The Path of Most Resistance

Once upon a time, there was a social trail. It was “the most easily navigated route between an origin and destination”, and it eventually achieved “official” status. The CDT is not that trail. I mean, it is an official trail, but it’s certainly not the most efficient way of getting from one border to another. Attempting to follow the highest ridgeline on the map will involve unnecessary ups and downs. Some people might even call those elevation changes pointless.

I remember only a few pointless ups and downs on the PCT. There may have been more, but the PCT hides them well. Its gradients aren’t as severe as the CDT, whose PUDs are obvious, numerous, and before long, tedious. The trail rarely encounters a mountain and goes around it rather than over it. And the CDT clearly has an aversion to switchbacks: many of the climbs were so steep that I could almost touch the ground in front of me. I should have read the terms and conditions more carefully. The reality of what I’d signed up for didn’t hit me until day nine.

There will be PUDs

I was a few minutes late leaving camp, under thick cloud and light rain. The trail followed the Dearborn River for the next few miles, crossed it, and began climbing. Constant drizzle turned into steady downpour, accompanied by a cold wind. The trees and the exertion prevented me from getting too cold, but I definitely wasn’t warm.

Almost two hours later, I cleared the treeline just as the rain stopped. As I continued the ascent, the wind persisted, and my soaking wet rain jacket sapped heat from me faster than I could generate it. I wished I’d brought an extra base layer. I quickly lost feeling in my hands and began to worry about the possibility of hypothermia.

My concerns were unfounded. Within an hour, the wind dropped, patches of blue sky appeared, and steam started rising from the trees. The clouds continued to disperse, and by early afternoon, the conditions were ideal and the views were panoramic.

The only interruptions to an otherwise perfect ridge-walk were the relentless ups and downs. The climbs were steep enough that my glutes burned with an anaerobic intensity I hadn’t felt since racing a friend up Borah Peak. The descents were so steep and uneven that I was constantly on the brakes.

Somewhere in the middle of yet another short-but-steep climb, I stopped to catch my breath, and a thought hit me.

“Surely they are taking the piss.”

They being everyone who’d contributed in some small way to my discomfort at that instant. The trail builders. The Continental Divide Trail Coalition. The hikers I met on the PCT who enthusiastically endorsed the CDT.

There will be blood

During the next few days, I discovered several other key differences compared to the PCT.

1. More unpredictable weather. There were thunderstorms most afternoons, but their arrival time was highly variable. Day 12, hiking towards Black Mountain, I could see a storm approaching from the north. I completed the climb not a moment too soon, and hastily started my descent. Five minutes later, about 11:45 AM, the sky darkened and a rain/hail mix started to fall. Distant rumbles escalated to deafening booms, and flashes of lighting overtook me as the storm passed overhead. Although I was relatively safe among the trees, it was pretty exhilarating.
2. Significantly more private land. That evening, I took a detour from the CDT, and collected water from Dog Creek. The dirt road had fences and “Private Property” signs on both sides. After about a mile, I came to an abandoned logging road, walked along it for several hundred feet, and made camp. As the sun started to set, the nearby ATV traffic died down, and the valley fell silent. Then the shooting started. I was close to a fence-line, and someone on the enclosed ranch had an impressive arsenal. I hoped that I hadn’t inadvertently camped behind whatever they were using for target practice.
3. Infinitely more ticks. Two days later, I returned to the trail after resupplying in Helena. I took a break from the warm afternoon sun and sat down in some long grass. In camp that evening, while batting away mosquitoes, I scratched an itch on the back of my left calf. There was blood on my fingertips. I examined the red smear on my leg and located its source. Only the head of the tick remained. Using tweezers from my first-aid kit, I extracted the rest of the icky little creature. For such a tiny wound, it produced an alarming amount of blood.

Snakes on a plain

For me, taking the Anaconda cutoff was the obvious choice. There was a campaign in the FarOut comments trying to convince me otherwise, but I stuck to my plan. I left the CDT at a dirt road junction and, compared to my usual pace, practically sprinted to the valley floor. At Lampert Ranch, I met the first trail angel of my hike: Hans. He works on the ranch, enjoys hosting thru-hikers, and gave me a quick tour of the facilities. Then he returned to his duties, and I hung out inside his cool (literally, figuratively) workshop. That night, I camped on a patch of grass between a small shed and a pair of old trucks.

Next morning, I walked south for another mile, watching as the sun gradually illuminated the upper slopes of Mount Haggin, about 15 miles away. Then I took a right turn and crossed the southern end of Warm Springs State Wildlife Management Area. The confluence of Warm Springs Creek and Silver Bow Creek is where the Clark Fork of the Columbia River begins. The river was flowing faster than I expected, given that it meanders across a level plain. It’s a pretty area, so I stopped for a few minutes.

The next section of the alternate is less pretty. After the I-90 underpass, it’s a seven mile walk along a highway with no shoulder for much of its length. I also came close to stepping on a deadly snake, which caused me to recoil reflexively. Yes, OK, on closer inspection, it turned out to be a bungee cord. But it was black, red and yellow. It’s my understanding that they’ve been known to kill a fellow.

Player one

After seven miles, I reached the junction with MT-1, which is an even busier highway. There are two lanes in both directions, a wide median, and vehicles travelling 70 mph. I wanted to face oncoming traffic, so I picked my moment, and hurried to the central divider. A pause, another burst of speed, and I was safely across. With town only two miles away, I could almost smell the pancakes.

Less than a mile later, I spotted a young doe on the other side of the highway. She was obviously trying to figure out how to cross safely. Then she saw me, which added another variable to the calculations she was struggling with.

At first, it looked like she might know what she was doing. She started walking in the same direction as me, at the same pace, while she waited for the right opportunity. I was certain her story would have a happy ending, and decided she should have a name: Jane.

Game over

Checking over her shoulder, Jane trotted confidently out into a gap in the traffic. Then, before reaching the temporary safety of the median, she forgot what came next, stopped, and waited for inspiration. The blaring horn of an eighteen-wheeler was frightening rather than inspiring. It was also effective. Jane’s hooves struggled to grip the smooth surface, but after a second that lasted an eternity, she gained traction, and then momentum.

Visibly shaken, she stood in the median, confused about how to proceed. I was completely invested in the right outcome, so I stopped walking in case I was distracting her. I don’t think it helped. In hindsight, it probably made matters worse. Instead of noticing a deer, passing drivers were left wondering what the stationary hiker was doing.

Meanwhile, Jane had formulated an awful plan, which she executed with awful timing. She stood motionless for long enough to guarantee that she was invisible to approaching motorists. Suddenly, she sprinted from the median towards her intended destination. Again, inexplicably, she came to a stop in the fast lane. By now, my heart was pounding.

The driver of an eastbound Dodge Charger had almost no time to react, swerved into the right-hand lane, and continued onto the shoulder. For a split-second, I was squarely in the crosshairs, and my system received another shot of adrenaline. Fortunately, the hero behind the wheel maintained control, and completed the deer/hiker slalom without hitting anything.

Jane walked briskly from the highway without so much as a backward glance, broke into a run, hopped over a fence, and was soon out of sight. If deer get nine lives, she used at least one of hers that day. She also wasted one of mine.