Montana Headwall

SUMMER 2013

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KING OF THE MOUNTAINHow Conrad Anker stays grounded

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SEPARATION ANXIETYTourniquets and the art of tyin’ one on

ON THE MOVEThe future comes closer on Canyon Peak

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STAFF EXECUTIVE EDITOR Skylar BrowningGENERAL MANAGER Lynne Foland

ASSOCIATE EDITOR Brad TyerPHOTO EDITOR Cathrine L. WaltersADVERTISING SALES MANAGER Carolyn BartlettPRODUCTION DIRECTOR Joe WestonCIRCULATION MANAGER Adrian Vatoussis

CONTRIBUTORS Alex Sakariassen, Lisa Densmore, Jessica Murri, Jason McMackin,Dave Reuss, Matt Holloway, Monica Gokey, Eric Oravsky,

Ari LeVaux, Nadia White, Michael Moore, Chad Harder, Matthew Frank, Robin Carleton, Tom Robertson

COPY EDITOR Brad TyerART DIRECTOR Kou MouaPRODUCTION ASSISTANTS Jenn Stewart, Jonathan MarquisADVERTISING REPRESENTATIVES Tami Allen, Steven Kirst,

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

Please recycle this magazine

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

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Montana Headwall (ISSN 2151-1799) is a registeredtrademark of Independent Publishing, Inc. Copyright2013 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.

Cathrine L. Walters

On Belay

Contributors

Head LinesTour de Tejay van Garderen

Doping crackdown clips XC From rope to rug

Budget woes gone wild

Head LightThe magic hour

Head ShotsOur readers’ best

Wild ThingsSwarm on ice

GrubMan vs. crawdad

Head TripFrom casting aspersions

to just plain casting

Head OutSpring into summer

Head GearEssentials you hope never to use

Ruff and ready: six K-9 must-haves

The CruxDark tide rising

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INSIDE

Cover photo of Conrad Anker by Jimmy Chin

Cathrine L. Walters

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minvited Headwall Photo Editor Chad Harder to my wedding onAug. 8, 2009. I also gave him an urgent assignment that week tomake a climbing trip in the Pipestone area. So climbing he went.

And while I was tying the knot on a perfect sunny Saturday along thebanks of the Clark Fork, Chad was struggling to survive after a mas-sive boulder fell on his right arm, pinching his hand off at the wrist.

The office let a couple of days pass, then called me in the middle ofmy honeymoon. I quickly got Chad on the phone from his hospital bedin Salt Lake City. Given that he had already undergone several surgeriesand been under anesthesia for many, many hours while doctors deli-cately salvaged his hand, he was remarkably lucid, calm and generous.

“I’m going to stay on my honeymoon,” I told him as we woundup our call.

“Good,” he replied.Four years later, Chad recounts the gruesome episode for Headwall

readers (page 28). He’s more at ease with it than I can manage. I couldbarely get through the reading. I groaned out loud, put it down andpaced the room between paragraphs. You’ll probably squirm, too.

Chad’s story reminds us that freak accidents happen and thatchance is a deciding factor in our lives. But it glosses over the after-math of punishing recovery and restoration, and that’s where Chadcame up huge. It takes real strength to overcome a catastrophic injurylike his. The struggle with pain, grief, fear and frustration could breakanybody, and I don’t think it’s possible to skip any of it and get onwith life again. Chad’s mettle has been impressive to behold.

Chad’s all right now. He kept his hand, though he cursed it for along time as it healed. And while it’s not quite as dexterous as it oncewas, Chad gets by quite nicely. Last year, we went backcountry skiingtogether, and he kicked my ass on the way up and again on the waydown. I rarely notice his injury unless he scratches his head. His wristdoesn’t move at all, so his whole arm kind of saws back and forth toachieve the desired effect.

Chad recently decamped to Alaska for even grander adventures inthe mountains. But he and I will be forever bound to that August dayin 2009, the most consequential day of each of our lives. I will proba-bly never celebrate a wedding anniversary without thinking of him,nor publish an issue of Headwall without recalling his part in it.

Matt GibsonEditor-in-chief

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120 Hickory St., Suite BMissoula, MT 59801(406) 549-0755fvlt.org

1705 Bow St. • Missoula, MT 59801549-5283 • sapphirept.com

John Fiore, PT • Rachael Herynk, DPT • Lindsey Flint, DPT

Montana Headwall Summer 2013

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Around these parts, you can’t swing adead cat without hitting a few out-door journalists like Dave Reuss. Hiswork has been featured in Mountain

Gazette, Dead Point Magazine andThe Montana Historian. When notpretending to be the managing editorof Outside Bozeman, his hobbiesinclude playing music and lookingthoughtfully into the distance whilewearing a wetsuit. You can read moreof his work at reusswriting.com.

Nadia White teaches journalism atThe University of Montana. She paddled the Inside Passage alone last summer as part of a 4,000-miletrek by bike, kayak and canoe that followed her great-grandmother’smigration from Oklahoma to theKlondike gold rush. She is currentlyworking on a guide to better adventure writing.

Michael Moore is a rock and iceclimber with more than 25 years ofexperience. He’s a board member ofthe Bitterroot Climbers Coalition andhas recently been part of a smallgroup putting up new climbingroutes in Mill Creek. When he’s notclimbing, he works for United Way of Missoula County.

Ari LeVaux writes Flash in the Pan, anationally syndicated weekly food col-umn. His writing has appeared inOutside, Slate and other regional andnational publications. Wherever he isor whatever he’s doing—usually hunt-ing, gardening, gathering or cook-ing—rest assured that his mind is onhis belly and his belly is on his mind.

DaveReuss

NadiaWhite

MichaelMoore

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It’s been quite a year for formerMontana resident Tejay van Garderen. Itstarted when the 22-year-old profession-al cyclist finished fifth in the 2012 Tourde France and earned the Best YoungRider Classification, or rookie of theyear. It continued into early 2013 with afourth-place finish in the Paris-Nicestage race and a first place in the youngriders division of France’s CriteriumInternational. Then, after completing theApril Tour of the Basque Country inSpain, van Garderen received a call fromhis wife, Jessica, that she was going intolabor three weeks early with their first

child. Within hours, van Garderen wason a plane so he could join Jessica in thedelivery room to welcome their daugh-ter, Rylan.

Now, van Garderen,who grew up in Bozemanand moved to Missoulawhen he was 14, is looking to build on hisrecent successes with aslate of major summerraces. He has specificallytargeted the USA ProChallenge in August,where he finished

second last year, and the Tour de France in July, where he’ll be a co-leader for the BMC RacingTeam.

Van Garderen doesn’make it back to Montanaoften—his off-season homeis in Italy—but he creditshis time in Big Sky Countryfor helping to launch hiscareer. We recently caught upwith van Garderen to ask abouthis favorite training routes inMontana.

Tom Robertson


TOUR DE TEJAY

Cycling’s best young rider reveals his favorite Montana routes

Tejay van Garderen became the third American to win the Tour De France Best Young RiderClassification, following Greg LeMond in 1984 and Andrew Hampsten in 1986.

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“In Bozeman, the Battle RidgeRoad was one of my favorite trainingrides,” van Garderen says. “I justremember it being super epic for my13-year-old self. It was one of thoserides I would brag, ‘I went all the wayto Battle Ridge today.’ When I was atthe top it gave me a reason to thumpmy chest a bit. That, and it was beautiful country.”

BATTLE RIDGE ROAD,BOZEMAN

This 70-mile loop can start in downtown Bozeman or at the baseof Bridger Bowl Ski Area, and gains4,000 feet of elevation in BridgerCanyon.

PATTEE CANYON, MISSOULA

The Missoula Bike Club has hosted theWestern Montana Hill Climb every fallsince 1977. Van Garderen is a two-timeoverall winner and holds the record inthe 15-17 age group with a time of 13:09.

“Pattee Canyon was cool becausethere was a time trial there everyfall,” he says. “I remember doingtraining rides, gauging my time off ofall the previous times in the race’s history. I would always race myself up. I spent a lot of time training on thatclimb, riding it multiple times a dayon many occasions.” Kristof Ramon

HEAD ONLINE

Only at

Snow found at Lost RiverRegular online contributor John Lehrman finds sunshine and late-season snow in centralIdaho, and writes about it in our Head Out section. The trip includes a stop at Stanley’snatural hot springs, hiking past Little Redfish Lake, Redfish Lake and the five BenchLakes, and backcountry runs on Mount Heyburn, Borah Peak and the Lost River Range.

Who is Hank Patterson? Jessica Murri tracked down the fly-fishing expert and YouTube sensation during his appearance at the Down the Hatch Fly Fishing Film Festival in Missoula. Her audiostory—also found in the Head Out section—introduces Patterson, his popular onlinevideos (more than 300,000 views) and the angler’s keen sense of humor.

Keep up at Kootenai CreekCasey Greene uploaded a short video to our Head Out section capturing a hike along oneof the Bitterroot’s most popular trails. Make sure to watch past the credits for the blooperreel and one unfortunate tumble.

PLUS: • Planning a summer trip? Explore Headwall’s exclusive database for more than 600

detailed descriptions and reviews of parks, peaks, resorts and more.

• Don’t condemn your killer shots to anonymity in hard-drive purgatory. Share your bestimages in our Head Shots slideshow with a chance for publication in our next issue.

• Like us on Facebook to keep track of the latest news, condition reports and exclusiveHeadwall contests.

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John Lehrman

Jedediah Hohf


USA Cycling recently rolled out its newRaceClean program, a ramped-up drug test-ing effort intended to stamp out the blooddoping that’s rocked the sport. It means thatbefore the elite-level mountain bikers line upto race in the third annual HammerNutrition Missoula XC at Marshall Mountainon June 22, there’s a chance they’ll be testedfor doping.

Phil Grove, of Whitefish, will be one ofthe competitors at Marshall Mountain. He’s

a “professional” mountain biker, but he putsthe title in quotes because, even though hecompetes in a couple dozen events eachyear, he can’t make a living off of mountainbiking alone. Few do. With such paltry winnings compared to those at larger road-racing events, he says, there’s minimalincentive for riders to artificially boost theiroxygen-carrying red blood cell counts.

“I don’t really see why this large dop-ing-control effort needs to be in place at anevent that everyone more or less is justdoing for fun,” says Grove, who works for asports nutrition company. He thinks USACycling’s dictate shows that it’s “maybe alittle out of touch with the realities of moun-tain bikers in the U.S.”

The initiative is perhaps out of touchwith the realities of race organizers, too. USACycling is passing drug-testing costs onto the

events themselves. Ben Horan, the MissoulaXC director, says it costs upwards of $3,500to test at a race, which will be chosen at ran-dom with perhaps a day’s notice. Instead offorcing promoters to play drug-testingroulette and sticking as many as a third ofthe events with the full cost of cover testing,all races in the series are splitting it, meaningMissoula XC will pay at least $1,200.

“It makes everything cost more for all ofthe promoters in an industry [in which] it’salready pretty difficult to make ends meet,”Horan says.

Not that Horan’s against testing. Hesays doping happens at all levels of cycling.“It’s a real problem,” he says. “I don’t knowthat it’s quite as endemic in cycling relativeto other professional sports as it sometimesgets credit for, but it’s definitively some-thing we take seriously.”

“If we’re footing the bill,” he adds,“we’d like to see those guys come and testour event. But we’ll see [a day or twobefore] if that’s going to happen.”

This year’s Missoula event kicks offwith the inaugural Summer Solstice ShortTrack race on June 21. The HammerNutrition XC, featuring top professional rid-ers from the U.S. and Canada, takes placeJune 22. The weekend concludes with theHair of the Dog Super D, a chairlift-accesseddownhill race at Montana Snowbowl, onJune 23.

Matthew Frank

CLEAN RIDE

Doping crackdown clips Missoula XC

U.S. Olympian and Missoula native Sam Schultz, pictured, has won the Hammer Nutrition Missoula XC at Marshall Mountain each of its first two years.

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Chad Harder


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1. Wash and dry entire climbing rope. Youmay use any length or diameter rope youchoose. The diameter and length will ulti-mately affect the size of your finished rug.

2. In order to get a tight roll at the center of the rug, use the utility knife to slide thecore out of the sheath and cut out some ofthe core at the end of the rope.

3. Work theremaining coreback into thesheath makingsure to have atleast a few inch-es of corelessrope at the end.

4. Burn the tip of the rope with a lighter toprevent fraying.

5. Drive a finishing nail through the coreless end of the rope to attach it to the center of your plywood.

6. Carefully spiral the rope snugly arounditself starting with the coreless end of therope. In order to keep the spiral tight, peri-odically usea finishingnail to keepthe rope inplace.

7. Whenyou have

reached the end of the rope, use one lastfinishing nail to keep the rug from unravel-ing.

8. Take all of thefinishing nails outexcept the nail inthe center and theend of the rope.

9. Using the caulkgun, apply caulk on the exposed side of therug. Spread the caulk with latex gloves. Letit dry for 24 hours.

10. Take out the last two finishing nailsand systematically tape the entire caulked side of your rug.

11. Flip the rug over. Your rug is finished!

Instructions and photos byRobin Carleton

ITEMS REQUIRED:- Old climbing rope- A handful of finishing nails and a hammer- 2 tubes of caulk and a caulk gun

- Piece of scrap plywood- Duct tape- Disposable latex gloves- Utility knife

UPCYCLE

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Folks seeking the usual summerescape in Montana’s national parks maynote a few changes this year. Longer linesat check stations, reduced availability ofcampsites, delayed response times toemergency calls—Glacier and Yellowstonealike have tightened their belts in responseto the federal sequester. Panic struck thisspring when the parks announced plans todelay their respective openings by twoweeks to reduce the cost of plowing roads.That initial scare proved premature, andthe parks have opened on schedule. Butplowing was just the tip of the budgetaryiceberg, and for now visitors will have togrit their teeth and bear it.

“We’re just acknowledging that with asomewhat smaller staff but the samenumber of visitors, that’s going to presentsome challenges,” says YellowstoneNational Parks spokesman Al Nash.

Among the challenged are staff-ledprograms. Glacier saw its budget reducedby nearly $700,000 this year, promptingthe park to hire fewer staff for the sum-mer season. Park officials issued a state-ment in March saying the availability andfrequency of ranger-led hikes and educa-tional programming will decrease notice-

ably as a result. The story is no differentdown in Yellowstone, which saw itsbudget cut by nearly $1.3 million. Nashexpects the diminishment of staff-ledactivities won’t impact first-time visitorsas much as repeat visitors, who tend toutilize park programming to “enhancetheir experience and understanding.”

More adventurous outdoors enthusi-asts seeking a backcountry escape inYellowstone’s Hellroaring Creek Area or

Glacier’s Belly River will likely experiencerougher roads and tougher trails this sum-mer. Glacier has already cautioned recre-ationists that trail access will be delayedby up to two weeks this year, and thereduction in seasonal staff will prompt adecrease in trail maintenance. Glacier’sbackcountry volunteer coordinator posi-tion has also been scaled back, meaninghikers will likely see fewer volunteerpatrols and reduced services at backcoun-try campsites. Park Superintendent KymHall says road-maintenance patching andgrading will be reduced as well.

Developed campgrounds and visitor cen-ters will open later and close earlier.

Backcountry campers should take par-ticular note of one sequester impact: fewerpersonnel will likely mean delayedresponse to emergency calls. Nash cautionsvisitors to Yellowstone—and any nationalpark, for that matter—that self-sufficiencymay be more a necessity than in years past.“Because of the size and scope of this park,and the distances between locations, we

recognize and we encourage visitors to rec-ognize the wild nature of Yellowstone,even if they’re along a roadway,” Nashsays. “They need to first and foremost beresponsible for their own wellbeing.”

Nash knows that “anybody who’sinto serious recreation in this region” iswell versed in the risks of Montana’s wildplaces. But at all levels, from first-timersto veterans, visitors need to recognize thesigns of hard times.

“We’re trying to make them as unob-trusive as possible,” Nash says.

Alex Sakariassen

CLEAR CUTS

Budget woes gone wild

The National Parks Service estimates 1.85 million people visited Glacier in 2011, spending roughly $98 million.In 2012, the number of visitors increased to more than 2.1 million.

Chad Harder

The climbing gear is sorted and packed, and Conrad Ankeremerges from his basement gear room with Hyalite Canyonon his mind. He’s handled his morning business—a chatwith National Geographic, a magazine interview and a

quick reschedule for a business meeting. Now, he’s ready to get out. “What are you thinking for the day?” says his wife, Jenni, as

Conrad cinches up his pack.

“Well, we’re going to shoot some pictures and climb some ice,”he says. “I’ll see you at sunset.”

The last line is not just something a husband tells his wife. ForConrad and Jenni, it’s a pledge forged through a tragedy that recon-figured both of their lives. He says something to this effect everytime he leaves for a climb.

After 25 years in the sport, Anker has become one of alpinism’sbiggest stars. His record of hard ascents on icy mountains and rockfaces around the world puts him among the world’s elite. He cap-tains the North Face company’s climbing team. Last spring theBozeman resident summited Mount Everest without oxygen whileassisting a group of Montana State University researchers. It was histhird time reaching the highest point on earth.

Yet for all his accomplishment and stature, Anker is still boundto a single day in 1999 when the course of his and Jenni’s lives dra-matically changed. What happened that day is why he never leaveshome without telling her when to expect his return.

Conrad Anker, now 50, is paid to climb, paid to be one of thefaces of the North Face brand. In other words, he is paid to be

seen, preferably on the most scenic, radical terrain possible. “What I do is sports marketing, and I guess I see myself as a

brand compass,” he says. “That involves making sure The NorthFace is visible, is respected, and is a good citizen. Job one, though, ismaking sure the company is visible in the media.”

That means numerous appearances, countless interviews, andjuggling a schedule so Byzantine that he has a Bozeman assistantwho refers to herself as “Girl Friday.”

It also means climbing big routes—the kind that get covered inmagazines and on film.

“Part of the way I am paid is by exposure in the media,” he says.“I don’t have a problem with that, in part because it’s good for thecompany, but also because I want what we do to be out there. I wantpeople to think about the exploration aspect of what we do. I wantto inspire people to challenge themselves.”

Though some climbers grouse about the effects of money on thesport, Anker says the concern is misplaced, at least at The North Face.

“Our athletes, it’s up to them what to do,” he says. “It’s a prettyorganic thing. What do you want to go do? We never say go do thisor that.”

Some have argued that money has influenced climbers to makechoices they wouldn’t otherwise make, to climb routes that involveoutsized risk designed to garner maximum media.

Jimmy Chin

“What people don’t understand isthat climbers understand risk in a waythat many people don’t,” Anker says.“It’s true, I think, there are some people involved in all sorts of riskyprofessions who aren’t good at assessing risk. Those professions weed those people out, whether it’sfirefighting, police work or climbing. I know the people on the North Faceteam, and I don’t think any of themdon’t think about coming home at theend of the day. I know I do.”

One of Anker’s signal achievementsbears witness to that statement.

The Shark’s Fin on Mount Meru haslong been one of alpinism’s holy grails.Located in the Garhwal Himalaya ofIndia, Meru marks the mythic center ofthe universe, according to Hindu andBuddhist traditions. The faithful believethe body of God twined itself with thebody of the land at Meru, thus linkingthe physical and spiritual worlds.

The fin, a startling, iconic spire,became the focus of Anker’s climbinguniverse by way of his mentor, MugsStump, who was twice rebuffed by the“sharp blade of stone.” Anker, too, wasturned back in 2003 and 2008.

“Maybe we weren’t deserving ofgoing to the center of the universe,”Anker said after the 2008 attempt.

Part of the dynamic that ended the2008 effort with Jimmy Chin and RenanOzturk was Anker’s promise to his fami-ly in Bozeman. He wrote after the tripthat there are more important thingsthan reaching every summit.

“It felt fitting that the upper worldwas unattainable. Perhaps our goal hadbeen another form of Western hubris,” hewrote in the spring 2012 edition ofAlpinist. “And yet I felt good about theattempt; we’d gotten so close, no onewas hurt, and I’d returned to my family.We’d played on the mountain’s terms,and the mountain had won.”

Anker had plenty of other objectivesin the great ranges, but Meru lingered.As much as he convinced himself thathis decision to turn around was theright thing to do, a part of him couldn’tlet it go.

It was sort of like the sports car thatyou don’t really need,” he says. “Itwasn’t something I had to do, but itwas there all the same. We’d been soclose and the fact is, it was stillunclimbed.”

When he announced to Jenni that hewanted to try again, her response wasunderstandable. “What is the sense ingoing back?” she asked.

Anker’s answer perhaps resonatesonly with climbers and other explorers.

“I still had to finish Mugs’ dream forhim, even if I didn’t understand why,”he wrote in Alpinist. “I tried to justify thehazards in the same arrogant way I hadfor 20 years. With proper planning, Ithought, we will avoid risk. Fear anddoubt awakened me late at night. All myrationalizing was bullshit. It was danger-ous and selfish to go to Meru.”

In 2011, Anker, Chin and Ozturkreturned. And on their 11th day of climb-ing, the trio stood poised below the lastpitch.

“You need to take this pitch, this isyour dream climb,” Chin said to Anker.“No, you take it,” Anker responded.

“The Shark’s Fin had been Mugs’dream and then, for a while, mine,”Anker wrote in Alpinist. “… It wasalready time to pass on that metaphysicalball of knowledge to someone younger.”

“I want to go last,” Anker told Chin.And he did. Then he went home to

Jenni and the boys.

Jimmy ChinPortaledge camp at 20,000 feet in the Garhwal Himalaya

Anker didn’t always think first aboutreturning home. When he was first

starting his climbing career, it was moreimportant to push himself and establishhis place in the sport.

In 1999, Anker set out forShishapangma in Tibet with his bestfriend, Alex Lowe. The trip would markthe first time Americans skied off thesummit of an 8,000-meter—26,000-foot—peak, and would further cement Lowe’sstatus as the world’s best all-aroundclimber.

The crew expected October 5, 1999, tobe an easy day. Anker, Lowe, photogra-pher David Bridges and the rest of theteam planned on adjusting to the altitudebefore climbing the world’s 14th-highestmountain.

“This was a rest day and we werejust trying to acclimatize, just doingsome walking on the mountain,” Ankersays. “In hindsight, it was obvious theplace was an avalanche runout zone, butwe weren’t on high alert.”

About 6,000 feet above where Anker,Lowe and Bridges were walking, a seraccut loose, triggering a slide that at firstseemed distant and nonthreatening. Butas the avalanche picked up speed andvolume, the men scrambled for cover.Bridges and Lowe went one direction,Anker another.

“They went downhill and I went lat-erally,” he says. “I saw them in one placeand then I laid down and saw them inanother. And then they were gone.”

Anker, then 36, was hammered bythe slide’s windblast and thrown 100feet, suffering broken ribs, a dislocatedshoulder and cuts to the head.

The rest of the team was elsewherewhen the slide occurred, but soon joinedAnker in a futile search. Lowe andBridges were gone without a trace.

Anker had never lost a partner untilShishapangma.

“This was something new for me, acatastrophe in the mountains that hit medirectly,” he says. “Mugs had died, ofcourse, on Denali, but I was in Zion, so itwas different. I think when we’re in our20s and 30s, death hits us harder. WhereI am now, I know we all die, that we’reall finite. But then, I was just crushed.”

Anker suffered survivor’s guilt, recy-cling the capricious equation that lefthim alive and his friends dead.

“Classic stuff: Why him? Why notme? What about his family?” he says.

Jimmy Chin

Yogesh Simpson

Yogesh Simpson

Ice climbing in Hyalite Canyon

The gear room

After being turned back in 2003 and 2008, Anker successfully climbed the Shark’s Fin in 2011.

Anker had climbed with Lowe since1990, when Lowe worked for BlackDiamond and Anker worked for TheNorth Face.

“He’d moved to Salt Lake fromVentura and we just immediately hit itoff,” Anker says. “We had the samedrive, same motivation. We were a solidpartnership. He was stronger than me,but he was stronger than everybody.”

Anker eventually brought Lowe ontothe North Face team. They were pioneersin the early days of “professional” climb-ing. They climbed in Kyrgyzstan,Kazakhstan and Alaska, doing rescuework on Denali, North America’s highestpeak. Over those years, Anker got toknow Lowe’s family, including his wifeJenni and three boys—Max, Sam andIsaac. In fact, Anker was present whentwo of the boys were born.

After his climbing partner’s death, hereached out to Jenni.

“I was struggling, and I spent a lot oftime talking to Jenni on the phone aboutwhat had happened and what wouldcome next for all of us,” Anker says.

Slowly, organically, Anker and JenniLowe fell in love. The relationshipsparked considerable discussion in theclimbing community.

“It’s not something where I asked myself directly whether it was the right thing or weighed the pros and cons,” he says. “It came from the heart and was very natural.Jenni embraced it and the boys werevery much into it.”

In 2001, Anker and Lowe married,and Anker adopted the Lowe boys, whowere then 10, 7 and 3.

“The boys and I have had a greatrelationship, and I’m honored to havethe chance to play a role in their lives,”he says. “Sometimes the loss manifestsitself in ways I don’t understand, but we

move through it. I think they’re more atpeace with me than some of the kids I’veseen in families that have been divorcedand remarried.”

Anker understands why some ques-tioned the relationship, and he nevershied from answering those who both-ered to ask.

“I think my friends and family werealways supportive, but some peoplethought Jenni didn’t need anotherclimber in her life,” Anker says. “Iunderstand why they might feel thatway. But I always tell people, if you’vegot a question, here’s my phone number.Call me and we’ll talk. This is a happyunion, a real life where we deal with allthings that everybody deals with.”

Esquire magazine is perhaps a curiousplace for Anker to show up, but there

he is, No. 7 in the magazine’s online listof the 50 “greatest athletes currently inaction.”

“If you haven’t heard of ConradAnker, you should have,” wrote GarthSundem last year. “He’s a badass and aheck of a nice guy … Though he can’t

compete with the renown of a LeBron, hisratio of good fame to bad fame lines upjust right.”

Anker is the top mountain athlete onthe list; fellow North Face climber AlexHonnold clocks in at No. 12 and skierLindsey Vonn sets up at No. 15.

The list, of course, is skewed bynumerous biases, but a couple of thingsabout it are interesting. First, one of themetrics is the difficulty of the sport, inwhich climbing ranks fifth, behind moretraditional sports such as boxing and icehockey but far ahead of others, such asdistance running and golf. Second, therankings include ratings for things likephilanthropy and character, or failures ofcharacter, like Tiger Woods’ philanderingand Lance Armstrong’s doping.

“The whole thing made me laugh a lit-tle bit, but it’s also nice to see recognitionof climbing as a difficult sport,” saysAnker, who found it amusing to be rankedabove a household name like TigerWoods. “Our sport has a lot of inherentdifficulties, and it has some inherent risksthat most other sports don’t have. Iwouldn’t make too much of it, but it’s niceto see climbers be part of the discussion.”

Anker with Jenni and the boys, Isaac, Sam and Max, as well as their two dogs, Happyand Leroy

“I do take fewer risks these days,

but it’s important to understand that

I’m a professional climber.”

Yogesh Simpson

Yogesh Simpson


The sport has come a long way sinceAnker was first introduced to it. He grewup near the mountains of centralCalifornia and his father was a “back-country enthusiast” who instilled loveand respect for wild country.

“We were in Tuolumne County, whichserved as a gateway to the backcountryin the same way [Bozeman] serves as agateway to the Yellowstone country,” hesays. “That was our existence, and wewere always going off into the backcoun-try with burros and donkeys for fishingand peak bagging. Some of my mostformative memories are from those times,and I just remember thinking how badassmy dad and his friends were.”

To this day Anker still has a pair ofhulking leather boots owned by one ofhis father’s friends. “That’s a formativetime, and I was fortunate enough to growup in a house where family was respect-ed and where my parents nurtured thislove for the outdoors,” he says.

That love eventually sent Anker tocollege at the University of Utah in SaltLake City, where he studied commercialrecreation and began working for TheNorth Face in 1981.

The legendary Stump would occa-sionally cruise into the store whereAnker worked to buy a block of chalkand would soon be telling stories aboutepic climbs around the world. The beststories were always of summits thatdenied him. Those stories would eventu-ally include the Shark’s Fin.

“To me, Mugs was a seer,” Anker

wrote in Alpinist. “He used big, hardroutes to try to cross into that ideal spacewhere you climb without consciousthought and imagine an unlimited reali-ty. I wanted to experience what he did.And then, that one day, he asked me togo climbing. That was it.”

On one of the last days of Bozeman’sice-climbing season, Anker heads to

Hyalite Canyon with a group of friendsand newcomers. Like some emissary ofgoodwill, he makes his way around the so-called Genesis area, greeting one and all asif he were running for political office.

He’s not, although Anker is intenselyinvolved in both the local and world-wide climbing communities (see side-

bar). This is just how Anker carries him-self, especially when he’s climbing.

“We have to realize how lucky we areto be here,” he says after lending his icetools to a novice climber from Butte.“You have to be ready to get all the joyyou can get out of these days. That’s partof what we’re doing here.”

The statement sounds a lot like some-thing Alex Lowe used to say: “The bestclimber is the one having the most fun.”

The one having the most fun on thisparticular day is a 20-year-old namedLuke, who is new to ice climbing. He’sclimbing with old, heavy ice axes. Lukehimself is a bit heavy, as well. But he does-n’t care. He’s climbing ice and he seems tobe loving every minute of the experience.

BORN: November 27, 1962

NICKNAME: Radster

RESIDENCE: Bozeman

FIVE NOTABLE CLIMBS: First ascent, with Mugs Stump, of “Streaked Wall” in Zion National Park(1990); first ascent of the southwest face of Latok II, Pakistan (1997); Mount Everest research expedition

to seek answers to the disappearances of George Mallory and Sandy Irvine (1999); three new routesto Vinson Massif, Antarctica (2000-01); first ascent of Shark’s Fin on Meru Peak, Himalaya (2011).

FIVE BUCKET-LIST CLIMBS: Southeastern ridge of Annapurna, Himalaya; NamelessPeak, Himalaya; the Matterhorn, Swiss Alps; Mount Robson, Canadian Rockies; Mount

McKinley, Alaska, with son Max.

CIVIC GOOD IN BOZEMAN: Affiliated with the Bozeman Boulders Initiative,which funds and builds realistic climbing boulders in local parks and open spaces;and fundraiser for the Bozeman Ice Tower, a premier climbing facility and concertvenue that would be built on the Gallatin County Fairgrounds.

INTERNATIONAL OUTREACH: Board member of The Alex Lowe CharitableFoundation and the affiliated Khumbu Climbing School in Nepal; board member of the

Conservation Alliance; and board member of the Rowell Fund for Tibet.

CREED: be good. be kind. be happy.

Continued on page 58

Yogesh SimpsonA shrine to Alex Lowe inside Anker’s gear room in Bozeman

Yogesh Simpson

by C

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It’s late in the day and the sunis setting. As you look to yourfriend after a long day on the

trail you notice a beautifully col-ored sky behind him. He’sengulfed in brilliant light andappears featureless, but you knowhe’s smiling back. Wanting to doc-ument this spectacular contrast,you grab your camera, point, and pull the trigger. Your flashfires to fill in the shadows andruins the shot.

What happened? Your camera metered its

exposure on your friend, not onthe brilliant sky. Shooting in suchlimited ambient light can be frustrating, but learning to createphotographic silhouettes will addan entirely different mood to your photos.

To create a successful“shadow portrait” youneed to consider three keyelements: subject, separation and backlight.When photographing asilhouette, all surface fea-tures will be lost and thesubject will appear blackand one-dimensional, soit’s important to frame the shot on something the human eye can easilyrecognize. Think of trees,mountains, bicycles, ani-mals and, of course, people.

In order to make clearthat your subject is, say, amountain biker on ahillside and not an

elephant in a tar pit, you or yoursubject will have to move to anappropriate vantage point.Typically, this means getting lowand shooting up, framing themountain biker against a brightsky. This ensures that you get thebest outline and create separationbetween the biker and his sur-roundings.

Most automatic digital cam-eras determine the exposure andfocus of a shot when the shutterbutton is pressed halfway down.In silhouetting situations, if youfollow through and press the but-ton all the way, the flash will fire.The trick is to fool the camera by

pointing it towardthe sky with the shut-ter button pressed halfwaydown. Now, still holding theshutter button halfway, re-frame the shot onto yoursubject and press thebutton all the way.

Shooters with a little more experiencemay prefer to use thecamera’s manualsetting. Onceyou’ve masteredstill subjects, trymoving targets. Thistakes a little more skillto get proper focus,but can result in evenmore dynamic images.There are worse thingsto do with your timethan spending magichours in search of a perfectshadow.

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Paul Roys captures a self portrait while gliding toward Mount Sentinel in Missoula. µGoPro, 5mm, 1/800, f /3.6, ISO 100

Montana Headwall Spring 2012

A mountain goat stands among wildflowers in GlacierNational Park. µCanon D20, 300mm, 1/250, f /5.6, ISO 100

Staring up at aspens at Maclay Flats in Missoula.µNikon D300, 24mm, 1/3200, f /2.8, ISO 200

Eric Berkner

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Marisa White takes a leisurely ride through the hills north of Missoula. µNikon D5000, 35mm, 1/125, f /16, ISO 250

Marisa White

Benjamin Polley

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Benjamin Polley captures a beautiful sunset from the Prairie Reef Fire Lookout, located in the Bob Marshall Wilderness.µCanon G1x, 15mm, 1/40, f /5.6, ISO 200


The hand was still attached, butjust barely. It dangled near my elbow.Between it and me was an exposedmess of shattered bones, grated skinand severed sinew. The open end ofan artery was pumping wildly, paint-ing arm and granite in a warm red.The bright ivory bonefragments and man-gled innards lookedlike a deer leg thathad been blown apartby a bullet. Thewound had an inoffensive, almostcoppery odor, likedamp meat or blood. I imagined my deer-butchering daysmight be over.

My partner, KaraMcMahon, appearedfrom behind me, fright-ened but poised to help.It took only seconds toagree the hand was lost. It required noimagination to see my arm now ending ina stub. We turned our focus to saving therest of me. As far as we could figure thatmeant stopping the bleeding.

Kara pulled the climbing rack frommy pack, unclipped a 24-inch sling ofwebbing, and doubled it up. To get theloops around my wrist I grabbed the limp hand with my good one and liftedit. Bone shards caught and clicked in the

joint, but the pain felt distant. The jointwas in the wrong place and the hand,heavy and stiff, did not feel like mine, oreven alive.

The sling positioned, Kara steppedacross and straddled me. She removedher cotton T-shirt to use as a bandage.The morning sun shone on her skin, back-

lighting her like an angel. I quipped thatthe real tragedy was that she didn’t ripher shirt off while straddling me moreoften.

Two friends—John Adams and JesseFroehling—arrived horrified, and offeredto do whatever they could. John gotthrough to 911 immediately. An ambu-lance would be at the trailhead in an houror so, but that seemed a long ways off.We had much to do before then, not the

least of which was getting me—thebiggest guy in the group—to the road.

This would be a first tourniquet for allof us. Kara hardened herself, grabbed astick, inserted the lever through the loopsof webbing and twisted. The strapsnugged against my forearm about twoinches upstream of the wound. I breathed

deeply, realizing that wewere choosing the termi-nus of my new arm.

“Ready?” Kara’s facewas inches from mine. Shewas about to finish off myhand with a tourniquet, athing neither of us hadever considered. I nodded,slowed my breathing, andpositioned my hand backwhere it had always been.The wrist gurgled andclicked. I looked directlythrough a void that hadrecently been my wrist.

The tourniquet duginto my forearm. Kararepositioned for leverage,

then twisted until the spurting stopped.She went a few turns more, then pressedthe stick against my forearm and tied ittightly in place.

Sitting there, propped against mypack, I wanted to help, but I was at a loss.Most pressing now was the walk out. Theidea of getting to the rig with this now-extraneous appendage flopping at theend of my arm was freaking me outenough that I considered yanking it off

“I think I need a tourniquet.”I heard my mouth issue the unlikely phrase calmly, like asking for a glass of water. I’d

been climbing, and just fallen a dozen feet. A boulder the size of a refrigerator fell with me. It stopped moving right between my knees. I was dazed, sore, and I couldn’t move my neck,but mostly I was grimly aware that my right hand was no longer on the end of my arm.

Spire Rock near Butte Chad Harder

Kara McMahon

entirely, removing it like a bracelet. Ithought I might just pull it off, slip it inmy pocket, and carry it out. Why not?What was the better option?

I forced myself to inspect the woundmore closely. All the back-of-hand ten-dons were severed. So was at least oneartery. The nerve situation was unknownbut I couldn’t feel anything past the pinchpoint. No bones or connective tissuesseemed to bridge the gap. The skin of mywrist looked like perforated tissue paper.The hand might release with a reasonableyank. One bundle of abraded tendonsremained intact on the inside of my wrist.The “flexors,” I’d learn later. Havingbutchered dozens of deer and elk, I havesome understanding of tendon strength.Without a knife, the effort would be hero-ic, if not futile. I was vaguely aware that aseries of aggressive but unsuccessful tugswould be hard to erase from my memory.

But walking out with adangling hand was equallyunappealing. Jesse found anearby juniper branch and Iused my left hand to press thefingers of the unfeeling righthand into a fist around it. Thepale fingers stayed where Iput them. Jesse wrapped itwith Kara’s T-shirt and held it snug with webbing. Thewhole mess would be heldrigidly in place and not flop about.

This took maybe 10 min-utes, and I hadn’t moved aninch from where I’d landed.Kara insisted that I sit tight until she’dchecked out my spine and palpated mefor less obvious injuries. She’ll say any-thing to get a piece of me.

•••Kara pinched my toes and poked

every inch of my body. All seemed fineuntil, probing near my knee,her thumb pressedinto somethingshe called“squishy.” Thathidden 3-inch gashwould eventuallytake several layers ofstitches to close, but Ihadn’t noticed it. Karawas now even moresuspicious about myability to assess my ownspine, and she suggested

we wait forthe medics.

But thishell wasstarting to getto me, and Iwas ready toget off the rockand to the hospi-tal. My neck wasstiff but didn’t seembroken, so with myfriends’ help I struggledto my feet, only to find my knees and feet toobanged-up to stand, let alonewalk. The terrain didn’t permit aside-by-side carry, so I started scootingdownhill in one-handed crab-style. Thetruck wasjust a quarter-mile away, but that seemedterribly far.

I don’t recall hearing ATVs, but Johntracked down a rider (I didn’t catch yourname, but I still owe you a beer!) whocame over immediately and gave me aride to the road. We pulled injust as the ambulance

arrived—an ambulance carrying no painmeds. Too much risk of getting them

stolen they explained as I finallylet myself lose it, writhing andcomplaining on the gurney butthankful to be hospital-bound.

Less than an hour later, nurs-es at the St. James Hospital’semergency room in Butte inject-ed me with some forget-about-itcocktail. A kindly doc chatted meup while unwrapping the mess.

“What are we looking athere?” he asked, maybe of Kara,maybe of me.

“Well, my hand was sortapinched off by a falling boulder.It’s pretty ugly.”

“Oh yeah? What do youthink is going to happen?”

Kara McMahon

Kara McMahon

He carefully deconstructed our makeshift splint, revealing my wrong-colored and disjointed hand from thedirty, crusty mess.

The purplish-yellow color was difficult to swallow. “I think it’s donefor,” I said.

“Done for?” The doc leaned close tomy face.

“We don’t do amputations,” he said.His matter-of-factness was so confi-

dent I believed him. But I knew that thetourniquet had been constricting blood-flow for an hour. And with my hand andwrist resting on blue surgical pads, Icould clearly see more space than wristseparating the two. But it was the rightthing to say, an invigorating and empow-ering last thing to hear before passing out.

•••I woke dazed. Doctors were talking to

Kara. I was wearing nothing but a gown.A bandage extended from above my elbowto well beyond where my fingers shouldhave been. A clue my hand was still inthere? It was all held in place by a bright-yellow foam brace full of holes. It lookedlike what a Cheesehead might put on hishead for a Packers game. The ER staff saidthey’d heard that before, and let me know Iwould soon be flying.

An ambulance zipped me to a LifeFlight airplane for an immediate flight tothe hospital at Utah State University. The

plane was refueling when we got thereand the ambulance had other broken peo-ple to go deal with. They pulled me outand collapsed my gurney directly on thehot black tarmac. The ambulance sped

away and even though I was left just inch-es off the ground I recall good views of theBerkeley Pit and Our Lady of the Rockies.Flight nurses stood nearby, dressed likeTop Gun pilots and chatting, exuding calmconfidence as they waited for the plane. Aslight wind licked at my gown, and Imight have felt sexy if it hadn’t been forthat Cheesehead thing on my arm. I askedfor more pain meds and wondered whatthings might look like under this bandage,and what would happen next.

•••A lot had occurred since we’d arrived

to climb at Spire Rock just a few hoursbefore. Spire is one of countless piles ofgiant granite boulders rising out of thehigh desert of Homestake Pass, the routeby which Interstate 90 crosses theContinental Divide a dozen miles south-east of Butte. The rounded formations arepart of the Boulder Batholith, an unmis-takeable granite formation visible fromthe highway. The hard, clean, quartzmonzonite has long served as a magnetfor rock climbers.

But while dozens of establishedclimbing routes make it a prominentcragging destination, it’s the uncom-monly dry and warm microclimate thatdraws the masses during the shoulderseasons of spring and fall. WhenMissoula is wet, or still coming out ofwinter hibernation, the crags at SpireRock are frequently dry, sun-baked and inviting.

After a quick and greasy breakfast atButte’s M&M Bar, we’d arrived rackedand ready, angling for mid-level sportroutes up the west face. There’s no singleapproach trail, just incipient paths weaving through sagebrush, juniper and boulder piles before converging atthe saddle separating Spire Rock’s twoprominent towers, The Queen and TheKing. We spread out and took our ownroutes up, choosing whatever level of

challenge we wanted aswe went. I foundmyself farther left thanthe others and confront-ed with a choice ofscrambling throughspiny vegetation to theright or a balanceyboulder problem to theleft. I chose left. It wasshort, just a delicate,gently overhung step-across thatrequired an under-clingto accomplish eight feetof traverse. I was feel-ing strong and eagerand got right to it.

I pounded the rockwith my palm a fewtimes to determine itssoundness. It rang a bithollow, but felt rigid, so Icalled it good. I reachedbeneath, found a solidgrip and, swinging myleft foot toward the nextstep, pulled my bodyinto the rocky bulge.

“Done for?” The

doc leaned close tomy face.

“We don’t do

amputations,” he

said.

Kara McMahon

That’s when the rock shifted and col-lapsed, the coarse granite pressing againstmy face while its thin lower edge drovetoward the rock below. Its weight pushedwhat had just been an excellent handholdright through my wrist as if it wasn’teven there.

I instinctively shoved away from thetumbling boulders and, aware that Karawas somewhere behind me, screamed“ROCK!” With the sharp, unmistakablesmell of broken stone dusting the air, Ibecame aware that a Massive, ImportantThing was happening. A split second laterI came to a rest, utterly limp-wristed, andnot yet understanding the gravity of thesituation.

•••The “partial” part of a partial

amputation is weird. It may be betterthan full amputation, but it’s also moredifficult to comprehend, and way morehassle to deal with. If your finger or leg is completely detached, there’s not muchto do other than decide whether to carryit out or leave it for the birds. Partialamputations leave wiggle room andinvite questions like, “Is the appendagesalvageable?”

Aron Ralston has considered thesethings. His hand was trapped under aboulder while hiking in Utah, and hefamously chose to cut it off. Others havedone the same when their arms have

been trapped by winches, combines,front-end loaders and fallen logs. Theyhad to get out.

My boulder didn’t trap me. It let meand my mangled hand go. Repairs werecomplex enough that one surgeon toldme it was the most significant reconstruc-tion his team had ever attempted. Onetitanium plate, four surgeries and lots ofrehab later my hand is back on my armand functioning remarkably well. I stillhave flexibility issues, because tendonsadhere to bone when they’re immobilized

and don’t ever return completely to nor-mal. Nerve regrowth was incomplete, so Idon’t feel the back of my hand, except inone hyper-sensitive, on-fire spot, a “neu-roma.” Doctors combined salvaged bone

fragments with a chunk of my hip to cre-ate a bone that extends from knuckle toelbow. Today that knuckle is callousedand often bleeding, because I bang it oneverything. It’s inconvenient, and it canbe awkward, but it’s so much better thana handless stub. Some circulation andchronic pain issues remain, but I’m notcomplaining. I had written off the hand,and I’ve still got it. I can grip a camera,plant a ski pole and boy can I hold a beer.I call that a smashing success.

As beneficial as it was, therapy wasterribly painful, more persistentthan the injury itself, and a realpsychological challenge. It alsointroduced me to remarkable people with equally difficult orworse conditions who helped meappreciate my luck.

One had fallen into a well and,among other serious injuries, had“de-gloved,” essentially rippingthe skin entirely off his hand. Histherapy involved having his handsurgically inserted into hisabdomen, where conditions areconducive to regrowing skin.

Another was in therapy afterhaving his ulna and radius

shattered by a .50 caliber bullet, fightingin Afghanistan. He too had needed atourniquet. The military uses them regu-larly to stop severe bleeding when med-ical help is nearby but not immediately

Kara McMahon

Kara McMahon



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on the scene. Their reasoning is thatcutting off blood flow to anappendage is appropriate only when an injury is thought to be life-threatening.

And ending that threat to life wasexactly what we were trying to do atthe time. We didn’t know it, but twoseparate arteries feed oxygenated bloodto the hand. The tourniquet we appliedworked by stopping the leaky one—theradial. Doctors speculate that it didn’tstop the other, the ulnar. Though com-promised by the tourniquet, the ulnarcontinued pumping blood, keeping myhand alive enough to salvage.

•••I didn’t return to the accident site for

years, but last summer I went back to geta more levelheaded sense of the scene. Iarrived emotional—a bit nervous, a bitsad. Kara and I walked up the hill insilence, retracing our steps of three years prior.

When we neared the area, we splitup to look. Kara found it immediately,an obvious void where the rock oncerested, its unmoved neighbors precari-ous in its absence. The rock that hadcrushed my arm was obvious, still clean

and pale from its recent tumble. Thegranite slab beneath it was still white,chipped by the falling boulder, not yetcovered in lichen or duff and gleamingexposed in the sun. There was no bloodvisible. I remembered the broken-rocksmell.

Warm from the uphill approach andthe afternoon sun, we shed a layer andsat down on the offending stone. Weburned some dried sage that Kara hadbrought and I smoked a bowl. Sizing upthe boulder, I was glad to be alive. We

agreed that I had been incrediblylucky, that the rock was plenty largeenough to have done more damagethan it did. I exhaled into the clean,crisp air and felt fortunate to be hereagain, and still.

It was a visceral, potent reminderof human frailty, impermanence, of my place in this world. Perhaps morethan anything else, that falling rockdefined my last three years, alteringmy work and my play and the lives of many deeply caring friends andfamily members.

But that’s just the “me” part. Onthat quiet afternoon, looking out acrossthe grand landscape, I couldn’t helpbut be overwhelmed by the utter irrele-

vance of that one small rockslide to thepart of the universe that isn’t me. Millionsof similar granite boulders emerge fromthe surrounding forest, every one of themunder the constant assault of wind, rainand gravity. That one of them fell andsmashed my wrist was a nearly unnotice-able shift in the landscape’s endless ero-sion. I felt a strong sense of place, and ofpeace. We walked quietly back to thetruck, turning around to watch a climbingparty top out on The King, laughing andshouting their joy to be alive.

Chad HarderThe rock


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All we needed to do was get down. I followedthe taught line of 10mm climbing rope thatstretched over the edge and out of sight past

the first overhang. The granite dropped steeply awaybeneath me, revealing the stark contrast between thesnowfield down below and the scree field beyondthat. It was at that paralyzing moment I felt the firstpangs of doubt seeping into my consciousness. Wewere stuck. This route wasn’t going to work. And itwas up to me to figure out a different way.

I took a deep breath and assessed the situation: Iwas stranded in a sea of near-vertical granite in the

middle of the Bitterroot Mountains, responsible fortwo less experienced climbers and separated fromour de facto guide. Assuming I found a safe waydown, we still faced a six-mile hike back to our carsbefore the afternoon sun turned to dark. I wasn’tsure what to do.

And yet, as daunting as the situation appeared tobe, the thought crossed my mind that this was exact-ly what I had longed for. I had exchanged the per-sonal stumbling and searching of my recent pastwith a more immediate predicament. I asked for this.Now I just needed to find a way out.

One week earlier,with coffee balanced precari-ously in my lap, I’d turned my careast onto Interstate 84 for the beginning ofa move from Oregon to Idaho. Aftermonths of job searching, my wife and Ihad a reason to relocate. I’d landed a newjob as a teacher and it left me feeling theexcitement of change for the first time inwhat seemed like forever. The move andmy new opportunity were all I was think-ing of when my friend Robin Carletoncalled just days before the drive.

“You will only be three hours away,why don’t you come over and visit us inMissoula next week?” he blurted throughthe earpiece. “It’s the perfect time of yearfor the high country!”

Robin and I met at Eastern OregonUniversity, when I was a confused freshmanand he was an upperclassman with a pen-chant for sniffing out bold expeditions.During my four years at EOU, it was a rareweekend that Robin did not convince ourunsuspecting group of friends to partake inthree-day forays into the mountains andonto the rivers of eastern Oregon. Hereferred to them simply as “adventures,”which made them sound as if they were nobig deal. For me, they weren’t quite so non-chalant. It was during those challengingweekends that I learned the most about mypotential and resolve, and began to appreci-ate the endless possibilities of exploring theoutdoors.

The everyday humdrumof life can, however, get in the way of pur-suing such eye-opening experiences. Mywife and I used to explore other countriesand climb remote mountains, but otherthings started to take precedence. We’d losttouch with the outdoors. Routine haddulled our senses. It was partly for this rea-son that my wife and I wanted to move toIdaho, needed a change of scenery and wereready for something new. So it couldn’thave been more perfect to have Robin onthe phone, beckoning us to take a detourand tag along on his latest “adventure.”

Canyon Peak sits on the west side of theBitterroot Valley, 9,154 feet high, situatedabove Canyon Lake and, farther below, thecity of Hamilton. The plan was to hike fromthe trailhead about five miles in to CanyonLake and then hike a little farther beforetackling the exposed fifth-class face to thesummit. We carried gear and food for onenight, as well as a light rope and a smallassortment of climbing gear.

When my wife and I arrived at the trail-head, we greeted Robin and his wife, Chris.The day was hot, but the four of us quicklytrekked up the trail alongside Canyon Creekand left the smothering temperatures of thevalley behind. I remember my pack feeling

light and our pace fast during the first four miles. Then

the trail began to

steepen. We reached a narrow canyonguarded on both sides with towering rockwalls, and filled with the sounds of watercascading down the granite slides ofCanyon Creek. We hadn’t even reached theclimbing portion, and already I was begin-ning to feel a freedom I had not felt in along time.

The jagged beauty of the Bitterroots con-tinued to reveal itself along the hike. At onepoint I peered through an opening in thetrees, past a moss-covered boulder, and sawthe valley drop away sharply beneath me ina dizzying array of cliffs, interrupted onlyby the silvery tongue of Canyon Creek as itfell from the head of the valley. It was abreathtaking moment, spoiled only by thefact that we were nowhere near our desiredstopping point at Canyon Lake.

As is often the case in an alpine envi-ronment, everything in the Canyon Creekdrainage is bigger than it seems. Weexpected the lake around every bend, buttime and again we were faced with anotherhummock or switchback taking us evenhigher. We had been grunting upwards forwhat felt like an eternity when the narrowtrail suddenly pointed down. I thought forsure it would be the beginning of theCanyon Lake basin. Instead, we found amuddy patch of nothing.

We stopped in the waning eveninglight and looked at one another, speechless.With a feeling of dread that had been slow-ly taking hold over the last few gruelingmiles, I thought of the anonymous fork inthe trail about an hour back. Could it bethat we were lost?

It’s times like these that Robin tends tothrive. His wisdom—or luck; I’m neverquite sure—during self-induced mountainhardship has never ceased to amaze me.He’s optimistic and firm and calm. In timesof upheaval in my personal life I have reliedon this same rock-steady insight from himfor inspiration and advice.

“We need to contin-ue across this open areaand search for a trail,”Robin said confidently.“I am sure if we just fol-low this drainage wewill be able to spotCanyon Peak and takeour bearings.”

It occurred to melater that this is why Idecided to do thisclimb. The challengeand connection to theoutdoors are part of it,but sharing the adven-ture with an old friend iswhat I’d missed most.

The hours of earlyevening came and went bythe time we finally floppeddown in a soft, grassy mead-ow at the far end of upperCanyon Lake. Robin had beenright. He found the trail, whichhad been partially hidden in athicket of brush, and we safelyreached the lake before sundown.The impressive east face of CanyonPeak stood directly above us.

The next day dawned clear and warm and we were glad we hadpositioned ourselves close to the base of the climb. We hopped from boulder toboulder across the scree below the peak,pausing only to rope up as the north ridgerose and steepened. As we made our wayup the ridge, following crack systems andface features that led across sheer slabs,the ground dropped away, replaced withthe void created by the near-vertical facesof the peak.

We climbed as two teams of two, eachcouple experiencing the route-findingchallenges and overcoming technical cruxsections. The granite crystals bit into therubber of our climbing shoes and provid-ed solid purchase when handholds werescarce, and cracks and fissures of varyingsizes offered excellent jamming for ourhands when the wall steepened.

“On belay,” I shouted as my wife pre-pared to tackle the third pitch of the climb.The next pitch would gain us the ridge anda breathtaking view with thousands of feetof exposure.

Once on the ridge, we regrouped. Afterpausing to gaze down on the dramatic for-mations of Blodgett Canyon to the north,we turned to face the last and most difficultportion of the climb. At this point, about 250

feet below the summit,the ridge narrowed androse drastically. Theclimbing was neverextremely technical,but the exposure madeus happy to periodical-ly place cams andchocks, clipping therope to them andallowing our system togive us the confidenceneeded to balance andsmear through the finalmoves.

We reached thesummit one by one andexchanged high-fivesand handshakes on asmall area of flat, crystal-infused granite that glit-tered and reflected the

intense rays of a sun thatnow caused us to shield

our eyes. A breathtakingpanorama of the Bitterroots

stretched out before us. I wasaware of a feeling that I had

not felt in many months. Thiswas where I needed to be.

The hardest part of savoring amoment like this one is remember-

ing that you still have to get down.And it’s easy to forget that in a harsh,

unforgiving environment like CanyonPeak, the way down can be more treach-

erous than the way up.Once the four of us finished admiring

the view and snapping photos, we rap-pelled and traversed our way down theeast face with slings wrapped around treesand rock horns for anchors. We avoidedthe difficulties of the ridge we had justascended, until noticing that what hadlooked like a low-angle and relatively bro-ken face was actually dangerously steepand as smooth as a newborn’s behind.Robin hung 60 meters below with noapparent tree or protrusion to set up a rap-pel anchor. The rest of us looked on from aledge above and realized this route wasn’tgoing to work. We were stuck. Evenworse, we’d been separated from Robin.

“The ground dropped away,

replaced with the void created by the

near-vertical faces of the peak.”

Thanks to those early years of weekendadventures in the mountains, Robin and Ihave plenty of experience solving problems.With Robin hanging below, he and I shout-ed ideas back and forth and eventuallydevised a plan. I tied two 60-meter ropestogether to create one 120-meter line, whichwe thought would be just long enough toget Robin past an overhanging rock to safe,low-angle terrain below.

I took my time lowering him, holdinghis full weight, until he reached the easierfooting. Once there, Robin carefullyclimbed and slid his way toward the talusfield below, but the move meant ourextended rope was left dangling above thepassable but treacherous terrain.

The whole process of lowering himpast the knot had been exhausting andcomplicated, and the less experiencedclimbers of our group didn’t exactly feelcomfortable about following Robin’s path.We needed an alternate route—and, as the day was moving to evening, we needed it fast. We still had a long hikewaiting for us.

For the past hour I had been scanningthe face for weaknesses. Although much ofthe terrain surrounding us looked moder-ate, I knew that looks can be deceiving; oneshort, blank section can render a feature-filled route impassible, and loose rocks canlead to a slip and disaster. We didn’t haveRobin to help guide us since he was alreadysafe below, so I had to trust my instinctsand get the rest of us down. I pointedtoward a possible escape route and weheaded that direction. In that moment, chal-lenged by the elements and humbled by thesurroundings, I couldn’t have been furtherfrom my recent routine. My senses were nolonger dulled.

“What tookyou so long?” Robinasked.

“I had a nice,mid-afternoon napin the shade.”

We couldn’t helpbut laugh, thankful tobe standing on solidground and be donewith Canyon Peak’sdaunting east face.Looking back across thetiny ledge system wehad followed, I felt thestrain of hours of concen-tration ease. I enjoy thefocus necessary to navigat-ing alpine terrain, but I alsoenjoy a deep exhale aftersuccessfully conquering it.

I hardly remember theleg-numbing stumble backdown the scree. We packedcamp and had enough time totake a refreshing swim in thelake before hiking back down thetrail to our vehicles.

We had just completed one ofthe most invigorating weekend trips I had ever experienced. In thecar on the way back to Missoula

I felt exhausted and starved, and mymind drifted to thoughts of food and cold beer. But I was also aware of an overall feeling of satisfaction. This tripmarked the true beginning of my newfuture and affirmed the decision my wifeand I made to move. We were where webelonged. We were ready for our nextadventure.

The dark cloud would have appeared nor-mal at first, an afternoon storm buildingover the Beartooth Range. However,

there was something different about the cloud’stexture, and, moments later, its sound. Stormclouds shroud mountains like a thick graysoup. The sounds associated with them arewind and thunder. This cloud pixelated theatmosphere and hummed.

As the din swelled, it was clear this was nocumulonimbus weather event, but rather aswarm of locusts. Then, just as the flying massreached the eastern slopes of the Beartooths, itstopped, swatted from the sky by ... the weather.

In a case of disrupted migration, a stormblindsided the cold-blooded locusts andknocked them onto a glacier at 11,300 feet

above sea level on the north side of IcebergPeak. Subsequent blizzards buried the bugs forhundreds, perhaps thousands of years, but theyresurfaced a century ago as the ice sheet, now fit-tingly called Grasshopper Glacier, receded.

J.P. Kimball, a geologist looking for miningopportunities, discovered the frozen insects in the

early 1900s. Shortly afterward, the U.S.Bureau of Entomology determinedthem to be extinct Rocky Mountain

locusts (Melanoplus spretus). Just 30 years prior to Kimball’s dis-

covery, trillions of Rocky Mountain locustsstill inhabited the western United States.Scientists estimate that locust outbreaks used tooccur in Montana about twice each decade.According to Jeffrey Lockwood, a professor ofNatural Sciences and Humanities at theUniversity of Wyoming who has studied RockyMountain locusts much of his career, swarms likethose entombed in Grasshopper Glacier werepart of the species’ lifecycle.

“Locusts sense crowding, by touch and smell,as an indication that food sources will be in shortsupply in the near future,” Lockwood says. “Ittriggers morphological changes. They growlonger wings because they have to get the helloutta there. Their color changes, perhaps to foolpredators into thinking they taste nasty, andtheir reproduction is suppressed inexchange for building energyreserves.”

Lockwood believes the change from contenthopper to pandemic pestilence is a survivalmechanism.

“When they’re not crowded, locusts tend toavoid each other, but as they change from soli-tary to migratory, they seek close contact, likeschooling fish,” he says. “With 100 million in aswarm, the chance any one of them will bebird food is low.”

Historically, some locust outbreaks were sodense they created multiday solar eclipses.They devoured plants, laundry, leather, eventhe wool off the backs of sheep, but the locuststhat swarmed the Beartooths made either anavigational error or flew into a freak stormand froze to death.

Grasshopper Glacier on Iceberg Peak is oneof at least three locust-encrusted ice sheets inMontana. A second in the Beartooths is calledHopper Glacier, and the third, anotherGrasshopper Glacier, is in the Crazy Mountains.In the 1990s, Lockwood discovered yet another inWyoming’s Wind River Range.

The one on Iceberg Peak is the best known,and it’s disappearing. Years of diminishingsnowfall and melting have reduced it fromover five miles to less than a quarter-mileacross. For many years, anyone could make thefour-mile hike to Grasshopper Glacier and chipout a perfectly preserved hopper. Recently,more and more of the locusts have melted outof their icy tomb and decomposed.

How could a species numbering in the tril-lions disappear so quickly at the end of the 19th

century? Between outbreaks, the locusts lived inriver valleys, the same places pioneers foundbest for agriculture. Those early farmersunknowingly wiped out the locusts when theydiverted streams for irrigation, allowed cattleand sheep to graze riparian areas, and eliminat-ed beavers and their dams.

Now, the only evidence of their existence—the ones encrusted in Rocky Mountain ice—areon the verge of disappearing as well.

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Crawdads, alsoknown as crayfish,are like lobsters, except

they live in freshwater, and they’resmaller. Montana’s crayfish live in rivers, lakes,ponds and marshes—just about anywhere there’s a permanentwater source. They like to hide in nooks and crannies along thebottom, between rocks and under logs, but can also be seenprowling about. You need a fishing license to legally take them,either with a trap, or mano a mano, like a man.

Most of my crawdadding takes place in the Blackfoot River. It’sa lazy river in summertime, when the crawdadding is good, andthe place I like to go is just 40 minutes from Missoula.

The water at this access is slow and deep, with lazy eddies cir-cling beneath black cliffs. The last time I was there, my crawdadadviser and I used snorkeling gear to survey the forest-greenriver’s rocky bottom. He’d stashed seven crawdads in his meshdiving bag before I even had my mask on.

We carried the mesh bags in one ungloved hand and woregloves on our other. The most important rule of crawdad huntingis: don’t ever switch the bag to the gloved hand and grab a craw-dad with your naked hand. Those pincers can draw blood. It’samazing how far the scream of a pinched crawdad hunter cantravel underwater.

A claw is often the first thing you see, poking out from somecrevice. Reach fast and grab behind the head.

Crawdads will often wiggle free with a violent burst of the tail.This typically happens just when your lungful of air is finallyspent. But with prey in sight, scurrying away, you dig deep andgive chase, your cells breathing nothing but adrenaline. Manytimes have I found myself twisting at some upside-down angle,kicking and convulsing and trying not to gulp water. Huntingcrawdads is the closest I’ll ever come to being in a jet-fighter duel,or a big-screen Kung-Fu fight scene.

The first crawdad I caught had only one claw, and that’s all itneeded. When I grabbed the supposedly safe spot behind its head,it immediately did this crazy yoga move, reaching behind its backand pinching my gloved hand.

Unwilling to let it go, and unwilling to let it keep pinching me,I committed the beginner’s error of transferring the crawdad to myother hand. My unprotected fingers felt the spines and sharp edgesof the exoskeleton as I yanked my gloved hand from its calcium

carbonate clamp. As soon as Ipulled the glove from the maw of

said claw, it went straight back into theyoga pose, this time toward my ungloved hand.

I panicked at the thought of getting bit, and at the possibilitythat the crawdad might get away.

When it clamped my ungloved hand, I shrieked appropriately.I used my gloved hand to pry open the claw, at which point theanimal detached itself from said claw and darted away, leaving mein an empty-handed handshake with a disembodied claw.

I had been out of air and planning to go to the surface before Ieven spotted that one-armed crawdad. After a U-turn, the chase,the game of hot potato and the claw ejection that ensued, my lungswere imploding. But, reaching into a seldom-used emergencyreserve of whoop-ass, I continued my pursuit of the limbless war-rior. Amazingly, I caught it. Not only that, but I made it back to thesurface without blacking out or inhaling river.

My crawdad adviser and I emptied our bags into a coolerfilled with river water, and he sprinkled in cornmeal for thecrawdads to eat. The cornmeal pushes whatever filter-fed crap isin their guts out the other end.

We took our catch home and put them in an aerated fish tankuntil the next evening. About a third died and we had to toss them,reinforcing the conventional wisdom that it’s best to cook yourfresh-caught crawdads ASAP.

Boil crawdads for 10 minutes in salted water and, if you wish,crab boil (a spice mixture available in most stores) until bright red.The crawdad adviser likes to pull off the tails and suck out the hotguts (and eat the tails, of course, where most of the meat is). Iwondered whether the guts, filled with cornmeal, might taste likelobster polenta, but they tasted kind of disgusting, like guts. Theclaw and tail meat were great.

I cooked all my crawdads and then set to experimenting. FirstI made scampi, frying the meat with garlic, butter, salt, pepper,and a squeeze of lemon. Then I made ceviche by marinating thecooked crawdad in lime, crushed garlic, chopped cilantro and redonion, minced jalapeno, and salt and pepper. I also tried puttingthem in paella.

They didn’t suck. Montana crawdads may not be as big aslobsters, but they make up for their small size with sweetness.With crustaceans as tasty as these in the mountains, who needsa coast?

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Deadman Point at Blue Mountain,Missoula (women only). June 10 -to sign up, contact Maria at [email protected].

Fred Burr Reservoir, BitterrootMountains (women only). June 19 -to sign up, contact Mary Owens [email protected]

Canyon Lake, Bitterroot Mountains. July 13 - to sign up, contact MaryOwens at [email protected].

Kayak Paddle from Forest Grove toBig Eddy, Superior (women only).July 15 - to sign up contact Maria [email protected]

Glen Lake, Bitterroot Mountains(women only). July 24 - to sign up,contact Mary Owens [email protected]

Learn to survive in the outdoorsclass, Missoula. July 25 - to sign up, contact Mike at [email protected] to survive in the outdoorsouting, Missoula. July 27-July 28 - to sign up, contactMike at [email protected]

Dinah Lake Trail from Lake Elsina,Mission Mountains (women only).July 29 - to sign up contact JanetFiero at [email protected]

Grizzlies in the Gallatin. August 3(date tentative) - to sign up, contactwww.montana.sierraclub.org clickon outings

Glacier country paddling, carcamping and hiking (women only/member preference)Aug 9-Aug14 - to sign up, contact Janet Fiero [email protected]

Great Burn backpack (memberpreference). August 23-August 25 - to sign up,contact Bob Clark at [email protected]

Missouri River Badlands canoe trip(member preference). Sept. 5-Sept.10 - to sign up contact, Janet Fieroat [email protected] John Wolverton at [email protected]

Camp, hike & paddle toWild Horse Island, Flathead Lake (member preference). Sept. 7-Sept. 8 - to sign up, contactMaria at [email protected] orMike at [email protected]

Join us for these Local Sierra Club OutingsFree & open to the public!

The Sierra Club's Montana Chapter is helping to protect thelandscape and natural resources of Montana for future generations.

For more information visit:www.montana.sierraclub.org

Day 1:The Bitterroot

There’s a point where normal, other-wise benign activities can border on theaesthetic. Everyday actions can achievesuch a high level of proficiency that theytranscend execution and approach beauty.They become an art form. Even withoutknowing a driver from a pitching wedge,watching The Masters in Augusta isinspiring. Even if you hate the Red Sox,

seeing someone throw a ball as fast as abullet, followed by someone sending itinto the next county with a woodenstick—it’s just pretty.

When it comes to fly fishing, a goodnumber of people think of Montana as theFenway Park or Augusta National of troutcountry. As such, it’s bound to attract thefishing equivalent of Ted Williams orTiger Woods. Floating down the Bitterroottoward Hamilton, I’m surrounded byexperts of the craft. They throw gorgeouscasts, big loops of neon whipping over-

head, only to land the fly gently on thewater. The practice is drilled so deep intotheir muscle memory, it’s as if it’s encod-ed in their DNA.

With veterans in all three rafts, myham-fisted casting technique stands outlike a boner in sweatpants. The only thingI have managed to hook all day is the billof my hat.

For the eighth time in about threehours, I swing my fishing rod back so theguide can unweave my rat’s nest of a lineand smile my best sorry I’m an idiot smile.

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This was supposed to be the trip of alifetime. Three guided trips down threedifferent rivers, with stops at six micro-breweries scattered across roughly 200miles of western Montana, and all the fishI can catch. I had warned everyoneinvolved that I don’t actually know how tofly fish, and everyone had assured me I’dhave a great time anyway. There werejournalist/fishermen from Texas,Minnesota and Idaho who had beenthrowing flies since Reagan was presi-dent—and they’d all promised not tomake fun of me.

The guide puts my knotted line in hislap, closes his eyes and rubs his temples.“Why don’t you sit the next few playsout, alright Bud?”

Oh man. Not “Bud.” The wordreserved for people you detest, people

whose name you can’t be bothered tolearn. See also: Champ, Slugger and Sport.

Growing up near Billings, beautifulscenery was little more than wallpaper onthe desktop of my life. Mountains weresomething to look at. Rivers were somethingto drive over. I need help.

I look back at my guide, hungry foradvice—any tips or words of wisdom dis-tilled from his years on the water. “Ihaven’t caught a single fish all day,” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “You know, that’s whythey call it ‘fishing’ and not ‘catching.’”

On every fly but my own, feisty rainbowsare being caught by the net-full. The rainbowtrout (Oncorhynchus mykiss) is the hand-some high-school quarterback of the fly-fish-ing world; around these parts, it’s probablywhat you think of when you hear the word“fish.” They fight well, they taste good and

they’re pretty. Over the last 100 years,Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks has stockeda few hundred million of these babies intoevery stretch of water that’ll hold them.

Laughs come easy as we approach thetake-out. Arms swing in every direction todeliver high-fives and handshakes overwhat’s deemed a successful day. I don’t seewhat the big deal is.

Day 2:The Clark Fork

Different water, different guides. Justpast Missoula, the Clark Fork flows wideand slow. There are fish in here, our newguide assures us, but they’re going to betricky to catch in the summer heat.

Just great, I think to myself: fishing onexpert mode.

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A few miles from the put-in, my reelbuzzes as something blasts downstream withmy fly. The fish hops out of the water—it’sno bigger than a Costco croissant—but I reelit in anyway, beaming. Success.

“Aw, it’s just a whitey,” the guidesneers, popping the fly out of its mouth.“Don’t get your camera out—it’s awaste.” My smile melts as Señor Blancojust stares with blank eyes from theguide’s hand, popping its stupid mouthopen and shut, looking almost embar-rassed for me.

“But it’s a fish, right?” I ask as the guideoverhands the fish back into the river like aNerf ball.

“Yeah, but it’s kinda like reeling in an oldboot.”

The mountain whitefish (Prosopiumwilliamsoni) is a native to Montana waters. Itfights just as hard as its trout brethren andcan make for some damn good eatin’. But itis often maligned as a trash fish by fishermenand guides, largely because it is ugly. Myfirst and only fish apparently doesn’t count.

“So I still haven’t caught anything?” I askmy guide.

“You know, that’s why they call it ‘fish-ing’ and not—”

“Yeah, yeah, save it,” I say, takinganother long drink of my beer. This sportdoesn’t make sense.

Day 3:Middle Fork of the Flathead

A steep canyon of limestone framesthis stretch of river. In water clear asvodka, you can spot individual fish lurk-ing between the rocks and searching forfood. My comrades start pulling in heftyrainbows and cutthroats. And rightaround my 800th attempt at casting like anormal human being, my fly doesn’t cart-wheel uselessly onto the water and myline doesn’t fold itself into knots. I’m likea kid successfully riding a bike for thefirst time, a whole new world of possibili-ty opening up.

After floating into a deep pool past aset of rapids, the guide pulls hard on theoars to bring the raft to a stop. “There’salways somethin’ good here,” he says. Wecast. Dark, fishy shadows hover over therocks, and in a second my rod buzzesand bends almost down to the water. Myhands sweat against the smooth cork. My breath stops.

“Oh shit!” my guide says, stompinghis foot to drop the raft’s anchor. “She’s apig! Keep your tip up, give ’er line!”

I squeeze hard, clamping the wetnylon to the rod, but the fish rockets offand line burns across my fingers. My eyesgo wide. I strip more line in, walking thedelicate balance between the line is gonnabreak and it’s gonna spit the hook.

After taking three more big runs withmy fly, there it is, gasping in the net: a 17-inch bull trout as thick as my forearm.“She’s a beaut! Nicely done!” the guidesays, digging the fly out of its mouth witha hemostat. “You’re not supposed to catchit, but good job anyway!”

The bull trout (Salvelinus confluentus)is very picky about where it makesbabies, so after decades of mining, irriga-tion and dams screwing up its mojo, it’son the threatened species list. You can’tdeliberately fish for bull trout. You’ll getin trouble. In my defense, I can’t deliber-ately fish for anything.

“But it still counts, right?” I ask as theguide lowers the fish back into the water.

He smiles and nods. “Of course. Itmight be the biggest fish we’ve seen allday.”

“She’s a pig!Keep your

tip up, give

’er line!”


As the trout kicks its tail and jets back into the safety ofthe deep, I slump back into my seat and smile. It was thatperfect moment, the just-right angle when it all makessense—like driving past a cornfield, and watching a jungleof random stalks resolve into a thousand clean rows.

It’s so clear now. That’s why people go fly fishing. Notjust because a big trout ended up in my net as I rodesnowmelt down to Flathead Lake, covered in sunshine,with the swishing action of fly rods on every side of me. Iget it now. As in golf or baseball, every swing is anotherchance to improve. Chasing that perfect moment is frus-trating and addictive, but so much fun. I might never bethe Tiger Woods of dry flies but, as it turns out, all men areequal before fish. And hell, even if you don’t catch a thing,you’re still in paradise.

We down our last few beers at the take-out. On the drivehome, every smooth piece of water beckons me. Like a labwith its head out the window, all I want is to be back out-side: in the boat, on the banks, anywhere. Rivers are nolonger just something to build a bridge over. Every riffle andline of bubbles whispers an invitation to come try my luck.

Since I’ve been home, I haven’t managed to catchanother fish, but it doesn’t matter. Chasing the impossiblyperfect cast is enough for me. You know, that’s why theycall it fishing, not catching.

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contactHoward Mills, Owner • [email protected]


JUNE

JUNE 8Lobby for extra water at everycheckpoint during the 40th

annual Governor’s Cup Marathon inHelena. If 26.2 miles seems harder thanrunning for public office, then try one ofthe other distances offered at this race:half-marathon, 10K, 5K or 1-mile funrun. Visit govcupmt.com.

JUNE 9From here on we’retalking about the

Herron Half Marathon and10K Trail Run in Kalispell.These races take place on run-ning and biking trails aroundthe town, and all proceedsfrom the race go toward Foysto Blacktail Trails, a nonprofitorganization dedicated toexpanding public access inthe lands leading from FoysLake to Blacktail Mountainski area. To register visit runflathead.com.

JUNE 15See the sights in thebest way possible—

via bicycle—during Pedal thePintlers. The race featuresdistances from 20 to 100 milesof road riding, with majesticviews of lakes, peaks andanticlines. Ride and registra-tion start at Washoe Park inAnaconda at 7 a.m. Cost is$45. For more information callChad at 563-2034 or [email protected].

JUNE 22All you Ned Overendwannabes take note: The

Hammer Nutrition Missoula XC moun-tain bike race is a grueling up-and-down affair full of technical riding andbreathless climbs. The event takes placeat Marshall Mountain Ski Area just out-side of Missoula. For a full list of costs,events and trail maps visitmissoulaxc.org.

You’ll be coming around themountain when you take partin the inaugural Trail Rail Run,

which follows the old Milwaukee andNorthern Pacific railroad grades fromMullan, Idaho, all the way to St. Regis.Race lengths include 50 miles, 50K, 30Kand 10K. Head to trailrailrun.com.

Do your part for diplomaticrelations with our neighbors tothe north by running in the

annual Waterton Glacier Relay. Therace takes teams of 4, 8 or 12 throughWaterton Lakes National Park andGlacier National Park, and spans 100miles (or 161K, if you prefer). Visitwatertonglacierrelay.com for race maps,passport info and the all-encompassing“Race Bible.”

The Wulfman’s ContinentalDivide Trail 14K is a point-to-point, singletrack race on a

section of the Continental DivideNational Scenic Trail betweenHomestake Pass and Pipestone Passnear Butte. In other words, you’re dealing with some altitude. Race limited to 240 runners. For more infovisit buttespissandmoanrunners.com.

JUNE 23If you’re the type of athletewho’ll try anything, then try

the Bozeman Tritons Triathlon. Thisannual Gallatin Valley fun fest features both a sprint distance race and a long course race, with options for all abilities. For costs and more info visit bozemantritons.org.

JUNE 29Pack up some moist towelettes,a couple boxes of Pop-Tarts and

lots of Gold Bond for Montana’s longestmountain bike race, the 24 Hours ofRapelje. The event takes place nearColumbus and helps support StockmanCafe. Join a team or test yourself with a solo run. For more info go to 24hoursofrapelje.com.

JULY

JULY 4Tell your children “I was there”by attending the inauguralDynamite Dash in Lincoln. The

event takes place at Hooper Park and fea-tures a 1-mile, 5K and 10K run/walk.More importantly, there is a 1-mile beer run. For more info visit lincolnmontana.com.

JULY 6Take a two-day toodle throughnorthwest Montana during the

Gran Fondo Kootenai. This road-bikingtour traverses scenic byways near thelegendary Yaak Valley. No doubt, 172miles among friends can’t do nothin’ butgood for your heart and soul. $125. Visitmontanacycling.net.

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Crown Mountain in Montana’s Sawtooth Range, overlooking the Bob Marshall Wilderness

Cathrine L. Walters


Since you recentlyloaded up on hot dogs,beers and watermelon

to celebrate Independence Day,it’s time to take a stretch andhave a run at the BangtailDivide 38K, a point-to-pointrace which begins at the StoneCreek trailhead and ends at theBrackett Creek trailhead in theBangtail Mountains nearBozeman. $60. Limited to 150racers. Visit 406running.com.

The aptly namedGlacier Challengeboasts six different legs:

canoe, kayak, road bike, moun-tain bike, 4K run and 10.5K run.Enter as a team, with a partneror as an individual—and goodluck, especially if you’re enter-ing solo. For more info, checkout theglacierchallenge.com.

JULY 11Would I? More like walleye.Make your governor proud at

the Montana Governor’s Cup WalleyeTournament at Fort Peck Lake. Thethree-day tournament has a $15,000first-place prize and events for thewhole family. Bonus: The event is now a part of the Walleyes Unlimitedtournament circuit. Visit mtgovcup.com.

JULY 14This summer marks the 7thannual Missoula Marathon,once voted top race in the

nation by Runner’s World magazine. If the marathon’s too much, check out the half-marathon, 5K, kids race or beer run. For more information visit missoulamarathon.org.

JULY 20Curious about trying atriathlon? Now’s your chance.

Dillon’s Beaverhead Y-Tri bills itself as a perfect beginners’ race, open toteams or individuals. Veterans are welcome to race, too, as long as they play nice. To register head to signmeup.com/90859.

JULY 27I know what you’re thinking:Any chance I could ride some

sandy trails, hit up some rocky technicalsections and climb tens of thousands offeet all in one day, in one race? You surecan, psycho. It’s time for another roundof Montana’s toughest cross-country

event, the Butte 100 Mountain BikeRace. The competition starts and endsat the Homestake Lodge and allowsonly 250 riders for its 50- and 100-mileraces. Sign up at butte100.com.

The views are unmatched, butthe water is still cold at theLake Como Triathlon. The

event includes a 1,500-yard swim, 12.6-mile mountain bike section and 7.7-miletrail run. If doing it all solo doesn’tsound appealing, form a team. Visitlakecomotri.com.

JULY 28The 9th annual XTERRA WildHorse Creek Triathlon features

races and distances for every level. Formore info visit bigskytri.com.

AUGUST

AUGUST 3Leave it to the organizers of theHURL Elkhorn Endurance

Runs to describe their event: “Run ‘tilyou hurl, then run some more.” Soundlike fun? Sign up for the 50-mile, 50K or 23K race—each along trails andprimitive Forest Service roads nearMontana City, outside Helena—at vigilanterunning.org.

AUGUST 17Take on the best the Flatheadhas to offer at the Polson

Triathlon. The race offers the usual trievents: a 1,500-meter swim in FlatheadLake, a 24.9-mile bike through the sur-rounding area, and a 6.2-mile run that

ends on Main Street in downtownPolson. Visit polsontriathlon.com.

Be a dirty rotten scoundrel andrace both the cross-country anddownhill events at Lone Peak’s

Revenge and I’ll personally give youthe foot rub of the century because youearned it. The races take place at BigSky Resort and there are plenty of bru-tal ascents and high-speed descents tosatisfy even the burliest of big-lungedcyclists. Visit montanacycling.net.

AUGUST 24Billed as “3.1 miles of mud,sweat and obstacles,” The

BozeMonster Challenge presents one down-and-dirty foot race. Head to bozemonster.com for more information.

Triple your fun at theBitterroot Classic Triathlon. Ifswimming isn’t your strong

suit, this may be your event: The eventtakes place at the Bitterroot AquaticCenter and is only 750 yards. That’llleave plenty of time to make up groundon a 20K road-bike ride and 5K run.Head to bitterrootclassictriathlon.com.

AUGUST 30Tie one on during the Ennis onthe Madison Fly FishingFestival. This family-friendly

party features fishing competitions andskill-development seminars, as well asentertainment. The festival is afundraiser for the Madison RiverFoundation. For more information headto madisonriverfoundation.org.

Cathrine L. Walters

Attempting a route from Tweedy Mountain to Torrey Mountain in Montana’s Pioneers

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KENDAL MINT CAKEA British kayaker turned me on to

Kendal Mint Cake, which is sort of likethe confectioner’s version of lard. Thehigh-calorie recipe (glucose, sugar, pep-permint oil) has changed little since the1800s, but today it’s more of a snackfood for outdoorsy folk than a tastydessert treat.

That might have something to dowith the fact that Kendal Mint Cake isnot very tasty. Its mint flavor is overpow-ering. “Cake” is also a deceptive label—the texture is more like drywall.

These unappetizing characteristicsare exactly why I keep it in my pack.Snickers, Twix and other tasty emergencyrations have a miserably short lifeexpectancy in my dry bag. But I can resisteating Kendal Mint Cake until I am seri-ously hungry. (Monica Gokey)

DUCT TAPEI consider duct tape my best

friend in the backcountry. It’smy tool box, my medical

kit and my sewingmachine all rolled

into one. It hashelped me fixbroken skis, skipoles, kayaksand tent poles.

I have usedthe silverystrips of

magic to re-attach plastic buck-

les to my pack andsoles to my shoes after

they’ve come unglued abit too close to the fire.

Duct tape provides relief for blisters,

closes gaping wounds and assists in thecreation of an emergency splint. Onepiece from this rescue roll can also patchmy tent’s rainfly, the hole in my rain jack-et and the crotch of my pants. Once, ithelped keep the down fill in my sleepingbag after a midnight struggle with thezipper went bad.

Every time my duct tape is needed,something has gone terribly wrong. Butit’d be a whole lot worse if I didn’t havethe tape. (Robin Carleton)

SPACE BLANKETI carry a very-well-stocked first-

aid kit just about any time I’m inthe backcountry, a bundle sochock-full of contingencypreparations it barelysqueezes into its zip-pered, paperback-size pouch. Andit’s the squeez-ing that makesme reluctant toever deploy the mostintriguing item in there:the space blanket.

The tissue-thin, Mylar sheetwill ostensibly serve as emergencyshelter. If I were ever injured, stuck andcold, the space blanket would supposed-ly help me maintain a few extra degreesof warmth and minimize my exposure towind, rain and snow. But the coolest feature is that it packs down to almostnothing, a tidy rectangle you could stickin a birthday card—or an over-stuffedfirst-aid kit.

I’m curious to break it out just to seewhat it actually does. Is it big enough toduck all the way inside? Would it quick-ly tear to pieces on a rocky bivouac? But ultimately, I don’t really want toinvestigate, because once it’s unfolded,there’s no squaring it away again, noreturn to the pristine state of compact,cleanly cornered, utterly efficient storage in my bloated kit. So folded upand tucked away it will stay, until suchtime as … ugh, I don’t even want toimagine. (Matt Gibson)

ROPE KNIFEMy rope knife hangs from my neck

like little more than jewelry. Duringcountless river, ocean and mountaineer-ing trips over the last 10 years, it hasreceived little attention and been thesource of occasional frustration (thesheath has a knack of snagging things),but I still carry it. It’s much more thansome cling-on taking a ride. I put itthere, after all.

I lost it once for three months andscoured every stopping place along theClark Fork for its glimmering edge. Icould have bought a better, newer one,but that was the one that was mine, andI was relieved when I finally found it. Iconsider it my last line. My last hope.When the time comes, it will have to cutthe rope that threatens someone’s life,most likely my own. (Eric Oravsky)

PAINKILLERSLugging a first-aid kit on backcountry

adventures seems reasonable and wise—until you dislocate a knee, pinch off anappendage or char your sinuses blowingup a camp stove. Then that kit feels inad-equate, if not useless.

So my kit is tiny: a Ziploc full ofsuper-adhesive Band-Aids, duct tape andhardcore painkillers. Band-Aids are uni-versally useful for small stuff. When thesituation is dire, duct tape can splint orseal or stabilize (see previous page). Butwhen things really hit the fan, a prescrip-tion painkiller like oxycodone is the biggun that increases survivability simply byimproving an injured person’s mentalstate and allowing vital first-aid tasks tobe completed.

Painkillers should be handled careful-ly. They’re powerful, commonly abusedand not without side effects, so tell yourdoc why you need them and learn whichone is best for you. If your health-care

provider won’t oblige, tryan E.R. doctor or someonewho specializes in wilder-ness medicine. Once youget the pills, be sure to print the drug’s “FactSheet” from fda.gov andavoid complications byaffixing it to the bottle’slabel. Then bury them inyour pack and pray they go unneeded. (Chad Harder)

ROPE There is no more sick-

ening sound than the clang ofmetal and the breaking of bones, fol-lowed by the whining of the familydog. It’s even worse when it hap-pens 1,000 feet from a trailhead.

Conibear traps are theRubik’s Cube of the trappingworld, and anyone unfamiliarwith them will be perplexedwhen it comes to releasing adog. They cannot be releasedby hand.

I always carry a rope—think braided climbing cord,but a leash works just as well—on hikes with my dog. The ropeshould have a loop the size ofyour foot on one end. If Fido getscaught in a Conibear, place the looparound your foot, then thread the ropethrough the springs of the trap. Quicklypull the rope toward you, compressingthe springs and releasing one side of thetrap. On the spring, there will be a safetyto hold it in place. Repeat the same stepson the other side and your dog will befree.

One of the hardest parts of releasingyour dog from a Conibear trap is stayingcalm, and keeping your dog calm. If youhave a rope with you—and know how to use it—you have that much more reason to keep cool in a terrible situation.(Jessica Murri)

PINE PITCH SHAVINGSIn the mountains, I am most comfort-

able off-trail and alone, slipping slowlyand silently about the woods, creepingghostlike across the landscape. I stopoften, listen, sniff, senses engaged, andleave little trace of my comings andgoings. Consequently, I never build fires.Not in summer, not in winter. With ade-quate clothing, there is no need to broad-cast my smoky presence to every animaland human downwind of camp. I preferto travel and sleep less conspicuously.

For over a decade and a half, howev-er, I have carried a small Ziploc bag ofpine pitch shavings in case I find theneed to build a fire for survival—forwarmth, as an emergency signal, to keepa prowling grizzly at bay, whatever. Sofar, knock on wood, the sweet-smellingcurls of fiber remain in the bag—dry andwaiting. (Matt Holloway)

PIEPS TX600 Dog AvalancheTransmitter, $149.95This mini transmitter with a frequency of 456,000kHz is ideal for avalanche rescue dogs, huntingdogs or backcountry powder hounds. Attaches tothe dog’s collar and has a receiving range of 15meters.

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We’ve seen it before: Those sad eyes. The devastated stare. Thatlook of wanting. We’re carrying our skis or raft or backpack out thedoor and we give the dog the old, “Sorry, buddy. You have to stay.”

Well, maybe not. A plethora of products allow Fido to tag along,whether it’s skiing the backcountry, rafting the rapids or trekking outalong some remote trail. After all, it’s always better to have a bestfriend along for the adventure.

Garmin Astro 320 Bundle,$549.99Perfect for hunting dogs—or the typethat has a tendency to stray off-trail.The GPS transmitter fits on the collarwith a flexible antenna secured aroundthe band. Bonus: It’s waterproof.

Doggles, $19.99They may look silly, but these shadesprotect from UV rays, dust, wind,rocks or bugs. A wide nose bridge,foam padding around the frame andadjustable head/chin straps ensurethey actually stay on.

Ruffwear Grip Trex All-Terrain Paw Wear, $69.95These booties feature Vibram soles, so you and your best friendcan match in the great outdoors. Tip: Be sure to size themright. It’s no fun to see your happy pup come trotting up to you,wet and tail wagging, with only three of the four booties still on.

Ruffwear K9 Float Coat, $79.95Whether you’re rafting the rapids, floatingthe Blackfoot or SUPing in Frenchtown, thisdoggy lifejacket keeps your pup afloat. Thestrategically placed foam panels don’tcramp your dog’s doggy paddle, and there’sa handy handle on top for you to help yourdog out of the water.

Ruffwear OmniJore Joring System, $149This dog-harness/towline-leash/human-hip-belt apparatus can beused for skijoring, skatejoring, bikejoring or any other kind of joringyou can think of. If having your dog pull you along terrain makesyou—or the dog—a bit nervous, rest assured that the quick-release setup allows you to safely bail.

Cathrine L. Walters

Partially Located on National Forest Lands

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Main Photo © Noah Couser

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Even the most clueless climbingnovice knows Anker’s name, and it’s notlost on Luke that he’s in the presence ofone of the world’s best. When Anker getsaround to greeting and encouraging him,Luke does everything but genuflect asthe pro offers a few tips.

One of those tips is pretty pointed—either lose weight or be resigned toclimbing badly. As Anker moves on toclimb a few routes, Luke beams. “Didyou see that?” he asks. “Conrad Ankertalked to me. He told me what I need todo. I know I’m too heavy, but I’ve beenworking on it. Now, though, I’ve got todo it. I mean, dude, that’s Conrad Anker.I gotta do what he said.”

As the day winds down and Ankerand his posse drive toward town, herecalls the conversation with Luke.

“I think it’s important to take timefor that sort of stuff,” he says. “That’sgoing to matter to him. It’s part of ourjob as older climbers to talk to the youth,

to encourage and inspire them. Climbingmakes us better if it makes us happier.He’ll be happier when he’s more fit.”

The truck winds down the frozenroad, and Anker starts to wax philosoph-ical about a life shaped by rock and ice,by love of the mountains and those heshares them with.

“I’ve learned that these things—myfamily, my passion for climbing and forbeing a force for good in the local com-munity and in the larger community—are the source of happiness for me,” hesays. “I know that life will keep chang-ing and keep throwing new challengesmy way, but my intent is always toembrace them and explore them andfind a way to turn them into an experi-ence that’s rewarding. Even when we’resuffering, whether it’s in the mountainsor because of something going on athome, trying situations are a way tounderstand our human condition. Youhave to try to rise above the adversity. Ilike doing that.”

The sun is close to setting as thetruck pulls up outside the Lowe-Ankerhome. His promise is fulfilled one more time.

Conrad AnkerCONTINUED FROM PAGE 21

Yogesh SimpsonAnker in Hyalite Canyon

Montana Headwall Page 58 Summer 2013

Exceptional Events @ Hilton Garden Inn®.

Hilton Garden Inn Kalispell1840 Highway 93 South, Kalispell, MT 59901 Tel: 1-406-756-4500 Fax: 1-406-756-4505www.kalispell.hgi.com ©2013 HILTON WORLDWIDE

• Weddings and receptions• Rehearsal dinners• Overnight accommodations for out-of-town guests• Honeymoons

Our fine dining, restaurant quality catering offersoptions designed to help you create a delicious andmemorable event in your personal style.

You can count on us to make your event a success.

To make reservations contact the Hotel direct and visit us online.

Even the most clueless climbingnovice knows Anker’s name, and it’s notlost on Luke that he’s in the presence ofone of the world’s best. When Anker getsaround to greeting and encouraging him,Luke does everything but genuflect asthe pro offers a few tips.

One of those tips is pretty pointed—either lose weight or be resigned toclimbing badly. As Anker moves on toclimb a few routes, Luke beams. “Didyou see that?” he asks. “Conrad Ankertalked to me. He told me what I need todo. I know I’m too heavy, but I’ve beenworking on it. Now, though, I’ve got todo it. I mean, dude, that’s Conrad Anker.I gotta do what he said.”

As the day winds down and Ankerand his posse drive toward town, herecalls the conversation with Luke.

“I think it’s important to take timefor that sort of stuff,” he says. “That’sgoing to matter to him. It’s part of ourjob as older climbers to talk to the youth,

to encourage and inspire them. Climbingmakes us better if it makes us happier.He’ll be happier when he’s more fit.”

The truck winds down the frozenroad, and Anker starts to wax philosoph-ical about a life shaped by rock and ice,by love of the mountains and those heshares them with.

“I’ve learned that these things—myfamily, my passion for climbing and forbeing a force for good in the local com-munity and in the larger community—are the source of happiness for me,” hesays. “I know that life will keep chang-ing and keep throwing new challengesmy way, but my intent is always toembrace them and explore them andfind a way to turn them into an experi-ence that’s rewarding. Even when we’resuffering, whether it’s in the mountainsor because of something going on athome, trying situations are a way tounderstand our human condition. Youhave to try to rise above the adversity. Ilike doing that.”

The sun is close to setting as thetruck pulls up outside the Lowe-Ankerhome. His promise is fulfilled one more time.

Conrad AnkerCONTINUED FROM PAGE 21

Yogesh SimpsonAnker in Hyalite Canyon

Montana Headwall Page 59 Summer 2013

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Montana Headwall

I continued the comedy of bear-proofing my food supply as the latemidsummer’s sun set. Again and

again I whirled the long, orange stringwith a rock tied to it and heaved ittoward a branch. I missed. I got thewrong branch. The rock fell off the string.I could only laugh. I was too tired even tostop trying.

This camp had been brutal to set up. Ihad landed my kayak when the tide wasout and a 100-yard expanse of rocks thesize of bowling balls separated the waterfrom the only potential tent site, a tinypatch of sand at the edge of the forest, a spot that might or might not be dry at 2 a.m. when the tide would be high.

Camping spots were increasinglysparse in this northern BritishColumbia portion of the InsidePassage. Steep, rocky shorelinesbacked up by impenetrable forestsleft few accessible options. A newmoon and the summer solsticemeant the tide would come inhigh and fall away low. Nomatter how many times Ieyeballed my tide charts andthe rise to the sand, the beachseemed too low. Six inches ofwater is a far cry from dry.

It seemed silly to setup a camp thatwould likelyflood. If I leftthe gear inthe boat it would staydry, I reasoned. But loaded,the kayak was too heavy tocarry across the barnacle-encrusted and kelp-wrappedrocks. I tried several cockamamieschemes to avoid unloading theboat. Eventually I tied it to a hugepiece of waterlogged driftwood thatstood at least four feet high andseemed stuck on the rocks.

Time was of the essence and Iworked with focus. I built a scantraft of long, slender logs that would

protect the kayak and keep it uprightwhen the tide set it back down in themiddle of the night, in the middle of thecove. I tied the boat, on its raft, to the biglog, leaving enough line so it could risethe full height of the tide.

I unloaded only my essentials for thenight and retreated to the spot of sand.

I looked back at my boat, 100 yardsaway with the tide rising fast. Already, itsstern was afloat. I looked at my bare

camp and thought, “What have I over-looked? What could go wrong?” A list ofpotential disasters flooded my mind. Afootball-field of water would separate mefrom everything my life depended on. The boat could come untied and float away; it could be smashed by incomingdriftwood, swamped by wind. The log itwas tied to could float the whole contrap-tion away.

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Dark tide risingWhen setting up camp becomes part of the adventure

Nadia White

Continued on page 60

Montana Headwall

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