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.

Flashback: Summer

I arrived in Portland about the same time fall did. One day it was summer and then *bam!* autumn roared in with all its crisp, cool, damp glory. What better weather for reminiscing the fickle charms of summer? The following pictures are from the backpacking trip I led in the second week of September, and they were all taken by a very talented woman from Australia named Carmel Bannon. Thanks, Carmel, and I hope the rest of you enjoy them!

We started out at the foot of Bowman Lake on Sunday morning. The cool weather and intermittent showers were perfect for the 7 mile ramble to our campsite at the head of the lake.

We awoke the next morning to cloudy skies that just kept dropping lower. From Bowman Lake we proceeded to climb up towards Brown Pass. The rain came in waves, pushed in by gusts of cold wind. The trail wound up through a thick green tunnel of brush that ensured we were constantly soaked, even when the rain abated. This was our lunch stop, before the last push up to the pass.
To get to Hole-in-the-Wall campground, you have to follow a spur trail for almost a mile, dropping down into an open alpine bowl that serves as an excellent example of a hanging valley. By the time we rolled into camp it was sleeting sideways and we were all narrowly focused on staying warm, getting fed, and huddling in our sleeping bags as soon as possible. This is the food prep area at the site the next morning, and you can see that we were just below the freezing level. I'm extremely proud of that tarp shelter, by the way.

Day 3 brought the promise of better weather with sucker holes of blue sky passing overhead. On the way back to the main trail we heard a mamma grizzly huffing at us from the brush. It's a sound few people get to hear, and it was all the more disconcerting because we couldn't actually see her. Making lots of noise and singing silly songs, we began our trek up to Boulder Pass. This is the view on the way up - you'd never believe it was 90 degrees only a week ago.

The trail up the pass was marked with rock cairns and took us over jumbles of pillow basalt (a rarity in a mostly sedimentary area), around stromatolites (a fossilized blue-green algae, one of the first forms of life), and up boulder fields covered in 4 to 6 inches of fresh snow. In the picture below you can see the west side of the pass, looking up from Boulder campsite. That's Boulder Peak to the right, and by the time we started coming down the other side the weather was definitely on its way out. This time we went about setting up camp in a much more leisurely matter, laying out wet clothes to dry, sunning ourselves on rocks, and enjoying the views from the open air toilet. It's amazing how relaxed you feel when your survival isn't in question.

The next morning a delegation set out to explore Boulder Peak. The sucker holes were winning over the clouds and it felt wonderful to walk around without feeling like a pack animal. Carmel is the gal on the left, Scot is the gentleman in the middle (luckiest guy in Montana right there), and yours truly being really bright on the right.

From the ridge we had some spectacular views, such as Pocket Lake and Kintla Peak in the photo below.

From Boulder Pass we shouldered our packs once more and descended another 2800 feet to Upper Kintla Lake. Below you can see an example of executing a bear hang. As big as that bundle looks, imagine how big and heavy it was three days ago.

One of my favorite things about backpacking is the backcountry pedicure. Simply mahvelous, dahling. (Actually, it's a bit of Second Skin on top of a blister. Details).

Day 5 took us from Upper Kintla Lake up and over its terminal moraine to Kintla Lake for our last night in the woods. On our final day we had about 7 miles ahead of us and a 12:00 lunch date. You only get these kind of pictures when you're up before the sun is.

3.5 hours later we interrupted Kiandra from her spot in the sun so she could serve us some grub. That deli lunch as never tasted so good. From L to R: Kiandra, some stumpy kid, Jamsheed, Terry, Judy, Scot, Peter, and Tyler (Carmel is behind the camera).

One last look at Kintla Lake. Note the absence of snow on the mountain tops. The wonderful thing is that after persevering through conditions like we had, it made the rest of the trip that much better by comparison. You can't truly appreciate the beauty of a place until you've experienced it in a full spectrum of its moods.

Thanks again, Carmel, for the photographs, and thanks to everyone for a wonderful trip!

Your Regularly Scheduled Seasonal Updates

It's that time of year again: leaves are turning, nights are getting cooler, and I am once again couch-surfing from friends to family and back again in gainful unemployment. Shoulder season is both beautiful and awkward. It's an incredible opportunity to visit people I've neglected for far too long, explore new places without thought to time constraints, and catch up on the world in general. Yet after a couple months of frenetic activity followed by weeks of unrestrained freedom I seem to reach the same conclusion every time: I haven't the foggiest idea what to do with myself.

The summer could be summed up by that much beloved South Asian phrase "same same but different". I didn't even bother keeping track of how many times I went from Moccasin Creek to West Glacier but I can describe every inch, every boulder, every eddy of the Middle Fork of the Flathead River in such excruciating detail that it could be considered a form of torture. Such familiarity is tempered by the fact that every trip was somehow different - the social dynamic of the people on board, Montana's fickle weather, the water level that shapes the Middle Fork's personality. I've come away from my first season of river guiding with shoulders of steel, a greater appreciation for moving water, and a killer Chaco tan.

I did get the chance to lead a six day backpacking trip in September that brought together all sorts of extremes. Our group of seven guests represented a broad spectrum of experience, age, and geographic distribution, while the environment responded with everything from sideways snow to sweltering sun, thick forests to bare rocky passes. Somehow it all balanced out to a beautiful equilibrium that left us all with huge grins on our faces. To get an idea of it all you can check out one gentleman's pictures here. Thanks, Jamsheed, for putting those together! There are more out there and I'll post them as I'm able.

Six days spent schlepping a sixty pound pack turned out to be excellent training for running a half-marathon. In order to avoid the typical paddler's physique (gorilla shoulders/chicken legs) I started plodding in the spring, but quickly realized that unless I had a tangible goal in mind there was no way my lazy butt would continue that regiment. So I signed up for the Two Bear half-marathon in Whitefish, put some money down, and started training. A month into it I was ready to run the stupid thing, already, and be done with all this silliness. Who runs 13.1 miles, anyway? 146 people, that's who, and another hundred ran the full marathon, including a gentleman who was 83. September 13 was a beautiful sunny day and I managed to finish in under two hours with a time of 1:57, far exceeding my goal of simply finishing. I was 6th out of 21 in my age range (20-29), and 42nd overall. As Nathan likes to put it, I smoked 104 people. I guess hiking up all those mountain passes was good for something.

Currently I'm doing a west coast tour of the greater Seattle area, including the Olympic Penninsula, soon to be followed by a week down in Portland with my newly empty-nested folks. I've been stocking up on ethnic cuisine, coffee, and city culture before I head back to Montana in October. Given my previous record, the next update probably won't come until the spring, although I may make an exception to upload some pictures. Enjoy!

Home is Where You Hang Your Chacos

After a full six months of internet silence, I've decided to fire up the blog once more. Here's the condensed version: after another season teaching snowboarding at Whitefish Mountain Resort, at Big Mountain, in Whitefish, Montana, I spent two weeks in Oregon with my boyfriend Nathan and our friends Jason and Abby: snowboarding, touring Portland, and enjoying the coast. (You can check out those photos here if you so desire).

Safely back in Montana, I'm now shacked up in West Glacier to try my hand at raft guiding. Nathan has been kind enough to lend me his 12' 1958 Siesta camper for the summer. It's got a propane stove, electric lights, and the most awesome moose-print cushions you've ever seen. Montana Raft, my current employers, have a camp ground available to employees and there are all sorts of set-ups out here: traditional campers, old buses, 20-person tents, not to mention ingenious tarp shelters and a steadily growing herd of dogs.

Here's my new home, complete with camo tarp

We'll see how the house plants fare. I may let them out to roam when it gets warmer.
The kitchen is cozy but functional, and I'm so excited to have a gas stove

My sister made that beautiful blanket on the bed for a college art class

Now that I've renewed my Wilderness First Responder and been on the river a couple times, the next hurdle will be Swift Water Rescue. The weather is calling for temperatures in the 80s, which is a good thing since there's gong to be a lot of time spent in 35 degree water. Yeeha!