PNT Section 2, Part 1: Fire Watch Towers, But No Fireworks

Lake Koocanusa

After leaving Eureka, we spent a few miles on a well-maintained rail trail (an old railroad bed converted into a trail corridor), before reaching the turquoise waters of Lake Koocanusa.

The 90-mile-long reservoir spans the border, and was created after damming the Kootenai River as part of a US/Canada treaty. We walked along the massive body of water almost all day. We went through a few camping areas, and took turns on what was possibly the best swing in the entire world.

Then it was back to road-walking, this time for 8 miles on the shoulder of a busy highway. Cars zipped by us at 70 miles per hour, some honking in exasperation, likely unaware of the national scenic trail that shared the road they were driving on. 

At the end of the day, we crossed a massive bridge over the reservoir. I’d later learn it is the highest and longest bridge in the state. I could tell just by taking it in that it dwarfed the Bridge of the Gods, a famous waymark on the PCT. But somehow I’d never heard of this one prior to standing on it. We walked over it alone, almost no cars following us. The wind whipping through the structure made a high-pitched whistle against the metal, adding an eerie ambiance to the experience.  

We ended the day camping a few miles up a steep trail in the nearby hills. Despite the strain of the climb, my feet were happy to return to dirt. 

More Lookout Towers

We started the day with more steep climbing up to the Mt. Wam lookout. The views at the top were great, and shelter looked cozy and spotless on the inside. Unfortunately, it was locked up, being one you have to reserve in advance for a fee. 

The rest of the day was made of steep ups and downs that tested our knees. Based on our maps, we gained and lost over 7,000 feet in the span of 18 miles. Some miles averaged over 1000 feet of gain, which for the uninitiated, often feels steep enough to crawl on your hands and knees. The downhills were no better, often forcing us to slow down and carefully place our feet to avoid slipping. By the time we arrived at the Mt. Henry lookout, we were too exhausted to revel in the comforts of the shelter. 

We ate a quiet dinner, dried out our gear, and lamented our aching legs while trying to appreciate the beautiful view. Giggles shared that her knee was bothering her to the point that she questioned her ability to hike the additional ups and downs into Yaak the following day. We looked at alternate routes on our maps, and made tentative plans to try to avoid elevation changes via a side trail and forest service road.

Back to Town

We slept in late at the shelter, still recovering from the previous day’s climbs. In the first few miles, our decision to find an alternative route into town was solidified, as Giggles discovered each step down was slow and painful on her knee. I took some of the weight from her bag, and we headed down the Vinal Creek trail. It followed the creek bed at a relatively gentle grade, and would get us to a forest service road sooner than following the main route. We passed the adorable Turner Falls, and criss-crossed the creek on worn down bridges and overgrown trail. 

About a mile from the trailhead, we crossed paths with an interesting man who introduced himself as Joe Hart. He looked to be in his 70’s, and carried a massive old-fashioned external frame pack with a bear bell attached to it. Joe said that he was returning to a favorite spot up the trail to camp and live in the woods for a few weeks, and implied that this was a regular practice his wife reluctantly tolerated. He hinted that his desire to be alone in the woods stemmed from experiences in his youth, but seemed hesitant to elaborate further. Like an elusive forest creature, he left as quickly as he arrive, before I could get any photographic evidence of his existence. 

Encountering characters like this is my favorite part of thru-hiking.

Despite Mr. Hart’s warning that the forest road we were headed to was rarely-used, we were picked up by a family in less than 5 minutes. I enjoyed the breeze and views of riding in the bed, and noted this was the first time I’d been permitted to ride in the “way back” by a hitch. Probably wouldn’t be the last on this trail, with it’s abundance of pickup trucks, and locals who often consider ignoring safety precautions a part of their rural culture. 

We spent the evening in Yaak, a unincorporated community with a year-round population below 400. We learned from speaking with locals that many residents live off-grid in the surrounding wilderness, and use the small laundromat, general store, and bar as their primary touchstone to civilization. Many of the cabins are owned by people who only visit seasonally, to fish the river. The family who we hitched in with was one of those seasonal visitors, making the trip from western Washington for the holiday. As we ate burgers with them on the back patio of the bar, we chatted about our adventure and the beauty of Montana. 

After a shower and laundry, we headed to bed early in a tiny dry cabin we rented in town, agreeing to take a zero the following day. 

What is it with Shame in This Town? 

We started off the morning patronizing the only other business in town, the Shameless Oasis. The owner Mira made us some tasty breakfast sandwiches and hot drinks, and let us use the free Wi-Fi.

We learned that she and her husband ran a small B&B composed of an collection of  buildings behind the coffee stand, and had an opening for the night. Charmed by the eclectic property, we decided to spend the second night in town with at the oasis.

We got a room in the big blue building, which we later noticed the chicken coop was modeled after.

We fed the friendly birds, and Mira sold us some of their eggs to eat.

We also met a couple traveling from Bonner’s Ferry, who gave me their information and told me to hit them up when I arrived in town. For the rest of the day, we moseyed around Yaak, admiring the abundance of sasquatch cutouts and “shame”-themed signs. It must have been some kind of small-town inside joke. 

Despite the name, it was quite clean

This sign wasn’t even for a business, just someone’s private driveway getting in on the joke.

By the end of the day, Giggles informed me that her knee was still too painful to continue hiking, and she’d be leaving the trail. I was sad to lose my hiking partner, but understood her choice. Even before her injury, she had faced an abundance of setbacks that would have driven many hikers to “quitting” territory: the seam-sealing on her tent failed, she lost her spoon, and she was getting poison ivy on her legs were oils had lingered in her sleeping bag from a previous hike. 

Celebrating the Fourth with Locals

Taking a zero hadn’t just been for rest- I’d wanted to experience the fourth of July in a small town. The parade was made up of a small handful of flat-bed floats, tractors, and classic cars. The remaining residents not in the parade lined the streets in folding chairs. Kids ran around picking up candy in plastic grocery bags. It was nostalgically reminiscent of the independence day celebrations of the tiny town I’d grown up in, minus the fireworks.

When it ended, Giggles and I parted ways and wished each other well on our respective journeys. She returned to the bar to wait for a local to make good on their promise to take her to a nearby town. I stuck out my thumb on the road heading north. It wasn’t long before a local named Caroline picked me up, and promised to take me to the trailhead after a quick stop at the community center for a continuation of the celebrations. When she said there would be food there, I eagerly agreed. 

Can’t beat a small town potluck

I lingered for a few hours, listening to a reading of the declaration of independence, watching kids play homemade carnival games, and chatting with townspeople about my hike. The event had a political charge to it. I noticed several attendees were wearing garb supporting a particular candidate. Most of the ladies wore conservative clothing, and did all of the food management. I knew I stood out, with my tight shorts and brightly-colored hair. It was unspoken that I probably voted differently than everyone here, but this did not impact how kindly I was treated. 

In the words of Brene Brown, “People are hard to hate close up.” 

Despite the indignation planted in my soul from recent politics, this would not be the last time I’d feel a loving comradery with people of different ideologies than my own on this trail.