New Kid on the Block

Well, it's official. Once again I've become a full-time resident of Whitefish, Montana, moving my various tupper wares and boxes and crates into yet another questionably functional domicile. It's funny how many things you don't really notice about a house until you spend some time in it. Such as, "wow, there aren't any lights in this living room", and "huh, there's nowhere to hang my towel in this bathroom". These shortcomings are easily remedied with trips to the local thrift stores and some elbow grease, but none of that really matters when the house in question is a tomato-throw away from the down town area. The post office is one block west, the library an eight minute walk away, and I can see the Snow bus stop from my kitchen window. You can't judge a book by its cover, and you can't judge this place by its peeling paint or the toilet on the doorstep (which has since been removed). I'll be sharing the space with two roommates: my newly-graduated sister Sarah, joining the ranks of the gainfully-unemployed twenty-somethings, and my college friend Alyssa, farmer and horse-whisperer extraordinaire.

This is a pretty quiet time of the year in northwestern Montana (unless you're skulking around the woods trying to murder fuzzy forest creatures, of course). There's no snow, no tourists, and therefore not much work for those of us in the seasonal sector. We're biding our time and counting our nickels. In another month things will be gearing up for the holidays, but in the meantime I'm reading lots of books (just devoured English Creek by Ivan Doig and highly recommend it), finally putting pompoms on all those half-finished hats, and looking forward to spending Thanksgiving in Portland with my family. So happy autumn, and let's all do a snow dance until we're blue in the face!

Opening Day

You've got to love fall in Montana. The mountain tops are dusted with snow, the tamaracks light up the hillsides, and orange becomes everyone's favorite color as the woods fill with big, burly, gun-toting men and women. That's right, boys and girls, this day, one 25th of October 2009, marks the beginning of rifle season here in the Treasure State. Let the carnage begin!

To celebrate the occasion I went hiking in one of the few areas where you don't have to announce your humanity with day-glo colors: Glacier National Park (although, just to remind people, one of the local papers recently ran a half-page article reminding people there is no hunting in the park). Apgar Lookout is a solid hike for several reasons: it's only a short drive from the valley, the 3 mile climb affords just the right amount of sweat, and the fire in 2003 ensures you have gorgeous vistas the entire way up. The first picture is Lake MacDonald; the last is the Middle Fork of the Flathead River hugging the Glacier View Golf Course. The lookout itself is closed, but it's an amazing spot to hang out and take in the views from Hungry Horse to the North Fork.

As gunshots echoed across the valley I had a moment of silence for all the Bambi souls becoming one with the universe...and crossed my fingers that one of those blasts was Nathan nailing an elk. Nothing hits the spot on a cold dark winter night like elk fajitas.

First Best Backpacking Trip Ever

In the last week of September, in a corner of far north-western Washington, a very brave man allowed himself to be dragged into the deep woods on a three-day forced march. Backpacking is one of those beautifully masochistic sports that requires a certain amount of insanity to pursue. Why else would one load up a pack, hike away from civilization as we know it, and make even the smallest of tasks inordinately more complicated? Nathan has often posed these questions to me, seeking to understand my inexplicable desire to run away into the woods. Maybe it's the sense of self-reliance you find by making due with what you have on your back, the quiet you find miles away from the nearest road, or just the mind-blowingly beautiful places you find out there.

In September, we set off for the far reaches of Olympic National Park to explore this thing called "backpacking". We struck the karmic jackpot from the get-go because (suspend your sense of disbelief, drumroll please) it didn't rain on us. Not once. In northwestern Washington, in the end of September, the next drainage over from the Hoh Rainforest (the Sol Duc Valley receives only 90 measly inches of precipitation a year, as opposed to the 100 required for full rainforest status). Hence Nathan's broad smile at the Sol Duc trailhead.

Half a mile down the trail, through tall cathedrals of cedar trees and lush undergrowth of ferns, we found Sol Duc Falls, so of course we had to take a picture.
From there we started climbing for 5 miles, over exposed basalt rock, slippery roots, and trickling streambeds. Despite having seen no precipitation for about two weeks the forest floor was still oozing with moisture. Deer Lake was our first campsite, and the place Nathan spotted his first elk, way the heck up on the ridge. The fish were also rising like crazy and he was cursing all the gods and goddesses and various deities that he hadn't brought his fishing pole.
The next day we climbed once again, up and past the tree line to a gorgeous subalpine climate rife with sun-ripened blueberries and huckleberries. We developed a hiking rhythm: walk a hundred feet, stuff face with berries, walk another hundred feet, stuff face with more berries. Repeat as necessary.

From the high rocky ridge we took a brief detour down to Lunch Lake, part of the 7 Lakes Basin. Nathan was not excited about climbing back up approximately 328 steps.

Rar, mountains!

The glaciers of Mt. Olympus were truly breathtaking. The only thing between us and it was the Hoh River deep below. Through Nathan's binoculars we could make out all the crevasses and moraines, especially on the sweeping expanse to the left that's hidden in this picture. It looked like a giant highway or river flowing down the valley.

This hike was especially cool because every time we came around a corner on the ridge (and there were many) there was yet another amazing view. Good thing Nathan brought his snazzy little tripod.

On our way back down the ridge to the forest we passed Heart Lake. Yup, it's a heart all right. This bowl was also chock full of black bears (Nathan got the joy of hauling the bear cannister). We saw one, two, three little black dots that kept popping up closer and closer. Most of the red areas on the mountain side are blueberry bushes, so you can understand why it would be a popular spot for those voracious munchers.

Needless to say, there were other fuzzy creatures around stuffing their faces.

Our second night at Sol Duc Park we were back in the thick trees, nestled among roots by a little waterfall. On our hike out we passed through a forest that felt muted, the light reduced to shadows by the dense canopy and the sounds muffled by a soft floor of organic duff. Varied thrushes skimmed between the massive trunks and we even startled a black tail deer, but the highlight of the trip came a mile from the trailhead. Absorbed in our own thoughts we plodded along until the hikers in front of us stopped short. Freezing mid-stride, we glanced up the hill to our right and there he was, a huge bull elk, rack catching the light filtering through the branches, observing us with quiet altertness. We held our breath as he turned and made his meandering way up the slope until he faded into the greenery and disappeared. It was the perfect cap to a fantastic trip, and the best part is that Nathan's still talking to me.