Microspikes & Marmots

We started our day with a hitch back to trail, not as early as I would have liked but not totally unreasonable. We only had thirteen miles, how long could that possibly take?

I got into hitching position- all smiles, sunglasses off, shoulders back. Beaker, Droobie and I jumped excitedly as the second car to pass us pulled over. Two men got out and began working to move firewood and bags from their backseat. 

“You’re going to have to squeeze” the driver said apologetically, gesturing towards his backseat. The three of us assured him how grateful we were for a ride at all, piling our smelly bags into laps, jamming trekking poles wherever they may fit. 

We explained who we were and what we were doing, something I anticipate will happen often as we move through crowded trail sections. 

“Is this your first long trail?” the driver asks. 

“No” I explain, “we met on the Appalachian Trail.” 

The driver said he also thru hiked the Appalachian Trail, in 2014. What are the odds a man who’d also hiked the AT would be driving past us all the way in Montana? 

He dropped us at a lodge where we grabbed hot coffee and planned our day, lollygagging per usual, assuring myself 13 miles would take no time at all. 

I had a slower start this morning, as I’d hit the trail too fast yesterday. Beaker and Droobie hiked five minutes ahead of me in a thick green forest of pines. I relished in allowing myself not to feel rushed, then turned a corner to find the two of them looking in my direction. 

“What is it?” I asked. 

“A grizzly!” said Droobie. “It was taller than Beaker!” (This means the bear was very, very tall.)

We shout and sing as we walk, careful to keep bear spray at the ready. The forest eventually gave way to open fields and rings of towering, snow capped, gray giants. Waterfalls cascade from their tops, visible even from the ground. I can’t make out whether I hear rushing water or powerful wind. 

We approach a sizable river, seeing our trail on the other end. We take the soles out of our shoes, our socks off, unpack the waists of our packs, and take turns crossing carefully. I pluck my steps, rushing water gently threatening to push me each time I lift a leg. 

We sit and eat gummies in the sunshine, applying sunscreen and stretching our socks and toes to dry. We squint up toward the sky, pointing at piegan pass towering above us, predicting which direction through the mountaintops the trail may take us. 

The switchbacks began gently enough. Soon, we were high above tree-line, amongst large patches of semi slushy snow draped dramatically down the steep mountainsides. I watched Beaker and Droobie begin traversing a sheet. 

“Wait” I say, “we should use our micro spikes. We’re carrying them anyway.” 

Droobie and Beaker agree, quickly scurrying back off the pass onto solid ground to put on spikes. 

We use our trekking poles to steady us, Beaker and Droobie kicking sizeable shelves in the snow that help me cross more easily. I exhale as we reach ground again, feeling proud I made it. 

We turned a corner to find more large sheets of snow covering trail, traipsing off of steep ledges. I think of the scottish hiker I met days prior, who said there were “only a few passes where a fall would mean certain death”. 

We make our way across a sizeable white sheet, my spikes crunching beneath me. Dismayed, I see Droobie and Beaker turn to walk up the steep sheet of snow instead of across it. I’m not certain I can do this without slipping and falling off the mountainside. I feel panicked and sweaty.

“I’m scared” I say aloud, to nobody in particular. Saying it out loud makes the panic feel lighter. Beaker stops immediately to stay with me, giving me pointers on how to step through the snow. I know how to do it, and I know he knows I know how to, but his words help me feel as if I have control in a situation that feels very suddenly and urgently out of my comfort zone. 

I refuse to look down from the snowy patch I stand on. Eventually, a take a few clumsy upward steps and reorient to walk through the snow horizontally again. This feels much safer, and I’m just about ready to kiss the dirt once I’m standing back on it. 

Beaker flies up the mountainside through speedy winds. The climb is hard after yesterday’s miles. I walk slowly but steadily, in awe my feet are somehow not achy.

We reach the top and I throw my pack off, feeling relieved and light and wholly happy as I sit in the dirt to eat ramen. A curious, persistent marmot rushes our things a few times. We laugh as the marmot begins dragging droobie’s trekking pole away, despite our rock tossing. 

We traverse more snow than I’d like, but the trail down the mountain feels far less intense than the trip up it. I watch a weekend hikers bag tumble down a scree mountainside. 

“You can keep going!” she urges, beginning to climb on all fours towards her bag. 

“I’ll just… stay” I say, watching nervously as she retrieved her belongings. 

The last mile of our day feels the longest despite being the safest, leading straight down without any switchbacks. Large green plants up to my waist cover the trail, and my joints hurt from the nonstop impact heading downward. My shins are on fire. 

We eventually reach the road we must find a hitch from to our backcountry campsite. Though I understand the need for permits in GNP, it’s still a pain in the ass to navigate. 

A young man named Ryan picks us up, politely cracking his window as we climb into the car. 

“Thanks so much for the ride!” we say over and over. 

“No problem” he replied, “where are you headed?”

“We’re hiking from Canada to Mexico” says Droobie from the backseat. Ryan laughs at a high pitch, looking in all directions as he drives. 

“That’s fucking crazy, man!” he says, laughing. 

From where I lay in my tent right now, it does feel pretty fucking crazy…