Despite all the physical effort, I seem to be rather untalented at sleeping while in the wilderness. From about 2:30 til 3:30 AM, I was wide awake and reading a book on my iPhone. (No, I didn’t have a cell signal.) At some point I stepped out of the tent to answer nature’s call and was struck by the moonlight bouncing off the trees and the Wall above me, rendering everything a ghostly white.

Fear of the dark is not something I normally deal with, but it hit me a few times while here, miles from any help. The Blair Witch Project is the scariest movie I’ve ever seen, and so I made tremendous efforts not to think of it as I lay in my tent, which inevitably turned into a game of “Don’t Think of an Elephant.” That part where they hear the baby’s cry—GAH SHUT UP THINK OF HAPPY PUPPIES Still, all I heard in the woods that second night was the rushing wind through the trees. When I finally slept, I dreamed there was a carnival of tourists there with me at the Wall. When I woke, of course, it was quite the opposite.

I was up with the sunrise as usual. It was funny how little I wanted to actually do now that I was here; I was reminded of a quote by an explorer upon reaching the South Pole, who said “I had finally reached my goal and all I wanted to do in the world was sleep.” It was certainly a journey-over-destination kind of thing. There’s not a lot to do when you get to the South Pole either, come to think of it.

I hit the trail at 8:30 the next morning, and just like that, my big road trip was on its back nine. It was a full sixteen hours after I’d stopped the previous day. It had been a bit of a boring time, but I sure as hell wasn’t in a situation to move much of anywhere. I struggled mightily to make it back up the saddle from the previous afternoon, doing one mile per hour if I was lucky. The best part about the return trip, though, is that you can’t give up.

Had much better luck going down the giant hill, though I’ve written before that downhill while backpacking is murder on your knees. Still, I was down to the river crossing in 70 minutes, where it had taken me 2 hours going up. I was doing well. Midway I passed a whole raft of hikers: four on horseback, two on foot, two dogs, and two additional pack horses. I was like, “Uh, I have bear spray!”

I got to the rest stop where I’d had lunch the previous day, and with great happiness set down my pack. Then, a shock: my trail map was missing. It had been nestled snugly between my back and my pack for the previous two days, but must have fallen out at some point. Now, this was probably the best time to lose the map, since I was only retracing my steps. But I mourned the loss regardless, since it was gonna be a great souvenir. Plus I felt bad for littering. 🙁

In honor of the trail map, I had a lunch of almonds, granola, and beef jerky. 45 minutes later I groaned as my pack went back on. It was cooler, 65 degrees with cloud cover, but my knees were aching, especially the left one, which had felt ouchy ever since the Highline Trail in Glacier.

At about 2:15, the knee finally gave.

Every time I fully straightened my leg, I literally yelped in pain. I hobbled to the side of the trail and dropped my pack with a thud. As if in response to the knee, the pain in my right ribcage flared up worse than it had ever been. I hollered again.

I leaned against the tree, which I noticed had barbed wire in it*, and grabbed the first aid kit. One of my two ACE bandages went around the left knee. My only Icy-Hot bandage went on my ribcage. Three of my five remaining ibuprofen went in my mouth. And then there was nothing to do but keep walking.

You’d have laughed to see me. I couldn’t put tons of weight on either my left leg or right pole, so I had quite a silly walk as I struggled along the riverbank. Ya know how you’re supposed to sing or talk to yourself as you walk along? Yeah, I just went “Ow! Ah! Gah!” It came naturally.

The last 30 minutes before I reached my idyllic campsite from the prior night were hellish. I stopped to rest and fantasized about eating a ribeye steak in Great Falls. And then I was headed downhill towards the Indian Point ranger station, limping the whole way. The station was empty, but I raided the first-aid kit out front for more ibuprofen, laid flat for 20 minutes on the wooden porch, ate some Shot Blox (“It’s what horses love!”™), and kept on going. It was 4 in the afternoon.

Then something came over me. Maybe the ibuprofen I’d filched had caffeine in it. Maybe I just wanted to avoid another sleepless, tossy-turny night. Maybe the steak I was going to have in Great Falls seemed extra-juicy. Either way I got a tremendous burst of adrenaline. My pain reduced to give me basic hiking functionality, and I was moving speedily along the riverbed like a limpy, aching bat out of hell.

The sun moved down the sky, hiding and peeking from behind Bob Ross-lookin clouds, the sky still a brilliant blue. I kept passing one great campsite after another, but just kept on going, figuring every step I took was one fewer than I’d have to take the next day.

A wolf called from a hilltop to my left, a high-pitched wailing yodel. A few seconds later, another wolf responded in the far distance. Then a third, then a fourth, all from different directions. (Was it the “Injured Prey Sighted” signal?)

I suddenly, partly inspired by the wolves, decided that I was going to camp all the way back at the packbridge, two short hours from the trailhead. But I had to hustle to get there; the sun was lower, the sky a deeper blue. My adrenaline kept fueling me (and my Shot Blox, I guess) as I race-hobble-hike-stumbled down the hillside, closer to the river.

As the sun finally set, I triumphantly reached the packbridge again. A sign said “No hiking within 500 feet of bridge,” so I walked yet ANOTHER quarter-mile until reaching another nice grassy field. Setting down my bag, I felt like a goddamn superhero. (I walked like an after-school special.)

I doffed my shirts and cooled off in the evening air. I completely set up camp, changed socks, and moleskinned two developing blisters on my feet (which were, by the way, hilariously filthy).

I saved dinner for last to make sure I was hungry for it. It was 45 degrees by the time I crawled into my tent. For dessert: Vicodin!

The moon rose as I waited to fall asleep. All of a sudden there was an otherworldly-sounding call from a nearby hilltop. I thought it was wolves, but then realized it was elks bugling.

The bugles came periodically from all up and down the valley. One was close enough that I surely would have seen it during the daytime. It was just the sort of thing that might have frightened me—again, Blair Witch Project—but I thought it was beautiful, like some kind of dinosaur call. Here, you really need to hear this. (Imagine it without the tourists, and in the pitch dark, over and over.)

Between the heavy hiking, the late dinner, the hypnotic elk bugles, and the Vicodin, it’s not surprising that I slept better than any night of the trip thus far.

*I learned in Glacier that scientists collect bear fur samples by wrapping trees in barbed wire. How bad-ass are grizzly bears? THEY ENJOY SCRATCHING THEIR BACKS WITH BARBED WIRE.