Pacific Northwest Trail - Idaho Section

"How 'bout we set up camp and deal with this shit in the morning?"

Thursday, July 23, 2015: Oh, Idaho!

I'm moving by pretty early to try to get to the next road crossing where Money Shot's note said he would be. It's only a couple miles along the chewed up and very dusty trail. The trail maintenance tractor's destructive work coupled with the dry conditions has left a couple inches of light fluffy dirt to be kicked up along the way. When I get to the crossing, I start in with my signature owl call, "who-cooks-for-you," but there is no answer from Money Shot.

Late in the morning, I reach the paved highway. Railroad tracks separate the road from the Moyie River, and I walk north for a mile or so before arriving at Fiest Creek Resort. It's a beautiful site, a log lodge building with a deck surrounding it and a large coy pond. I'm greeted by Money Shot who arrived a half hour earlier. It's about noon by my calculation, but we've passed into the Pacific Time Zone here in Idaho, so the restaurant doesn't open just quite yet.

The owner, Cliff Kramer, also has a small motel adjacent to the lodge, but the rooms are completely leased out to the Union Pacific railroad to house it's workers. Sometimes, complimentary rooms are made available to PNT thru-hikers, but not today. They are full with railroad employees. But we can use the shower, and it's nice to rid myself of all the grime and stink from the dusty trail.

Money Shot and I enjoy a large lunch of double cheeseburgers with our fellow hikers Sharkey and Bebo. Later, Honey Bee and Stumbling Norwegian arrive, having caught up to us already after leaving the trail for a couple days to attend a wedding. As far as my other three mates, they arrived here yesterday. We're relieved to learn that Mr. Bean found his way out of the bushwack and hiked in with Spaceman Spiff yesterday. Mr. Bean continued on, but Spiff had spent the night here, as did Marathon who arrived last evening. The two had hiked out early this morning.

Hikers are welcomed to tent by the pond. Sharkey and Bebo are staying another night here. Honey Bee and Norwegian will also be staying. Money Shot and I are easily sold on the idea as well. We all stick around for a nice dinner at the lodge, salmon and a huckleberry sundae for me... so good! Another PNT hiker who I had not yet met, Freebird, arrives in the evening. He bedazzles us with a story about his night in the Henry Mountain lookout when it was struck by a lightning bolt a few nights earlier.

After a relaxing day, everyone retires to their tent. It was a very hot day, but it's going to be a chilly night. I'm amazed by the temperature swings here, with daytime highs in the 80's or 90's and the overnight lows in the 40's or 50's.

Friday, July 24, 2015: Life is never going to be the same...

At the first hint of daylight, I hear some of the others scurry to get started on the long hike over Bussard Mountain. But it's cold and there is a heavy dew on the lawn here next to the pond, so I stay put for a couple more hours. I think a bit about what's happened to my life over the last couple years. A year ago I was four months into a hike of the Appalachian Trail. I knew then that the experience would change me, although I was not sure how. Now it's clear to me that I cannot go back to the existence I once knew. I'm free, and I've never been happier, meeting the most amazing, resilient, and determined people I've ever known. All I need is what I can carry on my back. The thought of jumping back into the rat race, just to be able to pay for the things required to participate in the rat race, seems completely absurd to me now. So in between adventures and expeditions, I find myself planning the next big thing and yearning to get back out there. Sadly, it took several decades to learn these things, but thankfully, there is still time.

Saw this somewhere in Vermont along the A.T. So on point,

When I wake up the next time, everyone is gone except Money Shot. Cliff, the owner of the resort and a great host, has invited us inside for coffee. Then he prepares us a free breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast, as much as we want. He is an interesting guy, and we enjoy the stories of his past experiences.

We plan our day as we feast. It's an 18 mile hike over Bussard Mountain to Highway 95, where we must hitchhike 15 miles south to the town of Bonner's Ferry. I'd received a message from Marathon that he'd arrived there last night, and he warned that there are no water sources through that entire stretch. Neither of us is looking forward to the day's hike on a hot day lugging extra water up a 6,000' mountain.

Cliff tells us that this is his town day, that he goes into Bonner's Ferry every Friday. "Hmmm," I look at Money Shot. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Cliff says we're welcome to come along. We would be skipping another section of the PNT, but we'd be catching up to our friends. Soon, we are packed and on our way to Bonners in Cliff's pickup. He stops briefly at the airport there where he has a hangar that houses a helicopter, a glider, and a twin engine plane. He says he could get us to Seattle in two hours, but we decline that offer. We're not ready for this thing to end this soon.

Cliff drops us off in town by the grocery store. Mr. Bean is there having just completed his resupply. He is heading out of town now, and I'm pretty sure this is the last time we'll see our British comrade. Hugs and well wishes are exchanged.

It's a hot day, a good day for town business. We get our groceries and are soon reconnected with Spiff and Marathon. I spend a large part of the day working on hand-written journals, scrolled on the backsides of my printed maps. Later in the day, I go to the post office to mail my journals to my parents. They enjoy reading about my highs and lows, and it's less weight for me to carry.

Since the day we first started hiking into the Rocky Mountains, we've been aware of a young lady hiking the PNT, Rainbow Brite. We'd met her at East Glacier Village after she'd completed the bicycle portion of her summer journey from Los Angeles. We are reconnected with her and her friend Morning Glory here in Bonner's Ferry. The pair had been hiking not far from us the entire time, but it took three weeks for our paths to finally cross here. The ladies will be staying at a motel tonight. We also meet another PNT hiker, an older fellow named Wrong Way, who also has a room for the night. Me and the other guys head over to the fairgrounds after a big dinner of Mexican food. There is a pavilion there where Spiff and Marathon stayed last night. We'll save on the lodging this way.

I decide to set up my tent while the others sleep in the pavilion. Spiff warns that sprinklers kick on in the morning, so I select a spot that seems away from the spray. A little league baseball game is played near us, and we hope our vagrancy does not bother the locals too much. It's a strange lifestyle, but it is growing on me.

Saturday, July 25, 2015: Get the flock outa town!

The forecast is calling for much needed rain today. At first daylight, a thunder shower passes through Bonners Ferry. Then, I hear the sprinklers kick on, as Spiff had warned. Later, when it's time to get up, I make a disturbing discovery. There is an inch deep puddle at the foot of my tent. The culprit is a broken sprinkler head nearby. The only thing I had stashed at the wet end was my zip lock containing my paper maps for the next section of the hike. Unfortunately, there was a hole in the baggy, and the paper maps slurped up the water like a sponge. They are ruined and have to be tossed. But Marathon has the same maps saved to a zip drive, so I'll be able to print out the lost pages, 19 of them. More good news, since I mailed my journals away yesterday, three weeks of hand-written stories have been spared.

We head over to the library and wait for them to open. Some of the others have some library business while I print maps, so it works out for the four of us. We're there until lunch time. A bustling farmers market across the street grabs our attention, so we stroll through. We run into Wrong Way again; he's taking a zero day here to wait for the arrival of some new shoes he's having shipped. Some ladies at a kiosk give us some fresh lemonade which is awesome!

At long last, we are ready to find a hitch back up Rt 95 for the 15 miles to the spot where we would reconnect to the trail. But the police see us and don't like our plan so much. Not only do they not like us hitch hiking, it's also a dangerous stretch of highway to walk on. They police ask us to instead hike on a lesser traveled road that follows the west bank of the Kootenai River out of town. It's a long walk, but we get started.

Before we can get out of town, a storm starts brewing over the mountains, and the radar looks intimidating. I don't mind hiking in the rain, but I think it's dumb to hike out of town into the rain. We're passing by the fairgrounds just as rain begins, so we take shelter there once again. Sheltered from the chilly rain, we all start working on our heavy food bags, now fully stocked for a long stretch of trail days. Then it's nap time, waiting out the rain. It's early evening before we begin the long road walk up to the trail head for the Parkers Mountain Trail.

Less than a mile later, we score a ride from a lady named Lynn. She has a small Toyota truck with a mountain bike on the back, but after some maneuvering, we all fit in. She's a cool hippie type, not quite my age I would guess. She stops along the way to give us a tour of the river valley and the Kootenai National Wildlife Refuge, explaining to us the history of the Kootenai Tribe that once called this place home. We're lucky to have met Lynn, but she's also pretty happy that she met up with us and says we made her day!

Our ride out of Bonner's Ferry

Lynn suggests an alternate route that might be better than the Parker Trail. It's a bit further up the gravel road, and it's called the Long Canyon Trail. She bikes it often, and she describes it as lush and beautiful. We're sold! We see a group of hikers walking along the road. It's Honey Bee and Norwegian, Freebird, Morning Glory, and Rainbow Brite. Wow, nine PNT hikers at the same spot at the same time! We have a quick visit, and the four of us in the truck feel guilty a bit that we got caught yellow blazing. But, then I remember that I'm here for fun, let them judge if they want. They are all more purists than we are, so we're not able to talk them into diverting onto the Long Canyon Trail with us.

We finally reach the trail head and say goodbye to Lynn. There's not much daylight left, but we'll hike as far as we can. Within twenty minutes, thunder is crashing around us. The four of us scramble down to a fairly flat forested area to quickly set up our tents. The rain begins, and I'm having trouble getting set up. It's very frustrating and soon I'm caught in a down pour. The others seemed to get situated before the worst of it, but my setup was a total disaster. Everything soaked. I do my best to sop up the excess with a small camp towel, but it sucks being flooded twice in one day. Ah, the hiker life.

Sunday, July 26, 2015: When life gives you a turd...

In spite of the wet tent and gear, the sleep was not so bad. It looks like the rain has moved on and a nicer day awaits. Money Shot and Marathon pack and move out before Spaceman Spiff and myself.

While Spiff is packing, I search for and find a perfect fallen tree behind which I plan to do my privy business. But as I dig my heel into the soft soil to create a cat hole, I unearth the remnants of Spiff's privy business. I guess he also thought this would be the perfect spot for that kind of activity. Great minds think alike. Disgusting, but funny... ah, the hiker life!

Lynn's suggestion to follow the Long Canyon Trail in lieu of the primary route's Parker Mountain Trail seems to have been a good one. The trail is covered with a soft bed of pine needles much of the time, following and occasionally crossing a creek that winds through the shady canyon. I meet up with the others from time to time as they are taking a break. I find a sunny spot beneath the thick canopy to spread my tent for a quick dry.

A glimpse from the Long Canyon Trail of the Kootenai Valley

There are no serious ascents along this trail, but payback comes later in the day. We reach the point where it's time to head up the mountain and reconnect with the primary route of the Pacific Northwest Trail. Spiff and Money Shot are quite a ways ahead, so I'm hiking with Marathon. There is a series of switchbacks for about four miles up to the top of the ridge line near Pyramid Peak.

It's late in the day and we've gone about 15 miles or so. We descend Pyramid Peak toward a campground next to Pyramid Lake. We come to a trail junction at the base of the mountain and there is a box with a log book in it. We find entries from the big group of thru-hikers we passed while Lynn was driving us to the trail head last evening. We suspect there will be a large group at the campground once we arrive there just before dark.

About this time, Money Shot arrives at the junction, and he's approaching from the wrong direction on the wrong trail. He explains that he took one branch for a half mile, then felt like it was wrong because it was going uphill, turned around and came back, went on the other branch that was for sure wrong, and has now returned to the junction, wasting about an hour. He should have stuck with his first instinct. We follow that path a mile or so and come to the lakeside camp.

We expected all these people and a fun night, but only Spiff is there. He has built a big fire. He explains that the two girls and Freebird came by, but they barely said hello and then moved on. Stumbling Norwegian and Honey Bee did the same. Spiff is annoyed and is thinking nobody likes him. I explain that the culture on this trail seems different than on the Appalachian Trail, not as social and perhaps more of a solitary type of adventure, just my observation. But we like Spiff and we are very appreciative of the fire. It's cold and quite breezy here!

Tomorrow, we'll face one of the most dreaded sections of the PNT. There is a six-mile bushwack. We need to be rested and start early to get through it before dark. I'm a bit nervous about what to expect. This is the start of our hike through the Selkirk Range.

Monday, July 27, 2015:This bush is not going to whack itself...

This would be one of the most unpleasant and memorable days of my life. Our travels would take us through one of the more dreaded sections of the PNT, a six-mile bushwhack over a gnarly mountain ridge and through a valley of fallen trees and thick underbrush. If this hike had come with an eject button, I would have pushed it at least three different times on this one day.

It's a very cold morning, probably the coldest of the trip so far. Needless to say, the recommended plan to start early loses out to the warmth of the sleeping bag, and it's well after 9:00 before we get moving. Leaving Pyramid Lake, we meet a group of Boys Life hikers and their wilderness leaders on a four day excursion, just breaking camp at Lower Ball Lake. I spent a bit of time with them, caught up in a question and answer session. But it was cool. They were coming out of the section we were about to tackle, so how tough could it be if all these teenage guys just got through? I filtered some water before heading up the ridge, having just replaced my filter in Bonner's Ferry. Wow, what a difference a new filter makes, so much faster!

On the way up toward Upper Ball Lake, I stopped to take a picture and realized the shutter button on my camera was gone. Dammit! I found the button in my pocket, but I won't be taking any more pictures, except on my phone, until I figure out how to get the button reattached, if it's even possible. There are many other gear issues, a broken zipper on my sleeping bag, gaps in my hiking shoes getting deeper and wider, things like that. But I've got bigger worries today, like getting through this bushwhack.

Lower Ball Lake, Selkirk Mountains (broke my camera here)

The first obstacle is the ascent to the ridge. There is no more trail, so I pick and choose the safest route gradually working my way up the slope at a slanted angle toward the top. I'm having all kinds of problems. Sometimes, I have to scale the side of a vertical rock with only a few inches for footing. At one such point, I'm completely hung up with nothing to grab onto, and the weight of my backpack pulling me back. It's at least a 15 foot drop and an endless roll down the mountainside if I lose my grip. I'm left with no option here but to ditch my backpack. I hold onto a flimsy pine branch with one hand while unbuckling my hip belt and slipping out of one shoulder strap. I switch hands and do the same with the other arm. I watch helplessly as my pack crashes below and rolls down the slope. I'm hoping the dead tree branch below will catch it, and fortunately, that's exactly what happens. I'm able to successfully traverse this rock and then descend to retrieve my pack. I find a better route to the spot where I can hear Money Shot and Marathon shouting encouragement from the rendezvous point above. We all reconvene and regroup.

Money Shot is reading passages aloud from his trail guide. We need to find a saddle (lowest point) on this ridge and then descend into the brush. The guide says this would be the worst place on the PNT to get injured because there is no way anyone would be able to come to help. When we get down to the saddle, all I can find is a 40-foot drop straight down the rocks. We're wondering if we're supposed to try to somehow scale this wall without dying. This can't be right... I convince them to continue on as there are a couple other saddles further along the ridge line.

The views up here are pretty spectacular, and I'm trying to appreciate the grandeur of the whole setting, whilst suppressing the nagging sense that danger lurks all around. While strolling along toward the third and final saddle, my ankle turns awkwardly, and I tumble to the rocky surface, grimacing out loud. Oh my god, I got hurt in the worst place. Now what? After a minute, the pain subsides and I am able to shake it off and rock on.

There have been ominous clouds building in the distance, and now thunder is rumbling. We find a deer trail leading into the brush and back into the treeline as a very cold light rain begins to fall. The animal trails disappear and I quickly become soaked while pushing through the wet thicket of huckleberry bushes. After an hour or so of this torture, I hear Money Shot shout out that he's reached the brook. Soon, the three of us are preparing meals at what I describe to the others as "the worst lunch spot of all time."

It seems like we are way behind schedule, and it is taking much longer than I expected to make any kind of progress. We probably have at least four miles of nothingness to hike through before nightfall, and at this pace, I'm wondering if we'll make it. Money Shot leaves the lunch spot first, and we hope to reconnect at a camp site at the end of the bushwhack near Lion Creek.

Marathon and I assess the surrounding terrain and determine that since we're already soaked, we might as well just walk through the brook. That strategy does not work for very long because of all the old fallen trees blocking the stream. Words cannot express the frustration and even the anger that I feel as I try to solve this puzzle. I question why I would let myself get into this situation in the first place.

"Where Fitty at?"

A few hours go by, and in assessing our current location in comparison to the surrounding mountains, it appears we are nowhere near the confluence of this stream with Lion Creek, and the camp would still be a couple additional miles from that point. Ice pellets fall from the clouds, and hail stones the size of dimes pelt us at times. I'm cold now, and still wet, and very miserable. We still have about an hour and a half of daylight, but I have a new plan.

I leave the stream and climb onto the highest spot I can get to so I can get a better feel for the lay of the land. I'm looking for a place where it might be feasible to camp, but the prospects looks pretty bleak. But in the distance, on the other side of the stream, I spot something that warrants further exploration. It takes 20 minutes to get to that place, a rock the size of a small house. It's a little slanted, but pretty flat, and covered with a thick blanket of lush, green moss. A few trees are growing on it, but I think it will work. I name this spot "Fitty Rock," and I announce to Marathon that I am camping here. He tries to convince me to move on a bit further, but I'm concerned that we won't find another place to pitch our tents. He agrees it's best to stop. My credo in these situations: "We'll deal with this shit in the morning." Soon I am warm and snug in my sleeping bag, nibbling on trail mix and heating water for hot chocolate. I send a brief satellite message to Money Shot's communicator to let him know we are okay and camping in the bush.

I wonder how many other hikers have had to camp in the middle of this mess, or if we're the first two knuckleheads. You read all the time about people who get lost in the wilderness and either don't survive or have to be rescued by search teams. There is something comforting about discovering that we are resilient, equipped for these situations, and capable of surviving whatever is thrown at us. These thoughts warm me as I drift into a deep sleep here in the middle of nowhere.

Tuesday, July 28, 2015: It's a huckleberry heaven!

It is truly amazing how our demeanor can change so drastically in one day. On Fitty Rock, bright sunlight somehow penetrates the thick forest canopy and removes the chill from the early morning air. I set up my solar charger in a patch of direct daylight and move it every few minutes to follow the path of that one sunny spot. I need some juice for my satellite communicator in case something bad happens. After all, even though dawn is radiating a new sense of hope, we are still at the mercy of this seemingly endless bushwhack section.

Money Shot responded to my message from the previous night. He had barely made it before nightfall out of the bushwhack section to the designated campground. I suspect that Spaceman Spiff took an alternate route through this section, a high route that climbs out of this valley and traverses a ridge to Lookout Mountain. I can't imagine that choice would have been any worse than the route the rest of us have chosen.

As I cook up some oatmeal, a hummingbird flutters before me, checks me out, and moves on. The sky is big and deep blue, and the dampness of the thicket is quickly drying out, along with my tent and hiking clothes, now draped over some saplings. Marathon has not yet stirred in his tent. I am just taking in the beauty and the glory of this morning and this place.

When we're packed and ready to continue, Marathon checks his trail guide. Specifically, he finds a passage that instructs us to stay as far to the right side of the valley as possible to avoid the fallen trees and log jams near the stream. I just laugh. That nugget of information would have been great to know yesterday!

So we push on over toward the base of the mountain. I didn't even notice yesterday the abundance of ripe, plump huckleberries all through this valley. I stop frequently and eat no less than a couple quarts, not once having to wrestle a bear for them. Soon, we find animal trails and even open expanses within the forest that make travel much faster and easier.

After not much more than half a mile, we reach the confluence of Lion Creek. We were that close last night! It is still pretty wild along Lion Creek, but by lunchtime, we arrive at the campsite where we had planned to camp the previous night. It is a beautiful place with a long natural water slide nearby. We find an actual trail, and soon it connects to a gravel road. We are back in "civilization," or at least close to it, with some people and cars. It's a pretty long road walk from here. Officially, the trail turns right and ascends a long way up to Lookout Mountain. With showers once again in the area, we elect to bypass that climb and continue on toward the Lionshead Campground in the Priest Lake area. If we hustle, we might get to the camp store there before it closes.

On the road walk, I push pretty far ahead of Marathon, and after about five more miles, I reach an intersection with a paved road and the entrance to the campground. A familiar face emerges from the woods. It is Spaceman Spiff, and he's carrying three large cans of sweet tea! Spiff had been waiting at the camp store all day, and with their internet service, he was able to follow my satellite communicator's track points on my map page. He knew exactly when I would get there. The store was closed now, but he bought us the tea before they kicked him out. These seemingly small acts of kindness and generosity are magnified a thousand times out here, and that's one of the things I love about it.

Marathon soon arrives, and the three of us have a small celebration, exchanging war stories from "The Bushwhack." Spiff did indeed take the high route, and he said he was terrified. He said he was so scared that at one point he was sure he was going to die and nearly threw up. With my fear of heights, I'm so happy I chose the thicket route, as miserable as it was.

We're at a state park area with a beach at the north shore of Priest Lake. We hang out to watch the sun set over the lake, and then we move on with our quest to find a stealth place to camp. We cut through what seems like some private land and some ATV trails. We arrive at Carribou Creek, where the PNT joins another long distance hiking trail, the Idaho Centennial Trail. The trail separates the creek with a spruce forest, and just into the forest, we find a beautiful, peaceful paradise with lots of places to tent, all covered with soft pine needles. It is a welcome sight! I send Money Shot a message with our whereabouts.

Chillin' with Spaceman Spiff

Wednesday, July 29, 2015: Bro time...

We sleep in pretty late, sheltered from daylight in the tall pines. Money Shot never showed up last night or this morning, and I receive a message from him that he passed by and did not see us. He'll wait for us somewhere up along the shore of Upper Priest Lake.

Once we finally emerge from the woods and rock hop across Caribou Creek, we realize that it's going to be a sunny and hot day at these lower elevations. The trail ahead is littered with fallen trees. We're met by a bicycle enthusiast who has become frustrated with the trail conditions and turned around. Much of the morning is spent climbing over and under huge fallen cedar trees. What happened here? We find out that a microburst thunderstorm with 100 mph winds struck this area earlier in the summer and really made a mess of the forest.

We catch up to Money Shot about four miles up the shoreline and stop for lunch and a swim. The four of us hike together for the rest of this uncomfortably hot day. It feels like a long time since we've all been together for this long. There are very busy campgrounds at the north end of the lake, and after that, we reach another long stretch of road walking. At a fork in the road, the official PNT route goes north through the Salmo-Priest Wilderness, but the map's notes warn that this route is much longer and way more overgrown than an alternate that heads south. Naturally, we all opt for the southern route. In fact, we have decided to take the more southern of all the choices between here and Sullivan Lake, based on recommendations in the guide and map notes.

We're able to knock out big miles in the evening after a supper break at the bridge crossing Upper Priest River. Once our road walk ends, things get a little confusing as we cross a series of meadows with no definitive trail. The other guys have way points on their GPS phone apps, so we're able to find the spot where the trail cuts into the woods by some giant cedars. We quickly spot a place along Jackson Creek where we can camp, but Spiff keeps hiking, ignoring our shouts; he tends to go off on his own and that's okay, I get it. We'll run into him in the next town, Metalline Falls, in a day or two.

Watering up at Upper Priest River

Thursday, July 30, 2015: Accidental bushwhack and a slippery slope...

Facing a significant ascent to start the day's hike, I decide to pack up and leave ahead of the younger guys, assuming they'll catch up to me soon enough. I quickly arrive at the trail junction, Jackson Creek Trail to the left and Hughes Creek Trail to the right. As we all agreed upon, I go left.

The trail is pleasant enough for a few miles, but then there are several areas of downed trees to circumnavigate. One is especially bad, where a large tree has taken down several of its neighbors, directly over the tread. I find my way around the mess, but then I can't locate the trail on the other side. I keep wandering to the west thinking I'll eventually run into it, but I don't. I cut uphill, then downhill, no trail.

I continue on, certain that I'll cross the path eventually. I never do. I stop several times to check my maps and my GPS location on my phone. I call out for my mates, who must be within earshot by now. "Who cooks for you, who cooks for you," I sing in a loud owl-like howl. But there is no response, just the breeze in the tall pines. I move on.

This pattern continues for the next hour, then two hours. I'm confused and frustrated. At some point, I determine from my resources that I need to work my way to an elevation of about 5200 feet, and I'm currently only at about 4200 feet according to my phone. So I push up a very steep mountainside in a pine forest. It's not a rocky slope, but rather covered in very slippery pine needles and dry duff. The higher I push, the steeper the grade becomes, and it's getting very dangerous. The grade is 45 degrees at times, and probably steeper. I can barely keep my footing on the slippery surface, and I'm scared of what might happen if I start sliding down the mountain like a human pinball. I set very small goals, moving just 15 feet at a time, then eyeballing the next tree that I hope I can grab hold of. This is the new scariest and most worrisome moment of my hike so far. How did I let myself get into this situation? How could I lose the trail? Where are my friends and why won't they answer? Have I wondered so far off course that they can't even hear me calling?

My movement is slow and deliberate, and very exhausting. I catch a break when I find an animal path in the slippery debris. It's not great, but it's a little safer. Then another break, there is a tiny brook, just a trickle, but it exposes rocks upstream through the brush. I decide to just push straight up the stream bed to see where it leads. A very large toad hops away to let me pass as I use all my strength to push through.

I push hard and fast, and soon I'm rewarded when I find a trail. Woohoo! I'm not sure if it's the right trail, but hey, at least it's a trail. I follow it toward the west. Looking back, there are magnificent views of the Selkirk range, where I had also spent a good deal of time being lost over the past few days. I continue on and the trail becomes very overgrown, just as predicted in my map notes. Maybe this is the right way after all.

This view looking back at the Selkirks almost makes it worthwhile

Soon there is a junction of a few trails, but nothing is well marked. I can't find the one I want, trail #512. The signage at this area only confuses me. I choose the trail which is the best maintained down the mountain. At the bottom, I stop for lunch and try to convince myself that I'm back on the proper route. I'm assuming my mates have moved far ahead by now, since I lost at least a couple hours on my latest off trail adventure.

After another hour or two, I'm doubting myself. I should be heading south, but the sun is in the wrong place. I go through several stages of denial and push on. Late in the afternoon, I intersect with a gravel road and trail head. It's here where that nagging sensation becomes reality. I have indeed been going the wrong way for five miles. But at least I can definitively identify my location on my map. And another silver lining, I can take this gravel road, Sullivan Creek Road, all the way to Sullivan Lake. I'm going to miss out on some great views offered by trail 512, and I've got 12 miles of road walking to the lake. But at this point, I'm just happy to be safe and to know where the hell I am.

I'll cut the road walk in half, six miles this evening and the remainder in the morning. Maybe there is a camp store at Sullivan Lake where I can grab some breakfast and hopefully regroup with my tribe.

I stop for a supper break and then push on a couple more miles to a stealth spot just into the woods. I'm awakened at about 2:00 a.m. and hoot with a nearby owl for a bit. It occurs to me that at some point in this clusterfuck of a day, I probably crossed from Idaho into Washington.

Nest Chapter: Pacific Northwest Trail - Eastern Washington

Pacific Northwest Trail - Northwest Montana

 

"Yo, it's crazy up here Bro!"

Saturday, July 11, 2015: Into the fog...

The day begins with a dangerous scramble down the wet and unstable slope to the road. I'm hanging on to tree after tree to keep gravity from doing it's thing. We all make it down unscathed.

We've been spoiled by the amazing scenery of Glacier National Park. Today we get a glimpse into the other Pacific Northwest Trail. We're on Hay Creek road, and it's a long and boring walk. There are some okay views of the trees to the south, I suppose, eh. The good thing about the flat road walk is that I'm good at it. I'm pretty far ahead of the others when I stop for a lunch break. Also, I'm trying something new, listening to podcasts that I downloaded for the boring stretches. I like being unplugged from technology in the mountains, but on road walks, I think it's acceptable.

Yeah, we good!

After a dozen or so miles, the route enters back onto an old overgrown logging road. I am startled a time or two by grouse that wait way to long to fly off as I approach. I pass by a large tent. It's The Preacher. His dog is a bit uneasy around strangers. We have a quick "stop and chat" and I move on to an actual trail. The partly cloudy skies have now given way to a dense fog shrouding the thickly forested hillsides. I reach a road and wait for my mates. The mosquitoes are very aggressive here.

We've decided to camp a half mile off our route at a state campground next to Red Meadows Lake. It's free and sites are available on a first come basis. When we get there, we see only a few other camper people there and we find a vacant site with a big fire ring next to the lake. We collect some wood and start a nice campfire. There is a lone fisherman in a small rowboat out on the lake, and from time to time, he disappears as thick fog rolls through. It's quite a surreal scene.

Alone but not lonely

Sunday, July 12, 2015: Water up, boys...

e have a nice visit with the fisherman as we break camp. He has fished nearly every lake in the Northwest and writes about what's good and what's not. In this lake, he caught nearly 200 fish in one day.

Today, the PNT throws a new challenge at us. It's a long hike along a ridge line with no water sources for 15 miles. As we head back to the road, we run into The Preacher. He looks confused. He plans to hike the PNT for as far as he chooses. We all study maps and resources and determine that the way The Preacher already took before second-guessing himself and returning is actually the correct route. We all head up the road, a steep walk, to a stream thought to be the last reliable water source for the entire day.

The Preacher is carrying a one-gallon jug and he doesn't filter the water. The rest of us filter water into bags or bottles strategically arranged in our backpacks so as to evenly distribute weight. We're all watered up and we veer off the road onto the trail, a long ascent. With the extra few liters of water weight, I'm finding the uphill climb tougher than usual.

We all hike our own pace and space out over time. Only The Preacher is behind me. The others wait for me at a ridge top clearing for lunch. The Preacher never shows up. We hope he has come to terms with how ill-prepared he and his dog are for this and that they've turned back to Polebridge. It's the last we saw of them.

After lunch, the route continues over a series of peaks along the Whitefish Range. The scenery is nice again, making the effort feel worthwhile. There is uncertainty at each trail junction and we wait to regroup and make the best guess based upon everyone's different resources. It all works out, and toward the end of the day, we reach the highest of today's peaks, Mt. Locke. There is a dilapidated cabin there, and Money Shot will hang out to record a time lapse of the sunset. Marathon and I make our way down the mountain. We are both out of water after a long day and feeling parched. We're relieved just before dark when we finally come upon a spring. We stop for a quick drink before continuing on.

Evening sky from Mt. Locke

It's dark now, but we must be getting close to the spot near the Bluesky Creek where we had all decided to camp. I make my signature owl sound in the still forest, who-cooks-for-you...who-cooks-for-you-all. After a half hour of this, my mates howl back. We come to the stream where Spiff and Mr. Bean have built a campfire. We have a late supper and set up camp. Marathon is having difficulty getting his tent stakes into the ground because it is actually an overgrown gravel logging road. I remind him that the ability to use tools is what sets us apart from other primates and that he is setting us back a thousand generations. I hand him a rock and he hammers the stakes into the ground. Nicely done.

Monday, July 13, 2015: Hypothermia in July is actually a thing...

It's an aggressive plan to hike from here to the lookout tower atop Stahl Mountain, over 20 miles according to our maps. But the early part of the hike is nice and flat, along an old forest service road above Bluesky Creek. Much of the mountainside to the right is a burn zone from a fire a decade or so ago. It will take a generation or more for the forest to return to its pre-fire form. Such is nature's way of refurbishing things, and while the locals seem to dread forest fires more than just about anything, it seems that little can be done to stop Mother Nature from doing her work.

After the first five miles, we reach a bridge where we stop for lunch. There is a PNT logo sign on a tree, the first we've seen in nearly 100 miles. A hiker log lists the names of other thru-hikers who've come through here, including Emma and Colleen, the college girls we met at Polebridge. Marathon does his usual soak in the frigid water.

We follow a gravel road several miles up a gradual incline. We stop to read a roadside marker at the site of an old miner cabin that was destroyed by an avalanche here several decades ago. The route reenters the forest, a combination of a trail and overgrown logging roads for a couple hours. Marathon and I reach a pond at the base of Wount Wam where Money Shot, Mr. Bean, and Spaceman Spiff have already stopped for lunch.

On the trail up the mountain, I stop at a nice brook to replace the nasty pond water I had just scooped out with cold and refreshing spring water. The mosquitoes are horrible again, and it seems too early in the day for them to be this thick. On Mount Wam, there is a side trail to the peak and lookout tower. I opt out of the side trail and proceed down the mountain not stopping long enough for the mosquitoes to swarm around me. Money Shot points out a barely visible cabin high atop a distant peak and identifies it as our destination for tonight, Stahl Mountain. Good God, it looks far away, and high up a steep and rocky mountainside. This is a long day.

Fitty on Wam Mountain

There is a confusing junction at the next saddle, and I need a private and yet accessible place to do some privy business, sans the privy. The terrain here is not conducive to wandering far from the tread, and the urgency of the situation forces me into a decision I'm not proud of. My apologies to those who came along this trail after me. I'm doing my best here with what I have to work with.

We've hiked so far today and we're running short of daylight soon. Some rain clouds between me and the mountain range to the west look ominous. The sun is trying to set in the sliver of clear skies just above the peaks, and it creates a post card scene.

I catch up to Marathon after he had lost his footing and tumbled off the trail into some thick brush. He gathers his belongings and we hike on, thinking we must be close to the side trail up to the Stahl lookout. Marathon realizes that he does not have his water filter; it must have fallen into the brush where he tumbled. He backtracks to look for it. I finally arrive at the side trail. Rather than hike another half mile or more and an extra 500 feet or more of elevation gain, I decide to camp here, along the main trail. It's going to rain any minute, and I want to get my camp set up before that happens. Marathon comes by after having found his filter. He wants to go to the peak, and he starts up the side trail as the light rain begins.

I locate a nice spot, but I don't want to try to make camp while it's raining. I wait a few minutes for it to stop, covering my pack with a small tarp to keep it dry. Now that I've stopped moving, the icy rain quickly chills me until I'm shivering uncontrollably. I can't wait any longer for the rain to stop. I need to take action now. I manage to set up just the rain fly to my tent, but not the inner mesh part. I crawl under to shelter from the rain, and sit on the tarp. I'm so cold at this point. I get out of the wet clothing and don my down bubble jacket. The rain continues to patter, but I'll think I'll live now. I've heard of people getting hypothermia even in the summer, and I'm a believer now.

Once the rain stops, I set my camp up properly in the darkness and grab a quick snack before going to sleep. I'm not sure if it was a true 20-mile day, but if not, it was close. I sleep great in my tent in the stillness of the wet forest while my four mates are crammed into the cabin up at the peak of Stahl Mountain.

Rainy end to a long day

Tuesday, July 14, 2015: Approaching town...

I prepare a nice cup of hot chocolate and some pop tart pastries before packing up. The forest is still damp, and in the morning sunlight, it smells fresh and alive. One by one, my colleagues scamper down from Stahl Mountain and stop for a chat. None of them slept well in the cabin up there, between Spiff's snoring and a couple of giant pack rats that terrorized them all night. Money Shot's fishing hat now has much of the camo material chewed off of it, but he will continue to sport it proudly, just another fun story to be told. We're all excited to get to the town of Eureka today. I might even get a motel room and a shower, woohoo!

My maps lay out several different routes, a red line for the primary PNT, a black line for what was once the primary route, yellow for what might be a future route, and green for different alternate routes. Everybody kind of chooses what they feel is right, hike your own hike. It's all good. We've all decided to take the black route, the Sinclair Creek Trail, which seems to have less highway walking than the red route that enters town from the north on busy US93.

After a sketchy scramble across a mountain side of loose scree, there is a steep climb up some switchbacks. After that, it's all downhill for the rest of the day. I catch up to Marathon at a stream side water stop. We continue on for a few miles and come to a gravel road. Nothing here looks like what our maps tell us will happen here. Marathon is using an app on his phone, and after walking the wrong way for a bit, we turn back. Finally, we find a somewhat hidden trail parallel to the road.

A sketchy looking scree field

From here, the maps lay out an alternate shortcut that cuts through some private property. I'm following Marathon's lead here, and we come to a dead end and a house. I'm not comfortable with trespassing out here. We turn back and find our way to an intersection that I can identify on my map. A very cold rain starts to fall with some small ice pellets. It does not last long, and soon the sun is shining again, much to our delight.

We arrive at a busier road, and we talk the driver of a pickup into giving us a ride for a few miles to avoid road walking. He drops us off where he turns off the main road, and we continue walking.

It's a longer stretch of paved road than I thought it would be. We meet a retired man pulling into his driveway. His name is Dave French, and he owns lots of land around here. He's a great guy, and he offers to drive us the rest of the way into Eureka and on to the motel north of town. This saves us several hours of road time.

Marathon and I check into the Ksanka Inn. We make contact with the others who are at a cafe downtown. The five of us will cram into one room, hiker trash style. Soon, all of our smelly, dank gear is spread out in the room and hanging on the rail outside. It's Mr. Bean's 24th birthday, so we decide to go out for pizza. There is a pizza pub near the laundry mat, so we throw our clothes in the washer and go for dinner. After dinner, we get a ride back to the motel a mile away from our waitress driving one vehicle and her boyfriend driving another. We take advantage of the motel's internet to update our friends and families.

Wednesday, July 15, 2015: Following a shooting star...

nlike many of the more aggressive and goal driven hikers I've met, my four mates and I are never eager to leave a trail town. It happened back in Polebridge, and today it happens in Eureka. There is lots of town business to tend to, town culture to be discovered, and town food to enjoy. So why rush on? I learned on the Appalachian Trail that meeting people in towns along the way is a big part of the overall thru-hiking experience. Those who skip it are missing out.

The Ksanka Inn is connected to a convenience store that offers free coffee to motel guests, and a Subway sandwich shop. I take advantage of both before checkout time. We hike toward town to the supermarket across the highway for the first real resupply since arriving in Montana. I load up on packets of tuna, dried meat sticks, instant noodles, instant mashed potatoes, and lots of snacks and candy bars. It's a lot of food and I guess I hadn't noticed how much lighter my pack had become each day with the gradually diminishing supply of food.

We all loiter outside the supermarket, removing and discarding as much food packaging as possible, while chatting with a cyclist who was on a similar adventure, bicycling the length of the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route over 2,700 miles from Alberta to New Mexico. I'm not a cycling enthusiast, but maybe one day, after my feet give out.

Morning becomes afternoon, and we duck into a place downtown for some Mexican food and delicious huckleberry shakes. It's a sunny and very warm afternoon. The air conditioned library with its free wifi internet summons us. We remain there until closing time. We're on our way out of town, finally. But it's Wednesday, and there is a weekly farmers market at the park just before the bridge out of town. I buy something called an apple fry pie from some young Amish women, and it is delicious.

After more loitering, we decide that it really is time to move on; there is still enough daylight to get as far as Rexford, a tiny town about an eight mile hike along the Tobacco River. It's an easy hike, following the bed of a former railroad for most of the distance.

Escaping the town vortex

The guide book says there is a camp store in Rexford, and I'm thinking a can of cold beer would be nice before we find a place to camp. But when we ask a guy on an evening bike ride with his daughter, we find that the store closed at 8pm, and it's now close to 9pm. But, the man tells us there is a bar across from the store. Well, this sounds even better! We decide to stop in for one pitcher of beer, or no more than two, because we would still like to find a place to camp before dark.

There is a large RV park with lots of really nice RV's. We learn that many of these people are Canadians, most of them wealthy from oil, all of them very friendly (I love the Canadians!). It looks like most of the denizens are next door at the Frontier Bar, because it is bustling. It is a welcome site, even though we just enjoyed a town day. We belly up at a picnic table and order our two pitchers of beer. The waitress takes an interest in the story of our adventure.

She comes back to our table a few minutes later with some great news... one of the bar patrons has paid $100 toward our bar tab, totally anonymously! Well, this just changes everything. Soon, we are ordering one of pretty much every appetizer on the menu, and more beer. It's actually going to take a while to spend the entire C-note, so our worries about finding a camp are quickly tossed aside. We never figure out who paid for our evening.

This turns into one of the must memorable and fun nights of the trip. We joke, laugh, and carry on well into the night. Marathon, it turns out, is not much of a drinker, and for good reason. We watch as he is guzzling the beer just like he drinks water, as much as he can before coming up for a breath. Within minutes, he is trashed and somehow chewing on his big toe. He's a self-described "funny drunk," although others might label it as annoying.

As our drunken antics continue into the night, we realize we are the last people in the bar. We never got our check, and when we ask for it, there is a moment of drama with the wait staff. There is uncertainty about what exactly happened to the $100 donation. Spaceman Spiff quickly concocts a theory that these people have ill intentions and are going to try to steal all of our stuff.

We learn that there is a pay campsite near the bar; a lady who appears to be the bar manager recommends that we camp there. But the rate she quotes is too pricey, so she throws another price out there. This actually does sound somewhat suspicious.

Somehow, the bar tab issue gets figured out, on our end at least. It's after midnight, and we decide to get as far away from this place as we can, Spiff's paranoia having rubbed off on everyone's drunken psyche just a bit. So we act like we're going to the recommended campground, but we continue on down a dark gravel road, unsure where it will lead. We all stop to pee on the road once we get far enough from the lights.

We're trying to find a place to camp, but all of these winding gravel roads seem like private property. Phone apps direct us to some extent, but we can't find a place that looks suitable for camping. I'm kind of loving this actually, and I've got a rush the likes of which I have not had since I was a teen. It's a beautiful night, with a perfectly clear starlit sky, and a beer buzz, awesome!

I'm walking with Money Shot, the others a ways behind us. We each witness the same bright shooting star streaking from high above us toward a spot in front of us. It seems like a sign of sorts. So we decide to follow the meteor's trajectory. We come to an intersection, and lo and behold, Money Shot discovers a spigot on a pipe sticking out of the ground. Hmm, that's a strange place to find a water source. I am shining my head lamp around, and I spot what looks like a picnic table catty-corner from us. I go to explore, and yes, there is a legitimate campsite here, with a fire ring and a table! The others catch up and we can't believe our good fortune, although we are still quite a bit uncertain about where the hell we are and whether or not it's okay to camp here. But it's dark, it's late, we're buzzed, we're tired. This will do.

Everyone's tent is set up and we're about to go to sleep. I hear it first, off in the distance. Thump! I try to ignore it, but then again... Thump! None of the others say anything, so I assume they are asleep already. But I keep hearing it, a little louder and closer each time. Thump!........ Thump!.......

It's so close now that I can hear the brush rustling between each thud... Thump! ... swish, swish, swish...

"What the hell is that?" I whisper. "I don't know," responds Money Shot.

I cannot decide if it is a creature or an alien, or something even more sinister, like people. Either way, this is bad.... Thump! It's right next to our camp!

We muster up the courage to look out of our tents with our lights, and there stands our friend Mr. Bean with his food bag. From his pre-hike preparations, he understands the importance of hanging his food bag high in a tree out here in bear country (the rest of us are just fine sleeping with our food in the tent). He has a decent sized rock tied to some paracord... just can't seem to get it over these high branches, and it causes quite a commotion when the rock hits the ground.

The four of us just start laughing at ourselves as hard as we had laughed all evening. I settle in and laugh myself to sleep, still kind of wondering if we're someplace we shouldn't be. Whatever new stories will tomorrow have in store?

Thursday, July 16, 2015: Slackers...

A few hours after going to sleep after a strange night of unexpected shenanigans, dawn's early morning light awakens me. I hear the sound of hooves on the gravel road, four adult deer on a morning stroll. I decide to go back to sleep for a few hours since no one else seems to be stirring.

An hour or so later, vehicles begin to pass by on the gravel road, and I can tell they are turning from a busier highway, which would be Hwy 37. Once again, I worry that we're someplace we're not allowed, no longer hidden by the cover of darkness in this not so stealth place. But nobody disturbs us.

Later in the morning, everyone is finally stirring, making breakfast, packing. It appears that we have camped near the entrance to a real estate development area, Abayance Bay, according to a large entrance way off the highway. We should hurry on. But a man parks a pickup and approaches us. "Okay, you've stirred my curiosity. Who the hell are you guys?" We meet the owner of the development. We explain our story and how we found our way to this spot. Turns out, this is the only camping area within miles, and we are granted permission to camp, after the fact. He is amused and fascinated by our story. I guess that shooting star pointed us in the right direction after all.

The guy is very welcoming to us and offers us free coffee at his marine store at the bottom of the hill. We take him up on the offer. The store turns out to be another nice place to loiter, and it's not very busy. The clerk is Laura, a University of Minnesota student, and we befriend her. Sporadic rain showers and chilly breezes over Lake Koocanusa remove any sense of urgency way may have had to get hiking. We end up staying at the marina all day.

The next eight-mile stretch of the PNT follows Hwy 37 along the lake before crossing the bridge and zig-zagging up Webb Mountain. Laura offers to cram the five of us into her car and drive us up to the bridge to avoid the dangerous road walk. We all agree to this plan, having already given up on being "purist" hikers on this adventure. At the end of Laura's shift, we are on our way.

We stop along the way for more than an hour to check out a diving spot on the lake. We hike from a small parking area down a steep bluff. Spiff and Money shot decide to swim across the inlet and dive off a ledge across the way. Watching this just makes me nervous and anxious. It occurs to me that my lack of interest in these additional thrill-seeking activities stems mostly from the wisdom that comes with a few extra decades of experience that these two don't yet possess.

Laura drops us off at the bridge. It was built a couple years before the lake was created with the completion of the Libby Dam in 1972. The town of Rexford and part of the railroad had to be relocated as the Kootenay River became the lake. It's about 90 miles long, half in Montana and half in British Columbia, and it was named Lake Koocanusa (Kootenay - Canada - USA). Very clever!

We say goodbye to Laura and cross the more than quarter-mile long bridge, the winds moaning hauntingly through the structure, or could that be the ghosts of the Kootenai people who paddled the river below for thousands of years before the arrival of the white settlers?

Lake Koocanusa Bridge

After a short hike on a forest service road, we stop at the trail head for supper. It's too late in the evening to try to reach the top of Webb Mountain, so we locate a fine campsite on a flat bluff overlooking the lake and the bridge. We consider building a fire, but it would be too risky with the thick bed of dry pine needles here. The hit and miss showers have cleared up, so it's another magical starlit sky, and I drift fast asleep while stargazing.

Friday, July 17, 2015: Welcome to Suckville...

After a good night's sleep, I'm ready to legitimately hike again. It's been a lazy several days, and Webb Mountain is the first big ascent in a week or so. The day begins with an elevation gain of 3,500 feet over four miles, no easy task. I'm still not in great trail shape, although I do believe I've finally adjusted to the altitude difference. It's slow going to the summit, but there are far fewer breaks required than just a couple weeks ago.

I catch up to my mates who are snacking on ripe huckleberries along the trail. The weather is cool and a little damp today, with light showers, comfortable for hiking. We stop at the lookout cabin on Webb Mountain's peak. It's locked today, but apparently it can be rented for overnight stays. We move on.

Webb Mountain Lookout overlooking Lake Koocanusa

Our maps lay out an alternate route around the south of Thirsty Mountain, and we choose that route. There are some minor ups and downs through the afternoon. The biggest problem becomes the overgrown trails, huckleberry bushes and other thick brush. The cold rain droplets on the leaves attach to my legs, travel down to my socks, and fill my shoes. I hate wet feet, but it is unavoidable. I slosh through, following close behind Money Shot for a bit.

I'm suddenly shocked by a sharp stinging pain near my right eye. I've been attacked by a mad hornet. I can't see it but it's attached to my face and I can't shake it. I let out a loud profanity-laced shriek and jump around in agony. Money Shot knows exactly what has happened. The same hornet threatened him seconds earlier but did not attack him. A huge welt quickly swells the right side of my face. Between the soggy socks and the painful welt, I proclaim that my misery index has now hit 8.5 out of 10, the highest it's been on the trail to date. We march on.

The plan is to stop for the night at a hard to locate camp site near Gypsy Meadow. We study our maps and approach what must be the meadow. But the terrain is rough and thickly forested here. We keep looking, and the others join us. Soon we are going up a mountain again. We never find the camp, and this is really starting to suck. I remember the war cry from last year on the Appalachian Trail, "Embrace the Suck." I try to.

The trail continues up the wet mountainside. There is a small clearing nestled between three spruce trees. There is not enough room for five tents, but with a bit of creativity, we annex tiny suburbs to our small settlement and we all find a place to set up our tents. I am happy that we found this place among the wild forest, and I name the settlement, Suckville. Someone even locates a small spring nearby, so we are set for the night. I am wet and the cold is setting in quickly now that I'm not moving around. I climb into my sleeping bag and eat cold meat sticks and Fritos for supper. I'm nearly out of water, but I'll get some in the morning. Spiff builds a small fire on a flat rock he used for the base of his portable fire pit. I thought about putting my wet shoes and socks by the fire to dry out, but I choose to stay put in my tent instead.

This has not been a fun day. Tomorrow, we have a pretty long hike and hope to arrive at the town of Yaak before nightfall.

Saturday, July 18, 2015: Yaak River Jam...

I probably spent a full 12 hours in my tent, cozy and warm in my red puffy down sleeping bag. But I've been out of water since last night, so I decide to pack up and get moving. Rays of bright morning sunlight penetrate the thick canopy surrounding Suckville, our makeshift campsite. I wring the excess water out of my socks and lay them and my waterlogged hiking shoes on a distant log where there is direct sunlight. They won't get dry, but at least it will take the chill off.

The other four are awake and up, but I'm going to go ahead up the mountain with a quick stop at the little spring they told me about. The hike is north to Mt. Henry about six miles away before heading west for about seven miles downhill. From there, it's a combination of gravel and paved roads another seven miles to the town of Yaak. I had shipped myself a box of provisions to Yaak from Eureka, as had some of my mates.

I head up the mountain but I don't see the spring anywhere. I keep going, not sure how far away it is, but it becomes clear that I've passed it. My maps don't indicate another water source until halfway up Mt. Henry, and that could be a few hours away, but I'm confident I'll find a stream or spring tucked into one of the saddles between here and there. I keep moving, already quite thirsty. Spaceman Spiff, who moves pretty quickly, soon catches up and passes by me.

The sun rises higher and hotter. The first two saddles had no water source, and I'm feeling desperate. How stupid of me! I've already been through this and promised myself I would never again be caught without adequate water. The trail systems here are confusing, with several junctions, some on my map and some not, some marked, some not. I just need to find that spring.

I choose what seems to be the best route up Mt. Henry. I come to a side trail, and on my map, there is a yellow line, an alternative route which I conclude will take me to the spring. I'm wrong. After a half mile, I turn back. When I get to the main trail, I meet a young couple coming down from the summit, out for a weekend hike. I ask about the spring, and they said it's just a couple minutes up the hill. I can't remember ever being so thirsty.

Mt. Henry lookout tower, way up there

Finally, I come to a small hole about 2' x 3' and a foot deep with cold clear water! I'm at the spring for at least an hour, filtering and guzzling several liters. To recap, I woke up thirsty and then hiked six miles through rugged terrain in the hot July sun... not smart. Marathon soon arrives at the spring. He's been lost on the unmarked trails, and who knows where the others might be? We're all spread out now.

I hike on and come to a side trail to a lookout tower on Mt. Henry, an optional quarter-mile up a steep incline to the 7,200' peak. I think I'll pass. It's been a tough day already. I turn left and descend to the junction of the Vinal Creek trail, my route for the next few hours. I stop here for a lunch break.

I'm surprised when Money Shot arrives. He and Mr. Bean had gone the wrong way and made the ascent from the backside of Mt. Henry. Money Shot shares rave reviews of the views from the tower, but I have no regrets about skipping it. The couple I'd met earlier had told my friends there would be live music at Yaak tonight. I move on, hoping to reach the road early enough to still be able to hitch a ride into Yaak.

The trail is much more forgiving in the afternoon, all downhill, following streams much of the way. But it's very warm now. I've heard about the absurdly warm weather that has plagued the Northwest this summer, and when I'm out of the high elevations, I really am noticing it. I make the quick side trip to check out Turner Falls and to cool off.

Sometime around 6pm, I arrive at the gravel forest road, and to my delight, my British friend Mr. Bean is drinking beer with a man and two women at their SUV. I meet Stan and Lisa, and Stan's cousin Tina. They offer us a ride to Yaak, and we both squeeze in for the road trip. If I had arrived here moments later, I would have missed out on the ride. There were no other vehicles at the trail head, and there would have been almost no chance to get another ride on these desolate, winding roads. I don't know what the other three guys will do.

It's a longer car trip than I expected, but we finally arrive at the Yaak community. It consists of a small general store and bar, and another bar across the street. When I first heard about live music, I expected it to be a band at the little honkey tonk there, The Dirty Shame. As we get closer, cars are lined on both sides of the road for a half-mile or so. We get dropped off at the store and learn that what's going on here is actually the 2nd Annual Yaak River Jam, a two day music festival with lots of bands and vendors, and hundreds of people!

Now this might sound like a great find, but I'm really not in the mood. Our options are limited. Mr. Bean and I each pay $15 for entrance to the festival where we can camp on a hillside behind the bandstand. We see that Spaceman Spiff is already in town and fitting in nicely within the crowd of hippies and cowboys. It's the most people anyone can remember being in Yaak at any one time, ever.
I set up my tent next to a couple of gals. After talking to them a bit, I show off my only pair of hiking socks with the heels now completely worn away. One of the ladies, Stephanie, gives me her knee high socks. I'll rock them from this point until they wear out, which I suspect will only be a couple weeks. There's nowhere to shower here, so I head over to the festival in full hiker stench.

I enjoy some BBQ, beer, and live country music. Later, a ska/reggae band from Butte, Montana takes the stage. The younger guys seem to be enjoying this, but I'm tired and not feeling it, so I retire to my tent. I'm right behind the stage, but somehow, I am able to fall asleep.

Around midnight, I hear the voices of Marathon and Money Shot. They could not get a ride from the trail head and walked seven miles on the confusing maze of gravel roads to get here. When it got dark and they weren't sure where they were, they simply followed the music.

Sunday, July 19, 2015: Plotting the course...

In my tent along the back side of the Yaak River Mercantile, the direct sunlight makes contact with my tent early in the morning, and the inside temperature jumps from about 50F to about 85F in no more than 12 minutes time. The store is open, so I get some coffee and pick up my resupply box. Throughout the grounds, vendors and caterers are packing up their wares and moving on to the next gig, good people.

The thing about our tribe is that nobody wants to be the guy to motivate the troops to get back on the trail. We have a big lunch at the Yaak River Saloon and then hang out and use wireless internet to upload pictures and videos to Facebook, blogs, as such. It's the hottest day of our expedition to date, so we continue to loiter on the front porch. With the festival goers having vacated, the slow pace is more how I had envisioned the Yaak community.

Hiker trash loitering in Yaak

The hot afternoon turns to evening, and we split some pizzas while discussing our plan for the next section of trail. By coming to Yaak, we are off the main primary PNT route, the red line on my maps. But a green line designating an alternate route comes right through town. If we stay on the alternate, we can simply hike west out of town and then connect to some forestry roads which will reconnect us with the primary route in a day or two. This means we'll miss out on some nice views around Garver Mountain, so some of the others suggest we catch another alternate route to Northwest Peak, which is supposedly "awesome." Whatever, I agree to do this, it's all good.

There is a campground at Pete's Creek two or three miles west of Yaak, and it makes sense to just go there for the night since it's getting too late to go any further. It's already getting dark. One of the patrons of the bar is the Yaak Fire Chief, and he grants us permission to camp next to the fire department building just up the road a bit. We'll do that and then get a fresh start early in the morning.

It's a cool and clear night with clear skies with a billion stars. With only a small chance for rain, we decide to cowboy camp without the hassle of pitching tents. I notice bright flashes in the distance while stargazing, and I wonder if perhaps I'll get to see the norther lights tonight, the aurora borealis.

Monday, July 20, 2015: This trail's not gonna hike itself...

The bright flashes in the sky that I'd watched as I fell asleep were apparently not the auroras borealis, but distant lightning. Now, thunder rumbling through the valley awakens me at the first hint of dawn. Soon, light rain is falling, and we all curse and scramble to haphazardly set up tents to keep our belongings as dry as possible.

It's 9am now, the rain having not caused too much inconvenience, and we're packed and enjoying coffee and pastries in front of the store. It's time to move on after a restful zero day in Yaak. "Well ladies," I proclaim, "this trail is not going to hike itself." It would become my trademark phrase for the remainder of the expedition.

Mr. Bean announces that he may need to leave us soon, as our pace will surely not get him to the western terminus of the Pacific Northwest Trail before his mid-September deadline. He will he studying art at university in London and has a flight out of Seattle on September 17th.

So, we head west on the paved highway, where we will connect with Pete's Creek in a few miles (or Pete's Crick, as the locals say it). Not much more than a mile in, a man in a white pick-up truck offers us a ride, and we accept. Soon he is dropping us off at near the campground at Pete's Creek. But we get greedy. He can actually drop us off further along, cutting off an additionally few miles of road walking. We hop back in and zoom off.

We're dropped off at a gravel road, and he tells us to just head north from here. He drives off. At this point, we do what we should have done a bit earlier and look at where we are on GPS relative to our maps. We've somehow been dropped off much further west than we should be, at least four miles. Spiff is pissed and being impatient; he starts walking back to the East, and Marathon follows. The rest of us, being a bit more analytical and patient, believe we can get there from here, so we stop to study our resources. But the others keep walking. At this point, we are a tribe divided.

My paper maps are useless here since we are off track. But Money Shot and Mr. Bean each have map apps on their phones and locate the intersection. We are at Spread Creek Road, which runs parallel to Pete's Creek Road northward toward Northwest Peak. It's decided that we can take this road to connect to the primary PNT and then follow it opposite direction (eastbound) for four miles back to the road up to Northwest Peak. Off we go.

It's an easy day, albeit a bit boring on gravel roads, and a bit of a workout on a perpetual gradual incline. The miles drop off quickly, the three of us spreading out and moving at our own pace. The route Marathon and Spiff are taking will meet up with the route we are on, and we predict we'll get to that spot sometime this evening, if all goes as planned. But I'm finding as we get into this adventure that more times than not, things don't go as planned.

Late in the afternoon, Money Shot stops at a bend in the gravel road and makes an announcement as he looks at his phone map... We'll need to bushwack a half mile westward from this point to connect to the PNT primary route. We find our way to what may have once been a trace but is long since overgrown. This is the first of what promises to be many sections of cross-country bushwacking we will encounter over the next month or more.

About an hour later, scratched and bloodied, we emerge from the mess onto a slightly less overgrown road. I'm following Money Shot's lead on this, as he assures that we are back on the primary route. But it doesn't look like it to me, it doesn't feel right. It's too overgrown. "How sure are you?" "100%," he says. Okay, so off we go, Mr. Bean, Money Shot, and myself.

Within a half-mile, the overgrown road we're on completely fades into nothingness, just brush and forest. We're not on the trail at all. Money and Bean both believe we must be very close to the course, so we branch off, each scouting different sections of the woods. The further we get into it, the more impassible it becomes. We communicate by shouting across the thick canopy. There is a note in Money Shot's guidebook about this trail, the Midge Creek Trail #177, that previous hikers report the trail is actually a bit further west than the recorded waypoints would indicate, hence, the reason why we are off course.

It's hard to describe in words how awful this situation has become. It's slow, with lots of thick brush, and an endless maze of fallen trees in various states of decay. We find that the fastest passage is to maintain balance on the giant horizontal logs, hopping from one to the next where they criss-cross. It's dangerous, and the risk of serious injury is very high. At one point, I slide off a log about five feet high and jam my knee hard as my foot forcefully hits the ground below, very painful.

The deeper we go, the more hopeless it all becomes. Soon, my shouts are returned by Money Shot, but not by Mr. Bean who must be continuing on at the higher elevation. Money Shot and I regroup about two hours into the bushwack. We'll be losing daylight soon. I'm following the sun as it dips lower in the sky to the west and north, hoping it will lead me to the trail we're looking for. A dead branch has stabbed my knee and blood is streaming into my sock. We stop to get our long pants out of our packs and put them on, wishing we'd done so much earlier. The same stab wound takes two more direct hits.

We find a small spring running through a stump. Facing the very real possibility of having to spend the night in this mess, we take several minutes to water up. I have to keep reminding myself that these adventures always have some bad times, but the good times always outnumber the bad.

The two of us descend further down the descent in the general direction of the setting sun. Money Shot is out of my view but I can still hear the cracking branches. Around 9pm, he shouts in glee, "I found a trail!"

I'm overjoyed! It takes another ten minutes for me to work my way to where he is. We're able to make quick time again once we're on the tread. In a mile and a half or so, the trail meets up with a gravel road, and we're able to find a campsite across a bridge at the West Fork of the Yaak River. Bonus: there is a nice fire ring and someone has left a nice stack of fire wood! As night falls, we set up camp and enjoy a nice fire. We leave a note at the place where the trail meets the road in the event Mr. Bean finds his way to that spot. We're pretty worried and not sure whether or not he's made it out of the bush. We're still a couple miles away from the reconnect point at Northwest Peak road, where we were hoping to catch Marathon and Spaceman Spiff.

For now, the two of us are exhausted but safe, and that is a good feeling. This should be our last or next to last night in Montana.

After hours of being hopelessly lost, the perfect campsite!

Tuesday, July 21, 2015: The scariest thing I've ever done...

So many uncertainties today. Would we meet up with the rest of our tribe? Is this alternate route really a good idea? How "awesome" is this Northwest Peak?

Money Shot and I break camp fairly late after our discomforting ordeal from last evening. On our way out, we stop at the trail head to grab the note we'd left for Mr. Bean. He never made it to camp last night. Hopefully, he found this road before we did and continued on.

This gravel road is the official PNT route. We are soon greeted by a retired couple, Sharkey and Bebo. They are also PNT hikers, heading in the proper direction. We explain why we're going the wrong way. They have not seen our friends, so they apparently got to our unofficial rendezvous point before we'll get there, not surprising given the fact we spent several hours lost in the bush. Sharkey and Bebo proceed on toward Idaho. Hopefully we'll meet up with them again.

We come to the road and make the left turn. We're looking for a note from our friends, but there is none. We stop for water at the bridge and proceed along the winding and ascending gravel road for the next several hours.

Money Shot got ahead of me, and I spot him getting water from a small stream down below the road. I decide to do a bear drill. I shake a small tree and make low growling noises. He jumps up, wide-eyed and startled, before noticing it is just me and not an actual bear. "Got me," he concedes.

I continue on to a scenic overlook and wait for him. We make the wrong assumption that this is our turnoff to Trail #169 to the peak. Soon, we realize it is not, and we turn back. Another mile up the road, we spot the trail head sign and continue up toward the summit, having watered up at the last source before the turnoff, said to be the "last chance" for water for the next several miles over the ridge walk.

We reach the peak after a long day and over ten miles of uphill hiking. Money Shot stops to take lots of pictures and footage for his documentary. A ragged looking lookout shack and a wind ravaged U.S. flag are the only things up there. Behind us to the northeast, smoke from a wildfire disturbs the far off valleys.

From this point, the guide book warns that there is no trail. Just follow the ridge line connecting several peaks for several miles, sometimes on a knifes edge with precipitous sheer drops of more than 800 feet. Really? I agreed to do this?

I depart first as Money continues on with his photography activities. It's true, there is no trail. The first phase is to get off Northwest Peak. The side of the mountain is a giant slope of talus, various sizes and shapes of black lichen-covered rocks and boulders, some not nearly as stable as others. This is tedious and time consuming. Each step is very calculated, and I'm looking ahead to the next several steps like a bizarre chess game.

I reach the ridge line, a grassy meadow. I turn back to watch Money Shot go through the same process that I just completed. There's time for a quick nap, and Money Shot catches up 40 minutes later. We proceed on.

The scenery from here is surreal, and yet danger lurks everywhere. At the end of the meadow, the ridge narrows to a small passageway. The sheer drops from either side are terrifying. I can't see how passage is possible because dead trees block the path. But others have done this before us, so I suppose it is possible. I try to block out my fear and carefully step out to the edge of the cliff.

Can't believe I agreed to this

I'm at a place where there is only one way through. I grab onto the narrow trunk of a dead tree and step out over the thin air 800 feet above the next closest solid object. I slowly step around the dead tree as its branches try to push me away, the weight of my pack and the tree teaming up against me. I breathe a huge sigh of relief as I once again have both feet on firm ground. Money Shot has been filming this scene, and I tell him it's the scariest thing I've ever done in my life! He makes the same traverse but does not complain to the extent that I did. We repeat this process a couple more times as we slowly chop away at these treacherous few miles.

We approach the next peak, Davis Mountain. It looks even steeper than Northwest Peak, and the talus seems much looser. It looks awful. I think it's too late in the evening to attempt this one. We're at another nice alpine meadow, and a treeline on the west edge is blocking much of the wind. I'm easily able to convince Money Shot that this is a good spot to camp for the night. "We'll deal with this shit in the morning," I explain, pointing up toward Davis Mountain.

In spite of our beautiful surroundings, neither of us sleep well. A large rodent, probably a pack rat, terrorizes our camp throughout the night. At one point, I look out and notice that it has run off with the Therm-a-rest seat pad that I use for my front porch next to my tent. I get out with my head light and spot him up in some rocks. Sonabitch, I chase after him and he drops the pad so I'm able to retrieve it, although a hole is chewed through it.

Wednesday, July 22, 2015: Crossing an imaginary line...

Daytime arrives early at our camp in the alpine meadow, but I am ready to get started. The creature that tormented us all night has wreaked a great deal of havoc. Money Shot has a sewing kit and is attempting to repair a strap that has been chewed loose from one of his tent's stakes. My Leki trekking poles were laying nearby, and one of the straps has been chewed off and is missing. We laugh at our plight, trying not to think or talk much about the impending continuation of our ridge line hike over Davis Mountain and the remaining peaks in this beautiful and rugged place.

I stare up at the intimidating mountain, trying to identify anything that might resemble the easiest route to the top. From this distance, it looks like a nearly vertical scramble up a steep mountain of loose scree. But upon closer inspection, there are a few small groves of tiny pines that might provide relief during the ascent, and perhaps something to grab hold of. We begin the task at hand.

The route over Davis Mountain

Money Shot has little trouble maneuvering the slope. For me, the process is much more gradual. An hour later, he is at the peak and filming my struggle to get there. But alas, I reach the summit! But I have a new dilemma. I am once again out of water.

The maps lay out two options here. Continue on the ridge over a couple more peaks, or descend to the valley to the east and follow the giant bowl in a counter-clockwise direction along the base of the mountains. The high route is probably quicker but scarier as well. Money Shot opts to take it. I believe there is a better shot to find water if I take the low route. The two of us continue slowly down the talus to a saddle, and from here, we wish each other luck and part ways. We plan to reconvene later in the afternoon at a place where our routes meet.

I quickly realize that the low route is not necessarily the easier route. I have a great deal of difficulty finding a safe passage down the mountain, sliding on my behind much of the way. At one point, I am in a place where I'm stuck, but I am able to find an escape. I finally reach a place where the boulders meet the treeline at the base of the mountain. I look up and see Money Shot high up on the ridge, just a spec moving slowly along from right to left where the bright blue sky meets the grayish white mountain.

I struggle along, alternating between forest and boulders. It's slow going. I am quickly rewarded when I find the first of what will be many small springs in the valley, icy water squeezed from the rocks high above. I'm not sure where to go, but I have my sites set on a saddle in the ridge line about a mile and a half away. It's going to take at least a couple hours to reach it.

When I reach the saddle, I'm confused about which way to go. There are three options. The third one I try is the correct one, another hour wasted. I'm now on the west side of the ridge and it occurs to me that I'm back on the primary PNT route. If I'd skipped the whole Northwest Peak alternate, I would have passed this spot a day sooner, maybe two. In fact, I have basically circled back to within four miles of where we camped two nights ago. But I've gained so many new stories while adding this to the list of places I've conquered.

For the rest of the day, the tread is good. I come to the place where Money Shot probably passed a couple hours earlier at the end of his high traverse. I continue on to a road and later a left turn onto the Ruby Ridge Trail #35. There is a note stuck to the trail head sign. It's from Money Shot. He waited here for a couple hours but moved on about 40 minutes earlier. I keep going.

A couple miles along, I take a supper break. It would be a good place to camp, but nourishment and a quick rest are all I needed. I haven't put in enough miles today. I'll go another hour or two until dusk.

As daylight fades, I look for places to camp. I don't see anything suitable so I just keep going. And going. And the miles are adding up quickly again. It's getting dark and I think I might find Money Shot camping somewhere, but his note indicated that he planned to go further than I could make it today. He plans to meet me tomorrow at a tavern on the Moyie River, a place called Fiest Creek.

At some point, I remember that I must have crossed from Montana to Idaho. Unlike on the Appalachian Trail, there is no signage here for that sort of thing. On the A.T., it was a big deal at each of the 13 state line crossings, certainly reason for a photo op. But here, it's barely even a thing. Keep moving.

Kind of strange, as I'm trekking along, there is a piece of earth moving machinery covered with a tarp. Beyond that point, the trail is all torn up. Someone is using this machine to widen the trail here, and everything is wrecked, rocks and roots unearthed in a dusty mess. I suppose there is a lack of volunteers for trail work on the Ruby Ridge Trail, so this is how it's done now. I don't like it.

I give up on finding the perfect camping spot and anything somewhat flat and relatively clear of growth will work. I go off the path after sunset and scurry high up the slope to a place where it flattens out. I pick a spot and set up my tent quickly. I'm surrounded by prairie dog mounds and moose poop, so I hope nothing bothers me tonight. I'm tired. Before I fall asleep, a hear a freight train scream through the valley below. I can't be more than five miles from the river valley.

Goodnight, Idaho

Next Chapter: Pacific Northwest Trail - Idaho Section

Here's a video recap of the Northwest Peak adventure, and also a sneak peak at some upcoming attractions: