at me with wary eyes. They bathed in the warm light of the sun, as if they were otherworldly beings in a divine moment. Then, just as quickly as they appeared, they ran away into the valley below, vanishing into the dense forest.

I pressed on, climbing up and down the ridge, constantly looking at the breathtaking panorama of the valley below. This was what I had expected the CDT to look like before starting this journey. The plains of Montana stretched out in all directions, where cowboys and cattle moved in harmony with the land. Along the way, I leapfrogged with “Raspberry,” a Swiss woman, and “Ghost,” an older hiker who moved at a steady pace. The weather was unpredictable and shifted constantly. Clouds of rain appeared and disappeared, circling us without ever making landfall, as if nature was playing a game of hide and seek. Later, I met my first northbound hiker. He had started on April 18th and had skipped the Winds because of the snow. His trek would end in just nine days. I was baffled. While my adventure had just begun, his was about to come to an end after only 85 days. The contrast between our experiences struck me as well and reminded me of how different everybody’s journey on such a trail could be.

After waiting for “Lennon,” “Grazer,” and Tom to catch up with me, we walked together to the highway, from where we hitched into Lincoln. There, we ate, showered, and found the comfort of a bed at Leepers Motel; a comfort I hadn’t had since June 11th.

III. Where Is The Water

We left the town of Lincoln on the 4th of July, eager to stay away from all the rif and raf of the festivities. The following day, I kept my phone close, trying to follow the France-Portugal game whenever the spotty service allowed. Even though I’d stopped playing football a few years ago, I was still a passionate fan and couldn’t help but stay connected to my national team. 

The goal of the day was to reach a fire lookout tower with a stunning view, and camp near it. But, as we came closer to our location, the scarcity of the water threatened our plan. The creek that we had been counting on was dry, and without another reliable water source nearby, it meant that we would have to skip the fire lookout tower and go on further. Disappointment settled in. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my luck had been low since the beginning of this journey. Did I use all of it on the PCT?

Not ready to give up just yet, we decided to try one more option: a dirt road that veered off the trail for about a mile, where an old comment had mentioned something about a small trickle of water. This was our last chance. As we got to the spot, three ATVs appeared, driven by a family. They pulled up beside us and kindly asked if we needed anything. We explained our situation and asked for water, which they gladly gave to us. As we filled our bottles, Tom, who had wandered off down the road toward the bushes to search for the creek, suddenly called out. He had found it—a small but reliable stream. The relief was palpable. With our thirst quenched and enough water to spend the night, we realized that we would still make it to the lookout tower. Everyone was in good spirits again. When we arrived at the tower later, the same family on the ATVs reappeared. They stopped to talk to us, curious about our journey. They even offered us tequila, which we gratefully accepted. We shared a group picture, and after their departure, we settled in to enjoy the sunset with Tom, reflecting on the day’s unexpected twists and the beginning of our journey so far.

The next morning, we hiked down toward the Llama Ranch, a haven primarily for bike packers, but which had gained notoriety among thru-hikers too. When we arrived, we were welcomed with free drinks and sandwiches, and had the chance to see some alpacas and horses grazing nearby. In the evening, we cowboy-camped under the stars and woke up the next day to a stunning sunrise. We descended towards the highway, where I met Chloe and Orion, who were waiting for me with a cheerful sign: “Go Yeehaw!” I met Chloe and Orion last year on the PCT, and they now lived in Helena temporarily. It was a welcome sight, and we caught up while I waited for the others. They offered to drop us off in Helena, and we happily accepted.