Walking the border

“How did you catch us?” Sarah’s eyes shone teasingly from inside her tent. Ever since Augusta, she and Oracle had been half a day ahead of me and I hadn’t been able to catch up any closer than reaching town as they were leaving. But now here I was, the sun setting behind me just as I made it into camp.

“I got fire evacuated,” I laughed, and explained the story of coming over the ridgeline and watching the smoke blow across where we wanted to camp.

Sarah shook her head. “It’s always something with you.”

The first time we’d met had been in a pit toilet outside of Glacier National Park, where we’d huddled together inside for warmth as it rained outside. The next time, I’d limped in on my many blisters and told the story of how I’d ended up 4 miles off trail. Now this.

But there was gentle laughter in her eyes and she pointed me in the direction of the piped spring as I hurried to set up my camp and eat before the sunlight completely left.

Hiking the Montana Idaho border

I wasn’t entirely sure what I should expect from the border. I’d been told it was rugged and beautiful, but I didn’t know much of what that meant. I figured it meant the same high passes of Montana and long, switchback climbs through pine trees to the high alpine reaches.

I was right, a little bit. As we left the Anaconda Pintlers, we had some more high alpine views. The trail would lead high, 9,000 feet or higher, and then curve along the inside arch of the mountain, giving you a beautiful view of the meadows, wildflowers, and streams fed by melting snow packs. Pikas skittered across the rocks, mouths full of grass. At night, I’d tuck my tent in next to a pond and watch the sun set behind a peak as I made my dinner for the night.

Sarah and Oracle, planning on reaching the next town at the same pace as I did, kept going for the same campsites as I did. It only took a night or two before we were intentionally camping together.

And then, slowly but surely, the terrain changed.

Where sage fills the air

The trees fell below us, only hugging the mountains along the gullies and washes far below where water was. The water became more scarce as we walked toward Darby and sagebrush took the place of the trees.

Ah sagebrush.

Its branches are rough and sharp, and my legs are covered in scratches from it. Each morning as I step out of my tent, I’m met with the smell of it, just as surely as if I had camped and was now walking through an herb garden. It’s a welcome, refreshing smell, and I’m going to miss it when it’s gone.

The trail began following more ATV 2-track trails and cow patches more than a dedicated trail, and several places found us walking cross country, holding our mapping system in our hands and walking across trail-less ridgelines from cairn to post to cairn.

We met Shaun and Tom at a water source a bit outside of Leadore, and once again, found that we were all hiking the same pace to town. Our little group swelled larger as we continued towards Darby.

We all nearoed into Leadore, where I restocked from a gas station and then sat for far too long in a massage chair at the local hostel.

Elk Mountain

Our first climb outside of Leadore was Elk Mountain. We climbed out of the shuttle to the tree-less heat of Idaho, and looked at the brown, rolling hills stretching in front of us. “We’re really going up to 10,000 feet today?” I asked. The mountains looked high, sure, but they didn’t look that high–not tallest elevation yet high.

But that’s what FarOut said. So we started off walking. It didn’t take long for the heat to set in, and without shade, the day seemed to stretch out longer and longer. After what had seemed like a decent amount of climbing, Sarah, Oracle, and I stopped for a snack and to see how much of a climb was left.

“Oh my gosh,” someone cried. I looked at my own map and echoed the sentiment. Despite the morning having already seemed to be an eternity, we still had 2,500 feet left to climb.

And so we bolstered our spirits, fueled our legs with water and snacks, and started off again.

Despite the length and the heat, the climb wasn’t steep or difficult. The trail maintainers did an excellent job with the switchbacks and as we kept walking, we reached further and further up. Suddenly, there we were: the highest we’ve been on trail yet, with the valley stretching out below us.

The rollercoaster

“Who needs knees anyways?” I shouted down the incline to Shaun.

He laughed, merry, and continued his “AT shuffle” down the trail, which seemingly, went straight down. “Knees are overrated!” He called back. Who was I to argue with that logic?

We were on the Montanaho Rollercoaster, as the CDT now followed exactly the rugged ridgelines of the Montana/Idaho border. Our loop out to Idaho was now circling back towards Yellowstone and the next state: Wyoming.

Neither the climbs nor descents were gradual here: We followed the fence lines and border markers straight up a 150-250 foot New England style climb, rounded rocks slipping and tumbling under each footstep, and once at the top, immediately and sharply descended straight back down. By noon, we’d hit over 3,000 feet of climbing in 12 miles.

Afternoon thunderstorms happen almost every day. Almost inevitably, we’d be an hour after lunch, working our way across the exposed ridgeline when someone would look behind us and see dark clouds building up behind us. And then the race would begin: could we as hikers get off the ridgeline before the thunderstorm reached us?

Sometimes yes, and sometimes we would still be scrambling as thunder sounded above us. But always, it’s accompanied with a blessed blast of coolness to battle the intense heat of the morning.

The small battles

It was a beautiful day and yet I was sitting on a ridgeline in tears. Because despite the beauty, the wilderness, the wildflowers, the people you meet: the basic fact is that thru hiking is hard.

Sometimes you make it up a climb, feel the burning twinges of yet another blister rubbing, realize how many more blisters you’re going to have to deal with in the next 2,191 miles, and the tears well up in your eyes before you can stop them.

And this, I’ve been learning, is often where the real challenges are: the small things, the little moments, the way you frame and reframe situations.

Going on from there was the bravest thing he ever did. The tremendous things that happened afterwards were as if nothing compared to it. He fought the real battle in the tunnel alone, before he ever saw the vast danger that lay in wait.

The Hobbit

I’m not creeping through dark tunnels to find a dragon like Bilbo was and the stakes are nowhere near as high, but this quote has been coming to mind over this past section anyways.

These little battles, over blisters and upcoming elevation and hiking through the heat and the unknown of what lies ahead, are important because they shape the rest of the story; they shape who you become.

These past two sections have been full of these little battles for me, but they’ve also been beautiful. Because, like Bilbo, I’m moving forward. The little battles have been fought and won. I taped the blister, called a friend, and kept hiking. I dried my tears, acknowledged the deep challenge I was undertaking, and accepted it. I’m growing and I’m changing and I love it.

Thru hikes are hard, yes, but they’re incredible, beautiful challenges. It can’t be one without the other. And so, with high hopes, excitement, a blister or two, and a better understanding of myself: Yellowstone, here we come.