Do cows bluff charge?

Roadwalking the Continental Divide Trail (CDT) up Bonita-Zuni Canyon, north of El Malpais National Monument, NM. The pounding makes me feet ache, and I can’t hike fast enough to get my heart rate up.  There are other trails around with fewer cowpies, rifle shells and beer bottles.  But like a bad crush, I can’t get the CDT out of my mind, and this is the next section north of where I’ve left off.

Roadwalking.

So here I am, on a dusty road.  A raven is dancing above a cow carcus.  Maybe it will get more scenic further on?

Be glad I'm sparing you the photo of the dead cow.

Nope.  Instead, there are cows.  Live cows.  At first, it’s just two.  They stand up and stare.  No, three— the baby wobbles to her feet.  All small mammal cute and fuzzy.  At least I try to pretend it’s cute.  But really I wish they would go away.  Which they do, running off, then turning to stare again. 

Lurking in the trees.

Round the bend, a swarm of cows spread across the valley.  They stand up, and walk parallel to me.  Then one runs towards me.  What if it keeps coming?  Do cows bluff charge?

She ends up veering off at the last minute.  But still stares at me.

I get mad that they make me so nervous with their running at me.  No one is scared of cows.  Cows don’t hurt people.  Its ok to be scared of grizzlies but not cows.  That’s just ridiculous.  I have thousands of miles under my belt, and I’ve faced all sorts of wild creatures of the night.  I keep hiking and pretend I will ignore the cows. 

Around another corner, three cows are running towards me.  Or really not towards me because I don’t even think they see me, but they are stampeding in my direction.  How can something so large move so fast?  This is not fun anymore. 

I’ve had enough. So what if I only hiked three new CDT miles today?  As much as I try to be logical, having large animals running at me has activated my sympathetic nervous system, and I can feel the norepinephrine mustering the troops and getting my body ready to RUN AWAY.

Which I do.  A fast walk for the three miles back to the parking area.  As I retreat, a term Jan uses comes to mind: cherry picking.  It means picking only the sections of trail that you want do to- for scenic reasons, or whatever.  I’m going to be a proud cherry picker today because it means no more horrible roadwalking among cows.  And no more beer cans!

Ugh!  I want a path lined with flowers, not trash.

Why am I telling you this?  I think it’s important to say: IT IS OK TO TURN AROUND.  Why not go find joy instead?  Walking through fields of cows is not my idea of a joyful experience.

The CDT continues across to the Zuni-Acoma Trail, so I head down that trail.  This is a sweet cherry of a trail for sure!

I spend a few hours flying across the lava. The lava is rough and sharp and it hurts and wares me out.  But also: I see flowers and my feet meet the lava with confidence and I feel agile and strong. 

Beautiful lava along the Zuni-Acoma Trail.

 This is joyful hiking.  Not because it’s easier (it’s actually much harder hiking that makes all the muscles in my legs hurt) but because it is that special thing that makes me feel free.  It is challenging in a way I believe is worthwhile (unlike walking down cow-filled roads, which is the opposite of worthwhile).  Most importantly, this hike that I choose is joyful.

Sunny yellow corydalis- this is why I love to hike.

Sperry Glacier

Despite my love for planning, I’ve noticed that knowing the exact elevation profile and trail description takes away the sense of discovery.  What would it be like to be an explorer? 

           “I’m going up to Sperry Glacier.  I will be back tonight” I text my friend/ emergency contact.
           “How many miles is that?”
           “No idea!”

In a rare departure from my usual way of through planning and reading every trail description, this trip I just set out with just a topo map of Glacier National Park.  I skipped the trail descriptions and looking at guidebooks and blog posts and photos.  I just knew it would involve climbing.  Which I love.

I passed by deep blue lakes and mountain goats-- didn't expect any of this!

There were more lakes right before the pass.  I couldn't believe the colors!

Since I didn't read the trail description, this part was a complete surprise. 

When I got up the stairs... The expression says it all...  I'm excited about EVERYTHING.

I scrambled around on the rocks for a while.  Totally made me feel like I was a real explorer.

The glacier was so huge... like GLACIAL huge.

One the way back down, I tagged along with this women's hiking club for a while, as we passed by the mountain goats.

I liked that by traveling in this more unplanned way, free of expectations and someone else's trip descriptions, some things remained a surprise until I got there.  I could do a more challenging hike that stretched my abilities.  I could meet the terrain with a clear mind.  A refreshing way to experience a trail.


Of course, I’m not recommending skipping the plan ahead and prepare step altogether!  Assess trail conditions and be able to find a hike that is at your skill level.  But for me, studying the topo lines on my map showed this trip suited my skill level, and I felt comfortable enough to skip the trail statistics and hike description.  Going off-trail would have been a different story—I don’t do that in Glacier when I’m solo.  But for established trails, I am confident in my ability to gain significant elevation.  I'm just advocating a slightly different approach to planning, to keep things fresh.  See what works for you!

About this hike
Started at Lake McDonald Lodge, climbed to Sperry Chalet, and then took the Sperry Glacier Trail over Comeau Pass.  Most people don't do this all in one day cause it turns out that it's over 5000 feet elevation gain.*  This website tells how to break it down.

* But if you don't know this in advance, I totally think it really wasn't that bad.  But then again, that could be the reason that I have trouble finding (and keeping) hiking buddies.

Confessions of an introvert

I could tell you all sorts of reasons why I’m on this trail here alone...  How I am training for my next backpacking trip next month.  Because I see the Swan Range from where I live and I crave the sense of home that I get from knowing the mountains around me.  All true.  But really it's an inner drive for solitude. 

Climbing 4000 feet to the top of Columbia Mountain, the northernmost peak in the Swan Range.  Leaving behind civilization (i.e. the Flathead Valley).

Being new in town too, I get frustrated with myself that I can't always go on social hikes, organized hikes, where I'd meet other people.  How am I going to make friends out here?   Too much socializing makes me exhausted though.  Ah, the problem of being an introvert.

It's just me up here on the summit of Columbia Mountain.  And I won't see anyone else for the rest of the day either.  Which actually makes me happy.

“Is there some way I can change my personality.”  I asked a therapist many years ago, “Am I stuck being an INFJ for the rest of my life?”  At the time I was upset about other aspects of my personally.  "Do you really want to be another person who doesn’t feel like you do?" she responded.

Would I really want to be an extrovert, given the choice?  Not that I have a choice.  Why is it so hard to admit that I want to backpack solo?  Can't I just accept this need for solitude?  Celebrate it, perhaps?

Thus, I am out here, for another solo backpacking trip, along the Swan Crest/ Alpine Trail in northwestern Montana.  I could have gone backpacking with someone else.  But no, I need this.

Entering a vibrant world.

Alone, the rhythm of my breath synchs to the pace of my footsteps.  Settling into my all day pace—the one that I can sustain the entire day.  I breathe a sign of relief.

Watching this.

I don’t know how people think surrounded by people.  I want uninterrupted chunks of time to be with the questions that burn in me.  To let the thoughts rattle around in by brain until they wear themselves out, so my mind can grow quiet.

Reflections in still waters.

Only then can I really see these mountains.  I feel immersed, heightened senses, a connection with this landscape.  When I’m up here alone, I understand.  I find meaning.

Possibilities.  Things start to make more sense.

This is the sleep that is most restorative.  How come sleep is better out in the woods than it ever is in town?

Recharged, I can go back to start another week.  To make connections with people, to dive into the projects that I believe in, to work on collaborations that I find so fulfilling. 

Hopefully next week, I'll have the energy to go backpacking with friends.  Cause it really is more fun with to share the outdoors with people.  In a different sort of way.

Waking up refreshed.

Watching clouds licking the mountaintops as the storm rolls in.  Change is coming.  It always does.

Information and hiking details
This was an out and back along the northern part of the Swan Range.  Starting from Columbia Mountain, joining the Alpine Trail #7, going all the way to where I left off previously, then going back to camp at Lamoose Lake, then returning back the way I came. 

Here is a description for climbing Columbia Mountain.

I love my new map which shows this hike-- the Bob Marshall Wilderness Complex-Northern Half, by Cairn.  Makes for really good bedtime reading/dreaming.

Leaving you with one final wildflower.

Second solo

Back to the same trailhead that I’d taken my first solo backpacking trip in Montana two weeks ago.  Starting out disappointed that I haven’t pushed myself harder to go somewhere new, but making peace with my decision to take baby steps in backpacking where grizzly bears are rare but present.  The Jewel Basin not only has fewer bear, but also starting off with a 3000 foot climb will allow me to relax and tune into my surroundings.  My goals are (1) to find somewhere special to watch the Summer Solstice sunset, and (2) not die.

So much snow has melted in just two weeks.  Crater Notch is almost unrecognizable.

Climbing the Crater Notch Trail, I start to relax, the fears recede.  I remember another advantage to visiting the same trail repeatedly—I can observe the sequence of wildflowers that have bloomed and gone to seed over time and at different elevations.  My understanding of Montana plant ecology grows.  Ah yes, this is why I backpack—for botany, to look at plants!  And of course to see deeply, to gain insight.

This orchid may not look like much, but I am excited to spot it.  I think it's a bog orchid but need to confirm the ID.  (Too much wind had to hold it still.)

Blueberries already!

At the pass, I cross over into the slopes that had been covered in snow just two weeks ago.  The landscape has transformed from white to lush green.  This is how spring happens in high elevations here- quickly, the plants emerging even through the snow to get a head start and then this explosion.  Spring is a verb as much as a noun.

Receding snow, exploding spring.

On the way to Big Hawk Lake, a solo backpacker heading in the opposite direction stops to talk.  When C. starts describing water sources up ahead, I want to jump for joy.  A real backpacker conversation!  The kind I took for granted on the PCT but have missed out here.  Instantly, I feel a bond, so the questions stream out of me.  Where are you from?  What other trails are there around here that you like?  Have you had any trouble being a solo backpacker?   If we were on the PCT, it would be socially acceptable for me to say hey let’s take off our packs, sit here a while together and have a snack together.  We would pick each others brains about trails, share our life stories and become friends.  I have to remind myself that the social norms on the long trails don’t apply here.  Usually I’m the one trying to assess if other people I meet on the trail are creepy, but in this case I’m the one that might be acting sketchy by wanting to be so friendly to someone I just met.  I hike on, missing the social aspects of being on a long trail. 

Rocks and scree south of Alpine Lake.

The views open up in new directions at the Wheeler Creek junction.  I’m at the edge of my map and C. told me the trail just goes down after this, so I have lunch at the pond before turning around.

The side trail to Big Hawk Lake is thick with tall brush and mosquitoes swarm me at the lakes, just like C. warned.  After a swim, I turn around again to return to Alpine Lake, which has the best likelihood for the sunset I’m looking for.  As I scramble over rocks looking for sheltered, well-spaced trees, I pause to watch a mountain goat and her baby.  I head off in the other direction away from them.  Only a while later do I round a bend and come right smack face to face with them.  Sorry, I’d forgotten to be loud.

Retreating down the trail, I run into a couple heading towards the lake to camp.  They are not discouraged about the mountain goat hanging around the campsite.  I’m still wary of mountain goats so I bushwhack to the far side of the lake, which also happens to give me a prime spot for sunset viewing.   On the rocks, I watch the mountain goats hanging around the other campers, and hear them yelling.  Glad it’s not me over there.

Hanging the bear bag on a high branch.

I struggle to stay awake until sunset (long after hiker midnight so far north), but I'm determined to celebrate the longest day of the year.  Finally, there are colors reflecting in the lake, and everything is beautiful and peaceful and my heart leaps with happiness. 

Happy Solstice from Alpine Lake.

I sleep soundly, snug in my hammock, listening to birds.

The next morning, I take the long way back to the trailhead.

Birch Lake looked completely different than it had a when I went there in early June.

Sharing the view from the Mt. Aeneas Trail of the Picnic Lakes with a furry friend.

Aptly named Switchbacks Trail, descends to the road, and then a short but dusty roadwalk gets me back to where I started.

Even though I started at the same trailhead this week, I’ve gone further than I had previously.  More important, I’ve gotten to welcome summer to the high country here in Montana.  Going solo this second time was easier--I could relax.  As much as I miss the social aspects of the long trails, being a weekend backpacker really has some advantages, especially in being able to see the changes over the season.  I can appreciate this better having had both experiences.


Trail info:
Alpine Lake Trail #7
Crater Notch Trail
Switchbacks Trail
Mount Aeneas Trail

Around Twin Lakes in the Jewel Basin

Only a week has gone by, yet so much snow has melted that the Camp Misery parking lot in northwestern Montana’s Jewel Basin is now completely clear.  Eli and I take the Windy Gap Trail up the valley though glacier lily slopes.  Then around the bend to a different world of scree fields, and through the gap into the snow-country.  Maybe we will reach Twin Lakes, maybe not. This type of hike is about exploring, not reaching any destination.  To see how far you can go in all directions, to push the limits of terrain and skill.

Into the snow.

All the melting has changed the terrain and hiking conditions.  Slushier snow, more tree-well holes, and deeper suncups makes for unstable footing.  There are a few tumbles and the exhilaration of falling.  It was much easier hiking the previous week on the superhighways of firm, continuous snow.  The thing that’s the same is the challenge of navigation without being able to see the trail.

Where's the trail?

Why are we up here when we could stay in the wildflower country down below where it is lush and easy and feet won’t go numb from cold?  The feeling that these snowy landscapes give me that permeates my being and provides an intangible answer.  The feeling of being small amid the vastness.  I live for moments like this.  The awe.  I need nothing more.

Simply awesome.

Our hike takes the shape of a many-pointed star.  We try each of the trails radiating out from Windy Gap— an out and back to Twin Lakes (the only lake we end up reaching), then off in either direction along the Alpine Trail as far as we dare. 

Down to Twin Lakes.

The mirrored reflection in Twin Lakes is broken by bubbles caused by decomposing organic matter.

I like exploring like this.  Your understanding of the topography and terrain deeps when you head out in many directions instead of sticking to the linear, unidirectional path.

“Let’s go this way, I think we can make it around that knob.”  Then after kickstepping halfway up the slope, “I’m too scared, let’s turn around.”

Eli makes the call to turn around at other points—when bushwhacking steeply downhill towards the end of the day proves too exhausting.  Again, when the cornices above us look dangerous.  I like that we turn around when we do.  We make it to the top of a huge snowfield on the way to Wildcat Lake and the view is breathtaking. 

What are we doing here?

I thing I love about the star shaped hike is that there is no autopilot hiking—you are confronted at every moment with questions of what am I doing here and where I am going.  You keep wondering why, why, why am I here.  By looking at these questions from all the directions, perhaps I can come closer to an answer.

For more information on the Jewel Basin of northwestern Montana:
Jewel Basin Hiking Area
Jewel Basin map

Where are you going?

Solo in the Jewel

What the heck am I doing up here solo?

View from Crater Notch into the Jewel Basin and Hungry Horse Reservoir, Montana.

This is the point in the hike where I’d normally turn around.  The pass is steep and snow-covered.  I’ve already done my 3000 feet elevation climb workout to get here.  But this is not terrain I traverse on my own.  Turning around when I could easily fall down the slope and break a bone is what I do, right?  I’m at peace with being a scaredy-cat.

But something flips in my brain.  Possibly it’s the endorphins talking.  Or perhaps I’m just getting used to doing things that scare me.  My experience of Montana is in being in a state outside my comfort zone. 

Today I decide that snowy slopes are within my skillset.  Slowly I start down the snowfield.  Cross-step, kick-step.  The rhythm is familiar.  I remember I’m not always the turn-around type.  Sometimes I’m the keep-moving-forward-through-the fear type.  Cross-step, don’t look down, cross-step.  A flood of memories come back of last year on the PCT over the High Sierra passes.  This is baby stuff compared to Glen Pass.  I can do this.

I zone out/ concentrate on being in the moment.  Reading the terrain, microspikes firm against snow.  On a long clear incline, I sit and glassade down, gaining speed.  Snow friction against bare legs (when my skirt rides up) hurts but the rush is worth it.  So I climb the hill again and try it a second time, this time with sitpad sled.  Now if only I had an ice ax for steering (and safety) I could go even faster.  Haha.  Don’t get too carried away.

Glissade!

The trail is buried under several feet of snow and there are no blazes to mark the way.  Again, I relax and I can “see” where the trail goes just by asking, “If I were building a trail here, where would I put it?”  Map and compass skills and reading the landscape get me to the signed trail junction.  (Marking my route using my iphone’s Gaia GPS app, just to be on the safe side.) 

Trail junction sign above the snow.

Less than a mile of skirting-treewells, and the lake is exactly where I’d expect it to be too.  Years spent developing my route-finding skills are paying off.  (Don’t ever let anyone telling you that you have a bad sense of direction make you think that you can’t learn to navigate.  You CAN.)

Squaw Lake.

The sound of a waterfall in the distance beckons.  I pick my way over the snow, see the snowmelt rushing over the cliff. 

How many people get to see this waterfall flowing so strong? 

I circle back cross country to the pass, then up the pass, look back to see how far I’d come.   Somehow, I have not been swallowed by tree wells, fallen to my death, or ambush by grizzly bears.  Not this time.

Not such a scaredy-cat after all.

For more information: 
Jewel Basin Map

The route: 
Parked at the Echo Broken Leg Trail #544 trailhead, and took it to the Crater Notch Trail #187 to the Alpine Trail #7 to Squaw Lake.

Spotted coral root along the Crater Notch Trail.  Cause no blog post is complete without flowers.

Finding balance in the Jewel

When I had to get off the PCT last year with a stress fracture, I was confronted with a painful truth—I lacked balance in my life.  Nothing felt as good as being on trail.  Post-backpacking depression is a huge issue in the long-distance hiking community.  It’s so common to chase trail after trail and have a life that revolves around getting the next long-trail fix.  But because I was forced by my injury to stay off trail and heal for 10 weeks, I could see how tying my identity and basing my happiness in just one thing was a recipe for disaster. I resolved to seek ways to find fulfillment when off-trail, and to build a more sustainable life.

Desire for balance (as well as other things that I'll describe later) led me here, to Montana.  In the month and a half since I’ve arrived, the pendulum has swung in the other direction, and I haven’t done a single backpacking trip.  I’ve been focused on getting up to speed with my work, on getting settled.  I resolved to go out this weekend.

Everyone I’ve met in Montana raves about the Jewel Basin.  I look out across the Flathead Valley at it several times a day, wondering what all the fuss is about.  It’s much earlier in the season to go there, but the snow is melting faster this season.  A couple of people say that it’s possible to get up there, maybe.
***
Eli and I head up the steep winding FS road to the Camp Misery Trailhead.  We park where snow blocks the road, and hike up the snow-covered road to the trailhead.

It’s the most stunning country I’ve seen since the High Sierra in California.  Maybe even prettier.  I stare in disbelief.  How could it possibly be this incredible?  How can this beauty be less than an hour away from where I live?  I am overwhelmed with gratitude for being here.  So thankful to Eli for offering to go with me up here because I hadn’t the courage to venture up here alone.

Upward.

Glacier lilies.

 Up snow-covered trails, then over the pass to the sunny, snow-free side of the mountain. 

Views of the Flathead Valley.

Glacier lily and spring beauty country.

More views.  I don’t have words to describe it.  I feel small and insignificant and loose myself in the grander.  Fears and worries melt away.  I breathe in, I breathe out.  This is all that matters, this moment.  Peace.

Impossibly beautiful.

Then climbing higher into more snow.  Finally, arriving at Birch Lake.  Wow, so much thick snow.  A different world of ice and frozen country, and yet there is melting too, cracks.  Doubt we can go further to the next lake though, but let's go see the other side.  Yes, let's circle around the lake.

Birch Lake.

Birch Lake, another angle.

Around the other side of Birch Lake.

Cross-country travel around the lake is not easy.  Dodging tree wells, navigating around snowy traverses.  Eli seems to float over the snow, sliding down the steep parts while I try to control my way down.

At the edge.  Don't fall in!

Eventually, I catch on, and soon I am sliding, gliding, glissading.  Time to play.  Then, my feet give out from under me and I’m in free fall, then my self-arrest instincts kick in and I am stopping myself.  Fear of falling replaced by OH WOW THAT WAS FUN.  It’s OK to let go.  Mindset shifts. 

Happiness.

Bursts of wildflowers.

We run into a large group of people on the way back to the car.  The wild feel of the place, the illusion of solitude, it all cracks.

Eli and I decide to try for a lower elevation trailhead to find a place to camp.  I’d been starting longingly at the well-spaced trees for my hammock near the ice-covered lake, but up in that highcountry, Eli found nowhere suitable for his tent. 

We get to the Echo Broken Leg trailhead, and follow it into a different world of lushness and wildflowers.

Meadow rue.

An hour up the trail, and still no campsites. Next, into a logging area that smells like dead trees.  Then, lightening, thunder, and torrential rain.  Waterlogged, it is clear that Eli has had enough, and I don’t want to be down here either. 

Where are the campsites?

Let’s go home.  Are you sure?  Yep.  We retreat.

Back at home, I gather up soaking wet clothes and head to the laundromat. There is just enough time to do a load but not enough time for them to dry before they close.  So, my trailer transforms into a long-distance hiker hotel room, wet laundry and gear hanging from every surface, and despite the washing, hiker aroma filling the air.  It smells like long-distance hiking, like sharing a hotel room with a bunch of happy new backpacking buddies and laughing so hard my belly aches--all fond memories associated with the PCT and AZT.  The scent of happiness and home.

I curl up in my down top quilt in my little bunkbed and watch the city lights far below twinkling.  And that deep inner peace fills me, and I know in my heart that I am tasting that balance.  Because I can be here in my little trailer home, and not out in the backcountry, and realize it’s exactly where I want to be.  Here in Montana, I have found a place where I can have adventures and be in epic scenery that feels like the most beautiful place in the world, and also be close to my work.  If there is anywhere I can discover balance, it is right here. 

I didn’t need to go backpacking today to find happiness, I’ve got it right here, just like this.  Maybe next week I’ll go backpacking.  Maybe.

Beargrass.

For more information:
Jewel Basin Hiking Area
Jewel Basin map
Birch Lake Trail