(Author’s note: Back from my backpacking adventure to the Wall. Will take awhile to write that up. In the meantime: backdated entries from Glacier!)
I’m learning to sleep in. 7:20 in this case, though still before sun-up. I drove west, from the campsite back into the heart of Glacier and the Logan Pass Visitor’s Center. I assembled my day-pack, grabbed my poles, and crossed the road to join the Highline Trail.
It’s best to appreciate this trail in Google Earth.
It parallels Going-to-the-Sun Road (yellow), gradually moving up and up and up and up along the ridge known as the Garden Wall. You walk along barren rockslides, cross babbling brooks, at one point navigate a cliff face narrow enough to require a chain handrail bolted into the rock.
After a few miles I reached a giant switchback that took me up and over a saddle next to Haystack Butte. A half-hour later, resting in the shadow of another cliff, I saw Granite Park chalet in the far distance. I’ll get to that in a moment.
(Author’s note: Okay, I’m out of time here. Still have several pre-written blog posts to publish, but you just gotta wait until I get back.)
Just south of and bordering Glacier National Park is a large area that goes by the romantic name “the Bob Marshall Wilderness”—or as it’s known to locals and REI shoppers, “The Bob.” And in the heart of the Bob, comprising part of the Continental Divide, is an enormous rock formation known as the Chinese Wall.
A bunch of you just started humming the Game of Thrones theme. Those who didn’t—uh, you’ll eventually be reading a lot of jokes about “taking the black” and the “White Walkers” that you won’t get at all. Sorry.
The Chinese Wall is my destination for the core of my big road trip. It’s a continuous 22-mile “cliff escarpment” (whatever that is) that rises 1,000 feet above the land to the east. I literally found out about it by turning on the Images part of Google Maps while I was poking around Montana and initially sketching this trip. I decided I wanted to see it in person. And I quickly learned that it’s a 2 1/2-day hike from the nearest parking space, or as far as I can tell, about the most remote location you can find in the lower 48.
I started researching my big backpacking adventure based around a singular goal, to stand at the base of this mammoth wall, and make it back bear-attack-free.
So that’s what I’ll be doing for the next five days.
Tonight—right after I post this, actually—I’m leaving Choteau, this small island of Wi-Fi accessibility, and driving back into the wall of mountains to my west. I park at a place called Benchmark, and first thing tomorrow, hit the trail.
As far as backpacking adventures go, it’s not too awful; I follow a river bed the whole way, giving me access to plenty of water (yes, rivers have WATER in them here), which means I don’t need to carry so much. (Water is heavy, y’all.) The route is relatively flat and low-elevation until the last couple of miles, when it rockets up 1200 feet in about two miles:
Pardon the Instagram filter.
And then I’m there.
Winter is coming.
It may shock you to hear that I’m not posting daily blog entries the whole way. If you want to see what I’m doing in detail, though, I’m basically plagiarizing the route taken by this Montana nature photographer:
Read through Parts 1 and 2, except for the side hike up to Prairie Reef, and that’s basically what I’m doing (then going back the way I came).
I’ve got a bear bell, bear spray, a SPOT personal locator, and I’m leaving a sign with my route in my car. I’ll be fine, y’all. And I’m very excited.
If all goes well (sheesh, don’t worry, it will!) then I’m back to civilization on Sunday, Sept. 18th, limping into the Hilton Garden Inn in Great Falls and passing out.
See y’all then. Don’t burn down Austin while I’m gone. No, really.
It got cold overnight. Very cold. I woke a little later than expected, partly because I’d placed my jacket over my face to keep my nose from freezing and so missed the sunrise. By 8:00 though I was out of the campground and turning onto Going-to-the-Sun Road, pretty much the only road through Glacier National Park. (This was an important thing to plan for: sometimes Going-to-the-Sun Road is closed, which means you have a 200-mile detour just to get from one side of the park to the other.)
Lake McDonald at sun-up
No such trouble this time (well, sort of). The road wound around the southern edge of Lake McDonald, then gradually started to climb into the mountains that loomed like a fortress to my east. Many, many times I’d see a view off the edge of the road and involuntarily mutter “Wow” to myself.
The mountains grew impossibly high around me—and as I got higher myself, the drop-offs below me grew impossibly deep. Not for the first time, it blew my mind that a team of engineers with balls of steel had hiked along these wild ridges and worked out the exact route that a road like this had to take. And then built it.
(Sorry I’m way behind here. Wi-Fi spots in Montana are like Dr Pepper in New York City—hard to find, and incredibly delicious when you come across them.)
I woke in the Murray Hotel at the leisurely hour of 8:00, and woulda done even better if I hadn’t forgotten to close the window blinds the night before. Stupid sunlight. Enjoying the feeling of an actual bed for a couple of minutes more, I finally carted my things down to the car, turned in my room keys (they were actual keys!), and left Livingston behind.
Westward through still more beautiful country I drove. By now I’d trained myself not to pull over the car for every incredible vista, lest I be stopping every five minutes for the entire day. The weather was still fantastic, but the wildfire smoke—from fires currently burning in Oregon—was not. It made the vistas hazy, and made me selfishly annoyed that I hadn’t avoided the wildfire mania plaguing my buddies back in 512.
Somewhere outside of Livingston, my trip odometer passed 2,000 miles.
Even earlier than the sunrise, I was up. I guess the car front seat can only sustain sleep for so long, even with a neck pillow. I groggily brushed my teeth there on the side of the road, winking as the sun peeked over the hills, and noted the first car of the morning driving past me, up onto the Beartooth Highway.
Just as I got ready to start the car, a bizarre sight: an older woman, 70 years old if she was a day, JOGGED past me and said good morning. “Good morning!” I blurted back, not really concealing my shock, then looked around to confirm I was indeed in the middle of nowhere. Some people just gotta show me up with their physical fitness.
I was the fifth car of the entire morning to hit the road. As it wound up into the mountains and I crossed back into Wyoming, I found myself utterly alone. Pulling over to take pictures, I kept mistaking the rushing river below me for the sound of traffic. I rose up and up and up, taking a mad set of switchbacks, and noting small patches of lingering snow that grew into sheets as I got higher. At one point a large red fox darted across the road, and as I slowed to take a picture, jogged right past me in the other lane faster than I could grab my camera.
There he goes!
I should mention that the weather thus far has been exceedingly cooperative; my only drizzly cloudy weather was on the boring day through Wyoming, and this morning it was back to a glorious blue sky.
How was YOUR Wednesday?
Gradually, traffic started passing me from the other end of the road (it’s closed from 8pm – 8am). Finally I was headed downward, with even more incredible vistas as I descended into Yellowstone National Park.
(Beef jerky for breakfast is okay, right?)
I flashed my National Parks pass at the entry gate and skipped the $25 entry fee (much better than the single dollar I saved at Chimney Rock). Then I was cruising along the meadows en route to the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone.
Suddenly in the road there was a buffalo.
He was just hangin’, chewing his cud; saw me approaching; and with a visible sigh, loped onto the side of the road for me.
Sorry to be a burden, bro.
Around the bend were dozens more buffalo, with tourists standing mere yards away snapping pictures. It was the first of a half-dozen buffalo herds I’d be seeing that day. This is a thing at Yellowstone: when wildlife are anywhere in the area, cars pull over with impunity to both sides of the road (sometimes leaving a single lane between) and form a mass of paparazzi, some of them with insane football-game telephoto lenses on tripods. There’s a surprising number of French and Germans among them.
I came to the first set of overlooks of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, which is pretty stunning. It has both upper and lower falls, each a thunderous mini-Niagara. And while it’s not a tenth the size of the “real” Grand Canyon, it’s every bit as beautiful. Plus you can see it in a day, which is all I had.
The winding Grand Loop Road took me south down the eastern edge of the park. There were no fences, no power lines, not even guardrails on the hairpin turns. What there were, though were tourists, tons of them. I was hopeful that arriving the day after Labor Day would help cut down on the crowd size, and maybe it did; all I’m saying is, I am NEVER coming to this place in the summertime. Chingow.
The weather grew warmer. I used one of the restrooms to change out of my polyester long underwear. As I did, I caught a whiff of myself; it had been four days since my last shower. Yikes.
I passed a stand of burned trees, I assume from the 1988 wildfires that I remember hearing about at the time. It was a neat example of rebirth: blackened trunks standing tall, and underneath them, an entirely new generation of young pines about six feet high. A whole new forest coming in to replace the old one. Given what’s going on in Austin right now, it was nice to see.
There was another cluster of tourists staring at a pack of wolves in the far distance. A bit later, a pack of pronghorns. At one of the viewpoints, two ospreys were visible in their nest below us. This place does not lack for wildlife, mis amigos.
The road took me along the north edge of Lake Yellowstone. I saw a sign for the West Thumb Geyser Basin, whatever that is, and turned; almost immediately I saw three bicyclists standing around a fountain of steam pouring out of the ground. Weird.
It was the first of many. Just past a stern sign warning me to stay on the boardwalk, I found a weird collection of bubbling cauldrons, many of them smoking, several with the potential to erupt at any time. For the first time I remembered that Yellowstone is on top of a gigantic supervolcano just waiting to blow. The presence of all of these tiny water volcanoes doesn’t help my comfort level with that fact.
…Are you about to murder us all?
Again and again, I passed tourists snapping pictures of buffalo. They’re freaking everywhere. Can’t somebody hunt these things to near-extinction or something? (…Too soon?)
The latter part of the day was kind of underwhelming. I followed the signs for Old Faithful, which has dedicated flyover ramps, a four-lane entry road, a Disneyland-sized parking lot, multiple hotels, even a damn shopping mall. This thing MUST be cool, right?
I walked from my car to Old Faithful itself. It’s in the middle of a barren plain, constantly steaming, and is surrounded on all sides by a wide boardwalk with two rows of seats about a hundred feet away. Five thousand people could comfortably watch it erupt.
I sat and waited patiently with the other tourists, watching the puffs of steam and waiting with my camera for the big moment. (For the uninitiated: “With a margin of error of 10 minutes, Old Faithful will erupt 65 minutes after an eruption lasting less than 2.5 minutes or 91 minutes after an eruption lasting more than 2.5 minutes.”) I was confused why there wasn’t some sort of outdoor countdown clock, but decided it was all part of the fun.
After 40 minutes or so, water began pouring out of the hole, and everyone started snapping pictures. Then it erupted.
…Look, if I’d never heard of a geyser before, and you sat me down in front of this thing with no introduction and I saw it go off, yes, I’d be mighty impressed. It’s a giant fountain of boiling water shooting 150 feet in the air, powered by the heat of the earth. I guess it’s just that I’ve had my whole life to get used to the idea, and the Disneyworld atmosphere surrounding it had me convinced that angels were going to fly out or something. Nope, it’s just water.
I took a few pictures, then walked back to my car before Old Faithful was even finished erupting. Meh.
The Grand Prismatic Spring wasn’t much better, though at least it’s inarguably beautiful. Still, you need some serious Photoshopping to make it look like it does in this picture, and the steam off of it obscures the colors a good amount. I also walked a good half-mile further down the trail than I had to, and had to double-back to get to the viewpoint. They could use a sign.
I stopped briefly at the Painter’s Pots, which are actually pretty cool, then hightailed it north out of Yellowstone. (More than once I saw a scenic overlook or touristy stop, muttered to myself “I’m sure it’s very nice,” and kept driving.) The weather seemed to agree with me, finally giving up on the gorgeous blue skies and starting to rain as I headed north out of the park.
But there was one more scenic sight, whether I liked it or not! Yet another tourist-paparazzi cluster had formed opposite a herd of elk, about 30 of them chilling by the river just next to the road. Here my borrowed 200mm lens came in handy.
Thanks Suzi!
Finally I was quit of Yellowstone. It had been a nice-enough whirlwind tour of the place. I drove an hour north to Livingston, which had a lovely downtown, and checked into the historic Murray Hotel next to the railroad tracks. Elated, I took a nice long hot shower and put on some actual clothes—jeans and a button-down shirt—even applying cologne before I went to eat at the Second Street Bistro, recommended by none other than Anthony Bourdain. Eh, it was okay; they wouldn’t let me substitute a salad for my side-of-fries, and the steak was passable but not great. Part of the underwhelming second half of the day, I suppose.
But the best part was yet to come. After posting the previous day’s blog entries, around 11pm, I went up to my quaint and historic hotel room and passed out. It was my first bed since Saturday, and my last before the Big Backpacking Adventure. It was spectacular.
Administrative notes: 1. I’m writing this from just outside the entrance to Glacier National Park. Yay, I’m here! Not likely to have Internet access until Monday-ish, so don’t freak when I don’t post.
2. Very quick-and-dirty set of pics from the first three days of my trip are up! Clicky
WARNING: Not a lot happens in this episode. My car almost runs out of gas, but it doesn’t. So that’s kind of anti-climactic, especially now that I spoiled it for you. But there’s laser-dinosaurs at the end!
From the KOA Campground in Douglas, Wyoming I pointed my car west across the emptiness. At least Wyoming has rolling emptiness; the hills had steadily grown since Nebraska, and the first things that you might call “mountains” were in the middle distance. Still, things were so barren and treeless that I frequently passed giant artificial wind breaks (i.e. fences). They could PLANT some trees, you’d think…
It really is pretty, it's just not super photogenic.
West of Casper I made a random stop when I saw some horses chewing grass along the roadside. I want to make some horse-friends, I thought. Those Clif Shot Bloks in my bag would make perfect horsey snacks, I thought.
And so they were, though I saw one of the three nonchalantly spit his out. The other two were more than happy to bicker over who’d had more Shot Bloks. Chill, guys, I’ve got a whole pack of them.
NOM NOM NOM
By 2:00 I was convinced Day 3 would be my most blasé of days, accented only by horse-feeding, until I turned the car north from Shoshone and found myself driving down Wind River Canyon. Continue reading Day 3: Feedin’ the Horseys→
I arrived at Chimney Rock about 150 years too late.
First, because its spire—today about 300 feet above the surrounding plains—was once much higher and more grandiose, but has been steadily chipped away over time by erosion and lightning strikes. Doesn’t even look like a chimney any more.
And second, because the original Indian name for Chimney Rock was apparently “Elk Penis.” Wicked.
I woke with the sun on Monday morning, as campers tend to do. It was cold and extremely damp: water droplets clung to the inside of my tent, and when I shuffled slightly, I got a very chilly early-morning shower from the ceiling. “GAH I’M AWAKE!”
Stepping carefully out onto the grass, I found myself camped next to the Platte River—when did THAT get there? Thick fog rose off of it like smoke from a fire (err, sorry, Austin). As I packed the car, I heard animal sounds I couldn’t quite place, and then a perfect V of Canadian geese flew overhead. It was a glorious morning. Continue reading Day 2: Corn + Trains = Nebraska→
Thanks to the lock-picking adventure from the night before, I gave myself an extra hour of sleep, waking at 6:30 Sunday morning and feeding the dog before I jumped in the car with my worldly possessions and sleepily pointed my car north on I-35. The break-in from the night before produced a permanent wind noise sound from the edges of my passenger door. So that’ll be fun to get used to.
I swung through Temple and said goodbye to Dad & family before church started, then punched it up the Lord’s Highway to Dallas, where I stopped to see Sonali and Ashis’s new baby Akhil.
Four hours into the trip and already one of the most beautiful sights I'll see.
After paying my respects and, oddly enough, raiding Sonali’s pantry for spices—it’s the only thing that livens up backpacking food—I drove a bit further north and waited patiently in a half-hour drive-through line just for an In-N-Out Burger. The verdict is “delicious;” maybe not worth that wait, but at least I’ve popped my In-N-Out cherry.
