Monday the 12th was my recuperation day before the hike into the Bob Marshall wilderness. My first stop was the Glacier ranger station, where he checked the conditions of wildfires in the Bob; wouldn’t that be something, to be killed by fires before the bears could get to me? Everything looked good, though.

I found the coin-operated showers and took my first shower in five days. So did my socks, which can’t be machine-washed. They were even filthier than me.

The rest of the clothes went in the coin-op laundry. While I waited, I ate yummy huckleberry pancakes at the Swiftcurrent Motor Inn and ordered two sides of bacon, which I immediately wrapped in napkins and put in a Zip-Loc bag for the big hike.

I was still hobbling. My left knee stung a little, and I’d pulled a muscle in my right ribcage through excessive hiking-pole usage. Oh well, that’s what the rest day is for.

My car was parked just outside the laundry. I grabbed a bench, pulled it up next to my open car door, and started organizing. While my wool socks dried on nearby tree branches, I took inventory and scribbled notes on food calorie counts in my little notebook.

At some point, absent-mindedly holding the end of my pen in my mouth, I noticed a bitter taste. Then I realized it was leaking ink out the top, however that happens. I spit, and it came out black.

So yeah, it’s always good to ingest a lot of ink right before you head out in the wilderness by yourself. I think Bear Grylls said that.

I was as ready as I was going to get from where I was. Without much ceremony I grabbed my socks and drove out of Glacier National Park for the last time. My goal was to find some Internet and one last resupply station before heading into the Bob.

The drive south from Glacier is pure Dances With Wolves country.

Yellow hills rolled like waves to either side as I drove on an empty highway. At one point I foolishly attempted a phone call, only for it to cut off the moment I dipped into a valley. A hundred yards to the west, the older version of the highway—no longer drivable, conquered by weeds—wound a lazier route around the hills.

There are exactly three towns between Glacier and the Bob, none with a population higher than 1,800. I was prepared to drive an additional hour to Great Falls if needed, but fortunately in the cute little town of Choteau, I found an awesome little coffee shop with Wi-Fi, mochas, and chocolate chip cookies literally just out of the oven.

I caught up on email, posted a few blog entries, and did some last-minute backpacking research: what was the weather report? What does bear scat look like?

A last few purchases at the grocery store. Topping off on gas. Dropping off a postcard.* Then it was back out of civilization. I filled my Nalgene bottles with the very last of the five gallons of water that I’d bought in Austin. Ominously, I was relying on whatever water I could find from that point forward.

The sun hung low in the sky as I drove towards it. At one point a squadron of about 200 Canadian geese passed overhead. Outside of Augusta, the road turned to rutted gravel, and stayed that way for the next 30 miles; Dodge Neons weren’t designed for a fifth as much off-roading as I’ve put mine through.

I got closer and closer to Benchmark, driving through a herd of cattle at one point and starting a mini-stampede among the calves who didn’t know any better than to run away from me straight down the road. The sun was gone by the time I got to the campsite. I started a fire and cooked two chicken-apple sausages that I’d bought in Choteau, eating them all manly-style with my camping knife. Read some more Hardy Boys—is it normal to have the mystery figured out, like, halfway through?—and was off to sleep.

*You want a postcard? Why didn’t you say so? Send me an email/tweet/Facebook/iChat with your address.