Montana Headwall

SUMMER 2012

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PACKRAFT PARADISEA tote-to-float on the South Fork nets perfection.

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ULTRA MARATHON MANHe runs 100 miles nonstop and wins court trials in between. Nothing’s too far for Mike Wolfe.

MIND OVER MOUNTAINClimbing St. Nick requires hope and a rope.

Cover: Descending Natoas Peak toward Mount MerrittThis page: American dog tick

Photos by Chad Harder

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On Belay

Contributors

Head LinesMountain bikers mass in Missoula

Bakken’s bad spinPolishing the Sapphire trail

Head Light Here comes the fuzz

Head Shots Our readers’ best

Wild Things Warts and all

Grub Go with the grain

Head Trip The Pioneers spirit

Head Out Your summer recreation calendar

Head Gear Hot stuff you need right now

The Crux A climb that’s a long time coming

STAFF EDITOR Amy LinnGENERAL MANAGER Lynne FolandPHOTO EDITOR Chad HarderADVERTISING SALES MANAGER Carolyn BartlettPRODUCTION DIRECTOR Joe WestonCIRCULATION MANAGER Adrian VatoussisSPECIAL PROJECTS COORDINATOR Chris Melton

CONTRIBUTORS Skylar Browning, Noah Couser, Emily Downing,

Matthew Frank, Chad Harder, Matt Holloway, Caroline Kurtz, Ari LeVaux,

Megan McNamer, Noël Phillips, Kathy Witkowsky

COPY EDITOR David MerrillART DIRECTOR Kou MouaPRODUCTION ASSISTANTS Jenn Stewart, Jonathan MarquisADVERTISING REPRESENTATIVES Tami Johnson, Steven Kirst,

Alecia Goff, Sasha Perrin, FRONT DESK Lorie RustvoldEDITOR-IN-CHIEF Matt Gibson

Please recycle this magazine

317 S. Orange St.• Missoula, MT 59801406-543-6609 • Fax 406-543-4367

www.montanaheadwall.com

Montana Headwall (ISSN 2151-1799) is a registeredtrademark of Independent Publishing, Inc. Copyright2012 by Independent Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved.Reprinting in whole or in part is forbidden except by permission of Independent Publishing, Inc. Viewsexpressed herein are those of the author exclusively. And yeah, we’re having fun.

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Chad Harder

Ionce wrote on this page that the narrative arc of a Headwallstory typically pivots around mishap. Not that we plan itthat way. It’s just that our plans rarely work out. It snows insummer. The fish don’t bite during the hatch. The pheasants

jeer from the next field over. But once in a while there’s grandsuccess. In this issue, we’ve lucked into three, count ’em, threeoutings, verging from epic to easy, that hit the expected highnotes, with barely a blister to dampen the delight.

First-time contributor Noah Couser takes the prize for mostenviable adventure for his packrafting float through the BobMarshall Wilderness on the South Fork of the Flathead River. It’sone of Montana’s iconic backcountry trips, and Couser and hiscrew carry it off with satisfying self-sufficiency.

On a more leisurely foray, Noël Phillips successfully gets hertenderfoot boyfriend up to scenic Torrey Lake in the Pioneers,where a little cold weather only whets her appetite to return.That’s a solid win on the scorecard.

And in Glacier National Park, Matt Holloway returns to the scene of two previous misses to finally summit Mount St.Nicholas. Along with climbing partner Kyle Fedderly, Holloway blitzed the route in a gutsy 23-hour push up a remote peak that conventionally takes three or four days toclimb. His story on page 42 reminds us all that even the strongest people—and Holloway’s as strong as any we knowhere at Headwall—have to push well beyond their comfort zoneto pull off the dream adventures.

Ultra-runner Mike Wolfe, who’s profiled by KathyWitkowsky on page 30, clearly knows all about pushing throughdiscomfort. Wolfe’s dual career as one of America’s top ludi-crous-distance runners and assistant U.S. attorney clearly showshe’s got something special inside that prefigures personal suc-cess. It seems to start with desire, builds through committedpractice, and likely hardens every time he endures the pain ofgoing farther.

When the conditions are right and it all comes together,whether it’s at hour 20 in a 100-mile race or day three of a mel-low backcountry tour, it’s gloriously good fortune. Here’s hopingwe all get out this summer to find some for ourselves.

Matt GibsonEditor-in-Chief


Montana Headwall Summer 2012

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After graduating fromCornell University,Witkowsky followed thelead of alum Kurt Vonnegutand took a job at Chicago’sCity News Bureau. She latermoved west and became afreelance writer, contributingto Vogue, Mother Jones and awide variety of other publi-cations. She has directedaward-winning documen-taries, co-authored a guide-book to the NorthernRockies, and produced andreported numerous storiesfor National Public Radio. AMissoula resident since 1991,Witkowsky is also a certifiedyoga teacher.

When she’s not sucking themarrow out of life outdoorsor undertaking new indooradventures (fencing and aeri-als are the latest), Phillipsmight, for a moment, befound catching her breath onthe couch reading, pursuingher writing dreams or curledup watching good and oh-so-awful-they’re-great films.Phillips owns ShapeShiftersPersonal Training inMissoula, where she’s man-aged to turn her playtimeinto a career for the last sevenyears. You’ll find her atShapeShifterspt.com.

Holloway lives with hiswife, daughter and son inColumbia Falls and clawsaround in the wildernessalmost every day. His workhas appeared in MontanaMagazine, Big Sky Journal,and Glacier Park: 100 Years,100 Stories, as well as in theinaugural issue of WhitefishReview, where he is currentlythe fiction editor. His essay“Distance” will be includedin the anthology A NaturalHistory of Now: Reports fromthe Edge of Nature, to bereleased this fall.

A Whitefish-based freelancephotographer, Couser’s spe-cialty is action shots, especial-ly those involving skiing andsnowboarding. The nativeIdahoan graduated in 2007from the University ofMontana and fell hard for themountains and rivers ofMontana. When he’s notworking as a school teacher—an occupation he shares withhis wife, Megan—he spendsmuch of his time with friendsand fellow adventure addictsin and around GlacierNational Park, toting his cam-era. You can view his portfo-lio at www.noahcouser.com.

Noë l Ph i l l i p s

Kathy Wi tkowsky

Noah Couser

Mat t Ho l loway

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NEXT STOP, OLYMPICS

Missoula race preps mountain bikers for LondonFew things get Sam Schultz riled up.

The 26-year-old Missoula native and top-ranked professional mountain bikeris known for possessing a surfer’s laid-back attitude and a champion’s poise.That makeup is partly why he’s afavorite to lead U.S.A. Cycling’s Olympicteam in London later this summer andwhy he’s a perennial contender on theUCI World Cup circuit with the Subaru-Trek team. But ask him whether thissummer’s jam-packed schedule couldpreclude him from defending his title inhis hometown Pro XCT race and the clin-ically calm Schultz perks up.

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss itfor anything,” he says. “No matter what,I’m there.”

Schultz isn’t the only one looking forward to the race. After drawing morethan 1,500 spectators and 250 racers to itsinaugural run, the 2012 HammerNutrition Missoula XC at MarshallMountain is set to be one of the biggestcross-country events of the season. UCI, or the International Biking Union, elevated it to a C-1 race, its highest status, which doubles the prize moneyand increases the amount of UCI pointsawarded to winners. The race is alsoscheduled for July 14—a week earlier than last year—making it the last domestic tune-up before the SummerOlympics. Both changes should attractmore elite-level riders.

“I would expect both the full U.S.and Canadian Olympic teams to bethere,” says Ben Horan, the race’s techni-cal director and co-promoter. Horan’splanning on as many as 400 amateurand professional riders this year andmore than 2,500 spectators.

Aside from the prestige and atten-tion, not much else will change for the2012 event. Horan says the 6-kilometer“figure-eight” course will undergominor tweaks, but largely remain thesame. He specifically notes that the sig-nature “A-Line” jump, Schultz’s favoritefeature and a crowd pleaser that pro-duces big air as well as the possibility ofwreckage, will be back.

“By all accounts last year was a hugesuccess, and we heard nothing but posi-

tive feedback from racers, locals andsponsors,” says Horan. “That made iteasy to look for things to improve ratherthan things we had to completely fix.”

All of which bodes well for Schultz.If things break right, he’ll be able to gear

up for London against top-flight compe-tition, in front of a hometown crowd, ona course he helped design.

“It would be hard to top last year,” hesays, “but I’m certainly up for trying.”

Skylar Browning

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Sam Schultz beat teammate Jeremy Horgan-Kobelski by 1:03 to win the 2011 Pro XCT in Missoula, and finished third overall in the season standings.

Chad Harder



P2KPlease Like “Deke Tidwell Missoula MT Real Estate Agent”

© Photo By Jessica Tidwell

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DETOURS

The Bakken ain’t for bikingLast summer, Scottish filmmaker and

cyclist Graham Kitchener found himselfpedaling through Williston, N.D., the defacto capital of the Bakken oil boom,when a parade of heavy equipment

turned an otherwise calm stretch intothe most dangerous, white-knuckledpart of his cross-country trek.

“There was a chaos about it,”Kitchener says in a video diary from the

trip. “There were so many tankers atpoints it was like cycling beside a train.They were so constant, one after the other.”

The 16 million barrels of oil a monthsucked from the plains of western NorthDakota and eastern Montana is treasurefor oilmen, and treacherous for touringcyclists like Kitchener.

In 2008, the Missoula-based AdventureCycling Association, which producesmaps for its network of cycling routesaround the country, began hearing aboutincessant truck traffic along its NorthernTier and Lewis & Clark routes. In 2010, acyclist was hit and killed by a pickup.Beyond the traffic, cyclists can’t find placesto rest weary legs as oilfield workers over-run hotels and campgrounds.

Graham Kitchener is finishing up Sleepless ’Til Seattle,a documentary about his 4,300-mile cycling adventure

across the country.



Kitchener documented the bedlam, andsent his video to ACA. It proved to be thepump that broke the oil derrick’s mast: ACAdecided it was time for a detour.

“This is the first time in our history thatwe’ve ever had to do a major re-route of thismagnitude,” says ACA cartographerJennifer Milyko.

After seeking direction from the statetransportation departments and dispatchinga staffer to collect intel on services and roadconditions, ACA pushed both its NorthernTier and Lewis & Clark routes from U.S.Highway 2 about 100 miles south all theway to the I-94 corridor. The new maps aredue out this summer.

Milyko knows cyclists hate the interstateas much as headwinds and hemorrhoids.“But the fact of the matter is,” she says, “inrural states like North Dakota and Montana,sometimes that’s all there is.” And it surebeats sharing the road with a never-endingconvoy of oversized oil equipment.

Matthew Frank

Kalispell climber Blake Passmore releasedthe second volume of his Glacier NationalPark climbing guides this spring,detailing non-technical routes to22 peaks in the Two Medicine andFirebrand Pass areas of the park. Likethe first book in the series, whichfocuses on the Logan Pass area, ClimbGlacier National Park: Vol. 2 givesdetailed route descriptions, including GPScoordinates which provide clear directions toalpine explorers. What sets Passmore’s booksapart, though, are the exacting color photos ofthe routes. Multipleshots of each moun-tain reveal passagesthrough the toughestspots, all but elimi-nating “where do wego from here” uncertainty. High on a mountain surroundedby perilous cliffs, that’s helpful information indeed. Buy itdirectly from the publisher at www.climbglacier.com or at areabookstores and climbing retailers.

Matt Gibson

Climb Glacier National Park: Vol. 2Montana Outdoor Guidebooks

192 pages, $19.95


DREAM TRAIL

Sapphire in the roughSapphire in the roughSomewhere deep in the web of log-

ging roads and clear cuts spread over thenorthern part of the Sapphire Range is aseries of trails. Neglected throughoutdecades of timber harvest, it’s now virtu-ally nonexistent and hard to find. If localhikers and bikers have their way, though,the trail won’t be lost for much longer.

Along with the U.S. Forest Service,Stevensville-based hiker Kirk Thompson isworking on a route that would connectthis long-ignored area southeast ofMissoula with the Continental Divide Trailin the Anaconda-Pintler Wilderness area.Called the Sapphire Crest Trail, the projectis waiting on only one thing: the right timefor the Lolo and Bitterroot National foreststo devote the resources needed to build it.

At this point, the Forest Service isn’tprepared to do the work. Al Hilshey, astaff officer from the Missoula RangerDistrict of Lolo National Forest, says thefirst step is an environmental assess-ment. More than anything, the projectrequires money, manpower and time—three things the Forest Service is shorton right now.

“That’s a time commitment we don’thave at this point,” Hilshey says. “Wehave to get some of the other projectswe’re working on finished.”

Most of the trail is already in place.The route connects existing loggingroads and trails in the SapphireMountains, ultimately spanning about100 miles from the Pattee CanyonRecreation Area to the CDT. Only about20 of those miles would need to be creat-ed, since the majority of the distance isalready covered by a trail that goes from

Skalkaho Pass north to Ambrose Saddle,and by existing trails in the Pintlers.

Although it’s mostly convoluted onthe north end of the Sapphires, the traildoes have a foundation near Missoula.About 10 years ago, local mountain bikerJohn Weyhrich began single-handedlyclearing a trail between Pattee Canyonand Miller Canyon. The Miller DivideTrail is tricky to follow, he notes, particu-

larly because it’s not marked in the lowersections and it crisscrosses logging roads.

“There’s such a network of roads upthere that ultimately don’t go any-where,” Weyhrich says. “If you’re notfamiliar with the area up there, you canwaste a lot of time riding around.”

With a little care and a lot of work,Thompson thinks the trails could berevived. He says he has hiked nearlyevery step of the route and helped sur-vey the area for the Forest Service. He’scommitted to making the project happen.

“I’ve been interested for a long timein protecting the wildlands on theSapphire Crest,” Thompson says. “Thistrail was the perfect tie-in.”

For now, however, the Sapphire CrestTrail is little more than a dream and aplan. Until the Forest Service can wran-gle the funds and the time for an assess-ment, all Thompson can do is wait.

Emily Downing

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The Department of Agriculture, home of the U.S. Forest Service, has suffered more than $3 billion in budget cuts since 2010.

Chad Harder



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1705 Bow St.wMissoula, MT 59801549-5283wsapphirept.com

Chad Harder

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mMissoula-based triathletes Jennifer Luebke (left) and Linsey Corbintransition between swimming and cycling during the 27th AnnualGrizzly Triathlon at the University of Montana on April 21. Ranked asone of the best female triathletes in the world, Corbin won the eventwith a time of 1:02:33, beating a course record she set last year.


hat the hell are wedoing?” I asked myself.

It seemed like a logi-cal question after glanc-

ing at the map one last time and mullingover the distance we had to travel in thenext five days. When our ride pulledaway from the Pyramid Pass trailhead afew minutes later, the reality of the tripbegan to sink in.

My wife, Megan, our friend DougCasey and I were setting out on a 65-mile packraft adventure through theheart of the Bob Marshall Wilderness,including a 10-mile paddle downYoungs Creek and a spectacular grandfinale: a 38-mile float down the SouthFork of the Flathead River.

But it was the first part of the jour-ney—a 17-mile trek over Pyramid Pass—that had me worried. The three of us had carried some pretty decent loads onpast wilderness trips, but we’d nevertackled 1,800 vertical feet with paddles,fly rods, PFDs, throw ropes, five days offood and clothing, 15 pounds of cameragear, and three inflatable 5-poundAlpacka rafts.

It was a new experience all around.I’d never actually sat in the boat before,unless you counted floating in it atWhitefish City Beach a few days earlier,just to practice inflating it and to makesure it held air. None of us had everspent this much time in the Bob, or beenin this particular area. None of us hadseen (let alone rafted) Youngs Creek, amain tributary to the South Fork and apassage we couldn’t do without.

Our friends were worried, too. “Whydon’t you try a warm-up trip beforethis?” they’d said.

But Megan is game for whateveradventure I cook up and Doug, our com-patriot, is one of the biggest fly-fishingaddicts I know, so as soon as I said“South Fork” he was in. There was nodoubt in my mind this would be thegreatest trip ever. Until, well, now.

“Ready to go?” Megan asked. “Yep,” I lied.

There was good news about PyramidPass: It was the only climb in the

trip. Once we conquered it and hiked

“W


down to the put-in at Youngs Creek,Megan and I could throw off 60-poundpacks—Doug’s was 80 pounds, from thelooks of it—and start the real joys ofpackrafting.

For now, though, we were stuck withsweating and dodging mule turds.

The Pyramid Pass Trail is a majorthruway, chewed up by mule trains andhorses carrying outfitters, boats, gear, andclients to the South Fork. Unfortunatelyin our case, we were the mules.

The pack straps carved into ourshoulders, a misery multiplied by theintense heat and hungry mosquitoes.After slogging for more than an hour,Megan turned to me and askedbetween gasps, “How much vert do we have left?” She almost seemedafraid to ask.

I checked the altimeter on my watchand saw we’d only climbed about a thirdof the way. “You don’t even want toknow,” I told her.

For my part, I fought the misery byfocusing on things I’d read. Google “pack-raft” and you’ll see dozens of trip reportsdescribing amazing wilderness adventuresthat would be unappealing or unimagin-



able without the lightweight watercraft,which carry heavy loads, deftly maneuverin whitewater and pack down to the sizeof a small tent. (Full disclosure: I’ve alsotaken promotional photos for Alpacka, soI’d seen the products up close.)

The minute I heard about the rafts Iknew I wanted to try them for a trip onthe South Fork, a river with some of thebest fly fishing in Montana, surroundedby roadless wilderness.

It took about three hours to reach thetop of the pass and tramp downhill. Atdusk we finally crashed at a dusty, well-used campsite about 1.5 miles from theconfluence of Babcock Creek and YoungsCreek, where we’d put in the next day.The flocks of mosquitoes that had chasedus for miles and the blisters forming onour heels didn’t prevent us from enjoy-ing some bean burritos by the campfire,along with one of Doug’s best contribu-tions to the trip, some strategicallypacked Jim Beam.

The short stretch to Youngs Creekwent quickly the next morning, and

we were elated to take off our packs. In

short order we inflated our rafts withultra-light pumps and lashed our packsto the bows.

“I guess there’s no turning back now,huh?” Megan joked.

We hoped the joke wasn’t on us. Theranger at the Spotted Bear RangerStation had told us a few days earlierthat the South Fork normally ran atabout 1,200 cubic feet per second in earlyAugust. Due to the snow-laden winter

and delayed spring runoff, it was nowcruising at three times that flow, she’dtold us. She couldn’t offer specific infor-mation about Youngs Creek except tosay, “Just be careful, and be sure to scoutall the rapids.”

But Youngs Creek turned out to befriendly. Thanks to an introductorystretch of flat water, we gained coordina-tion and confidence with every paddlestroke—which soon came in handy. Afriend had told me we’d see an impres-sive limestone wall and a bottleneckwhere the river sped up a bit, and hewasn’t kidding. The towering cliffs madea formidable entrance to a gorge.

We pulled out at the top of thewave train and carefully walked the

riverbank to scope out our approach.Doug and I, filled with excitement,plotted what we thought would be thesafest path through the rapids. But as Iwas visualizing my line, I lookedbehind me and noticed Megan wasn’twith us. I scrambled over the rocksback to our boats to find her sitting onthe bank, terrified. With tears formingin her eyes she said, “I think I’m goingto pack my boat and bushwhack to the

trail. I’ll just meet you guys below thiscanyon.”

I’d like to say I was a comfortingand understanding husband, but that’snot exactly what came out. “Are youcrazy? I’m not going to let you go byyourself. You can totally do this. Justfollow my boat, and we’ll get youthrough.”

After further coaxing, Megan wasready—or perhaps resigned—to drop inbehind me. This was only a Class IIrapid, but when you’re sitting on crash-ing water in a tiny one-man inflatable,about 20 miles from the nearest help,with no means of communication andsharp rock walls squeezing in on eitherside, the rating doesn’t mean much.

“I don’t think it’ll be too bad,” Doug said. A moment later all I could see

was his blue boat upside down in the tumbling water.”


It turned out to be a thrilling ride. Webounced safely through the first set ofwaves and pulled aside to scout the next.Megan had a big smile of accomplish-ment on her face. “That was actuallykind of fun,” she beamed.

We ran each set of rapids, carefullyscouting each one, until we were out ofthe canyon. And then it was smoothwater down to the convergence with

Danaher Creek, where the South Forkbegins.

The wide riverbanks welcomed ourwaterlogged boats. It was just past noon,and the sunshine let us dry off and tieon our first dry fly. Doug and I fishedwhile Megan basked in her triumph overthe rapids.

With every fish rise we forgot the suf-fering of the day before. We each landed

five or six nice cutthroats before dinner,comforted that the trout we’d hiked allthis way to catch were hungry for almostevery type of fly.

Breaking camp over the next fewdays was simple: We packed our

gear into dry bags and loaded up theAlpackas, which continued to impressme with their kayak-like dexterity. Weencountered a shocking amount ofdownfall from the spring’s tumultuousrunoff. Three logjams were so massivewe had to portage around or over them.But the boats maneuvered the rest of theobstacles with ease.

On day three we reached theremarkable White River, with its palepastel rocks that give it a distinctlyghost-like look. We set up camp, andDoug and I decided to fish while Meganread a book by the bank. “We’ll be backin a little while,” I shouted as Doug andI made our way upstream, knowing thatif there were fish, we’d be much longerthan a little while.

Continued on page 58


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Here comes the fuzzNo focus? No worries.

We know you’re out there, having epics and snapping pho-tos. Instead of cursing them with an anonymous death inhard-drive purgatory, go for the glory and send your best

images to us at [email protected]. Include the loca-tion, your name, the names of all people shown and anyinformation you think is useful. We’ll take it from there.

Chad Harder

From speed-flying to moun-tain biking or even tailgateriding, today’s adventure

sport athletes are moving fasterthan ever. And the more hard-charging the action, the harder it isto capture the scene without blur-riness. While few things spoil anaction photo like blur, used selec-tively it can also be your friendand create very cool effects.To make the most of the situa-

tion, it’s helpful to understandwhat causes blur in the first place.Typically, it’s because the cameramoves, the subject moves, or boththings happen at once. Moresimply, if the subject’s reflec-tion moves across yourcamera’s sensor while theshutter is open, it blursthe image.Both problems usu-

ally occur by accident,the result of yourcamera compensat-ing for a low-light

scene and leaving its shutter openlonger than normal. What’s nor-mal? Well, shutter speeds aredescribed in fractions of a second,and most camera shutters can beset to stay open from a few sec-onds (very long) to 1/2000th of asecond (very short) or faster.It’s also valuable to know

which shutter speeds captureaction scenes without blur, so hereare some examples: 1/1000th of asecond or faster will completelyfreeze any adventure sport ath-lete—downhill skiers and sky-

divers included, and1/250th of a sec-ond will freezemost, but not all,human-poweredactivities.

Choose

1/60th of a second or slower andyou’ll likely get blur. At 1/20th or1/10th of a second, getting a sharpphoto (without a tripod) is fre-quently a losing proposition.To solve the problem, start by

bending the rules (and I’m nottalking about defying any laws outthere that ban riding in the backsof trucks). I got this photo sittingon a tailgate after hitching a ridehome from the mountains. I need-ed a shutter speed short enough tokeep my feet in focus but longenough to blur the moving road—1/20th of a second did it perfectly.Any faster and the road would betoo sharp; any slower and I’d haveto struggle to keep the camera(and my feet) motionless.But don’t take my word for it.

Turn your camera from auto tomanual, and have fun with thefuzz. Then send us your mostamazing, spectacu-blur images.We’ll happily publish the best.


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COME PLAYIN THE HIGH

COUNTRY & STAYCLOSE TO THE

ACTION • Only 12 miles from Lolo Pass& 10 miles from Jerry JohnsonHot Springs!

• Located just 55 miles SWof Missoula on Hwy 12.

• 20 cabins/rooms availablefor rent.

• Lodge open daily for breakfast,lunch & dinner.

• Plenty of parking year-round for trailers, campers, snowmobiles, and large groups.


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He sounds like a Montana-style super-hero: Crime-fighting assistant U.S. attorney by day, one of the country’s topultra-runners by night—sometimes all

night and into the next day. Because even whenyou’re as fast and strong and focused as he is, whichis to say, very fast and very strong and very focused,that’s how long it takes to race—on no sleep and verylittle food—100 miles through the Rockies, or theSierras or the Alps with just a headlamp to illuminateyour way over snowy mountain passes and single-track, down steps and over deadfall. That’s what ittakes when you’re trying not only to reach the finishline, but also, in the depths of your pain and yourexhaustion, to find and hold onto that razor’s edge ofawareness, that sense of being totally and singularlypresent. And to get there—to come smack up againstthe limits of your endurance and push beyondthem—is what keeps you literally putting one foot infront of the other. Over and over and over again.


Knowing this, I’m not sure exactlywhat I’m expecting when Mike Wolfeshows up to meet me last summer at BreakEspresso in Missoula, but it certainly isn’tthis: a polite, ordinary-looking 34-year-old,with a slender build, short brown hair andglasses. The only reason he stands out atall is because he’s come from the federalcourthouse where he’s been involved in agrand jury investigation, so rather than theMontana summer uniform of shorts and aT-shirt, which undoubtedly he would pre-fer, he’s wearing slacks and a tie.

Until he’s prodded, he doesn’t talkabout his phenomenal athletic accom-plishments, which include finishing firstor second in 18 out of 21 starts at 50K to100-mile distances, often in record times.He doesn’t mention the other stuff, either,too much of it to list, like his canoeingexpeditions in the Arctic; or his mountainclimbing feats with his brother inYosemite and Patagonia; or his win in aseven-day race through the Brazilian jun-gle with his North Face-sponsored team-mates. Nor does he mention that he pros-ecutes crimes in Indian country, or thathe’ll represent the feds in one of the hotly

debated medical marijuana cases basedon federal raids that busted providersacross the state.

Instead, once he sits down with hisdouble cappuccino, Wolfe happily chatsabout coffee, of all things, which he’s sopassionate about that he’s thinking about buying a $900 coffee grinder. Ifyou didn’t know better, Wolfe could bejust another Missoula java snob, gettinghis mid-afternoon caffeine fix.

After all, he, too, is a fly-fishing andhunting fanatic who enjoys “The Wire”and “The Daily Show,” loves his iPhoneand his rig (a Toyota Tundra), craves BigDipper ice cream and likes to kick backby watching pay-per-view cage fights. Inthose regards (with the possible excep-tion of the cage fights) he’s probably notmuch different from the rest of theBreak’s customers.

“He is extremely committed to justkind of being an ordinary guy eventhough he does extraordinary things,” saysWolfe’s fiancée, Stephanie Draper, a doctor.

But as much as Wolfe might prefer toblend in, the fact is, he’s not like the restof us. As far as I know, he can’t leap tall

buildings in a single bound. But I doknow that if there were still a phonebooth anywhere nearby, he could exitBreak, change outfits and run almost allthe way home to Helena. Assuming hedidn’t stop to help someone fix a flat tire(the way he risked victory in a recentrace to help an injured rival), he’d arrivein time for a late morning espresso.

In March 2012, seven months after ourfirst meeting, Mike Wolfe decided to

end his Clark Kent-like existence andleave his post at the U.S. attorney’s officeto move back to Missoula and focus onhis running career. He loved the job, butfelt time slipping away. “I’m in myprime in this sport. It’s not like I’m goingto be able to do this five years from now.It’s a finite opportunity,” Wolfe says. “Idon’t know if I’m capable of more, but Iguess that’s a risk I’m willing to take, tofind out.”

It’s not fame he wants: Ultra-runningis infamously obscure, which is fine byWolfe. To date, he’s perhaps one ofMontana’s best-kept athletic secrets.


Although he’s among the country’stop ultra-runners—people who are justgetting warmed up where traditional26.2-mile marathons end—he doesn’thave a website or a Facebook page. Andhe says he feels a little silly when he’sasked to sign autographs.

More surprisingly, Wolfe says he’snever thought of himself as competitiveand doesn’t care all that much aboutwhere he finishes (although he’s clearlya fierce competitor). He says racing isnot so much about beating other peopleas it is about testing himself. “More thananything it pushes me to see what I’mcapable of.”

Which turns out to be quite a lot.After he began endurance running inearnest at age 27, Wolfe won his firstfour events, including a debut 100-miler in which he came in ahead by anhour and 42 minutes. By 2011,UltraRunner magazine judged Wolfesecond in its “Runners of the Year”award, highlighting two outings inNorthern California: his second-placefinish in the 100-mile Western StatesEndurance Run, one of the sport’s mostlegendary events; and his record-timewin in the North Face EnduranceChallenge 50 Mile, despite a head gashthat left him splattered in blood.

Impressive, yes, although Wolfe tries tokeep it in perspective. Equally impressive,his fellow runners say, is that he cares to.

“He is very confident. But he is notegotistical,” says his friend KieferHahn, also a competitive trail runner.“And I think that makes him prettydamn special.”

See Mike run: On Helena’s hilltops, trails and courthouse steps



Wolfe puts it this way: “There are days when I certain-ly think: Who gives a shit if you can run 100 miles? There’sa lot of selfish things about it.” It takes him away fromfriends and family, for starters. On the other hand, he saysan outdoor challenge is what makes him tick.

“Maybe I’m not right in the head,” he says, althoughthe idea doesn’t seem to bother him much. “But I really dohave fun out there.”

And if you don’t think “fun” and “running” and “100miles” go together, you’re not alone.

Once they learn that he’s an ultra-runner, the questionon people’s lips, Wolfe knows, is: Why? What would pos-sess you to run that far? Why would you inflict so muchsuffering on yourself? Because no matter what kind of

shape you’re in, there’s a lot of pain involved in running15, 18, 24 hours or more.

“People wonder: ‘Why are you so stupid?’” Wolfe says,right up front. “That’s the look on their faces.” I expecthim to get a little defensive, but instead, he acknowledges:“That’s the question you ask yourself.”

Especially, when, say, it’s June 2011, and you’ve justcompleted that Western States 100 race in California,where, after more than 15 and a half hours, you’ve lost toone of the world’s top ultra-runners, Spaniard KilianJornet, by a heartbreaking four minutes. But you’re due atyour desk in Helena on Tuesday, so you squeeze in a littlesleep Saturday night and hit the road Sunday morning tomake the long drive home.

Or when, say, it’s August 2011 and you’re above tree-line in the 100-plus-mile North Face Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc, a race in the Western Alps that usually roller-coast-ers up and down 31,000 feet as it travels through France,Switzerland and Italy—but that this year, due to a coursechange announced mid-event, includes an additional5,000 feet of elevation gain and loss, which has so demor-alized a number of your fellow competitors that they’vesimply dropped out. It’s dark and freezing and the windis howling and you’ve already run through one night’storrential downpour, which turned into a snowstorm asyou gained altitude. And now you’re borderlinehypothermic, so frustrated that you’re yelling some-thing—swear words, probably—which you can’t remem-ber afterwards but which were meant to keep youfocused…and you finish 26th, while the winner—again—is Kilian Jornet. By the time you shuffle into Chamonix,the crowds that lined the streets to greet Jornet are longgone, and it’s all you can do to drag yourself past thewelcoming lights of your hotel and continue to the finishline a quarter mile beyond.

“Maybe I’m not right in the head,”

he says, although the idea

doesn’t seem to bother him much.

“But I really do have fun out there.”



“These races are about the unknown, theuncertainty,” Wolfe says. “You never knowwhat’s going to happen. You can’t alwaysexpect to go in and have the best race ever. Ihad to gut it out, and not give up.”

That’s something else he likes aboutthe sport: the humility it fosters. “It’shumbling to try to run 100 miles and tonot know if you’re going to be able topull it off,” he says. “In modern life,everything’s about safety and security. Iguess I’ve just always loved the kind ofthing that strips all that away.”

Long before he was running ultra races,Wolfe was “running wild,” as he puts

it, in the fields and mountains of Montana.Growing up in Bozeman, he and his onlysibling, Patrick, an equally gifted athlete,viewed Huck Finn as a role model, andthey were blessed with parents—Tom, afarrier who is now director of MontanaState University’s Farrier School, andMary Ellen, a mediator specializing in nat-ural resource issues—who encouragedtheir independent spirits. The Wolfe boysweren’t the only adventurers in theirneighborhood: Celebrated mountaineerAlex Lowe lived down the street and wasWolfe’s greatly admired friend.

As a kid, Wolfe helped his father shoehorses; as a teenager he worked summersin Wyoming as a wrangler. He liked play-ing cowboy, but he aspired to be a moun-tain man. With Patrick, two and a half

years his junior, he spent as much time ashe could hunting and trapping, brain-tan-ning hides and making black-powderrifles and leather clothing. In high schoolhe was obsessed with soccer. But he neverconsidered running for its own sake untilthe summer after he graduated fromBozeman High School in 1996.

At the urging of family friends, heentered his first race that August, the 20-mile Ed Anacker Bridger Ridge Run out-side of Bozeman. The route extends near-ly from one end of the Bridger Mountains

to the other, over what at the time werepoorly marked, rough, rock- and scree-strewn trails. Wolfe tackled the race in acotton T-shirt, swim trunks that he boughtat Salvation Army, and borrowed shoes.

“He was so talented, what did he needfancy clothes for?” says Matt Lavin, one ofthe people who got Wolfe into running.

The strategy, such as it was, worked.Wolfe completed the Bridger Ridge Run injust under four hours and 15 minutes, earn-ing him fourth place in his age group and10th place overall, out of 99 competitors.

He had a great time, but aside from afew road marathons he can hardlyremember, Wolfe didn’t bother racingagain for years. He enrolled at theUniversity of Montana (UM) but droppedout after two years to “vagabondaround.” He took extended trips with hisbrother, sometimes living out of his truck,to climb mountains. In the Sierras, they

scaled The Nose route up El Capitan; inPatagonia, they made a first ascent inTorres Del Paine, a Chilean national parkrenowned among climbers.

He became a NOLS (NationalOutdoor Leadership School) guide andled month-long climbing, paddling andhiking courses. He also joined withfriends to complete two separate self-sup-ported canoe trips in the Arctic, includinga three-month, 1,600-mile adventure innorthern Canada. The trip raised thou-sand of dollars in scholarships to help

kids attend a Wisconsin summer campwhere Wolfe had worked as a counselor.

“He was always the guy we were try-ing to keep up with,” recalls expeditionmember Brook Yeomans, a Jackson Hole,Wyo. resident who is still one of Wolfe’sclose friends. “Wolfie doesn’t do anythingfor glory,” Yeomans adds. “He doesn’t doit for any reason other than to have funand push himself to the extreme.”

It wasn’t until 2005 that Wolfe beganracing again. By then, he’d graduatedfrom The College of Idaho with a politicalscience degree and was preparing to enterlaw school at UM. This time, he decided totake things a little more seriously.

He still insisted on used clothing, inparticular pearl-snap polyester cowboyshirts, but he invested in some decent run-ning shoes. If the earlier strategy was mar-ginally successful, this one proved to bewildly so: Wolfe not only won his first

The North Face

A bloodied Wolfe after winning the December 2011 North Face Endurance Challenge. Right: Wolfe (in green) en route tovictory in the January 2012 Winter Triathlon near Butte, which he entered on a whim.



attempt at a 50-mile event, the Devil’sBackbone in Bozeman, but he also brokethe course record. The following summer,in 2006, he won what he considers his first competitive 50-miler, the USA Track& Field 50-Mile championship inWashington state. He won the race in2007, too, and then topped off the summerwith a victory in his first 100-miler inWyoming’s Grand Tetons.

This is what Stephanie “Dr. Steph”Draper says about her fiancé:

“Running doesn’t define him. I think if itdid he wouldn’t do it anymore.”

The two were introduced by amutual friend, who had to overcomeDraper’s resistance. “I thought some-one who was an ultra-marathon runnerand a lawyer wouldn’t be very interest-ing. Or at the least would be veryintense. But Mike has this ability to dowhat he does and then let it go. He’sjust very present with what he’s doingin the moment.”

Or as Wolfe puts it, he’s not just thecrazy runner man. Which is how hemanaged to graduate from law school,clerk for Montana Supreme Court JusticeBrian Morris, and, in 2010, start work atthe U.S. attorney’s office while racing onThe North Face team, juggling trainingruns two and three times a day. Nowthat he’s given up full-time lawyering(he says he’ll try to pick up contractwork) he can ramp up his alreadyintense training regimen.

“Not only is he physically talented,but he works harder than anyone else,”Hahn says. “He’s willing to go longer,he’s willing to go faster, he’s willing to do whatever it takes to be a better runner.”

Wolfe tracks his training on a mas-sive spreadsheet. He records how manyhours he’s put in. He records his foodintake, his sleep patterns and how he’sfeeling. He doesn’t have a coach; he saysthe sport is so new that he knows asmuch as anyone out there.

Above all, what he knows is this: Heneeds to rack up a lot of hours on thetrails. Preparing for a 100-mile event is“pure feel. I don’t really pay attention tomy specific mileages ever, because it’s allon hills. I don’t run with a GPS watch.”

Speed isn’t nearly as important asvolume, which he varies: “There will beweeks when it’s real high volume, andthen sometimes five days in a row whereit’s real slow—I might be running a nine,10, 11-minute-mile pace.”

For 100-mile races the key is “gettingyour body used to running when you’retired. Forcing yourself to keep movingwhen you have a certain level of fatiguein your system.”

But you never truly know what youcan handle until you buckle. Or don’t.

Say, for instance, it’s December 2011,and you’re 20 miles into the 50-mileNorth Face Endurance Challenge inCalifornia’s Marin Headlands, whereyou’re facing not only steep terrain butalso some of the steepest competition ofyour life, and you feel what seems to bea water fountain on your head, whichturns out to be blood spraying from a

wound you got when you had to dodgea fellow runner and ran into a low-hang-ing tree branch.

What do you do? Wolfe pressed on,although he did stop momentarily,along with another front-runner, to givea hand to a competitor who had badlytwisted his ankle, even as two otherracers passed them by. (“When some-one’s hurt, my first instinct is to helpthem,” he says. “That’s more the spiritof the sport.”)

At the next aid station Dr. Steph gaveWolfe a thumbs-up and told him to getwith it, and he agreed: It was high timefor some redemption after the 26th-placefinish at Europe’s UTMB. So he keptgoing, staving off dehydration by stuff-ing handfuls of salt into his mouth at theaid stations, half choking it down.

In the end, Wolfe eked out his hard-est-fought victory yet after a neck-and-neck battle with 21-year-old Dakota

Jones for the last 10 miles of the race,completing it in a record time of6:19:04—which averages out to anastonishing 7.6 minutes a mile. In apost-race photo, he stares into the cam-era, bloody and etched in dust, lookinga whole lot more Dirty Harry thanClark Kent.

“You never know how fast you canrun until you and some other competitorcommit and bury yourself in the pain andgo for it,” he writes in an email. “It’s hardto describe, borderline reckless, but it’s anall-consuming focus and synergy. Prettyspecial, rare and probably the addictionthat makes us want to feel that again.”

He’ll have plenty more chances. InMay, he was scheduled to run two over-seas races, the 50-mile Transvulcania inthe Canary Islands and the very steep40K called Zegama-Aizkorri, in theSpanish Pyrenees. In June, he’s on deckto return to the 100-mile Western StatesEndurance Run; in August he might retryBozeman’s Bridger Ridge Run, where hefirst experienced the joy and agony oftrail running. In September he’s slated fora 100-miler in Colorado. But he’s alsoexploring even more extreme tests, suchas an 1,800-mile, 50-day self-supportedrace in New Zealand, which another run-ner has invited him to join in December.It would entail covering 30 to 50 miles aday for nearly two months, he tells me.

“Is that even possible?” I ask him,incredulous. His response tells you prettymuch everything you need to knowabout Wolfe’s approach to life. “It’s noteasy,” he answers, “but it’s possible.”


Small creatures are wild, too. This thoughtoccurred to me as I was poking around afriend’s place above Salmon Lake recently.

A greenish-brown object, looking a bit like a muddytennis ball, plopped by a nearby pond and caughtmy eye.

It turned out to be a boreal toad, elsewherecalled the Western toad, and I was struck by howintegral a part of the landscape it was—as much asbears, elk and wolves are a part of theirs.

Like their vastly larger wild counterparts, borealtoads—the only toad species in western Montana—are intrepid travelers. After courtship is over and

eggs are fertilized, the adults wan-der off, going their toady

ways. They’reknown’to wanderfor miles from

their breeding grounds, past lakes, ponds andmarshes through coniferous forests and subalpinemeadows. They’ve been seen in the high country ofthe Great Bear Wilderness and the Swan Range, theLittle Belt Mountains, Crazies and Absarokas.Kerwin Werner, author of Reptiles and Amphibians ofMontana, has even found boreal toads atop theContinental Divide in Glacier National Park, 1,500feet above any water source.

The squat little amphibians (Bufo boreas) are aclassic camo color, with “warts” (really justbumps) to help them blend in, and a characteris-tic white stripe down their back. Instead of leaping like frogs, they shuffle along and takeoccasional modest hops in search of flies, ants,spiders, dragonflies and, occasionally, smallerboreal toads to eat. Females, four inches long orso, are bigger than males, but males don’t makenoise about it: None of them have vocal sacs.

Given that a hot toad is a dead toad, the crea-tures also have a seemingly odd liking for burnzones left by forest fires, much like many insects,birds and other animals. A study around LakeMcDonald in Glacier Park found noteworthy knotsof boreal toads in the most severely charred acreagefrom the 2003 Roberts Fire.

Researchers surmised that the warmer night-time temperatures on the burned ground made iteasier for the cold-blooded creatures to movearound and find snacks. Any increased risk of los-ing moisture during the day was offset by the abili-ty to take refuge in burrows or under logs, wheretemperatures were just as cool as at unburned sites.

Look for the toads in early June at their breed-ing grounds, generally in warm, shallow waterwithout much cover. Tadpoles hatch and morphinto terrestrials by late summer. A lucky hikermight find clumps of the juveniles piled on topof each other, basking in the sun.

It’s said that the hoppers protect them-selves by puffing up, and that their wartssecrete a viscous substance that’s eithertoxic or very nasty for would-be preda-tors, though raccoons and garter snakesdon’t seem to care. My inner 10-year-oldwas tempted to pick up my fat, lumpydiscovery that day. But rather than riskbeing peed on or covered in foul-smellinggoo, I instead stretched out alongside toenjoy the ground’s warmth and a toad’s-eye view of a summer day.

WIL

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Chad Harder



275 W. Main St • 728-0343 www.tanglesmt.com


When I’m not threatened with starvation, I’m a picky eater.This can be a challenge on the trail since the yummiestingredients tend to be heaviest. My stomach may say steak,

but my shoulders prefer a freeze-dried meal. Luckily, there are tricksto packing light and eating well.

My strategy starts with finger foods for breakfast and lunch, likemix, jerky, rice sticks or energy bars. This way, cooking and cleaningdon’t slow me down. The majority of my focus is spent on dinner,where the key is selecting a carb-loaded base and pairing it with a fla-vorful sauce.

I avoid pasta like the plague, because without a big pot of waterat a rolling boil, it’s guaranteed to be a soggy mess. Rice—particularlybrown rice—is much better.

Long before your trip, explore the rice in your grocery’s bulk binsand find your favorite—then practice making it. Start with two and ahalf cups of water per cup of rice, and put it on medium heat with atight-fitting lid. Once the pot starts to steam and shake, check itoften. After about 20 minutes, when the water is almost goneand the rice almost done, test it. If it’s crunchy, add morewater. Whatever you do, don’t stir rice once the lid hasclosed. Peek as often as necessary, but don’t touch.

Once you’ve found your favorite rice and youknow how much water and time it needs, you can startattempting high-level moves. For example, soak it toreduce cooking time, and take it off the heat as soon asthe water level sinks below the rice, leaving it covered tofinish on its own. You can also punch up the taste by addinglightweight ingredients like bouillon or dehydrated vegetables.

If you can master making your favorite rice at home, allthings are possible on the trail. When you reach camp, simplyplace it in the pot with the appropriate amount of water. By thetime the tent is up, your rice is already halfway done; just cook it likeyou did in the kitchen.

That leaves plenty of time for the sauce.Even though onions are heavy, I try to carry one for each meal.

You can skip it for powder or flakes if you want, but there’s noreplacement for the thickening power of a finely chopped real onion.

Start with placing your choice of chopped meat—I prefer jerky,summer sausage or bacon—in a pan, oiled as necessary. Once themeat starts to brown, add the onions and stir it well. When the onionsreach the translucent stage, add salt, pepper and garlic powder.

To keep my shopping and preparations simple, everything upto this point is the same each night of the trip. The variation comeswith my choice of spice powder. Use red chili powder one night,followed by curry powder the next, and garam masala powderwith tomato paste for a third dinner. With each variation, addwater as necessary to thicken the sauce without turning it to soup.If you do add too much water, be patient and let it congeal. Andremember: your sauce can also thicken when removed from theheat, just like the rice.

GRUB

by A

ri L

eVaux

Chad Harder

For backcountry cooking,go with the grain

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Under a smoky gauze ofSeptember sky, I wedged myback into the cold, dihedral,

dangled my legs over a narrow ledge andpeered 4,000 feet down to the V-necked bottom of Coal Creek. Curved like aneagle talon, the burned valley swungnorth around the Cloudcroft Peaks anddisappeared toward Surprise Pass. MountDoody, sharp as a wolf’s tooth, stooddirectly across the way. I shuddered andforced a deep breath.

This was all wrong. I shouldn’t be looking north. I shouldn’t

be staring at Wolftail. I should begazing east instead, across

Battlement and Caperand toward the red

argillite mountains of Two Medicine. Ishould see Rockwell and Rising Wolf loom-ing against the hazy afternoon sky.

My climbing partner Kyle Fedderly wasout of earshot, already climbing up throughthe next pitch of wind-whipped cliffs. Withno choice but to keep feeding rope andbelaying him, I’d have to explain my fear atthe next anchor point. Which also meant thatI would have to climb up this sheer wall ofgray rock.

I was no rock climber, just a lover ofwild country and a mediocre mountaineer.Over the past decade, I had managed tomake my way to the top of more than ahundred peaks in Glacier National Park,many of them several times, but had pur-posefully steered clear of any that requiredropes, belay devices, cams or carabiners. Ihad used an ice ax every summer, but otherthan climbing Blackfoot and Logan viaBlackfoot Glacier once—making that high-angle maneuver above the bergschrund,hammering in snow pickets and belayingmy buddy up behind me—I had neverused ropes. I decided that if I neededropes to climb it, then I didn’t need tobe there.

The reality, however beneficent myintentions, was that I probably stuckmyself in more dangerous situa-tions by climbing certain moun-tains without protection than Iwould have by climbing oth-ers a hundred times withprotection. For instance,after free-soloing MountWilbur, I down-climbedwet, Class 5 rock in aSeptember snowstorm. Igot hung up in a gullywhile coming off the

HEAD T

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Kyle Fedderly leads the way


knife ridge of Kinnerly once, too, which wasas close to the big slip as possible.

The bottom line is that I love being off-trail, exploring remote and wild mountains.In Glacier Park, going without ropes wouldlimit me from sitting atop a few particularsummits. This doesn’t work because I gen-uinely hope to climb every peak in the parkbefore I die or get old and decrepit—not outof some self-aggrandizing need to conqueror check numbers off a list, but because Ilove these mountains fiercely and want toexplore each and every one of them. I wantto know them firsthand, up close, and inti-mately. Then again, who the hell wouldn’twant to swim in every lake, bushwhackevery drainage, sleep in every subalpinebasin, and climb every mountain in GlacierPark?

Back on the rock, the rope beganwhizzing through the belay device. It wasKyle, anchored somewhere above andpulling in slack. I stood on the narrowledge, mindful of the pink tuft of moss cam-pion that called this spot home, and fedrope. When it finally pulled taut, I leaned ashoulder into the cold rock, dug the hexesout of the dihedral and clipped them on theharness. Three tugs on the rope and Kyleresponded with the same.

It was time to face the music. It wastime to climb.

>>>>>Mount St. Nicholas was my Moby Dick

of Glacier Park peaks—a vertical thumb of aspire that had towered over countless daysof my life and consumed my brain for

years. When I was a backcountryranger in Walton, I slept many anight under the mountain’s shad-ow and woke many mornings to

sun streaming across its northeast shoulder.I had even tried to climb it twice. Sort of.On the first attempt, I found myself delu-sional, dehydrated and sucking at a tinyseep of water a thousand feet below the“Great Notch.” I was racked from a good,weeklong bender of booze. The secondattempt took me to the Notch, where Ichickened out. Instead of climbing, I satatop a small, subsidiary peak to the east andphotographed my buddy Jason Robertsonfree-solo his way up and down. It wasmind-blowing to watch.

Robertson is like a skilled machine,though, and a resident expert of St. Nick.He had climbed the mountain six times,four by free-soloing it. He had even climbedSt. Nick and Mount Doody (equally as tech-nical and almost as tall as Nick) in the sameday (23 and a half hours round trip) andalone. I, on the other hand, was a few yearsolder than Robertson, in my late 30s, andtwo weeks away from the birth of my sec-ond child. There was no denying that I sud-denly felt tempered by age, responsibility,and a new tendency toward self-preserva-tion. The bedrock of my life was shifting.

That said, my need to overcome sillymental barriers is equally as real and viscer-al. I knew I could climb St. Nick, but I hadnever roped up and done anything like it.Climbing the mountain actually scared meless than rappelling down—at several rapstations you had to face the rock, hang yourass out over space, and then lean back,trusting the rope.

Worst of all, however, was the thoughtof never exploring the summit.

>>>>>Ten or 12 feet above where I stood, a flat

ceiling blocked the top of the dihedral.

Fortunately, hanging to the east was a rockface split by a lovely, climbable crack. Aninch-wide lip ran from my ledge out to thebreak in the rock, and I just needed to sidleout there and get myself headed up towardKyle. What worried me was that the ceilingfrom the dihedral also ran out to the crack,becoming a large bulge, and I would haveto strong-arm up and over it.

With all my weight on my toes, I inchedout onto the face, using the minutest plastic-ity of rock for finger holds. At the crack, Ipowdered my hands with chalk and wastedno time in starting up the break. The climb-ing was good, what with St. Nick being oneof the few mountains in the park with solidrock, and the crack proved a perfect place towedge fingers and toes. But this was anaberration for Glacier Park. Most mountainsin the park are made of crumbly, sedimenta-ry rock—horribly rotten slab—and demandgreat care climbing them. You never trusteda handhold, for instance, and you alwayspulled down and not out, if at all.

Beneath the large bulge, I stopped toyank loose a hex nut, well placed by Kyle. Ihung from a tripod position, leaned on thenut tool and pushed. Nothing. I shifted myweight and hammered at the nut, whackedat it, jabbed at it and pried at it. Still noth-ing. My calves began to tremble. Each legbegan to shake. With an eternity of empti-ness beneath me, I carefully reversed myfeet and reached for the hex with my lefthand. The thing still wouldn’t budge,wouldn’t slip a millimeter. Against allrational thought, I pushed away from therock, out over nothingness, and then fellback against the hex. In a quick break ofresistance, the nut gave way and flew deepinto the crack. I slammed into the rockwith my shoulder and without hesitation I

The horn of Mount St. Nicholas


Montana Headwall Page 43 Summer 2012

grabbed the hex, unhooked it from the ropeand clipped it to my harness.

“You’re out of your element,” I muttered,barely audible over the frozen wind.

There was no turning back now. Kyle wasahead of me, and so was the possibility ofbeing back on route. To descend would meanrappelling from our anchors and leavinghexes behind, and I didn’t like the prospect ofdangling from a few nuts anymore than Iwanted to leave metal garbage on the moun-tain. With no choice, I sucked in a deep breathand reached blindly up and over the bulge.

>>>>>The first recorded summit of St. Nick was in

1926 by Conrad Wellen, although the 1966 dis-covery of his logbook beneath a rock at theGreat Notch casts some doubt over whether heactually made the top. In 1933, Robert T. Youngand R. T. Young Jr. completed the second climbof St. Nick. The first winter ascent of the ruggedhorn didn’t occur until December 28, 1985, bythe Columbia Falls father-and-son team of Tomand Trenton Cladouhos. Trenton was a teenager.

For the past decade, a dozen or so peoplehad climbed St. Nick every year, most using theCoal Creek drainage. The drainage burned in2003, creating a direct and easy bushwhack tothe Notch that avoided what used to be a three-day venture up Muir Creek or Park Creek.Robertson used the new route once, saunteringup and down the mountain, from truck door totruck door, in 13 hours. That wasn’t long afterCoal had burned, but now vegetation wasgrowing taller and the forest was thickeningagain.

What baffled me most was that Robertsonand Terry Kennedy, perhaps the most accom-plished Glacier Park climber ever, had tackledthis beast without ropes. With one hand abovethe bulge, I glanced over my left shoulder andlaughed. Talk about exposure! I hung on a near-vertical rock face that buckled back into themountain, leaving nothing but cold air betweenme and scree fields thousands of feet below. Aslip without ropes and the party was over.

Needing to make my crux move, I prayedthat the crack continued far enough above the

Fedderly heads up from The Notch


bulge to keep finding handholds, but Icouldn’t see up there yet. My gut wrenchedat the thought of slipping backwards, grop-ing for purchase, and having to trust therope as I fell and dangled in space.

“Hold tight,” I hollered, not surewhether Kyle could hear me or not.

I took a deep breath. I closed my eyesand opened them. I reached with my toe,blindly stuffing it deep in the crack of thebulge, the meat of my foot wedged in therock. Then I sucked in one more lungful ofair, growled like a bear, and stood. Theworld disappeared. My focus narrowedwith all my energy funneled into the rock.Riding the momentum, I reached andslapped my left hand onto the cold rock.My fingers splayed out, felt the crack. I

jammed them in and held tight. I pulledagain, then wedged in my other foot.Standing, I reached, found the break, andpulled. Then slung a knee over the bulge.Then the other knee. Then flopped onto mybelly and inched along, the slab mellowing,the rope slithering above me, guiding me.Gasping for air, I scampered up three smallledges and found Kyle. My heart thunderedin my chest and my arms and legs tingledwith adrenaline.

“Holy shit,” I yelled, anchoring inbeside him. I leaned back and groaned.

“You made it,” said Kyle, who hadshimmied seamlessly up and over thebulge, like the experienced climber he is.

“Barely,” I sighed. “Wasn’t sure for aminute there. But, we’re too far north, bub.

We need to work our way back east.”“I was worried about that, too. We

haven’t seen a rap station in a while. Whatdo you think?”

“No choice but to keep climbing, right?You’re the expert.”

“That’s what I’d hoped you’d say.Climbing is definitely easier.”

“More than one way to shimmy up amountain, partner.”

“Damn straight,” he smiled. “Belay meup this way, and we’ll cross our fingers.”

“Copy.”With cold hands, we unclipped carabin-

ers, reclipped carabiners, and Kyle beganclimbing. I fed rope through the belaydevice and soon he disappeared over a shelfof cliffs. Since the bulge, we could haveclimbed the Class 3 and 4 rock without therope, but we needed it to rappel back down.

“Rap station!” hollered Kyle in no time,his voice tumbling down over the rock,unmistakable. Then three tugs on the rope.

“Hell, yes!” I screamed back at the topof my lungs. “Coming up.”

“All good!” Soon, I joined Kyle at the rappel sta-

tion—a small boulder wrapped in neon-col-ored slings—and we peered over the sheernortheast face. Our packs were tiny dots onthe rock near the Notch.

“You want to keep climbing, or goahead and rappel down?” asked Kyle. “Iknow that bulge was sketchy.”

“I’m not going down yet,” I said. “Ihave to rappel down this beast either way,so we might as well climb it first. I don’tthink we have far to go now.”

Jason Robertson solos St. Nick in 2005


“Me, either,” Kyle said, with a biggergrin than usual.

Sure enough, the next few hundredfeet was mellow, Class 3 stair-stepping.We moved quickly and freely, having leftthe rope at the rappel station, and beforewe knew it, we crested the small summit.

Smoky skies hung in every direction,obscuring the distant peaks of the park andthe Bob Marshall Wilderness. More than5,000 feet straight down, Coal Creekdrained the valley, a sinuous thread of graythrough the red autumn. I spun a quick360, snapping pictures, and spent the nextfew minutes studying the shape of thesummit and the rocks that lived there. I stillcouldn’t believe I was atop Nick. It seemedlike forever coming. And I didn’t know ifI’d ever make it back—this might be aonce-in-a-lifetime deal.

With sunlight waning, we paid ourrespects to the mountain and then hurriedback to the rap station. If the rope gotcaught on the way down and it took halfan hour to shake loose, we would be rap-pelling to the Notch in the dark—a scarythought. Kyle played guinea pig andhopped over the cliff while I sat on theledge, anchored to the boulder. Racked byfatigue and driven by a desire to be on flatground, I didn’t hesitate when it was myturn and cruised down the rope. Thedescent was surprisingly fun in that itoffered the most bizarre view of the moun-tain, what a bird sees sailing down a cliffface. I studied the rock as I lowered myself,fascinated by the perspective and suddenly

filled with the desire to rappel down everymountain wall, like a pioneer or explorer.Before I knew it, I had descended four rapstations and we stood at the Notch.

I howled, loud as I could, and thenhugged Kyle.

“Amen, mountain,” I said, too, andbowed.

No rest for the wicked, though. Beforewe could relax, we still had to drop a thou-sand feet down a precipitous goat trail.Following the bouncing halo of our head-lamps, Kyle and I managed to joke abouthow peaceful it was to stumble along with-out seeing the tremendous exposure thatfell away just beyond the beam of light. Wecould have been walking in a valley and itwould not have appeared any differently.Never, however, did we let our guarddown.

Hours later, we forded Coal Creek andretrieved our gear from the Elk Creekcampground. We had stayed there for ashort spell of sleep the night before begin-ning the climb. Back out on the trail, wefollowed our high beams, ploddingnumbly ahead, one foot in front of theother.

At 4:30 a.m., more than 23 hourssince we first left the backcountrycampground, we threw our packsinto my car and collapsed onto theseats. Exhausted. Spent. Barelyable to focus.

An hour later, at home inColumbia Falls, and without awink of sleep, I helped my 18-

month-old daughter, Harper, from bed.Like always, we made cereal, shuffledsome Coltrane on iTunes, and began ourday.

“Daddy went hiking,” she said in hercute bird voice, milk dribbling down herchin.

“Yep, Dad climbed Mount St.Nicholas,” I replied. “In the park.”

“Harper hike, too!” she hollered, toss-ing her head back and dunking her spoonfor another bite.

“You want to hike this afternoon?” Iasked. I couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah,” she squealed. “Harper hikewith daddy.”

So we did, up the North Fork. Nothingcrazy, just a mellow walk in the park:whistling at birds and looking for bears.Counting clouds and rocks. Naming treesand flowers. Flat ground felt good beneathmy feet.

Looking south, in the direction of Nick,I couldn’t help but wonder

if someday Harper andI would climb moun-tains together. Or ifthe new babywould. Ormaybe all of us.

I hoped so.Maybe I

would see thetop of St.Nick again,after all.

Fedderly savors the summit



HEAD T

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Sto

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oël Phillips

Oh, Pioneers!A rocky start in the mountains leads to a happy ending

My original college major wasanimal behavior, but I gavethat up and embarked on a

circuitous path to a French-linguistics degree (long story)before settling on my personaltraining career in Missoula. Parfor the course for this do-what-ever-you-can-to-live-here town.

I like to think that personaltraining is a bit like animalbehaviorism, as is life in gener-al—only now, the animal Iobserve is Homo sapiens, includ-ing myself. Take, for example,the subspecies Long-ride-icusroad-bikerus. It was with one ofthese spandex and windbreak-er-clad groups atop carbon fiber bikesthat I discovered the PioneerMountains and the Beaverhead-

Deerlodge National Forest. Each pedalstroke on the Pioneer Mountains ScenicByway carried me deeper into the val-

ley between the high, jagged easternpeaks and timbered, gently slopingWest Pioneers. The paved two-lane

road bisects the Wise River andGrasshopper Creek drainages, mean-dering past flowered meadows wet

with streams, grassland rangesspeckled with livestock, andthick lodgepole forests. Themountains captivated me—Iknew I couldn’t be satisfiedwith just one bike trip. I need-ed to get into them, on foot.

Unfortunately, detailedinformation about hiking trailsin the Pioneers proved diffi-cult to find. The area seemedmostly undeveloped andunder-explored (read: if youhike there, bring a topo map).

But after much researchand many discussions with my boy-friend, Jason, and two friends, a latesummer backpack finally came together.



The four of us agreed onwhat looked to be a moder-ate 8.5-mile trek in the east-ern range, from the MonoCreek campground toTorrey Lake, a lonely cirquewith the promise of goodfishing. We could possibly even try to summit one of the nearby peaks, 11,147-foot Torrey Mountainor 11,154-foot Tweedy.

I had unknowinglyplanned the trip, however,with the dreaded Amigosflake-ius. As is to be expect-ed with this genus, myfriends canceled a weekbefore the trip, leavingJason and I peeved at theprospect of going on a tripwe’d pushed back toaccommodate their sched-ules when we would havepreferred leaving earlier inthe summer.

The weather for the weekend wasnot promising—forecasters predictedlate summer snowstorms. I growled andgrumbled and muttered and hemmedand hawed. I’d done my fair share, and more, of the trapped-in-a-snow-cave-in-a-blizzard routine and its variations: the climb up a mountain in frigid temps and gale-forcewinds; the wet hikes; the hikesduring a tornado through wetclay; the hypothermia; the miser-able campsites. I’d belonged tothe Mugs Stump school ofthought—“If you wait for theweather, you won’t do shit.” The famed mountaineer didn’tmince words.

But at this point I knew whatI could handle—and what Iwanted to handle. I felt like I’d earnedthe right to go outdoors in warm anddry and sunny (oh, please dear God,sunny!) conditions.

And yet, for whatever reason—per-haps the old spirit in me, or the principleof the thing, or Jason’s gentle coaxing—the two of us decided to shake our fistsat the sky and go through with ourplans. We figured we’d spend one nightout instead of two, owing to the forecast.If it got really bad we could turn aroundand hike the 17 miles in a day.

The night before the departure we saton my apartment floor sorting out whatto bring.

“This will be the first time I’ve actu-ally backpacked,” Jason announced aswe sat amidst the sleeping bags andfishing gear.

I paused, stunned. I was the transplant here. Jason grew up in the Northwest. How had he missedbackpacking?

“Um…well…put the heavy stufflower in your pack and close to yourbody,” I offered, lamely.

At this point I took a really hardlook at the gear strewn around us. Andit hit me. There, surrounded by food,clothes, tent and other sundry items,Packus everythingius was about to makethe mistake so common to that species.

We were going to be gone onenight, and he was cramming enoughfood and clothing into his pack for aweek-long expedition, including athick, inflatable bedroll suitable for car-camping and a two-foot-long plastic,

foam-filled, vinyl-encasedbox for his fishing rod.

“Are you sure you real-ly want to bring all ofthat?” I asked. My spin-ning set was tied up withrubber bands.

“Why not?” he inno-cently replied.

Jason and I both enjoysleeping till noon—some-thing I loved about himafter having been marriedto a fanatically early riser.Somehow we managed tohit the road by seven.

It only took a few sec-onds to load my stuff in thetruck. I was bringing a day-pack, an uber-light setupI’d used even on weeklongtrips. Jason was still carry-

ing enough for a trek up Everest, minusthe sherpas, and with an ill-fitting,Costco-bought pack that dug into hisshoulders. When I’d tried to give himadvice the night before, he’d just smiled and said, “I can handle it,” and went back to packing. I’d kept my mouth shut.

After leaving I-15 forMontana Highway 43-W, wedrove the scenic serpentinealong the Big Hole River towardthe town of Wise River, the startof the 49-mile PioneerMountains Scenic Byway. Flyfishermen cast their lines in the early light, appeasing theurges, common to Montanamales, to stand in frigid watershoping something would bite

their lures.The miles drifted away with each

fisherman. So did my confidence.“Did we already pass Wise River?”“I don’t think so … maybe,” Jason

offered.“Pull over, please,” I said.He stopped at the next sight of a

fisherman, and I hopped out.“Excuse me, sir, where’s the Pioneer

Scenic Byway?” The angler turned watery eyes toward

me, his nose red with the telltale signs oflong years of alcohol consumption.

“Pioneer? There’s no such thing. You mean the Pintler Scenic Loop. Well,

When I’d tried to give

him advice the night before,

he’d just smiled and said,

“I can handle it.”


you’re in the wrong place. You needto…”

I interrupted him. “No, no—thePioneer Scenic highway—it goesbetween the Pioneer Mountains…”

He stared at me blankly.I sighed. “Where’s Wise River? The

town?”He smiled a near-toothless grin and

pointed in the direction we were head-ing. “Just go down there another halfhour or so and you’ll find it.”

Five minutes later, and with a hugesigh of relief at not having been lostafter all, we reached Wise River and itssix buildings—two of which are bars—and headed south on the byway, pastthe mountains, pastures, and old home-steads in a landscape that has changedlittle in centuries. The meadows andhillsides, surprisingly, still clung to theirearly summer green.

Twenty-two miles down the roadwe pulled into the Mono Creek parkinglot. The cold air froze my sandaled feetalmost instantly upon our arrival, butthe sky held some promise of sunshine,so we decided to camp at the lake. Agroup of horse packers studied us for awhile as we organized our gear, thenone of them walked over and askedabout our plans.

“This is the time of year the bearsare really out—you’ll definitely seethem,” he warned, after noting that wedid not have guns or pepper spray.

“Oh, we’ll be fine,” I said, cheerful-ly. Yes, this was an area I’d never hikedin, but I’d been in bear country many

times. Sometimes I carried a gun, butmostly I didn’t worry about it.

I could practically smell his skepti-cism as he went to confer with hisgroup. Figuring they’d rather not readin the papers about the young couplewho were brutally mauled en route toTorrey Lake, the group stopped theirhorses at our truck, handed us a can ofpepper spray and asked us to pleasetake it.

We did. Jason assured them thathe’d bring his pistol, as well—not that

it would do any good, as I saw it, butmaybe it could be a noise deterrent.This seemed to ease their worriesenough for them to wish us well.

Cattle were the only “wildlife” weencountered on the hike, and thevicious man-eaters kept their distance.The broad, well-maintained JacobsonCreek Trail 2 led us through meadowsand across creeks (with bridges!) before

Map by Jonathan Marquis


turning right after 2.5 miles to Trail 56,taking us under craggy cliffs and intoforests of fallen trees that reminded meof Bev Doolittle paintings. I kept expect-ing to see hidden faces appear in thelines of the jumbled timber.

The path climbed gently for six and ahalf miles. The final two miles weresteeper—not calf-burning, since theyascend only 1,000 feet over that distance,but steep enough so that Jason becamefully aware of his tonnage. The trip tookless than five hours, but we were boththrilled to pop out of the forest at nearly9,000 feet onto the boggy, flat meadowleading to Torrey. Since we were the onlyvisitors, we had our pick of severalcampsites at the edge of the forest.

Looming over the lake like protectiveparents stood Torrey and Tweedy, thetwo tallest peaks in the Pioneer range.We arrived at the lake too latefor a summit climb. Maybe next year.

My first thoughts now were warmth.Temps had plummeted along with thesun, and we were freezing. It didn’t takelong to get a bonfire roaring, so wethawed our fingers and then decided tocast our lines into the limpid water. Icould see a few troutfollowing my lureswith interest and gota few test nibbles,but my fingers soonfroze again and Icould no longer tieanything to the endof my line. I gave upand celebrated withthe more deter-mined, less frozenJason, as he broughtin a small rainbow.After the obligatory“I caught a fish” pic-ture, we released itand watched it swimaway.

As an Eternallyiusfreezingus, the tem-perature rating onmy sleeping bagmakes no difference.I could be in a -40degree bag in thesummer and stillshiver, so my night,like most campingnights in my life,was spent tossingaround to try andstay warm. The

morning dawned too early and too cold. And then it really pissed me off.“What the f---?” I yelled back to

Jason once the call of nature had becomestronger than my need for warmth. I’dstepped out of the tent to find snow onthe ground. It was just a dusting, but itwas still snow. In the summer. Any opti-mistic thoughts of early morning fishingdisappeared. We were freezing again. Itwas time to move.

I’d lie if I said I wasn’t happy to seethe truck, but only because of the weath-er. Once I’d defrosted, Jason and I talkedabout returning next year, when it washotter and we could stay longer. Theallure of good fishing was just too promising.

“And I think I need a different pack,”Jason pointed out.

I agreed. Jason was evolving, as didall of us who entered the backpackingworld. “It is not the strongest of thespecies that survives ... It is the one thatis most adaptable to change,” as Darwinput it. Jason was ready to adapt and starttraveling light. I think he’ll survive justfine—and maybe even teach me a thingor two.



JUNE

June 2Pull the trigger and head to thePowder River Buffalo Shoot

near Broadus, where participants bringout the big guns and fire at metal targetsup to 1,000 yards away. Hit home at 436-2270 or [email protected].

June 3Join the corps and discover theLewis and Clark Marathon,

which features a marathon/relay, half-marathon and kids’ run through the scenic Gallatin Valley. Trek tolewisandclarkmarathon.com.

June 7The old ’uns are golden at theMontana Senior Olympics

Summer Games in Great Falls, a three-day event with archery, basketball, golf,cycling, track and other contests. Medalup at montanaseniorolympics.org.

June 9Keep kids grinning at the 39th annual Governor’s Cup

Race in Helena, featuring a 10K, 5K anda fun run. The fundraiser for the CaringFoundation of Montana helps childrenget access to dental and medical care.Make an appointment at govcupmt.com.

June 16Scamper, scuttle and sprint dur-ing the Montana Made Run 5K

and 10K, a race/walk that begins andends at Ogren Park in Missoula, featuringMontana-made coffee, energy bars, beerand more. Proceeds benefit theInternational Association of FirefightersBurn Foundation. montanamaderun.org

June 17Say hello to summer at the SummitSolstice Triathlon/ Duathlon, a half-mileswim, 12.7-mile bike ride and 5K run atFoys Lake near Kalispell. Zip over tonwhc.org or call 751-4133.

Divide your time during the Wulfman’s ContinentalDivide Trail 14K and run

between Homestake and Pipestone Pass.Proceeds help pay for trail maintenance,so head to buttepissandmoanrunners.com.

June 27Get stoked by strokes at theMontana Whitewater

Championships at Brennan’s Wave indowntown Missoula. They’ll float yourboat at mtwhitewaterchampionships.com.

June 30Life is grand at the Gran FondoKootenai, a two-day, timed

and supported road cycling event ingorgeous northwest Montana. The 172-mile route follows the Kootenai Riverand traverses the Kootenai NationalForest, from Libby to Eureka and back. Proceeds help support needy kids, so cruise over to gfkootenai.comor call 543-6608.

HEAD O

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Chad Harder



JULY

July 4Try not to flag during the 4th of JulyTeam Challenge in Eureka, where con-testants bike 3 miles, kayak 3 miles onLake Koocanusa and run 2 miles on atrail. Light the fireworks atwelcome2eureka.com.

July 8Long may you run duringthe Missoula Marathon,

named “Best Overall Marathon” byreaders of Runner’s World. Lace upand go to missoulamarathon.org.

July 13No need for a keelboat duringthe Yellowstone Boat Float, a

raft trip that retraces the route of theLewis and Clark expedition fromLivingston to Columbus, including twoovernight stops and a street dance.They’re expeditious at 696-1996.

July 14Get hooked at the BroadwaterRod & Gun Club’s Walleye

Derby, a catch-and-release fishapaloozaat Goose Bay Marina on Canyon FerryLake, with a $1,000 cash prize for win-ners. The lines are open at 266-5279.

Go with the flow during The GlacierChallenge, a six-leg, 50-mile relay inWhitefish that features canoeing, roadbiking, mountain biking, kayaking and a 4K and 10.5K run. Slide on over to theglacierchallenge.com.

Spin to win at the HammerNutrition Missoula XC, a USACycling event that draws top

mountain biking pros to MarshallMountain for a pre-Olympics tune-up.Get rolling at missoulaxc.org.

July 15Root for the home team andsupport the Bitterroot Land

Trust during the Tour of the Bitterroot,a non-competitive ride for adults andkids alike. Find the route attourofthebitterroot.org.

July 22Gasp at the views during theMadison Marathon, the high-

est road marathon in the country, heldin the Gravelly Range near Ennis—where the starting line is at 9,100 feet.Hightail it to themadisonmarathon.com.

July 28Be a whitewater hog during the RiverPig SUP Challenge, a standup paddle-board race at Alberton Gorge. Dip in atstrongwaterkayak.com.

July 29Don’t be a nag at the XTERRAWild Horse Creek Triathlon

held in Hyalite Canyon near Bozeman.The event includes a 1,200-yard swim,16-mile mountain bike ride and 6-milerun (with shorter options, too). Saddleup at bigskytri.com.

AUGUST

August 3Don’t get hammered at theMissoula Gun and Antique

Show, a three-day event featuring 800tables of firearms and knives galore.Shoot questions at 549-4817.

August 4Eat a big breakfast before theHelena Ultra Runners League

holds the HURL Elkhorn EnduranceRuns in Montana City, including 23K,50K and 50-mile distances. Get sick withit at vigilanterunning.org.

Take the leap out of a perfectly goodairplane at the Skydive Lost Prairie45th Annual Jumpmeet, a gathering ofjumpers where the average Joe can joinan instructor for a soar and a brew. Airit out at skydivelostprairie.com.

August 11If you think the best part ofrunning a mile uphill is run-ning nearly two downhill—

along a rugged mountain trail—thenthe Bridger Ridge Run is for you. But you’ve gotta be ready for onetough trail race. Find out why atwinddrinkers.org.

August 18Run for the right reasons atBozeman’s Scramble

for Ethiopia, a 15K and 4-milefundraiser whose proceeds helpbring water to a community inEthiopia. Be a good egg and hustleto scrambleforethiopia.com.

August 25Get jiggy with it at the 6thAnnual Whitefish Jigfest

fishing tourney on Flathead Lake.Hook something at 444-2449.

Gear up for the York 38 SpecialMountain Bike Ride, a 38-miletrip near Helena, or double the

distance in the Spirit of 76. Pump up atyork38special.com.

August 26Get to the root of the problemat the River City Roots 4-Mile

Run/Walk, part of Missoula’s multi-dayRiver City Roots Festival. Boogie downat runwildmissoula.org.

August 31Revel in the reeling at the annual Ennis on the MadisonFly Fishing Festival, a week-

end-long fete that ties one on (and rais-es money for the Madison RiverFoundation). Find the supporting cast at ennischamber.com.

SEPTEMBER

September 1Make like an 8,000-year-old at the annu-al Montana Atlatl Mammoth Hunt atFirst Peoples Buffalo Jump State Park.You’ll see experts throw tomahawksand chuck spears with the atlatl, a tradi-tional hunting weapon. Sharpen up at866-2217 or russell.visitmt.com.

September 8Bum-bum-bum, bummm, it’stime to Cycle for the

Symphony, a 57-mile dirt ride nearMissoula that benefits the MissoulaSymphony Orchestra. Change your tuneat missoulasymphony.org.

Chad Harder


HEAD G

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Petzl Tikka2 CORE, $85A brilliant balance of brightness, weight and convenience has made theTikka the go-to lamp for adventurers and flat tire changers the world over.The 40-lumen Tikka2 retains three lighting modes and simple but strongconstruction, but for 2012 Petzl retooled the popular light with a recharge-able and “smart” battery (although AAAs still work, too). The $40 PetzlCORE battery, a rechargeable unit with lithium ion polymer technology,plugs into any USB port, so you can charge it with a cell phone charger—orportable solar units. At just 30 grams, the CORE weighs less than 3 alkalineAAAs and brings the total headlamp weight to only 76 grams. And it performs far better in cold temps, too. Download Petzl software to modifylight function, regulate output and adjust settings that determine lightintensity and battery life. The CORE will quickly pay for itself: It lasts longerthan 900+ batteries.

Few things with less heft than a Snickers bar will get you out of trou-ble like a headlamp. In fact, hands-free illumination in the directionyou’re looking is the first step to getting safely back to the rig when

you’re darked-upon. There’s no shortage of strap-on options out there,ranging from heavy, long-lasting light blasters to quarter-sized microsthat will barely light up your pre-dawn oatmeal. How do you choose?With the help of Matt Rogers, gear guru at The Trail Head in Missoula,Headwall compiled a few of this year’s best and brightest, for everymember of the family.

Black Diamond Icon, $80With two night-friendly red LEDs, two standard LEDs, and a 200-lumen“QuadPower LED,” the Icon gives you all the light you need (or don’t)in an aluminum, waterproof and nearly indestructible housing. A smarton/off switch dims down to four lumens, and it all runs on four AA batteries—although that’s why the Icon weighs 220 grams, more thanthe other lights combined.

Black Diamond Ion, $20Weighing in at just 28 grams, the Ion is a light to always carry, but neveruse—unless you must. A single, 12-lumen LED will brighten your routewhen unexpectedly be-nighted, and a smart toggle prevents accidental battery drain. The tiny 6-volt battery may be short-lived and hard to find,but it allows the Ion to weigh less than a USGS topo map.

Black Diamond Wiz, $20With features like a smaller, alien-themed headband, a child-safe closureand a breakaway elastic safety strap—not to mention an auto shut-off attwo hours—the 16-lumen Wiz (56 grams, with batteries) is specificallydesigned for kids. If your little campers are always leaving your lamp on,consider the Wiz—for the price of a dozen AAAs.

Headlamps that lead the way



Black Diamond Traverse ski poles, $70Hey, wise guy: No, I did not forget my skis. I just prefer using ski poles

when exploring the alpine. Yes, even in summer. Laugh all you want, but nowI have better balance and share the load with my upper body, preventing kneestrain and sprained ankles, to boot.

Multiple manufacturers make poles with varying features—adjustmentrange, packed length, basket size, handgrip angle, newfangled materials andthe like—but I prefer my Black Diamond Traverses. They’re lightweight yetstrong and simple, and employ BD’s fail-proof FlickLock mechanism that tena-ciously locks ’em to length. A rubber grip extension allows an immediatechoke-up when traversing or climbing steeply. And when steep summer snowor ice impedes, swap out the pole’s top half for a Whippet, BD’s gadget thatacts like an ice-ax and converts your pole to a handy self-arrest tool.

Hesitant to add a half-pound to each hand? Not me. Instead I’m restingeasy when they double as tent poles—the ones I didn’t have to

lug. Who’s laughing now?Chad Harder

Arc’teryx Naos backpack, $700It’s a strong statement, but true: The Arc’Teryx Naos 70 backpack is the

single best piece of gear I’ve ever owned. Hands down.Built like a dry bag, the pack is a large compartment of polyurethane-

coated nylon with a roll-top closure and pouch lid. All seams are taped andthe main body is 100 percent waterproof. A soggy and dripping June inGlacier Park is no worry, and I’ve even forded swollen rivers in the Bob withthe pack floating behind. Never has a drop of water sneaked inside.

A rock-solid swivel hip-belt relieves any ilium rub and moves seamlesslywith all motions—walking, bending, leaning and climbing. I can load it fulland not have one sore spot on the hips. Two ice ax loops, two outer pocketsand six straps make stowing gear streamlined and easy on this handmadeCanadian gem.

Matt Holloway



GSI Outdoors Pinnacle Dualist Ultralight Cookset, $65There’s a special feeling of elation only a backpacker can understand

when gear fits together so strategically and perfectly that it resembles littleRussian nesting dolls. That’s exactly how I felt when I laid my hands on theGSI Dualist cook system two summers ago while perusing REI and wonder-ing how to spend my dividend. Complete with two insulated mugs withlids, two bowls, and a hard-anodized 1.8-liter pot with strainer lid, it is theultimate in lightweight cookware organization. My wife and I even cut outthe set of bowls, use our mugs for both, and are able to fit a fuel canister,lighter, and bottle of Campsuds in with this tight little bundle of goodness.You definitely can’t go wrong with this system, unless you like bulky andheavy, but then you have some other issues that need to be tended to.

Noah Couser

SteriPEN, $50If a pan of water is left out in the sunshine, the UV light will supposedly

sterilize the liquid. This gadget makes me feel as if I have my own portable,non-scorching sun at the ready.

The SteriPEN water filtration system fits into a water bottle and stirsaway viruses, bacteria and protozoa. Always on the prowl for ways to shedweight from my pack, I found the 4-ounce device makes a perfect substitutefor bulkier water filters. To use it, simply stir it in a liter of water and, 90 seconds later, by using UV light, 99.9 percent of the germs you pray you neverget are eliminated. Quick, easy, effective—but admittedly kind of weird. I’mwilling to take a chance, though. My sci-fi toy has found a permanent placeon my pack.

Noël Phillips

Coleman 425 camp stove, $80My Coleman 425 white gas camp stove isn’t the newest, the most

innovative, or the sexiest piece of equipment I own. In fact, the basicdesign is almost 100 years old and the dirty green box always looks likeit came out of an ancient crawl space at a church camp. But it works.Quite well, actually. It’s a robust, elegantly simple design thatinspires me with confidence in the field. Yes, rookies will need a mulligan when lighting it for the first time. On the other hand, it’shard to break, and if it ever does malfunction (mine hasn’t in 20 years), it’sthoroughly user-serviceable. You can come by fuel and spare parts at mosthardware stores. When I head out, I like knowing that it’s going to be harder to find the ripe huckleberries for pancake batter than it will be to heatthe griddle.

Matt Gibson



“I’m gonna try this little hole overhere,” Doug said, pointing at what Ithought was an unimpressive pool. I’d walked only a littlefarther upstream whenI heard him shout,“Damn! I just missedthe biggest fish of thetrip.”

The cutthroats inthe White had moremuted colors than theirSouth Fork relatives.We pulled eight out ofthe water before head-ing back to camp.

At this point it wastempting to take anextra day to hike a fewmiles up the WhiteRiver toward theChinese Wall and floatback down. But ourfriends and relativeswould probably callsearch-and-rescue if wedidn’t return on sched-ule, so we reluctantlyheaded downriver thenext morning.

The scenerychanged. It was stillbeautiful here, but wehad more company.We paddled past out-fitter camps and some enormous raftswith guides who chauffeured clients tofishing holes by day and deluxe campswith catered dinners by night. Oneguide told me his guests spent $40,000for the week.

Another paddler couldn’t believewe’d spent nothing on boat hauling. “Youmean to tell me I paid $1,000 to have mykayak packed in and you guys just hikedyour boats in here in one day?” he said.“I gotta get me one of those!”

We camped our last night across theriver from the Black Bear Ranger Station;the next day we’d reach the take-out atMid Creek, with a few potential troublespots along the way.

The river map showed a big wavetrain at mile 63—we could portagearound it, if need be. And there’d be onelast “big squeeze” just past a sectionwhere Mid Creek enters the South Fork,

less than a mile from the take-out. Iremembered the ranger at Spotted Bearmentioning this feature, but I couldn’tremember exactly what she’d said.

Early the next morning, we easilynavigated the wave train by taking a sidechannel. The only remaining questionwas the big squeeze.

Soon enough we got the answer. Thewalls of the bank shot up in rocky cliffs 35feet high, creating a 20-foot gap of rollingwater. There was no easy way to portage.But we were confident. We had 64 miles ofsuccessful travel under our belts.

“Doug, you want to go first, or me?” Iasked. The three of us sized up the situa-tion from an upstream eddy.

“Doesn’t matter, I don’t think it’ll betoo bad,” Doug said, and casually paddledinto the waves. A moment later all I couldsee was his blue boat bouncing upsidedown in the tumbling water. Megan heldmy boat and I grabbed the throw rope andscrambled up the cliff, only to see Doughelplessly chasing his paddle downstream,one hand still clutching his Alpacka.

When I returned to Megan I expectedto see the same face she’d had at the topof the limestone gorge on Youngs Creek.

“I think we can avoid that big wavethat tossed him if we slide around this

first rock and paddle through the backcurrent. I’ll go first,” she said.

Thrilled to see the transformation inmy wife’s confidence over a few days, Idug in hard after her, and we sailedthrough without a hitch.

We caught up to Doug five minuteslater: He’d managed to drag his boat and

most of his stuff to shore, but he’d lost afly rod, sleeping pad, and paddle.

“It gives me an excuse to buy myself anew rod,” he told us. “That was a helluvaride!”

I towed Doug the last three-quartersof a mile to the take-out. We deflated theboats and hiked the three miles back toour car, something that felt like a stroll.

We’d caught dozens of cutties,watched an osprey feed its young in anest above the river, and found freshbear tracks at one of our fishing holes.We’d taken a swim in a trout-fillededdy and awakened one morning tofind wolf tracks running through camp.So many incredible details made thetrip extraordinary.

“We should do this again sometime,”Megan told me when we reached theparking lot. I was way ahead of her.

“You should see the plans I’ve gotdrawn up for next summer, babe.”

PackraftCONTINUED FROM PAGE 21


Years later, I lived for aspell in Ronan. I have toconfess that the MissionMountains bothered me.Had I not changed at all?I’d ventured away fromMontana, to graduateschool, to the other side ofthe world to learn Chinese,only to return again tosmall-town life, gazing offat potential destinationsinstead of embracing them.

In fact, it was simplerthan that. They were justtoo close. My feng shui wasall fouled up. Those moun-tains formed a big stone wall blocking my view. I felt faintly challenged, but mostly hemmed in. They were in my face.

When I moved to the lowerRattlesnake in Missoula Ithought Mount Jumbo woulddrive me crazy. I still think thaton the endless gray days, but

usually a little mind trick helpsme stay in place. I simplymove the Continental Divide150 miles west and pretendthat it runs down Jumbo’sback. I am a small mammaliansomething or other, maybe amouse, tucked in next to thissleepy circus animal. On theother side there’s a waitingexpanse of wind, cold sun, and

mile-long shadows. I didn’t climb higher

than the “L” for the first 15years of my Rattlesnake residency. Bears roam upthere, that’s a fact. But mainlyI just didn’t want to achievethe peak and see more moun-tains. Then one spring day Icontinued on to the top. Theserviceberry bushes were in full

flower and everyone in townwas at work or in school.Why not?

It was mildly arduous.There were switchbacks. Ihadn’t brought any water.The whole hike, from frontdoor to back porch, onlytook two hours, but I wasimpressed with myself. Ifelt a mini-epiphany, havingto do with my currentcareer path, which wasinspired by children now,my own. I’d suspendedambition for a while. I’d

put the question of destiny onhold. At the grassy crest, I sawmore mountains. But therealso was a “Sound of Music”moment. I actually did sing, Iforget what. I sang for joy andto ward off bears. Predatorsand possibility. Just the ongo-ing drama of life, I thought, asI descended through back-yards to dinner.

The CruxCONTINUED FROM PAGE 62

Chad Harder



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I ’ve hiked from Goat Haunt RangerStation at Waterton Lakes up to theHighline Trail and down a 20-mile

section of the Rocky Mountain spine,the Crown of the Continent, to arrive atLogan Pass sun-stricken, nauseous,dehydrated and delirious. But—untilmuch later—I didn’t feel I’dreally climbed a mountain, notlike anything you’d want tosing about.

That early ’70s Highlinehike felt inconclusive, in termsof conquest. My sister had asummer job as a GlacierNational Park naturalist, butshe was as new to backpack-ing as I, both of us plainsdwellers during all our tender years.We were impressed with ourselves, butalso scared. Park grizzlies had fatallymauled two young women in recenthistory. Every distant boulder on thetreeless path looked like a predator.

We hoped we looked intimidating,burdened as we were with 50-poundpacks. What did we have in there?We’d researched backpacking, we’dread books. Testament to our serious-

ness, we wore enormous boots. Butafter two days of hiking, we wereunder-nourished. Our freeze-dried foodstayed that way because we couldn’tcoax a flame from our nifty stove gadg-et. Our so-called blow-up air mattressesblew. We had lemon drops to stave off

thirst, but it would have been better ifwe’d had water. We wore no sunscreenor hats. (We’d only skimmed thosebooks.) We tried to beg food at GranitePark Chalet and all they gave us wasan Almond Joy. That didn’t mix wellwith the red wine we later drank totoast our twilight descent to HughBlack’s bar and restaurant in St. Mary,courtesy of a hitchhiked ride from thelast car of the day topping Logan Pass.

The next morning found me throwingup under a tree back in Canada, whilemy sister hobbled down a nature trailgiving her spiel about wildflowers tothe day’s first gaggle of tourists.

We weren’t experienced trekkersbecause the mountains of our child-

hood had been kept at a dis-tance. From Cut Bank youcould see the Sweetgrass Hillsacross flat prairie to the east,the Rocky Mountain frontacross flat prairie to the west,Chief Mountain jutting upnorth, a little separate from therest. They stayed there on thehorizon, part earth, part sky,touchstones and Telstars, punc-

tuating the valley floor. They addedinterest to the backdrop of the every-day and served as symbols of aspira-tion. Our Dad rode his horse to theSweetgrass Hills as a boy, but his sto-ries highlighted the going; the saddlingup and heading out, the faster ridehome. The drama of life could encom-pass lower elevations: Climbing sum-mits wasn’t key to life’s thrill.

THE C

RUX

by M

egan M

cNam

er

Climbing pastA rocky start in the mountains leads to a happy ending

Those mountains formed a big stone wall blocking

my view.

Continued on page 60

Chad Harder


What beer do we drink when we’re done making beer?

The one you’re about to enjoy in Shift. Canning this Nelson

Sauvin hopped pale lager means everyone gets to reward their

work. Or play. Or, if you’re like us, combine the two

and surround yourself with drinking buddies. Clock out

and crack one open.

sh ift pale lager is brewed by new belg ium brewing fort coll ins co


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