Part Three: Embrace The Brutality, Or The Brutality Will Embrace You

I. Setbacks

In the St Mary’s campground, I woke up to drops of rain hitting my tent’s fly. That sound had now become more familiar than I had wished for. I grumbled as I got out of my quilt, my bare skin meeting with the humid and freezing air. Outside, the sky was completely covered by a mass of grey nuances.

I made my way over to the coffee shop just outside the park entrance. “Bob” was sitting on one of the lobby’s chairs, sipping his hot drink and looking at his phone. I sat facing him.

“I don’t think I am going to walk the road. I am just going to hitchhike back to East Glacier and stay at Luna’s hostel until the weather gets better and finish the remainder of the park’s section,” he opened up to me.

“That’s cool, I understand. I think I’m gonna go for it and walk it,” I replied.

Outside, the rain had now switched to snow. Yesterday’s misadventure was still fresh in our minds. Although we all had successfully climbed over Piegan Pass amid a snowstorm and reached the St Mary’s campground, our safety had been put to the test. While wrapping my cold hands around the burning hot cartoon cup of coffee, I reminisced about yesterday’s multiple traverses that I and other hikers had to go through. They had brought back chilling memories from just a year ago, when I, fueled by a naive but profound determination, ventured across the mighty Sierra Nevada in a record-breaking snow year, shrugging off every danger I faced to attain my goal. This mindset had allowed me to reach the other side, but not completely unscathed. A year later, I was more experienced and knew better about the dangers of being in the mountains in such weather.

This morning, the snow had started early and strong, even at lower altitudes, adding a consequent layer to the pre-existing snowpack on the trail and the pass. Tractions would be even more challenging than the day before, while avalanches, a high risk not to take lightly. The line between pushing yourself and pure recklessness was fine and blurry. I had walked that line yesterday, but I was not going to risk crossing it today. Not this early.

“Bob,” Ross and Tom chose to hitchhike back to East Glacier, where the trail crossed after leaving Glacier National Park and before entering the Bob Marshall Wilderness. I chose the highway, driven by my desire to keep walking even though it would be on a road.

I left “Bob” and the comforting warmth of the coffee shop, and entered the cold and wet outside world. Everything was calm. No one was outside. Not even a car. I jumped on the side of the highway and began my long journey on the dark asphalt road — a grueling 30-mile road walk to East Glacier. Embrace the brutality, they said. Soon, a car stopped with “Bob” in the back seat.

“You sure you don’t want a ride?” he asked me, a slight concern in his voice. “No, I’m good! Thanks!” I immediately answered, not giving myself a slight chance to change my mind.

The snow started falling again after they left. The ground was wet from a mix of slushy snow and rain. My feet quickly got wet and after 11 miles, started to hurt from it. My left knee, which had been jammed a few times while post-holing the day before, began to ache as well. Both pains grew progressively as I tried to ignore them until I was limping on the side of the road, like a wild animal who had just been hit by a car. I started questioning my decision. I didn’t want to hitchhike. I would feel as if I gave up. But if I continued, in what shape would I arrive in East Glacier? Probably not the best. Was it worth pushing myself on a road walk, in this weather, which wasn’t even a part of the trail, at the risk of getting a trail-ending injury on the fourth day, just to prove myself? Prove myself what?

I reached a turnaround, a few hundred yards from a road turning right towards the park. I looked up the road on my map— it led straight to Cut Banks campground, from where a trail started and rejoined the CDT a couple miles further. Bingo! Here laid the solution to my troubles: I would hitchhike back to East Glacier and fix myself, before hitchhiking right back where I left off the road, and reconnect with the CDT through Cut Banks. Suddenly, everything in my head made sense, and I let out a sigh of relief. I stopped on the side of the road, stuck my thumb out, and waited to get picked up. 

Like many other thru-hikers, the start of the CDT was not the one I had imagined. I had expected the thrill of the first steps to be filled with clarity and purpose, but instead, I met the reality of struggle. This trail was not kind. It was as though it did not want me there, as though the mountains themselves were pressing down, unwilling to offer any mercy. A sense of frustration flickered in my chest. Disappointment lingered, quiet but insistent. I wondered whether this was how it was meant to be. Yet, I had to push on. Wallowing in self-pity was not going to help me reach the Mexican border. The trail would not wait, and neither would I.

After a full day of rest spent licking my wounds, I went back on the trail and reconnected with the CDT to complete the section through Glacier National Park. The cold front was now history. A blazing sun and an unclouded blue sky accompanied me as I ventured through the last miles of the park. I was content— despite the difficult start, I was now able to experience Glacier in all its glory, before finally leaving it.

II. The “Real” Thru-Hike Starts

1. Welcome to The Bob

The Bob Marshall Wilderness stretched out before me like a vast and untamed land of trees and creeks, feeling both ancient and alive. Finally, the “real” thru-hike started: no campground permit, no park regulations, no tourists. Pure freedom. 

Alone, I made my way through the dense forest, the silence broken only by the soft trickle of water and the rustling of leaves. But despite the solitude, I knew that I was not truly alone. In the heart of grizzly country, the signs of their presence were all around me. The ground beneath my feet was littered with fresh scat, and deep, clawed prints were etched into the dirt like a warning. The bears were here, somewhere, always just out of sight. They moved through the shadows, as elusive as the mist that rose from the creek beds in the early mornings. Most thru-hikers around me had made the wise choice to go into the Bob in groups, by fear of encountering one of these silent beasts. I had not. I specifically wanted to go there alone to increase my chances of seeing one. They feared the bear. I craved it. I craved the thrill of being in its world, feeling its presence so close to me. I wanted to see it with my own eyes, not through the filtered lens of a story or a distant encounter. I wanted to stand face-to-face with the apex of the forest, to experience the primal truth of nature in its most dangerous form, to feel its full force. I didn’t come to avoid the wilderness; I came to embrace it.

The days were long, and my backpack, too heavy. My body hadn’t adjusted to the effort that thru-hiking required each day yet. I hiked out early and traveled all day long until the sun set behind the wall of green that surrounded me and light no longer was. I didn’t walk during the night. In the imaginary safety of my tent, I remembered what a park ranger had told “Bob” while in Glacier, when the latter, curious, had asked him about night rescue:

“We don’t come out at night. Bears own the park at night.”

2. It’s Raining Again

I woke to the relentless patter of rain, again. After days of slow and grueling progress through the charred remains of burnt forests, through fallen trees and suffocating overgrowth, and through cold and swollen creeks, I had arrived near the popular Chinese Wall—an immense, towering wall of rock stretching for miles. I was excited about it, but with this morning’s weather forecast, my excitement was now at a low point. I took advantage of a break in the rain to pack all my gear and set out in the forest, with no motivation. The rain soon started again as the trail became overgrown, each step becoming a battle to advance through its tangled web. Wet branches slapped my face and legs, while slippery rocks mocked my every clumsy move. The rain fell heavier, and the trail grew more hostile. I slipped a few times, catching myself just before crashing into the ground. I felt defeated, trapped in a world of wet earth and endless drizzle.

Suddenly, out of the overgrowth, appeared a familiar face. “Howdy!” I shouted, trying to hide the misery in my voice as much as I could. “Oh! Good morning!” answered “Caffeinator” with a strong Danish accent. “Caffeinator” was a Danish man wearing a big beard who had, unsurprisingly, developed a love affair with coffee. There he was, standing in the rain, brewing a steaming cup on the side of the trail like he was in the comfort of his kitchen, not miles deep in a soaked wilderness. Without asking, I let him go ahead and followed him. I put my earphones in, falling into his rhythm. For a moment, the rain faded into the background. His pace was steady, and with it, I found a small peace. The world shrank to the distance between us. I needed that.

The trail was relentless. With the incessant rain, the path had become a slippery slip-n-slide, a vast sea of mud. Twice, I barely saved myself from a fall. My knee screamed with pain, each step sending a jolt through my leg. But I pushed on. Embrace the brutality, or the brutality will embrace you.

The Chinese Wall was now a shadow, obscured by a thick veil of mist. “Caffeinator” and I stopped and exchanged a glance— exhaustion and frustration mirrored in each other’s eyes— before we both started cracking up laughing. In the midst of this miserable day, our shared laughter was a kind of refuge. It made it bearable.

By noon, we had made better progress than I expected. We stopped for lunch. The wet cold gnawed at my bones, and my food bag felt disturbingly light. I had packed as little as I could for this stretch, hoping to ease the weight of the load I was carrying, but now hunger was clawing at me. “Caffeinator” turned to me, holding out a jar with bold red letters.

“You want some Nutella?”

I hesitated, glancing at the jar. “Are you sure?” I asked.

“Ya! I got too much food. Here, take the whole thing and keep it.”

I thanked him, words tumbling out in a rush of gratitude. I took my spork and dug in, the first bite sending a wave of euphoria through me. It was as though a ray of sun had pierced the clouds, a silver lining in the middle of a miserable day. For that moment, the rain, the pain, the exhaustion—all of it faded. It was just me and that sweet, sticky spoonful of Nutella.

After walking alongside “Caffeinator” for most of the day, I let him push ahead as I continued along at a slower pace, managing the sharp sting in my knee. The next morning, I reached Benchmark Wilderness Ranch, from where I could hitchhike into the town of Augusta. There, I would wash the earth off my skin and let my tired legs and mind rest. Plus, the annual rodeo was in town this weekend, and I wouldn’t miss that for anything.

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