It’s not a coincidence that M and I have lived in some pretty cool places. While hiking yesterday my mind drifted back (waaaay back) to the autumn of 2005, when M had graduated from college, we were both working full time, had saved up enough money to buy the Xterra (used) outright, and were generally on our way towards a baby fund and the like. Instead, we quit our jobs (me turning down a promotion to substance abuse counselor that would’ve been a very nice resume builder) and spent six months wandering the west.

Aside from a month or two in Arizona, we’ve yet to again hold simultaneous full-time employment. And that tells you most of what you need to know about the direction to which our choices have added up. These days we do not have a fund to replace the 220,000+ mile Xterra, I have student loans, and so forth, but we have lived in Moab, St. George, Prescott, and Missoula.

And out of all those places, the Bob might win the award for most profound and closest.
Barely more than an hour from our door, yesterday morning, I had a pack on and was off and into a wilderness that just feels big. Yellowstone feels big, the Escalante feels big, the Grand Canyon most certainly feels big, all in the sense that their scale and remoteness remind us of our frailty and finitude. Yellowstone is 4+ hours away, the Grand Canyon was 2, and none of the canyonlands immediately around Moab are sufficiently bereft of roads to join this group.

But I was out to fit in some training and decompression, and immediately savoring autumn in full turn. Spruce are largely indifferent creatures, to any animal presence or to weather, but the undergrowth and aspens know what it is store.

I started at Monture Creek, hiked up Falls Creek over Camp Pass, down directly to the Dry Fork of the Blackfoot, then over the divide into the headwaters of Danaher Creek (and thus into the juridical Bob Marshall). All really excellent walking, Falls pictured above, the crossing of Danaher Creek below.
All day I saw almost no evidence of hikers, but plenty of human traces, all in the form of horse tracks. The hunting season is in full swing, and in the Bob that means pack trains and wall tents. Danaher Creek, especially as it opens into Danaher meadows, recalls the best of Yellowstone, places like Pelican and Lamar Creeks. The blindingly obvious thing it is missing is Bison, or at least the trace of bison. I’d like to see reintroduction, brucellosis be damned, and eventually a hunt. I wonder if they’d prove less crafty than elk, of which I saw or heard not a peep all trip.

Heading out of the Danaher towards Limestone Pass it started to sprinkle, then rain, then hail, then sleet, and finally it actually snowed a bit. My feet and legs burned when snow brushed from plants melted. My plan had been to camp on the pass, but shortly after six I the weather did not seem likely to show its hand, and given that firestarting and finding a good tarp location might not be the simplest things, I set myself a limit of finding camp by 630. I found a good spot just above 7000′, with nice spruces groves to shelter my shelter and fire, and plenty of dry wood hiding under logs.

Dryer lint soaked in alcohol is a superlative firestater. I made soup, dinner, and tea, dried my socks, feet, and shoes, and read four articles for school. By the time I doused the fire and went to bed, the clouds had vanished and the milky way exploded across the sky.

It was a cold night. I find our Western Mountaineering Ultralite conservative for its 20 degree rating, and I was just warm with a pile hoodie and all the hatches battened. Frozen stiff gear and slush in the dromedary indicates low-teens, easy. I saw no reason to get out of bed before 630.
Fire. We humans would be very little without it. As expected, the morning was exactingly clear, the views into the fog-filled Danaher Valley and beyond guffaw-inducing.
Ahhh.
The rest of the hike out was very nice, too. The late start and long trail up to the pass (Many trail signs in Western Montana have become very inaccurate, bench-cut retrofitting has added miles, while old signs and map remain.) had me behind schedule, and I elected to not push things to make a committee hearing in Helena in person.
Rather, I cleaned up a bit, got a polish sausage with mustard and jalapenos at the Conoco by the Seeley Lake turnoff, did a bit of fishing in the Blackfoot, then came home.
All of which is a long-winded explication on Roman’s latest post. M has me freaked by talking about having kids lately, which means she’s mentioned it twice in the last four months. Part of that is the weight of the responsibility symbolized therein, and my chagrin that we’ve yet to amass the start of fat college fund for the hypothetical little buggers. The prospect is just scary, generally, and isn’t helped by the years I’ve spent traffiking in fucked up teenagers. (Or, teenagers from fucked up homes/communities/parents/lives.) Between Roman, Eric, most of my professors, and my own parents, I do have some powerful examples of what is possible. And that counts for a great deal.

Apparently, shortly after my mom became pregnant with me, my dad and her dad went fly fishing in New England. My dad was worried, in short, if he was up to the task, and quite loquacious in his protestations to the contrary. My grandfather told him that such worry would ensure he’d be just fine at it, and to leave it at that, please.

Someone will have to say that to me some day (when/if/etc). Until then I’m going to keep backpacking, this year is a record number of discrete overnighters already.